So, the story is hard to tell, is it better to tell it in the first person? Or in the second person? Plural in the third person or invent a grammatical system that just serves itself? You could say something like: I'm going to see the moon Rising on the horizon, or: We hurt ourselves when we can't see, especially with this statement: "You blondes are clouds running in front of your his our our your theirs." Grammar hell. Sit down and talk about it, if someone wants to go over there for a bokeh, the typewriter doesn't wait for him at all and just keeps going (I'm running the machine after all), how perfect! There is no need to consider such traditional things as "politeness of speech", how perfect! Right? There's an aperture here, which should also be included in the "machine" category. (or something like that, it's strictly a Contax 1.1.2 lens) Maybe one machine knows better than you, me, she—that blonde—and that cloud, because I'm stupid I understand that if I leave this Remington typewriter on the table turns to stone, quieter than a normal still life, so I have to write, and at least one of us has to be writing, and if I tell this story, Maybe it's better than me being a corpse, less compromised than the rest of us, I can only see the clouds in the sky and not be distracted (and a grey border too. Even Skyrim) memory cannot be reconstructed, I am a dead person (I am still alive, I will not fool you, then you will understand why I say this, I will use certain ways, certain words as the opening of this narrative, That is what you see, in fact, I prefer the ending, it is the essence of this cycle, after the story is over, you will be excited to tell it to the people around you)
A question suddenly occurred to me: "Why am I talking about it?" But if a person ruminates on "why" he does it before doing everything, if one wonders why he was invited to a certain dinner (At this point, a pigeon swept past me, looking like a sparrow) or why someone told a joke, we would have some kind of physical response like being squeaked and then across the hall to the office Stopped after hearing the exact same joke again? Then everything was fine again. We're a little bit happier, the work continues, I feel like no one is going to read these everyday phenomena, it's better to put aside the so-called "theories" and "systems" and just say the phenomena, because no one will be ashamed afterwards; they are You "do" things, however, when something extraordinary happens, like you find a spider in your shoe, or you exhale and the window pane shatters. That's when you have to say it, to the guys in the bureau or the legal butcher in the hospital -- the doctor. "Ah doctor, you see why every time I breathe, I..." You always say it.
Finally, we finally started to tell the story, first of all to organize the language and put the events in order, on Sunday, November 7th, we were walking down the stairs of the house, a month ago, on a Sunday, a person from Walking down the fifth floor, standing in the midst of this unmistakable November Paris, he paces with great desire, looking around, taking pictures (because we are photographers, and so am I). I know it's hard to articulate this feeling, and I don't mind repeating myself. This will be difficult because no one knows who the narrator is. If I am me, or what really happens or what I see (clouds, doves that just flew away), or maybe what I mean by "facts" are just "facts" that "belong to me", in a sense See, my narrative urges are about to die out now, so let's leave that out of the way. Let's talk slowly now, what happened in the middle, and soon, even if I was "revoked", there was nothing I could do. If the clouds in the sky are no longer fluttering, then there will be something else to replace it (in fact, this is not possible at all, constant fluttering is a characteristic of clouds, and pigeons often have), "if", "if" I will "reasonably" close the structure, and if I start asking questions, that means I won't say anything. So telling is a self-answer to all questions, at least someone will read it.
