Polaroid Photo Quotes

I took a Polaroid of her one night and stuck it into the frame of the mirror in the living room. Reva thought it was a loving gesture, but the photo was really meant as a reminder of how little I enjoyed her company if I felt like calling her later while I was under the influence.

And then there was Joss. I met him in a dimly lit office, where he regaled me with tales of adventure, swashbuckling, shootings, spaceships, and narrow escapes. Um, where do I sign? He gave me a new identity, a costume, a gun, and a long brown duster for a cape. I remember that meeting so well; it was like a superhero "origin" issue. I remember Joss looking at Polaroid photos of my first costume fitting, holding up the one with the duster and gun saying, "Action figure, anyone?" Never in my wildest. Like some sort of super-team benefactor, Joss made superheroes out of all of us, complete with a super-hideout spaceship. During filming, we'd all retreat to our dressing room trailers and emerge like Supermen with our alter egos. The boots, the suspenders, gun holstered low on my hip... with a flick and a spin of that wicked awesome coat over my shoulders, I became someone else.

I’d never been to the kind of party in the Polaroid photos

Mrs. Pritchett proceeds to show me about five billion Polaroid photos of her brand new kitten.

i'm holding only one photo now, and I have to force myself, beg myself to look at it, the square polaroid shaking in my trembling hand. It's a picture of a little boy standing next to a little girl. she's sitting in a stairwell. He looks at her as she eats a piece of cake. I flip it over Aaron and Ella

But the most surprising difference was Show Street, the topless corner of Seattle’s second world’s fair, where fairgoers could rent Polaroid cameras to snap photos of showgirls in various stages of undress.

The most basic mobile phone is in fact a communications devices that shames all of science fiction, all the wrist radios and handheld communicators. Captain Kirk had to tune his fucking communicator and it couldn’t text or take a photo that he could stick a nice Polaroid filter on. Science fiction didn’t see the mobile phone coming. It certainly didn’t see the glowing glass windows many of us carry now, where we make things amazing happen by pointing at it with our fingers like goddamn wizards.

He opened the back of the Polaroid and slid in the roll of film while his family arranged themselves on the Argent sofa. The upholstery was the color of faded mint, a fine setting for their brown skin, but the camera only took black-and-white photos. John on Elizabeth’s lap, May beside them. May didn’t know how to smile yet—all instructions to do so summoned an unsettling, gum-heavy display that would not have been out of place on a Bowery bum sleeping it off in a vestibule. “Sit still,” Elizabeth said.

We wanted to take Polaroids of her and all the kids, about eight of them, of all ages, several photos, so we could give some to the family. She grabbed her youngest and asked us to wait. And then like any mother, anywhere in the world—do not let anyone tell you that people are fundamentally different—she combed the child’s hair and changed his shirt before letting him pose for the pictures. The second shirt was slightly less dirty than the first. She wanted him to look his best. That mother could have been in Greenwich, Connecticut, as easily as on the steppes of Mongolia.

a Polaroid of me and Serena looking away from the camera during that sunset lake tour we did two years ago. Some guy took it without asking, while we were dangling our feet in the water. Then he showed it to us and said he’d only return it if one of us gave him our number. We did the only logical thing: caught him in a headlock and forcibly took the photo.

One tweet includes a photo of her at fourteen, skinny and smiling through braces in her field hockey uniform, the text screaming, THIS IS HOW OLD TAYLOR BIRCH WAS WHEN JACOB STRANE ASSAULTED HER. I try to imagine the same line paired with the Polaroids Strane took of me at fifteen, my heavy-lidded eyes and swollen lips, or with the photos I took of myself at seventeen, standing before a backdrop of birch trees, lifting my skirt as I stared at the camera, looking like a Lolita and knowing exactly what I wanted, what I was. I wonder how much victimhood they’d be willing to grant a girl like me.

