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Just put your sheets aside for a little uninspected time and come back to find: Mme de Pömpidour :-D
D300s
50mm f/1.4
SB-900 into DIY BeautyDish thru BedSheet Diffuser/Background
Triggered via Built-in Flash (CLS)
SB-600 w/Honl Grid
Capture NX2
Nik Filters
This image of Jessica was inspired by this great one:
www.flickr.com/photos/7450481@N06/3773830590/
I used my DIY Beauty Dish through a BedSheet Diffuser (in this case the BedSheet Background).
I worked out the background and made a pretty cool silhouette with this image:
www.flickr.com/photos/pva1964/3823249819/
I used an SB-600 w/Honl Grid to get some striking light across her face.
“Our cover this month depicts a scene from the story entitled 'The Beetle Experiment' by Russell Hays, in which the scientist is shown 'cornered' by the giant tiger beetle, which attained its enormous size through his own experimental efforts.”
Used the bedsheet technique on this one to try and create an ethereal look. Set two flashguns about 1 meter behind the sheet and stood about 2 meters in front fired off the shutter which fired the flashes and capped the Zeiss 24-70 Lens. Mid exposure lens and tripod change to 58mm Helios with reversed rear element for the orange bokeh which was made by placing shiny foil paper behind a cut-out masking board and shining a torch between them.
20200407-_PDS3927
Attractive pirate eh? I borrowed some things from my son for still life day in my dining room. This figure, Edward Kenway, is from Assassin's Creed IV. He is pictured here wandering in my dirty bedsheets.
"On assignment for Look magazine to photograph the movie star for its twenty-fifth anniversary cover, Douglas Kirkland shot Marilyn in the intimate confines of an unmade bed."
Tenth and last in a series of ten pictures by Douglas Kirkland, staff photographer for LOOK magazine, of Marilyn Monroe in 1961, a year before her death.
From the LOOK Collection at the Library of Congress
More MM | More pictures from the LOOK magazine collection
(?) The copyright status of this picture is uncertain.
Larry watches out of his room’s solitary window as Cliff continues to work away on whatever the hell it is he’s working on round the side of the house. He watches Cliff come in and out of the side door carrying poles, bedsheets and other electronic paraphernalia and dump them clumsily in the garden. He glances up at the clock and realises he’s been up in his room for hours without even so much as a peep from the others. He sighs under his bandages and pulls himself away from the window. A pang of guilt radiates through him in harmony with the Spirit, which he still feels pulsing gently in his chest from his clash with Rita. He collapses onto his bed and stares up at the metal plated ceiling. As he watches the light dance off the ceiling’s surface, he lets his mind go blank and realises for the first time in a while just how powerless he feels. Powerless to find Niles, powerless to help his friends, powerless against the crushing burden of his life. He pulls his thoughts away from his feelings, rises from the bed and kneels down on the floor. Carefully, he reaches under the bed and feels around for something. Once found, he slides it out from beneath and produces a small box. He takes note of how, like everything else in his room, it hasn’t gathered any dust and stares at it for a while. His reluctance to open it builds as he continues to sit there and stare at it a little while longer. Finally, with a sigh of defeat, he reaches down and removes its lid – careful not to look inside. He lays the lid down but continues to avoid looking inside the box, his eyes instead finding a loose thread hanging from a blanket on his bed. He watches as the thread swings softly, disturbed by the movement of air in his room, and realises he can’t put it off any longer. He takes a breath and looks inside the box – at the one, solitary item inside it. A photograph. He pulls it out and cradles it in his bandaged hands for a moment, and the eyes of his wife stare back at him, frozen in time.
Larry: Oh…
He feels moisture build in his weak tear ducts as he looks his wife in the eyes. Then, without warning, he breaks down and begins to cry. He doesn’t know if any tears come out, nor does he care, he just sits there for a while and lets it happen. He strokes the photo with a finger before finally giving in and placing it back inside the box, which he slides back under his bed carefully. An empty tomb, rarely visited and hidden from the world. He pulls himself together and rises to his feet, looking to the mirror to see at bandaged, featureless face staring back at him. His eyes wander to the message left scrawled across Chief’s whiteboard, still resting against the wall:
WE NEED TO TALK
He looks at it a little while longer and suddenly his heart skips a beat as he notices something that wasn’t there before. The Spirit has replied. Under Larry’s words, scribbled in barely legible black marker pen, is another message:
you need to listen
He reaches over and grabs the board, motivated by the sudden rush of adrenaline the message has given him. He sits back on the bed and reads it over and over, his mind racing as he looks for meaning in those four words.