Finally, we finally started to tell the story, first of all to organize the language and put the events in order, on Sunday, November 7th, we were walking down the stairs of the house, a month ago, on a Sunday, a person from Walking down the fifth floor, standing in the midst of this unmistakable November Paris, he paced with great desire, looking around, taking pictures (because we are photographers, and so am I). I know it's hard to articulate this feeling, and I don't mind repeating myself. This will be difficult because no one knows who the narrator is. If I am me, or what really happens or what I see (clouds, doves that just flew away), or maybe what I mean by "facts" are just "facts" that "belong to me", in a sense See, my narrative urges are about to die out now, so let's leave that out of the way. Let's talk slowly now, what happened in the middle, and soon, even if I was "revoked", there was nothing I could do. If the clouds in the sky are no longer fluttering, then there will be something else to replace it (in fact, this is impossible, constant fluttering is a characteristic of clouds, and pigeons often have), "if", "if" I will "reasonable" Closing the structure, if I start asking questions, that means I won't say anything. So telling is a self-answer to all questions, at least someone will read it. Roberto Michael, a French-Chilean, translator, and amateur photographer, left 11 Avenue des Princes on November 7 this year (at this time, two silver-lined clouds passed by), and for three weeks he has been Take on a challenging task: translating into French a dissertation by University of San Diego professor Jose Norberto Allende. It's rare to have a few windy days in Paris, a whirlpool that sweeps around every corner and whips up old Venetian wooden shutters like a whip in the sky and surprises the ladies and then gets swept up in the decades-old weather The strong winds that hurt the spring and the autumn are even rarer. At the same time, the sun was also present, and it rode against the wind, befriending the female cat. There is no one and nothing to stop me from walking along the Seine and improvising the conservatories and Sainte-Chapelle along the banks of the conservatoires and the Sainte-Chapelle to improvise the film. The light at ten o'clock in the morning is not good at all. I think the light may be the most perfect after an hour. It is the most photographic time of the whole autumn; to pass the time, I circled to Saint-Louis and took a walk along the marina of Anjou, my eyes stopped for a while at the Grand Hotel Lauzanne, and I recited a few lines of Apollinaire's poem, which It flashes to my mind every time I come to the Lozan Hotel (I could have thought of other poets, but Michael is a stubborn old beggar) The wind stopped and the hard sun appeared for a second time ( I mean warmer, but in fact the two mean almost the same thing) I'm sitting under the railing and I'm terribly happy this Sunday. There is one thing that is worth learning and researching from scratch. It is also the best of these skills, and that is photography. The earlier you master it, the better. Teach your children photography, since they start to learn order, aesthetics, At the beginning of the days of taste and hand-brain coordination, I don't mean training them to be the old-school journalists who ambushed lies, and their camera is on the greasy, stupid figures of the elites at 10 Downing Street as they leave, but in When a person takes a walk with a camera, he takes a few shocking pictures of nature or humanities. It is everyone's duty to pay attention to the material, not to miss the euphoric moment when the sun's light suddenly reflects on a stone, or a little girl running home with a loaf of bread or a bottle of milk, her ponytail bouncing and exercising Emotional moment. Michael knew that as a photographer, his work should be transformed into a personal gaze on the world rather than the insidious mechanical behavior of the machine itself (now, a cloud is drifting towards us and the light is dimmed again), but he Lack of self-confidence, if you don't bring
Afterwards, I walked along the Bourbon pier until the island was exhausted, and at the end was a deep plaza (called "deep" because it was so small, not because it was hidden, it held its chest unreservedly dedicate it to the sky and the river), and I enjoyed it, there was a couple there, and of course, pigeons, maybe a few more were flying by now so I saw them and proclaimed their existence. I saw the wall, then turned back, tried to catch the sun, gave my face, ears, hands as its tribute (gloves in my pocket), I didn't want to take pictures, lit a cigarette, for the first time, almost touched To its flare, like a naughty child. The couple I saw was actually more like a mother and son, even though I kept telling myself they weren't. Most of our perception assigns the word "couple" to those young or old men and women clinging to the railing, or hugging affectionately on the bench in the square, having nothing to do, so I noticed the anxious gaze of the boy, Like a pony, or a baby rabbit, his hands are glued to his pockets, and soon they are taken out one by one, running through the hair, changing attitudes, so why is he afraid? You can tell from his behavior and The expression speculated that this fear was condensed by his introversion, and he had an urge to flee back, but there was a railing behind him. In the end, it seemed painful but solemn.