One of the more-interesting?-things I did for Chris during that first deployment was send him some sexy photos of me in lingerie. I knew he wanted something to remember me, and I knew that other wives were doing the same thing. But getting the pictures was difficult. I finally got my courage up and asked my sister to help. Even then, I was so embarrassed that I needed to have a couple of beers to get through the session. This was back in the days before camera phones and digital photographs were everywhere, and so the photos were taken on a Polaroid camera. They came home a little worse for wear, so obviously he enjoyed them.

Some days it seems like every lowlife in town has Tail ’Em and Nail ’Em on their grease-stained Rolodex. A number of phone messages have piled up on the answering machine, breathers, telemarketers, even a few calls to do with tickets currently active. After some triage on the playback, Maxine returns an anxious call from a whistle-blower at a snack-food company over in Jersey which has been secretly negotiating with ex-employees of Krispy Kreme for the illegal purchase of top-secret temperature and humidity settings on the donut purveyor’s “proof box,” along with equally classified photos of the donut extruder, which however now seem to be Polaroids of auto parts taken years ago in Queens, Photoshopped and whimsically at that. “I’m beginning to think something’s funny about this deal,” her contact’s voice trembling a little, “maybe not even legit.” “Maybe, Trevor, because it’s a criminal act under Title 18?” “It’s an FBI sting operation!” Trevor screams. “Why would the FBI—” “Duh-uh? Krispy Kreme? On behalf of their brothers in law enforcement at all levels?” “All right. I’ll talk to them at the Bergen County DA, maybe they’ve heard something—” “Wait, wait, somebody’s coming, now they saw me, oh! maybe I better—” The line goes dead. Always happens.

Jackie, can you tell me if someone’s dead or not?’ “Who it be? Maybe I heard something.” “Miranda Lopez.” I pulled out the charm and balanced it on my fingertips, and then I realized the photo was probably a better likeness. I pocketed the milagro ad held up the Polaroid. “I find out for you if you get me a dime.” I sighed and put the photo away. “You can’t smoke crack. You’re dead. And even if you weren’t, I’m not gonna score for you. I’m a cop. “ “You so full of shit. You ain’t no cop neither.” “Would I be wearing this fucking suit if I wasn’t a cop?” “I don’t know. I always thought you sold cars or something.” I tucked my chin toward my chest and stomped toward my gate. Jackie couldn’t help me. And how dare she call me a used car salesman? I wasn’t always a dork in a blazer. Once upon a time I was actually cool. Until the Cook County Mental Health Centre, anyway. After that, I guess I kinda stopped caring.

Achievement ceremonies are revealing about the need of the powerful to punish women through beauty, since the tension of having to repress alarm at female achievement is unusually formalized in them. Beauty myth insults tend to be blurted out at them like death jokes at a funeral. Memories of these achievement ceremonies are supposed to last like Polaroid snapshots that gel into permanent colors, souvenirs to keep of a hard race run; but for girls and young women, the myth keeps those colors always liquid so that, with a word, they can be smeared into the uniform shades of mud. At my college graduation, the commencement speaker, Dick Cavett—who had been a “brother” of the university president in an allmale secret society—was confronted by two thousand young female Yale graduates in mortarboards and academic gowns, and offered them this story: When he was at Yale there were no women. The women went to Vassar. There, they had nude photographs taken in gym class to check their posture. Some of the photos ended up in the pornography black market in New Haven. The punch line: The photos found no buyers. Whether or not the slur was deliberate, it was still effective: We may have been Elis but we would still not make pornography worth his buying. Today, three thousand men of the class of 1984 are sure they are graduates of that university, remembering commencement as they are meant to: proudly. But many of the two thousand women, when they can think of that day at all, recall the feelings of the powerless: exclusion and shame and impotent, complicit silence. We could not make a scene, as it was our parents’ great day for which they had traveled long distances; neither could they, out of the same concern for us. Beauty pornography makes an eating disease seem inevitable, even desirable, if a young woman is to consider herself sexual and valuable: Robin Lakoff and Raquel Scherr in Face Value found in 1984 that “among college women, ‘modern’ definitions of beauty—health, energy, self-confidence”—prevailed. “The bad news” is that they all had “only one overriding concern: the shape and weight of their bodies. They all wanted to lose 5–25 pounds, even though most [were] not remotely overweight. They went into great detail about every flaw in their anatomies, and told of the great disgust they felt every time they looked in the mirror.” The “great disgust” they feel comes from learning the rigid conventions of beauty pornography before they learn their own sexual value; in such an atmosphere, eating diseases make perfect sense.