====================
Some are born wise. Some achieve wisdom. Some have wisdom thrust upon them. As Rita sits on the back porch and watches as Cliff makes the final few adjustments to his project, she eats another spoonful of ice cream and decides that unfortunately for Cliff Steel, none of these statements appear to be true. She watches as he drapes one last white bedsheet over a pole, step back triumphantly, and nod as he admires his handiwork.
Cliff: And I think… we’re all done!
Rita chews on another spoonful of ice cream and gives Cliff’s project a once over. What he has constructed is most fascinating. It would seem, to the untrained eye, like nothing more than a crude tepee assembled from mismatched poles and white bedsheets. In its centre, placed at the foot of a pole holding the sheets up, a large battery has been placed and hooked up to the pole with what look to be car jump leads. A series of mismatched wires sprout out the side of the battery and run up the pole and across the sheets like fairy lights, with another long wire running along the ground, past Rita sat on the porch and into the house. To the untrained eye, it may seem like nothing more than jumbled assortment of tat – a child’s den, constructed out of boredom on a rainy day, perhaps. But as Cliff keeps assuring Rita, this over-complicated tent could very well be the key to finding Niles Caulder. Rita stares at it, unimpressed, and takes another bite of ice cream.
Rita: So… that’s it?
Cliff: Whaddya mean, ‘that’s it?’
Rita: I mean, that is what you were getting excited about?
Cliff: Well, yeah.
Cliff stares at his project.
Cliff: Don’t you like it?
Rita: Oh no Cliff, I think it’s wonderful. Really, I do. But… how exactly is it going to help us?
Cliff shrugs as she puts down her spoon and wipes her hands.
Cliff: Well, if we can’t figure out a way to find Niles, we’ll have to recreate exactly what happened when we lost him.
Rita frowns.
Rita: So you’ve built us… our own White Room?
Cliff: You got it.
Rita: Out of bedsheets and tent poles?
Cliff: Yeah.
Rita: And you think it’ll work?
Cliff: Maybe.
Rita: Because you’ve strapped a battery to it?
Cliff: Yeah.
Rita: Right.
Cliff: Look, don’t hate me for tryin’. Think of it like this – the machine that asshole Eric went into, to become Mister No-dick or whatever, all it was was a white room powered by some batteries, right?
Rita: Well… sure? I guess?
Cliff: So, the-o-retically, all we need to make our own is somethin’ white and some power, yeah?
Rita: …yes?
Cliff: And that’s exactly what we’ve got here!
Rita: So what you’ve built us is an electric tent?
Cliff: No, asshole, I’ve built us our very own White Room!
Rita rests her head in her hands and sighs. Cliff looks at her for a minute, holding his head high. She’s sure that if he could he’d be beaming.
Rita: Okay, so let’s say for argument’s sake this thing actually works. Who are you going to put inside it?
Cliff nods and holds up a finger.
Cliff: One step ahead of you.
He tramples over to the doorway and shouts:
Cliff: HEY! R-A! COULD YOU COME OUT HERE A SECOND?
Rita looks behind her as R.A-2 meanders outside jauntily and stops on the porch.
R.A-2: Good afternoon, Clifton. You require, my assistance?
Cliff: Sure do Wall-E. How’d you like to save Niles?
Rita looks back at Cliff, then to R.A-2 again, and suddenly realises what Cliff’s planning.
Rita: Hang on Cliff, no!
Cliff: What?
Rita: You are not putting R.A inside that thing!
Cliff: Why not?
Rita: Because… because… because… well look at him!
They look at R.A as he stands there, happily staring off into the distance, oblivious to his fate.
Cliff: Yeah? And?
Rita: You can’t put him inside that thing! He’ll go up like a candle!
Cliff: It’ll be fine, trust me. Besides, who else are we gonna use? You want a go?