It was all in plain sight, and ten feet away, we leaned against the railing to the end of the island - at first the terrified boy kept me from paying attention to the blonde, and now that I think about it again, when my first second When I saw her face it was still very clear (she looked back suddenly, like a shaking metal weather vane, and, eyes! There are eyes there) until I vaguely understood what was going on with the boy and felt like I had Need to follow up and watch how things go (the wind blew away their words so it was like they were whispering) I think I know how to watch, if what happens next is within my conjecture, Every time we see it may be a lie that banishes us from "experience" without the basic assumptions on which life works, or (but Michael is still walking, for him there is no need for a tirade), any In some cases, if potential inaccuracies can be foreseen, then maybe it should be revisited. Choose between reality and those striped things, choose what you believe, and that's enough. The boy, the first thing I saw was the image, before his entity (later, it would automatically clear) and I'm not sure if I knew more about the woman's entity than the image. If I were to use only two words or less to summarize her characteristics, it would be "Gao Ji". She was wearing a fur coat, almost pure black, waving with her blond hair in the morning wind (now windless and not very cold), covering her pale face - again a high-level summary of two words, the The world is separated from her two black eagle eyes. There are also two cliffs escaping into nothingness, or two strands of green slime slime. Even if I didn't describe anything, it would be hard to understand, especially when I mentioned "green slime slime" just now . Objectively speaking, the boy was well-dressed, he was wearing a pair of yellow sports gloves that I could be 100% sure it was definitely from his brother in law or sociology. It was a real blessing to see the fingers in the gloves sticking out of the jacket pockets. For a long time, I couldn't see his face, only the outline, but it didn't look very stupid - a frightened bird, an angel, a milk pudding - from behind him it looked like someone who went to a teacher to learn judo for self-defense or Offensive teenagers, 14 years old, maybe 15 years old, this age should be the age of parents including clothing and economics, but not a penny in their pockets. Whether to buy a cup of coffee, a bottle of cognac, or a pack of cigarettes requires careful calculation and mental struggle. He also wandered the streets, but he was thinking about the girls in his class, the recent movie in theaters, or a novel, or a tie, or maybe a bottle of wine with a green-and-white label. At home (an old-fashioned aristocratic family, the family would have lunch together at noon, there would be some photographs or paintings of the scenery on the wall, a dark aisle, a mahogany umbrella standing behind the door) he would feel like a year, because there is no Suspended study, because of my mother's expectations, but also to be like my father in the future. He writes to his aunt in Avignon, now it's not me, it's him who walks the streets, the whole river belongs to him (but he doesn't have a penny) A mysterious fifteen-year-old city with a sign, alleys, here There are frightened cats, French fries for thirty francs, pornographic magazines wrapped in four newspapers, loneliness like an empty pocket, all of which are puzzling, but flickering with a passion, Flashing in the wind, and the streets.
The above is the story of that boy, it could be from any boy, but now, they are embodied in a specific one. He's an island, entwined by the blonde (I'm tired and don't want to describe the picture now, I looked at the sky more than once this morning, because the boy, she appeared so early so had to wait most of the time, Then...) for almost half an hour, he came to the end of the island, thinking about the mystery of the woman who seemed to have been waiting for him for a long time, or maybe the boy was in front of her on some windowsill or in some car The first time I saw him, I had been there before and went out looking for him. Either way, at first she was sure he would be terrified and ready to run, then, naturally, he stayed here stiff and gloomy, pretending to be indifferent, even looking happy, and then it was easy because ten Mi Kai is me. Probably a lot of people can guess where the game is going next, a sarcastic and gunpowder blow; the most fascinating thing is not what happened, but what "will" happen. The boy wanted to end it all by pretending to be dating, or a duty, maybe something else, and then stumbled away, assuming he could, but he was always exposed to her direct gaze , until he escaped her sight, or, he would stay there, bewitched by her, or just not willing to speak, and then the woman would gently touch his cheek and stroke his hair, Continue to talk to him quietly, then take one step ahead and take him away, unless he, from the very beginning, is desire-driven, no matter how much he bets on this adventure, maybe, he'll put his hands on her waist time, kiss her, it could happen, maybe it won't. Michael sat obediently on the railing and waited, fiddling with his camera, trying to capture a "photographic" moment: a mysterious couple talking in low voices and exchanging glances in the corner of a certain island.