Auto-Zoomar. Talbert knelt in the a tergo posture, his palms touching the wing-like shoulder blades of the young woman. A conceptual flight. At ten-second intervals the Polaroid projected a photograph on to the screen beside the bed. He watched the auto-zoom close in on the union of their thighs and hips. Details of the face and body of the film actress appeared on the screen, mimetized elements of the planetarium they had visited that morning. Soon the parallax would close, establishing the equivalent geometry of the sexual act with the junctions of this wall and ceiling. ‘Not in the Literal Sense.’Conscious of Catherine Austin’s nervous hips as she stood beside him, Dr Nathan studied the photograph of the young woman. ‘Karen Novotny,’ he read off the caption. ‘Dr Austin, may I assure you that the prognosis is hardly favourable for Miss Novotny. As far as Talbert is concerned the young woman is a mere modulus in his union with the film actress.’ With kindly eyes he looked up at Catherine Austin. ‘Surely it’s self-evident - Talbert’s intention is to have intercourse with Miss Taylor, though needless to say not in the literal sense of that term.’ Action Sequence. Hiding among the traffic in the near-side lane, Koester followed the white Pontiac along the highway. When they turned into the studio entrance he left his car among the pines and climbed through the perimeter fence. In the shooting stage Talbert was staring through a series of colour transparencies. Karen Novotny waited passively beside him, her hands held like limp birds. As they grappled he could feel the exploding musculature of Talbert’s shoulders. A flurry of heavy blows beat him to the floor. Vomiting through his bloodied lips, he saw Talbert run after the young woman as she darted towards the car. The Sex Kit.‘In a sense,’ Dr Nathan explained to Koester, ‘one may regard this as a kit, which Talbert has devised, entitled “Karen Novotny” - it might even be feasible to market it commercially. It contains the following items: (1) Pad of pubic hair, (2) a latex face mask, (3) six detachable mouths, (4) a set of smiles, (5) a pair of breasts, left nipple marked by a small ulcer, (6) a set of non-chafe orifices, (7) photo cut-outs of a number of narrative situations - the girl doing this and that, (8) a list of dialogue samples, of inane chatter, (9) a set of noise levels, (10) descriptive techniques for a variety of sex acts, (11) a torn anal detrusor muscle, (12) a glossary of idioms and catch phrases, (13) an analysis of odour traces (from various vents), mostly purines, etc., (14) a chart of body temperatures (axillary, buccal, rectal), (15) slides of vaginal smears, chiefly Ortho-Gynol jelly, (16) a set of blood pressures, systolic 120, diastolic 70 rising to 200/150 at onset of orgasm . . . ’ Deferring to Koester, Dr Nathan put down the typescript. ‘There are one or two other bits and pieces, but together the inventory is an adequate picture of a woman, who could easily be reconstituted from it. In fact, such a list may well be more stimulating than the real thing. Now that sex is becoming more and more a conceptual act, an intellectualization divorced from affect and physiology alike, one has to bear in mind the positive merits of the sexual perversions. Talbert’s library of cheap photo-pornography is in fact a vital literature, a kindling of the few taste buds left in the jaded palates of our so-called sexuality.

Polaroid vs. Digital Photos [10w] Photographs nowadays are preserved forever, it's the people who fade.

Crispin’s mom worked the cash register then and took Polaroids of every musician who bought an instrument there, saying she wanted something to remember them by when they became rock stars. Every photo got tacked to the wall. A mélange of nobodies and somebodies, pinned together in the biggest band for all eternity.