Rita: No of course I don’t! I just think we perhaps ought to think this through, you know, before we obliterate the butler in an electric tepee!
Cliff grunts and throws his arms into the air. He wanders back over to the mock-machine and sighs, putting his hands on his hips and staring at it for a moment. Rita goes for another scoop of ice cream, but before she can so much as pick up the spoon she’s stopped by the sound of the front gate being opened. Cliff, who it would seem has heard it too, looks round at her and she stares at him for a moment, frozen. They listen intently as the rattling of the front gate stops and is replaced by the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Rita whispers at Cliff.
Rita: Who is that?
Cliff: I don’t know.
Rita: Go look!
Cliff: Why the fuck should I go? You go!
Rita: I’m not going, you go!
Cliff goes to reply but stops as the sound of a voice fills the air.
Voice: Hello? Doctor Caulder? I’ve got your delivery.
Cliff looks at Rita and she frowns. Then, without warning, a figure appears round the side of the house and the pair of them scream.
Cliff/Rita: AAH!
Voice: AAH!
The figure jumps back, startled by their screaming, and looks at the pair of them. Rita calms herself and narrows her eyes as she makes the figure out to be a scrawny young man in a hoodie, carrying a box. The man stares back at them, composes himself, and steps forward.
Ricardo: Uh, hey. I’m Ricardo, from town. I’ve got a delivery here for Niles Caulder?
Cliff shoots Rita a glance.
Rita: He’s not in. What is it?
Ricardo looks down and the box and shrugs.
Ricardo: Just groceries. Bread, milk, Fruit Loops, you know…
The three of them all stare at each other a little while longer, unsure what to say. After a minute Ricardo laughs nervously and steps back.
Ricardo: Uh, if this is a bad time I can come back later…
But before he can disappear Cliff steps forwards and holds out his hands.
Cliff: Actually buddy, you might just be right on time…
"On assignment for Look magazine to photograph the movie star for its twenty-fifth anniversary cover, Douglas Kirkland shot Marilyn in the intimate confines of an unmade bed."
Tenth and last in a series of ten pictures by Douglas Kirkland, staff photographer for LOOK magazine, of Marilyn Monroe in 1961, a year before her death.
From the LOOK Collection at the Library of Congress
More MM | More pictures from the LOOK magazine collection
(?) The copyright status of this picture is uncertain.
My 23rd secret is this: Sometimes I wish I were a guy.
My reasons for this is because, guys:-
~ don't have to worry about their period.
~ don't get period pains/cramps
~ don't have to spend money on buying sanitary towels or tampons for their monthly periods.
~ don't have to worry that they've stained their bedsheets with blood.
~ don't have to wash their blood stained knickers every damn month.
~ don't have to worry about getting pregnant [not that I sleep around, so I don't have that type of worry, but you know... speaking on behalf of every female around].
~ don't have to fake orgasms [as much as females do. again, not that I sleep around... so yeh]
~ don't experience the excruciating pain of child-birth [not that I have, yet, but hopefully I will].
~ don't have to inspect public toilets as they don't need to sit down on (or hover over) the toilet bowl, but they stand when they pee.
~ don't have to take off their trousers to pee, but can pee by just unzipping their fly, and they're good to go!
~ don't need to use tissue after peeing.
~ don't have to wear a bra.
~ don't have to spend money on buying bras.
~ don't need to worry about makeup, buying makeup, putting on makeup and taking off makeup.
~ don't need to shave/wax their legs, underarm or get rid of any other hair on body.
~ don't need to worry when wearing swim-wear, i.e. pubic hair sticking out, as men don't need to book themselves in for a bikini wax (or a brazilian for that matter...!) which means... they don't need to experience that sort of pain!
~ don't need a beauty ritual [i.e. wash face, cleanse, tone and moisturise daily routine!]
~ don't need to worry about the phone bill going sky-high [as they don't talk for long on the phone!]
~ don't ever need to remember birthdays and anniversaries. [Unless it was a case of life and death!]
~ don't need to practise their culinary skills on a daily basis, but maybe once in a blue moon.
~ don't worry as much as females.
~ don't get as emotionally attached as females.
~ don't have the desire to go shopping.