Strange things (almost nothing: the two figures don't match up at all) happened in this restless atmosphere. I think that's what I captured, that's my picture, and if I took it, it would recreate the stupid, awkward reality between them, and I'm curious what was going on in their heads, a guy in a gray top hat The man sat on the back of the wheel of the car by the port, he was either reading a newspaper or taking a nap, I found him because of the people in the car, who tended to be in that sad, private cage Destruction, even though that car was always there, as (or became) part of the island. A car: functionally equivalent to a street light, a park bench, or that boy and woman, uniquely placed here to change the state of the whole island, and yet another way for me to see, finally, that The man with the newspaper in his hand may also be aware of what happened, and like me, waiting for what is to come, with an ominous premonition, now the woman turns gently, trapping the boy between her and the wall, The boy was taller, but not much taller, but the woman clearly dominated him, lingering around him (her laughter, like a whip), crushing him to pieces. Why wait any longer? Set the aperture to "f/16". That scary car won't be included in sight, but compositionally, that tree divides the space with too many gray tones.... I raised my camera, pretended to be focusing, waiting, looking up, watching, I was sure to finally capture the decisive moment, integrating these elements to their best, motion constitutes the melody of life, but still image deconstructs it, I wouldn't have to wait that long if we didn't choose the moment of imperceptible importance when the woman gently handcuffed the boy, depriving him of his freedom of movement in an unbelievably slow and charming torture , only to allow the freedom between the ends. I imagined the possible ending (now, a small, fluffy cloud passes by, and it's almost the only one under the blue sky), I see them stop in front of some house (or should it be called an underground apartment building, she maybe Lots of pads, lots of cats), presuming that the boy would be frightened, even desperate, but he decided to pretend to be calm, pretend he's been through a lot of battle, understand what needs to be done next, and close my eyes, if I really do , you will see these: provocative kisses, the woman struggling to keep the boy's hand from letting him take off his clothes but trying to take off his clothes, just like the way it is described in the novel, the bed is covered with lilacs Colored quilt, on the other hand, she took off his clothes, and in the milky light, clearly a mother and son, everything will end in the usual way, maybe, everything will pass, that young man will not cause anything , women won't let him provoke, long and awkward foreplay, after an infuriating caress, hands constantly moving between body parts, for some reason, maybe it's pure, lonely pleasure, maybe It is a malicious pet, mixed with exhaustion, digesting his pity and innocence. Maybe so, and that's fine too; the woman doesn't see the boy as a lover at all, but dominates him through some unbelievably cruel game, an insatiable lust for lust, she delights herself for others, but There's absolutely no way "someone else" could be that boy.
Michael is good at brainstorming stories. His biggest weakness is that he is too addicted to the fantasy world. There is nothing better than imagining things behind the rules, individuals other than humans, monsters that don't make people sick, and the one that piqued his interest. Women are more exciting to him, maybe she provides clues to the fantasies. Before she left, what she looks like now, will probably last in my mind for many days, and for a better aftertaste, I can't be distracted for any minute now, they are all in my viewfinder (along with trees, railings, morning 11:00 sun), then I pressed the shutter. Only then did I notice that they all found me, the straight eyes slashed my body, and my machine, the boy was surprised with question marks written on his face, but the woman was angry, and her whole body suddenly became hostile, It's like the soul has been stolen from a film made of tiny chemicals.
I could go into more detail but it's not worth the trouble at all, the woman said that no one has the right to take her picture without her consent, and then demanded that the film be confiscated, in a dry and clear Persian accent, every sentence, They all seem to contain color. For me, the most important thing is not whether there is film, but who knows that I will tell you about it. If you still think about it, just ask me. As a result, I stopped my own Concept, not only is it not allowed to take pictures in public, it depends on what you are shooting, and this applies in both public and private situations, even so, I still slyly found that the boy was falling back, or something Active support in one way, then suddenly (it seems impossible) to turn around and run right away, that poor kid, who thinks he's running slowly but in fact he's almost flying, runs past the car like The spider silk of the Virgin that disappeared in the morning mist.