When Mike returned from Vietnam, Richard began hanging out with him. He was twelve. To Richard, Mike was special—a bona fide, real live hero, a man who’d gone into battle and come back victorious, with medals and Polaroid photos to prove he had been there and done it. In these pictures—which Mike showed Richard many times—there were Vietnamese women on their knees being forced to perform fellatio on Mike. In each he looked grimly at the camera and held a cocked .45 to the woman’s head, genuine fear in the woman’s eyes. Mike kept these black-and-white pictures, all bent by handling, in a shoebox at the top of a closet. He also kept eight shrunken heads he’d brought back from ’Nam in a battered suitcase under his bed. He told Richard he’d used the heads as pillows in Vietnam. Mike was married to a shapely Mexican-American redhead named Jessie with a full figure and strong personality.

Ligature marks,” she said. “Skin irritation. Duct tape.” Detective Berg knelt beside the body. “It’s Phoebe Canova.” Caitlin stepped back mentally, seeing the victim’s body in its entirety. Her field of vision continued to expand. Then goose bumps rose. Around Phoebe’s body, maybe six feet away, photos were stuck in the ground like headstones. They were Polaroids. Caitlin stepped back physically. The photos showed women in white nightgowns. They were blond. Some were alive and terrified. Most were dead. Rainey spoke in a low voice. “Holy Jesus. How long has this guy been killing?” Caitlin counted the photos. There were twelve.

PACKING CHECKLIST Light, khaki, or neutral-color clothes are universally worn on safari and were first used in Africa as camouflage by the South African Boers, and then by the British Army that fought them during the South African War. Light colors also help to deflect the harsh sun and are less likely than dark colors to attract mosquitoes. Don’t wear camouflage gear. Do wear layers of clothing that you can strip off as the sun gets hotter and put back on as the sun goes down. Smartphone or tablet to check emails, send texts, and store photos (also handy as an alarm clock and flashlight), plus an adapter. If electricity will be limited, you may wish to bring a portable charger. Three cotton T-shirts Two long-sleeve cotton shirts preferably with collars Two pairs of shorts or two skirts in summer Two pairs of long pants (three pairs in winter)—trousers that zip off at the knees are worth considering Optional: sweatshirt and sweatpants, which can double as sleepwear One smart-casual dinner outfit Underwear and socks Walking shoes or sneakers Sandals/flip-flops Bathing suit and sarong to use as a cover-up Warm padded jacket and sweater/fleece in winter Windbreaker or rain poncho Camera equipment, extra batteries or charger, and memory cards; a photographer’s vest and cargo pants are great for storage Eyeglasses and/or contact lenses, plus extras Binoculars Small flashlight Personal toiletries Malaria tablets and prescription medication Sunscreen and lip balm with SPF 30 or higher Basic medication like antihistamine cream, eye drops, headache tablets, indigestion remedies, etc. Insect repellent that is at least 20% DEET and is sweat-resistant Tissues and/or premoistened wipes/hand sanitizer Warm hat, scarf, and gloves in winter Sun hat and sunglasses (Polaroid and UV-protected ones) Documents and money (cash, credit cards, etc.). A notebook/journal and pens Travel and field guide books A couple of large white plastic garbage bags Ziplock bags to keep documents dry and protect electronics from dust

author of the ransom note. Quoting Steve Thomas (Thomas 2000)[10], “Then, while reviewing a list of book titles from the Ramsey home at the request of Don Foster, I dug out the Polaroid photographs from the Evidence Room. Using magnifying glasses, evidence tech Pat Peck and I compared the titles on the list with what the pictures showed. Entire shelves of books had been overlooked. When we checked the photos from a big manila envelope marked as evidence item #85KKY, I almost fell out of my chair, and Peck inhaled in sharp surprise. A picture showed Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary on a coffee table in the first-floor study, the corner of the lower left-hand page sharply creased and pointing like an arrow to the word incest. Somebody had apparently been looking for a definition of sexual contact between family members. Ever so slowly, our accumulated circumstantial evidence grew.