~ don't NEED to go through the whole entire retail shop, every clothes rack, to inspect every single item of clothing, or try on every single shoe, like females do.
~ can just walk into a shop, knowing what they want and 2 minutes later, walk back out.
~ don't have the strong urgency for chocolate.
~ don't experience cravings.
~ don't have monthly tantrums and PMT's (or do they? That, my friend, is entirely debatable!]
~ doesn't have to listen and has the ability switch off whenever they feel like it.
~ doesn't HAVE to respond in full sentences, as a grunt or a groan says it all.
~ lastly, has wet dreams hahaha.... oh the pleasures of being a guy!
Sorry it's a long post. I got a little bit carried away! Haha. Admit it, sometimes it's good to be a guy! I had this idea for a secret the other day when I was unfortunate to find out my period came two days before schedule.... Stoopid body...! Grrrrrr!!!!
For the rest of this month of May, I have decided to take this opportunity to do the
30 SECRETS IN 30 DAYS challenge! I will tell you my secrets. Day-by-day :) Ok, some may seem like facts, but they're still things not many people know about, thus qualifying them to BE secrets. Heh.
A devoted family man and husband. So his wife believes.
The husband's business trips seem to be happening more frequently. However, the wife and husband's relationship has slowly cooled over the years, settling into a cold passionless routine.
One day, the wife discovers her husband's affair with a vibrant and adventurous younger woman. This shatters the wife's world, she is determined to end this affair in a deadly way.
Used and old bedsheets, typical in Sweden, embroidered with monograms or decorated with lace edging that is intended to be folded down over a warmer comforter. A piece of handiwork that was part of creating a home and that displays care and reflection. Artwork called "A Laundry Field" made in 2020 by Kimsooja (b. 1957), South Korea.
en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kimsooja
Exhibition at Wanås Art and Sculpture Park.
www.wanaskonst.se/en-us/ (website also in English)
"On assignment for Look magazine to photograph the movie star for its twenty-fifth anniversary cover, Douglas Kirkland shot Marilyn in the intimate confines of an unmade bed."
Tenth and last in a series of ten pictures by Douglas Kirkland, staff photographer for LOOK magazine, of Marilyn Monroe in 1961, a year before her death.
From the LOOK Collection at the Library of Congress
More MM | More pictures from the LOOK magazine collection
(?) The copyright status of this picture is uncertain.
So if you can't tell I'm trying to touch my toes,
which I can't,
I'm not flexible at all.
For some reason I really like this picture,
BUT
I hate that darn lamp,
it's so bright.
*to hell with the bloody bed sheet,
MORPHINE is what i want!
Tell me on a scale of one to ten, just how bad is your pain?
I cry out, "ELEVEN"
"Not yet"
"What? Why?
"we can't add any drugs until the tests assign your diagnosis. Than we can give you morphine.
"To hell with diagnosis! Take th pain away!
Give me relief now or let me die" rubbing my back won't do it and neither your f…g fresh bed sheets.
To die. To sleep, Perchance to dream.
"I want it NOW!"
Oh, MORPHEUS, Oh GOD of dreams, please take me
NOW !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
by Eric van der Luft.
thank you Dominick for the translation, I love his poems and will attempt to illustrate the others, time permitting.
"Ghost Stories" was a U.S. pulp magazine that published 64 issues between 1926 and 1932. It was one of the earliest competitors to Weird Tales, the first magazine to specialize in the fantasy and occult fiction genre. The stories were often accompanied by faked photographs to make the stories appear more believable. "Ghost Stories" also ran original and reprinted contributions, including works by Robert E. Howard, Carl Jacobi, and Frank Belknap Long. Among the reprints were Agatha Christie's "The Last Seance" (under the title "The Woman Who Stole a Ghost"), several stories by H.G. Wells, and Charles Dickens' "The Signal-Man". The magazine was initially successful, but began to lose readers, and in 1930 was sold to Harold Hersey. Hersey was unable to reverse the magazine's decline, and "Ghost Stories" ceased publication at the start of 1932. [Source: Wikipedia]
A passing fancy
I know now
Looking back with some clarity
That all of our grapes
Our wine
And even our bedsheets
Would have turned sour
The romance
Once shimmering
Dazzling
And electric
Would have grown old
Tedious
And moldy
The high sounding promises
Vows
And love songs
Would have subsided
Becoming nothing more than whispers
Moans
And the jingle jangling sounds
Of wind chimes
Bothered
Now and then
By light breezes
Nothing more
Than a passing fancy
© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved
You will find more of my poems and songs here
and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.
