Found myself amazingly sad at Heath Ledger's death. Then caught myself wondering why. This rich, goodlooking man with a lovely daughter, millions in his bank accounts, a great movie career, and god knows how many willing women by his side, died allegedly of a drug overdose. So, why does his death matter even, to me?
The other day, a photog friend sent me pictures of homeless people -- a project he's working on. The photos were great, of course, but those visuals of little children living on the streets, holding out their hands in mute appeal; boys and girls with vacant, defeated, knowing eyes, didn't touch me at all. I found myself thinking the project was essentially for a Western audience. And then I went around saying, oh what a shame Ledger is dead.
A Hollywood star's death affected me. Scenes I see every day in my city, don't diminish me at all. What a cruel, shameful irony.
The other day, a photog friend sent me pictures of homeless people -- a project he's working on. The photos were great, of course, but those visuals of little children living on the streets, holding out their hands in mute appeal; boys and girls with vacant, defeated, knowing eyes, didn't touch me at all. I found myself thinking the project was essentially for a Western audience. And then I went around saying, oh what a shame Ledger is dead.
A Hollywood star's death affected me. Scenes I see every day in my city, don't diminish me at all. What a cruel, shameful irony.
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