The information was far from comprehensive.  Inside the file was a polaroid that looked like it had been taken exactly from where Jamie was sitting. She held it up and matched the outline of the door in front of her to the picture in her hand. In the middle of it was Oliver Hammond. He looked dishevelled and gaunt. Hungry was the word that came to mind. His skin looked colourless and there were grazes and scabs hanging from his cheeks. The heroin scratch. That’s what her dad used to call it. When addicts pawed at their faces. His hair was matted and his eyes sunken, but there was no mistaking him.  Jamie pulled the photo out from under the paperclip and went through the rest of the file.  There was a roughly photocopied form that looked like it had been put together in a spreadsheet. It had been filled in by hand. Jamie closed her eyes and recalled the handwriting on the sign outside. It was different. Oliver must have filled it in himself.  It gave his name, date of birth, emergency contact, and blood type. Though there was nothing filled in under address. It also had two check-boxes under the words ‘Naloxone Allergy?’, and he’d checked ‘no’. Naloxone was used to treat heroin overdoses. There were also questions — ‘How long has it been since you maintained a permanent residence?’, ‘Do your family know where you are?’. He’d written ‘A year’ and ‘No’ for those two. Then came the personal questions. ‘What is your sexual orientation?’, ‘Are you sexually active?’, ‘How many sexual partners have you had in the last 12 months?’, ‘Have you been recently checked for sexually transmitted diseases?’, ‘Have you been diagnosed with any transmittable diseases?’, ‘Are they bloodborne?’. He’d written ‘Straight’, ‘Yes’, ‘1’, ‘No’, ‘No’, and ‘No’. So he’d only been with one girl, and he hadn’t caught anything.

Murphy sat down and spread the sixty-two Polaroid copies on the desk. It was a gruesome sight and many appeared surreal. There were shots of several freshly severed heads placed on a countertop. Others showed bodies hanging by a strap from a showerhead in various stages of dismemberment, along with severed hands and penises. The most shocking depicted the victims lying on their backs in the bathtub, slit open from neck to genitalia, with the viscera pulled from the body and exposed on their chests. Many victims, both alive and dead, posed in positions highlighting their long, lean, muscular, naked bodies. I noted several photos of the man whose head had stared back at me from the refrigerator. He had the same look of shock on his face. We both sat silently, looking at the photos in disbelief.

Dahmer placed the family photo and his six matching Polaroids on the table. “That’s him.” Two of the Polaroids depicted the victim in identical positions, lying face up, stretched out, and naked. In the second photo, his hands were severed and he had been completely skinned. It was unbelievable. It looked just like an anatomy poster of a man you might see in a health class or doctor’s office. The cartilage, ligaments, and fleshy muscular areas were intact, but all the skin and hair on his face and body were gone. I had never seen anything like it in my life. Murphy blurted out, “What the hell is this all about, Jeff?” Dahmer sat straight up in his chair, obviously troubled by the outburst, and stammered a bit. “Well, I guess I was experimenting a little. I wanted to see if I could take off all his skin and save it.

One day as I sat and drank, I saw this young Asian male. He was a little younger than I would have liked, but he was eager and willing. I offered him fifty bucks to come home with me and let me take some nude photographs of him. We drank some rum and Cokes and I took some Polaroids, but he was very young and not that developed sexually, so I didn’t kill him. He must have told his parents because about two hours after he left, the police were at my door, found the photos I took, and arrested me. I thought this was it, that everything would come out, but the cops were only interested in the photos I took of the Asian kid and nothing else. I remember that my father was upset when I called from jail, but he got me a lawyer. I made a plea arrangement in court and was put on work release for about a year.

Yeah, but how did you do it?” I broke in. Dahmer, again composed, lit another cigarette before he answered. “It did take a long time, about two hours. I used a small, very sharp paring knife. I think I saw it in one of the Polaroids. Anyway, I started by making an incision from the top of his head down the back of his neck. Then I carefully cut along the skull. It was a little tricky around the ears and nose.” I picked up the photo. It was shocking and compelling at the same time. “Yeah, Jeff, but how did you get the skin to come off so completely?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It was really no big deal. The skin is detachable, just like pulling the skin off a chicken you are about to cook.” Dahmer explained that human skin peeled off easily if he made the correct incision. He was very careful to detach the victim’s facial skin in one piece. “I wrapped it around my own face and looked through his eye holes. It was like wearing a mask.