The Virgin Spider Silk is also called Devil Saliva. After the child left, Michael had to endure being scolded and listening to others call him a fool and an idiot. He felt very painful, but he forced a smile to ease, and at the same time, his feet moved slowly and quietly. . When I got bored, I heard the car door open and the guy in the grey top hat stared at us, and that's when I realized he was part of this absurd drama too. He walked up to us, still holding the newspaper he pretended to read just now, and what impressed me most was his ghostly face, his twisted and deformed mouth, his face covered with wrinkles, and his terrible lips were involuntarily He shivered, but the rest of his face was rigid, like a clown's mask or a zombie, with shriveled skin and huge nostrils darker than eyeballs or ties. He walked cautiously, as if his leg had been hurt, and I saw a pair of patent leather shoes with such thin soles that it would be hard for him to walk. I don't know why I got down from the railings, and I'm not sure why I didn't take a picture of him, and in order not to appear so scared and timid, the two of them seemed to be discussing strategies silently: we constructed a suffocatingly perfect triangle composition, I feel like I'm being forced to make this composition unbalanced and move slowly and quietly. I laughed at their sad expressions and was about to leave, I was thinking: the boy, next to the first row of houses, near the iron bridge, looked back at them, they still didn't move, but the man had put away the newspaper, The woman's eyes should still be aimed at me, she retreated to the railing, making a strange gesture, presumably she was a stalker and wanted others to make way.
Everything after that happened here, just now, in a darkroom on the 15th floor, it's been days since Michael took that picture that Sunday; it's supposed to be at the Conservatory - Sainte-Chapelle Nearby, and then he found a few test shots that he almost forgot, a cat perched on the roof of a public toilet, and of course one of the blonde and the boy, and the negatives look so good that it I zoomed in on it, it still looks very clear after zooming in, so I made it bigger, until it can be regarded as the size of a poster, nothing happened at this time (now weird things are coming) and I can't see this Why is the photo taken at the conservatory worth such general processing? On the whole, only the snapshots taken at the end of the island attract him, and he posted the enlarged photo on the wall and spent the day sitting in its Go ahead and see it and remember it. The gloomy and oppressive tone moves from inside the painting to outside the painting, and these memories are preserved intact, just like other photos, they are not incomplete at all. No more, no less, the image acts as a coagulant, the woman here, the boy there, the tree above their heads, the sky as sharp as the stone railings of the island, the clouds and the stones fused together (now, One can be extremely sharp, the other has cumulonimbus clouds), and I accepted what I saw and did the other two days through enlarged photos hanging on the wall. Even if that woman's face appeared in my head and interrupted my translation of Jose Norberto Allende's work, and so did the black spot on the railing, I'm a real jerk; if we look at the photo head-on, everything It's really normal. The eyes have truly reconstructed what the lens saw at the time. Now, the typewriter is right in front of me. I was looking at the photo ten meters away, and suddenly I found that my current position was exactly the position of the lens at that time. Without a doubt, this is the best distance to appreciate this photo, and even looking at it at an angle produces an indescribable sense of joy. Every time Jose Norberto Allende says something in perfect Spanish that I can't translate even with the most perfect French words. I moved my eyes up to the photo; the woman often caught my attention, sometimes it was the boy, sometimes it might be a nearby path full of dead leaves, and then I walked out of this repetitive work. One point, put myself again in the morning when the photo was just taken, recalling the time when the woman was angrily trying to confiscate the film, the boy's head was running away, the man's zombie-like face suddenly entered the composition; I was basically satisfied, but myself. The actions are not very glorious, as a French I myself should stop and in my own right , privilege, citizenship and then swearing, taking a stand, and most importantly, what really matters should be helping that kid escape (to justify my somewhat flimsy position, but the escape itself has been falsified) but myself Instead of intervening, trying to get himself to use his fears and do something meaningful; he may now be very regretful, feeling his self-esteem hurt and his masculinity diminished. But that should be better than actively grabbing that woman's attention. Michael was a Puritan in a way. He believes that no one can seduce others with their own strength. In this case, taking pictures should be the best choice.