My songs are at
Starting to cut into my vintage sheet collection for the Vintage Sheet Patchwork Swap! I'm getting really excited!
They are taking signups until tomorrow if you're interested!
"On assignment for Look magazine to photograph the movie star for its twenty-fifth anniversary cover, Douglas Kirkland shot Marilyn in the intimate confines of an unmade bed."
Tenth and last in a series of ten pictures by Douglas Kirkland, staff photographer for LOOK magazine, of Marilyn Monroe in 1961, a year before her death.
From the LOOK Collection at the Library of Congress
More MM | More pictures from the LOOK magazine collection
(?) The copyright status of this picture is uncertain.
Ricardo sits with his head in his hands, watching from the back porch as Cliff fumbles about from within the structure of poles and sheets. After a few more moments, and a particularly alarming snapping sound, a shiny gold head pokes out of a fold in the sheets and looks over at Ricardo.
Cliff: And… we are all set to go.
Cliff emerges from the tangle of wires and bedsheets and stands next to Ricardo as he rises from the steps, gazing at his handiwork like a proud father.
Ricardo: Awesome.
They stand and stare at the machine for a moment in silence. Ricardo grins excitedly and looks over at Cliff.
Ricardo: So… all I gotta do is sit in there and I get superpowers?
Cliff: Uh…
Ricardo: You said I’d get superpowers. I do get superpowers, right?
Cliff: …Probably?
Ricardo: Cause it sure doesn’t look like I will, R-Man. And believe me, I could really do with superpowers to help my mother out around the store, y’know?
Cliff: It’ll work! Just trust me. Build it and they will come!
Ricardo: So I will get superpowers?
Cliff: Just stop sayin’ ‘superpowers’, alright?
Ricardo goes quiet and looks to the floor.
Cliff: Look, you might get somethin’, but I can’t promise…
Cliff reaches into the machine and pulls out a makeshift helmet covered in wires.
Cliff: Come here.
Ricardo wanders over and frowns.
Ricardo: What is that?
Cliff: You’ve gotta wear it… to, uh…. connect you to the… machine.
Ricardo eyes the helmet suspiciously and goes quiet. After a moment of observation, he grins and nods.
Ricardo: Ride on, R-Man.
Cliff: Uh, sure.
Ricardo presents his head and Cliff carefully lays the helmet on it as if it were it a priceless crown.
Ricardo: Mega.
Cliff: Did you just say: ‘mega’?
Ricardo: Huh?
Cliff: Nothin’.
Ricardo stands carefully as he balances the helmet on his head and grins excitedly.
Ricardo: Okay… now this is more like it. Yeah, real science-y and shit! How does it work man? It just looks like a strainer covered in bits of wire!
Cliff: That’s cause it is.
Ricardo: Oh.
Ricardo’s excitement begins to fade as Cliff enters the machine and turns on the battery. As it hums quietly into life Cliff pokes his head out and looks at Ricardo.
Cliff: How’d you feel?
Ricardo: Great!
Cliff: You can’t taste metal?
Ricardo: Nope.
Cliff: Or feel a buzzin’?
Ricardo: No. Should I?
Cliff: Great. Hang in there a sec.
He goes back into his machine and turns up a dial on the battery. The machine’s fragile frame creaks slightly and begins to vibrate. Ricardo, still proudly donning his helmet, watches Cliff with anticipation.
Cliff: Okay, come sit here.
Cliff beckons Ricardo over to a small fold out chair positioned in the middle of the contraption. Ricardo sits down gently, careful not to knock his helmet off.
Ricardo: I’m excited, R-Man! Are you excited?
Cliff ignores him and exits the machine. He pulls back the white sheet covering the contraptions entrance and clips it shut with a clothes peg. He goes outside and picks up a small box connected to one of the wires running from the house and into the battery inside the machine.
