Sometimes I think about the possibility that a satellite could fall out of the sky and get me when I’m least expecting it (Mean Girls bus-style). Flower pots and beer bottles also cause me to occasionally glance up when walking down the street in the summer.
I like to be prepared for the worst and appreciate when it doesn’t happen. It’s like a twisted optimism.
Weekend Hashtag Project is a series featuring designated themes & hashtags chosen by Instagram’s Community Team. For a chance to be featured on the Instagram blog, follow @instagram and look for a photo announcing the weekend’s project every Friday.
The goal this weekend is to capture self-portrait photographs! Some tips to help get you started: download a self timer application, if you don’t have a tripod try using rubber bands to secure your phone to something sturdy, and don’t be afraid to use props to add some depth. Try to think outside the box! Mirror portraits can be fantastic, but just remember that your self portrait should be a unique representation of who you are, so don’t be afraid to challenge yourself as a photographer.
PROJECT RULES: Please only add the hashtag #WHPbehindthelensto photos taken over this weekend and only submit your own photographs to the project. Any image taken then tagged over the weekend is eligible to be featured right here Monday morning!
If you’re allergic to something and you die, will the walking corpse version of you also suffer from that same allergy? Let’s say you’re allergic to gluten. Would eating the brains of a glutinous gluten-eater make your zombie belly ache? Or do the after dead have some sort of invincibility cloak when it comes to allergies? Please let me know if you or anyone else you know has the answer to this question. It’s important.
What will be the last book I read? Woolf’s finest work, the only one I shunned? The Turgenev novel everyone disdains? End Game in Poetry, a just-uncovered work by Grandmaster Borges, or Dinesen’s stories, seeking for a fourth time the mercy of my eyes? What will be in my hands the morning they find me? A dog-eared Borzoi, or sassy new Penguin? A pockmarked Pantheon, or pristine Random House? And will the failed-poet coroner claim foul play and confiscate the thing? Will the book then appear in a dealer’s locked case, scarred by marginalia claimed to be authentic, where I propose a brief tying-up-of-ends-type poem? Or will the last book be the one that I wrote and never could abide, but could read that night with kinder eyes, and whom I turned slowly to greet like a long-lost daughter?