View allAll Photos Tagged blinking
"Father!"
Smack. The head hits the floor, rolling like a bowling ball. His arms and body are still twitching, his eyelids blinking one last time. I stare into his lifeless eyes, seeing it all.
Lies. A story. Make believe.
"Good riddance, no one likes a liar."
My head tilted up, seeing a mirror. I am holding a sword, dripping in Atlantean blood. A liars blood.
Good riddance.
Knock, knock
Jackson's head shot up, eyes wide open. The sword at his bedside is already drawn, aimed in front of him. Sweeping his room, he sees no one is present.
Knock, knock
"Jackson? It's Jackie. Can we talk?"
Jackie? Oh. I'm at N.E.M.O. I had forgotten.
"I'll be there in a moment." He calls back, sliding his legs off the bed. Jackson's room here is plain, only his equipment decorating it. His father had told him not to worry about such a feeble thing, that they wouldn't be staying. It kind of hurts him knowing this, but it must be done.
Dropping to the floor, he slides his shoes on and makes his way to the door. His clothes are still his pajamas, but it doesn't cross his mind. Opening the door, he sees it also didn't bother the girl standing outside. Jackie is wearing a tank top and shorts, her hair in a short ponytail.
"Hello Jackie. What's the matter?" His voice is still groggy from waking up only moments ago, but the sincerity is still present. "Oh, it's nothing major. I was just hoping we could go talk." She was lying through her teeth, he could tell easily. It was something his father had taught him. He gives her a nod, as they begin walking into the hallway.
The walk is completely silent. Both of the teenagers aren't speaking. There is a dread in Jackson's stomach, he knows something is wrong. He knows that she needs help.
I want to help, she's my friend, but I don't know how. It hurts to feel like this.
The pair arrives at the overhang, that's what they've been calling it the past few months anyways. They both sit down, their legs hanging off the balcony. No one was currently training, leaving them in complete and still silence.
"So what's it like?" Jackie initiated. "Being born of two different worlds?"
Jackson looked down, his eyes filled with the pain and memories of the past. "It isn't too special, really." He sighed as he looked up to her. "I am honestly weaker because of it. My Xebelion blood is suppressed by my human side. I can still manipulate water and such, but not to the level of other purebloods."
"Still," Jackie smiled, "it must be cool to be someone who is on both sides of the coin."
"Yeah well, it isn't always the best. I was made fun of quite a lot because I was always so much weaker than my classmates. So much so that I had to be moved into private lessons from the queen. I never felt like anyone got me. I always was an outcast, not having a mother, my fa…" He caught himself, "caregiver... being best friends with the King. Everyone thought I was just some kind of spoiled heir. I just wanted people to talk with. Be friends with."
"I… I feel the same way." She looks down now, the same way Jackson had a moment ago. "During normal school, I was pushed aside because of my lack of social skills. I couldn't make friends when I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to speak to someone that hadn't spoken first… but no one ever did."
As Jackson was about to speak, he noticed something he hadn't before. Running up Jackie's arms were bruises, on her shoulders looked like hand prints. The sight froze him, he stopped talking, stopped breathing.
They were fresh, maybe an hour old.
Jackie was confused, "Jackson? Are you ok?" His eyes met hers, he knew pain. He had felt it, but hers was different. Her eyes looked like they were so tired, ready for the pain to end.
"I'm glad you're here." He explained. He needed to help her, but he just. He didn't know how to. "I feel like you understand me, on a level that no one else does. Someone that I've needed for a long…"
His sentence is interrupted by something soft pressing against his lips. His were eyes locked onto Jackie pressing her lips against his, with his cheeks flaring with red. All he could do was sit there before she pulled away, realizing he wasn't kissing back.
"Jackie…"
"Jackson I… I'm sorry, I…" she looked away, realizing he didn't reciprocate what she felt. "Jackie I don't… feel *that way* about you." He empathized *that way*, trying to help her understand.
All she did was nod, eyes burned into the floor. She looked as if she was shot with a revolver, straight through the heart.
"I-it isn't you- or that I don't like you per say… I think you are really pretty. I just- I don't… like girls."
"Oh."
"I'm- I'm sorry, Jackie. I-"
She stood up slowly. He could see a tear run down her cheek as she turned. She started to walk away at a quick pace. "Wait Jackie! Jackie!" He called. He called again, standing, but she didn't turn her head, she only moved faster. It hurt him more than anything else had.
His first friend. The only person to ever talk to him about something other than his father or his Atlantean side. She was the first person he has cared for that wasn't a family member, or fake family member.
And he hurt her.
Male Acorn Woodpecker. Note all the holes made by these birds in the tree . Riverside CA 29th March 2020
Howl
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)
For Carl Solomon
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whose intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successfully unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humour
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
The Blinking Eye Bridge over the river Tyne between Gateshead and Newcastle, England. Bridge tilts open every midday or when masted vessels need to pass through.
Croxall Lakes Nature Reserve, Staffordshire
"Finally a break in the clouds revealed this sunset on a very still windless day"
"Taken across a man-made lake, restored from a former a sand and gravel quarry"
We visited the Great Smoky Mountain National Park early June in order mainly for some sunrise and sunset photography and the famous synchronized firefly show. However it was all ruined by a tornado and thick fogs all around the overlooks we had planned except for the very first day.
