“Strater did not remember what they talked about – just “painting and writing” – Ernest, sitting by the window in the good light, and Mike on a stool to rest his bum ankle, and the two talking and Ernest walking around to see himself forming on the canvas. The first one with the grey background he said looked too much like H.G. Wells, so Mike painted another with a red background and a tougher face like a boxer. A painter could do that – change the light, alter the line, shift the color of reality until it suited his purpose. So could a writer, Ernest realized: reality was not art and realism was not photography. Once he knew his purpose, all that mattered was telling the story right; if the light needed to fade or the image needed to shift to make his point, then, like the painter, he changed what he knew and what he heard of reality to meet art’s necessity. He came to understand what Ezra told him: fiction and painting were both based on selection. Mike did not put everything into the painting, and what he left out was still invisibly present if he did it right.”— Hemingway The Paris Years by Michael Reynolds
“One of life’s sad facts is there are people we no longer see who nevertheless gave us some of our best or most important experiences; but they don’t know it and never will. That’s because we didn’t know it until much later, in retrospect. He thought about the summer in Greece almost thirty years before when they were together and flew from island to island on cheap rattle’y propeller planes whenever they felt like it. Ten dollar rooms with the toilet outside down the hall. They read wilted, water-stained books while sitting next to each other on the small balconies off the rooms. Or sat silently together in complete peace while staring at the sea. No matter what kind of accommodations they rented, there always seemed to be a view of the sea. Every day they ate salads of tomatoes, olives, onions, and thick savory chunks of chalk-white feta cheese drizzled in fresh olive oil for lunch. They rented a blue Vespa. They walked on black volcanic sand. He bought them baseball caps because the Greek sun was ferocious. He was happy then and knew it. But his heart needed three decades more perspective and experience to understand just how happy he had been— Hall of Fame-happy, once in a lifetime-happy. By the time he realized it, she was thousands of days gone. One of his final wishes was to tell her, thank her for those days together. And if life were magical, which it is not, to sit together again in one of those rustic tavernas at sunset watching the harbor, the boats, the stars coming out, their simple dinner being served, thank her for being… her.”—Jonathan Carroll
Any method of negotiation may be fairly judged by three criteria: It should be a wise agreement if agreement is possible. It should be efficient. And it should improve or at least not damage the relationship between the parties. (A wise agreement can be defined as one meeting the legitimate interests of each side to the extent possible, resolves conflicting interests fairly, is durable, and takes community interests into account.)
— Roger Fisher and William Ury, Getting To Yes, The Harvard Negotiation Project
"Bring Along a Brownie," the ad copy read, and in 1900, the year of its introduction, 150,000 people did. By 1907 more than a million had been sold. Named the Brownie after characters in a series of 19th-century children’s books, the easy-to-use camera was the brainchild of George Eastman, founder of the Eastman Kodak Company. It originally sold for a dollar and put photography within the reach of everyone - including Ansel Adams, whose first camera, a Brownie, was presented to him by his parents on a family trip to Yosemite.
Until its demise in 1970 it was the camera of memories, used to take pictures of weddings, high school graduations, pets, babies, birthday parties, Halloween trick-or-treaters, and countless Kodak moments. Before the Brownie, photography was an elite, expensive pursuit. The Brownie changed all that. “Kodak wasn’t just selling a camera, it was selling a wholesome way of life,” says George Eastman House curator Todd Gustavson. To bring out the Brownie was to confer on any event the status of special occasion. Through its viewfinder we learned how- and what - to remember. — Cathy Newman
And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd – seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the “natives,” and so in every crisis he has got to do what the “natives” expect of him.
Alex and Taru of World Tour Stories put up a little post about my band, Jungle Fires. It was great to meet, and see them at our show. Check out their blog. They’re sailing around the world and sharing all kinds of wonderful things about their adventure.
I spilled all this ink on this page and it’s a poem now, I know it’s such a mess. It means something to me that you know that it was no accident that the words fell out of my mouth the way they did - like you couldn’t have planned it the way they moved so rhythmically - back and forth, iambic, and weak then strong, five feet, stepping one after the other, dancing freely over the blank versed black puddle that assembled itself into the garden of adjectives I hung on the pronouns of you of whom I want to take by blessed hands and do every good action in all the sweet ways of living.
Oh, darling I spilled all this ink and I don’t think I’ll clean it up. Let these words stain the floor of the ship that is our relation. Let us feel these words carved deep and into the wood beneath the soles of our feet. Oh, darling may I trek the words I spilled about you - everywhere, leaving an indelible trail of who you are to me that marks the path I walk for as long as I tread this earth.
“So many people glorify and romanticize “busy”. I do not. I value purpose. I believe in resting in reason and moving in passion. If you’re always busy/moving, you will miss important details. I like the mountain. Still, but when it moves, lands shift and earth quakes.”—Joseph Cook (via mirroir)
“Too many of us believe that in order to change the world we have to be famous, beautiful, run a big event, play in the worship team at church, be a youth leader or preach to the congregation. That we need to be wearing the greatest clothes, go on an overseas missions trip or to be publicly encouraged and praised. We believe we have to be authors or athletes. That we need to have people hear what we think and see what we do. I challenge you today… What legacy will you really leave behind? What if God’s plan for you is to simply be the best son or daughter, husband or wife, mum or dad, ministry volunteer, after school carer, Mcdonalds service provider, cleaner, waitress or part time babysitter? What if God’s plan is for you to break a cycle in your family, to set a new course for future generations to come, to be hope to the hopeless or to love someone others would consider unlovable? What if what God wants, isn’t what you’ve already decided and planned it out to be?”—Jacinta / hope-movement.tumblr.com (via hope-movement)
I like those scenes in the Bible where God stops people and asks them to build an altar. You’d think He was making them do that for Himself, but I don’t think God really gets much from looking at a pile of rocks. Instead, I think God wanted His people to build altars for their sake, something that would help them remember, something they could look back on and remember the time when they were rescued, or they were given grace.
But it’s like I said before, about writers not really wanting to write. We have to force ourselves to create these scenes. We have to get up off the couch and turn the television off, we have to blow up the inner tubes and head to the river. We have to write the poem and deliver it in person. We have to pull the car off the road and hike to the top of the hill. We have to put on our suits, we have to dance at weddings. We have to make altars.
When I was little my dad used to ask me to play my guitar for him while he fell asleep. Being that I never minded staying up for a little longer I would sit in the hall at night with the lights out and play outside the door to my parents bedroom until I ran out of ideas.
Every once in a while there is a quiet moment that asks to be filled in a way that longs for soothing. Today, in the kitchen I played this before talking with my dad on the phone.
“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)