Cliff: Now, when this happened before, Morden was inside for at least a few minutes before anythin’ started to happen. So you might not feel anythin’ straight away, okay?
A voice pipes up from within the now quietly humming machine.
Ricardo: Okay!
Cliff: And you’ve gotta try stayin’ real still.
Ricardo: Gottcha!
Cliff: And if you feel anythin’ strange, or smell anythin’ you don’t think you should be smellin’, just shout, okay?
Ricardo: Okay!
Cliff: Now… you ready?
Ricardo: Yeah!
Cliff: I said are you ready?
Ricardo: Yeah!
Cliff: I can’t hear you!
Ricardo: YEAH!
Cliff: HELL YEAH!
Ricardo: HELL YEAH!
Cliff: Now let’s do some science motherfucker!
Cliff turns the dial on the box and the machine’s frame jolts awake. The battery inside hums louder now, growing in intensity as the poles holding the machine together begin to vibrate and shake violently. Cliff turns up the dial a little more, crosses his fingers, and presses a button.
Sparks fly from the box in Cliff’s hand, and from within the machine there comes a loud bang. It gives one final triumphant jolt of movement before smoke starts to fill the air and Ricardo comes running out, still clutching the strainer to his head.
Ricardo: Shit shit shit shit shit! Fire! It’s on fire!
He drops to the ground next to Cliff as the sheets covering the failed contraption burst into flames.
Cliff: Fuck! Fuck! No no no no!
Cliff runs over the burning wreck and gingerly tries to salvage the battery from inside. He reaches in, fumbles around for a moment, and gives up when his jacket sleeve catches alight.
Cliff: FUCK!
Cliff shakes his arm about wildly to extinguish the flames as Ricardo takes a seat on the back porch and watches him. He sighs and removes the strainer from his slightly singed head.
Cliff: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! MOTHERFUCKER! Stupid… fuckin’… FUCK!
Cliff extinguishes the flames dancing on his sleeve and kicks the air frustratedly. He angrily thrashes about for a few more minutes, kicking a shrub and stomping on the grass, before calling it a day and slumping over next to Ricardo on the back porch.
Cliff: Fuck.
The two of them share a moment in silence, watching the remnants of Cliff’s machine as they smoulder on the grass. Footsteps fill the air as Larry comes running through the kitchen and to the back door in a panic.
Larry: Cliff? The lawn’s on fire.
Cliff: Yeah.
Larry: You gonna do anything?
Cliff: No.
Larry: Fine. Whatever.
Larry turns to go back inside, but stops himself and looks back at the pair of them sat on the porch.
Larry: Sorry, who are you?
Ricardo: Ricardo.
Larry says nothing.
Ricardo: Oh, right. I deliver the groceries.
Larry shrugs and goes back inside.
Ricardo: Huh. D’you see that? Dude looked like a mummy. Rad.
Cliff: Your hair’s smokin’ man.
Ricardo: Oh.
Ricardo raises a hand to his scalp and pats out a smouldering patch of hair. Cliff continues to stare at the wreck of the machine, unmoving and defeated, and Ricardo sighs. He leans over the edge of the porch steps and reaches into his delivery box of groceries, the contents of which now starting to slowly go off in the humid late afternoon air. He feels around for a moment then produces two bottles of beer, which he promptly opens using his teeth. He places one next to Cliff and brings the other up to his mouth. Cliff looks down at the offering and says nothing. Ricardo, realising what he’s done, goes to grab the bottle and get it out of Cliff’s sight, but before he can Cliff grabs his wrist and, with his other hand, points to his mouth. Ricardo takes a second to understand, then lifts the bottle to Cliff’s mouth and pours a little in. Cliff turns away and begins once more to stare at the remains of his White Room, now gently smoking on the lawn.
Cliff: I tried.
Ricardo silently lays a hand on Cliff’s shoulder and takes another swig of beer. They both watch as the sun begins to set on the manor, the last wisps of smoke disappearing as they twist and curl into the air.
====================
Another book goes flying through the air of Niles’ study and crashing into a cabinet as Rita angrily tosses it to one side and exhales exasperatedly. She’d been up there for hours now, trying, in vain, to look for anything that may give them some kind of hint as to how to get Niles back. She hasn’t found anything of use, however, during her time she has found:
-A stale waffle.