Well, I looked at the photos at work and found that it was not an appropriate behavior, and I didn't know the reason at this point, but the reason was already posted on the wall by me, and the fatal thing happened like this, This will be the end of it, even if I don't think even the trembling leaves are warning me, I've just managed to shrink a sentence, and the huge vine of "habit" is forever entwining everyone. The enlarged 32x28 format looks like a movie screen. At the end of the island, the woman and the boy are whispering, and dead leaves are flying over their heads. But it was too much, the woman's hand started to shake, just as I had just translated this sentence: "In this case, the second key point is in the predicament of the natural primordial, the society here... "—I saw them moving slowly, one finger after the other. I, disappeared, only an unfinished sentence in French, the typewriter on the floor, the creaking chair, and the fog. As it awaited its final fall, the boy's head dodged like a boxer, and he raised his collar, more like a prisoner than before, the standard victim of a disaster. Now, the woman was whispering in front of his ear, her hands were open again, next to her cheekbones, stroking him, obliterating him, the boy's eyes could hardly see the stunned expression, but rather suspicious, several times, he tried to She shook her head but she kept talking about things that made him look at every moment in the direction of the car that Michael remembered the grey-hat man pretending to be reading, which was now carefully photographed. The complete removal of the earth appears in the pupil of the boy (how contradictory to say that now), in the words of the woman, in the hands of the woman, in the incarnation of her being. When I saw him coming, I stopped and stared at them, his hands in his pockets, his gesture somewhere between disgust and arrogance, it dawned on me, if that could be called "understanding" If so—the things that will happen now, the things that will happen in the future, the things that happen at this time, the things that are going to happen in themselves, but deviate from the course because of my reasons, but now they have to start happening. The real reality is much scarier than what I imagined, what I speculate is much scarier, a woman, she didn't come here on her own initiative, her touching and teasing are not just to satisfy herself, she is not to play with him Horrified and dignified, the real mastermind was waiting there, grinning, everything under his control; he wasn't the first hunter to bring a woman to his prey's mouth. The next thing is very simple, the car, a few houses or whatever, the thrilling picture, the belated tears, and when I wake up, I find myself in hell.
There is nothing I can do about it, once the weapon was the photo, and now their vengeful hand is reaching out to me. Time is passing, completely gone, and the distance between us is too far to be bridged, yet, of course, the tedious action has taken place, the excess tears have already poured, and after that, only rational speculation and emotional lament remain. It's all turned upside down: they're alive, they've thought, they've thought, and they're on their way to their future; I'm a prisoner, maybe on death row, in a room on the 15th floor. I don't know who those people, women, boys are, I thought they were fixed, rigid products of the camera lens, but they (they) aren't, and what's even scarier is that they're laughing at me, in front of my impotent eyes Conspiring something I'll never hear, taunting me, boy staring at the man with the face as pale as a zombie, maybe they're there for money, maybe not, and I have nowhere to run, no shouting, no looking A new picture connects them with a new pathway, and everything takes its place in my place and resolves itself, when everything goes silent, and there is nothing you can do about this physical silence. I think I was yelling, screaming hoarse, and it was at that moment that I found myself walking towards them, step after step, four inches each. The branches rhythm in the foreground of the photo, where the metal railing loses its luster, the woman turns her face to me, zooms in, zooms in, I turn a little bit, I mean the camera lens angle, but the woman is still at me Within sight, and I was getting closer and closer to the man, he stared straight at me, with the two huge black holes in his eyes, trying to pin me in the air, suddenly saw something blurry around Flying with the picture, like a big bird. I leaned against the wall and was happy for the boy's escape, because when I focused again, I saw him running away, with his hair floating in the air, and finally, the big bird finally flew away from the island and settled on the overpass across the street, Escape back to the city, another thrilling escape, I helped him escape again, and let him back to the comfort of paradise, I stood before them suffocated; don't have to go any closer, the game is over, the one you see The woman is nothing but a shoulder and a bit of hair, as the rest of the body is brutally mutilated by the frame, but the man is still in the center, with his mouth half open, and the black tongue quivering inside can clearly be seen, and he slowly lifts it up Arms, they reach the foreground, random composition, but very well in focus, and then he disappears from the island in one piece, I close my eyes, don't want to look at it anymore, cover my face, like a fool Weeping the same.
Now, there is a huge white cloud in the sky. In these unspeakable days, the only traces left are those clouds. For a long time, the sky was clean and clear, and the clear rectangle was pinned to the wall of my room. The above is all I see when I open my eyes, then a cloud drifts from left to right, passes gracefully, disappears on the right, then another, and after a while everything turns grey again, speckled It seems like the rain is hitting, and with just one spell, you can see the rainstorm in the photo. Slowly, the frame became clear again, maybe the sun came out? Soon it was a stage of a dark cloud, two, three, and sometimes a pigeon, or a sparrow or two.
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