After several hour driving, we headed directly to the Clingmans Dome Overlook. The weather was so unpredictable at this high elevation that it has changed from sunny to windy stormy followed by an misty, foggy sky. We have waited and waited and waited hoping that it could open just for a while. Eventually our dream came true. The clouds in the west just broke while the sun setting just above the top of the mountains. The lighting of the scene changed dramatically but it lasted only a few minutes. We couldn't be happier that it allowed us just in time to shoot this amazing moment.
drinking in the morning sun
blinking in the morning sun
shaking off the heavy one
heavy like a loaded gun
what made me behave that way?
using words I never say
i can only think it must be love
oh, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day
someone tell me how I feel
it's silly wrong but vivid right
oh, kiss me like the final meal
yeah, kiss me like we die tonight
when my face is chamois-creased
if you think I'll wink, I did
laugh politely at repeats
yeah, kiss me when my lips are thin
cause holy cow, I love your eyes
and only now I see you like
yeah, lying with me half-awake
stumbling over what to say
well, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day
so throw those curtains wide!
one day like this a year'd see me right!
one day like this by Elbow....had this beautiful song stuck in my head all day....
© All rights reserved
Images may not be copied or used in any way without my written permission.
"What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot"
The Merchant Of Venice
For TOTW: ROY G BIV (colors) (Yellow) it's hardly yellow, but I tried, and there's the word croceus, which means yellow in Latin...
For FGR: Paintings re-enacted! Reenactment of this image
The original is thought to be the only portrait of Shakespeare made during his life.
For TRP: Shakespeare's Words (obviously)
All images available for licensing via me. I offer commercial and editorial pet photography on a commissioned basis. And with a pet picture database of more than 1400 images, I might already have what you are looking for. All pictures here can be licensed.
For licensing and commission requests: info{at}elkevogelsang.com -
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© Elke Vogelsang
20190523_Amy_BlinkingAmy
Paris - France
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From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round
Tim Rice - Circle of life
This one is dedicated to the not-so-young Chris Frick :-) Great photographer, great climber and sincere flickr-friend !
---------------------------
From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to be seen than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
Some say eat or be eaten
Some say live and let live
But all are agreed as they join the stampede
You should never take more than you give
In the circle of life
It's the wheel of fortune
It's the leap of faith
It's the band of hope
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the circle, the circle of life
Some of us fall by the wayside
And some of us soar to the stars
And some of us sail through our troubles
And some have to live with the scars
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round
Music by Elton John
Lyrics by Tim Rice
Hand held and no artificial light of a female Carolina Mantis (Stagmomantis carolina)...in the wild.
Photo taken summer 2010.
Lights blinking on the tree,
Cheery Christmas music playing,
The aroma wafting from the oven of the mixed spices, the rum soaked fruits in the batter...
just heavenly!
the fruit cake recipe from here
PS - (notes to myself for the next year):
The cake turned out well.
- I had one batch made after pulsing the drained fruits. Think that turned out better.
- Might reduce the sugar by half cup next time. Too sweet for me :)
- Using whole sugar gives it a nice crunch
This owl was run out of her tree by a hawk. She had stopped here on a rock beside a creek. The light was too bright for her to open her eyes more than a peek, so I was able to get fairly close to her.
Nikon Z6, FTZ adapter, and Sigma 150-600 C lens. Calleguas Creek near CSUCI.
... Is this long stored ex Maidstone & District Leyland Leopard Duple Commander IV. RKM 616G has been incarcerated for a couple of years in a barn on the Shropshire / Staffordshire border, stored pending authority to restore it from it's present owner. One of today's 'tasks' was to awaken it and move it outside in order that the owner of the premises could move some of his stored car collection around. With the assistance of some new batteries and the tiniest whiff of Easystart the coach burst into life. Other than for the traditional long stored Leopard fault of a broken exhaust flex, it sounded as fit as a fiddle. The old girl is seen here in the farm yard ticking over like a fifty guinea watch.
Does anybody out there know of any other surviving Commander IVs?
Twinkling sheep on black: bighugelabs.com/flickr/onblack.php?id=2168931454&post...
Explore, Jan 5, 2008 #358
Hoi An, Vietnam
Going on with pics form Hoi An...
No, he's not blinking an eye, his left eye is just closed, permenently. Another thing that's permanent is the smile! I stayed 3 days in Hoi An and every time I passed by him, he waved me with this huge smile in his face.
This man is so nice. He used to be a fisherman on the Thu Bon, but growing old, he realized he could earn just as much money by just being nice to tourists. So, now he spends his days in this clean outfit, in his wooden boat (that you can see bottom left), smiling, taking passengers on his boat to go down the river and back and he tells stories the best he can (his english is probably just as good as my vietnamese).
In the background are the same boats that you can see in the previous post.
Hoi An is a small town and he's a bit of a celebrity there. You can find pictures of him pretty much anywhere on the web when searching for Hoi An. I wished he had his conical hat on ;D
cheers!
Explored: Highest position: 5 on Monday, May 4, 2009