-An old notebook labelled ‘W.K’, completely blank save for a drawing of a horse on the back cover that erases itself once seen.
-A copy of Heathers on VHS.
-A whisk.
-Five copies of ‘Science Today’ from 1992, each curiously missing pages 4, 11 and 27 respectively.
-A compass that always points south-east.
-And a set of tea-stained tarot cards.
Rita slumps against a bookcase and drops to the floor with a sigh. She casts her eyes around the cluttered mess Niles calls an office and considers for a moment if there is anywhere else she hasn’t looked. She’d been in the filing cabinets, through the bookcases and rattled the handles of the two locked drawers in Niles’ desk for far too long before realising she wasn’t going to get into them and calling it a day. Resting her head back against the shelf, she stares up at the ceiling and lets her mind go blank. She thinks about the night Niles was lost – the Brain, the White Room, Morden – and suddenly remembers something that causes her to sit upright and to attention. With everything that had happened since, she’d completely forgotten what she’d been able to do. She casts her mind back to their imprisonment in Brain’s lair; to the dingy cell they’d been thrown so rudely into by that great stinking ape of a –
Rita: Get a grip.
She stands and begins to hum to herself in some kind of warm up routine, blowing air out through her lips and shaking out her limbs. She takes a deep breath in, forgetting about everything else, and focuses her mind on her arm, and how she would very much like to reach over and pick up a book situated on a shelf opposite. She pictures herself in melted, fleshy form and starts to feel her arm lose its integrity and droop slightly. She closes her eyes and continues to picture herself as that awful, horrible pool of flesh. Her arm drops to the ground with a wet squelch. She takes another breath and concentrates on reaching for the book.
Rita: Come on now. Focus.
She tries to replicate the feeling of desperate panic she remembered feeling from before, locked in that cell and listening to the sounds of the White Room, but finds the feeling hard to retrieve. She slaps herself with her good hand and squeezes her eyes shut tighter. She whispers aggressively to herself:
Rita: Stanislavski, Rita. What would Stanislavski do. Think now.
But no matter how hard she tries, her drooping puddle of an arm doesn’t budge. She opens her eyes angrily and kicks Niles’ desk a couple of times in frustration. She bends down and gathers her melted arm up as it starts to gradually re-form itself to its regular shape.
Rita: Give up, sweetheart. This isn’t happening.
She shakes out her arm and turns to leave, but stops when she notices something sticking out of the desk before her. It’s one of the drawers that had been previously locked. She frowns and realises her aggressive kicking must have loosened it. She goes over and pulls it open fully, gazing inside at pieces of paper scrawled with calculations and numbers and strange, unrecognisable symbols. She rifles round inside, pushing more pieces of scrap paper out the way and wondering what inside the drawer is so important that Niles feels the need to lock it. After a few more minutes of searching she finds nothing of worth, but as she goes to close it something catches her eye. She reaches in and pulls out an old, yellowed envelope with the seal folded neatly over on itself. She hesitates for a moment, and then carefully opens it and pulls out a single, black and white photograph. Staring back at her is the smiling face of a pretty young woman, with what Rita can only assume to be black curly hair and dark eyes. She gazes into the woman’s face for a moment, then turns the photograph over to find, written neatly in pen, the date:
1986
And beneath that:
Calcutta.
Rita frowns, but her attention is suddenly drawn away from the photograph and towards a thick cloud of smoke blowing up from the garden and past the study window.
Rita: Oh for god’s sake…
She slides the drawer shut and turns out the study light, closing the door behind her as she makes her way down to the garden. She doesn’t know why, but she keeps hold of the photograph.
"On assignment for Look magazine to photograph the movie star for its twenty-fifth anniversary cover, Douglas Kirkland shot Marilyn in the intimate confines of an unmade bed."
Tenth and last in a series of ten pictures by Douglas Kirkland, staff photographer for LOOK magazine, of Marilyn Monroe in 1961, a year before her death.
From the LOOK Collection at the Library of Congress
More MM | More pictures from the LOOK magazine collection
(?) The copyright status of this picture is uncertain.