Mussel Man

Barely enough muscle to shoulder the mussels.

Snapped these 3 kids during a stroll through the old neighbourhoods of Istanbul, flanked on both sides by decaying wooden Ottoman houses interpsersed with the odd concrete structure. The little boy with the tin tray on his head was peddling mussels on the streets and the other two girls kept him company whilst pinching his wares. I don't know if he did make many sales and at the rate they were pinching his mussels, I doubt he had much left to sell. The little girl in the centre was obviously the fiesty ringleader who clearly lorded over the boy. The taller girl was a follower, not soft enough to be exploited but too big to be bullied. We have it easy here. Most of us have had a comfortable childhood. Not many of us had to peddle wares after school, or at the expense of school. The street is a tough place to grow up but it most definately builds character. On the street, it is true that that which does not kill you can only make you stronger; Very true.

Sur-real

An enchanted garden, step inside; touch to feel nothing.

The impending weekender did materialise and not only that, it also evolved into a new hybrid, the weekend-overnighter. Driving home from the office at 5am is a surreal experience. Your eyes have been burnt bright by the CRT monitors and everything seems halo-ed. The lack of oxygen from the de-airconditioned office adds to the haziness. The expectation of being blasted by humid warm air upon leaving the office never materialises. The air is as cool or as warm as that in the office. Everything feels the same. You feel cocooned in a bubble, where nothing seems real but yet everything is. Cocooned and Detached. The only people on the roads at this time are those making their way back from merrymaking. At the traffic lights you peer into the occupied cabs to see half drunk passengers dozing off; and you immediately empathize with the taxi driver. We are both workers of the night. But at least he chose the night shift. I had the day and the night shifts chosen for me.

Jam

A little nibble, savour the flavour.

The weekend is so near I can almost taste it. But it is also hanging in the balance, in light of an impending painful weekender. C'est la vie. I suppose there is only so much within one's control, yes, even at this age, at this stage of life. So I'll just nibble on the weekend first, just in case.

Breakfast

The breakfast of champions.

I have a love hate relationship with my N73.
But I suppose that's what you get when you settle for a compromise.

Simple Pleasures

The sausage van cometh.
Dance and shout for joy!

Paradox

Life is a struggle growing up; And yet we persist.
But when we are grown up, we want to be young again;
To undo the struggle.

Istanbul Modern

A Modern with an Old name.

I like seeing the old co-exist with the new. I am not retrogressive but I am one of those who think that old is gold. Istanbul has that unique blend of old and new, apart from a heady mix of east and west, that most rapidly modernizing cities lack. The Turks have embraced modernity and at the same time kept their culture alive and kicking. Not all modernising countries have been so wise. Some of us have abandoned our culture and heritage all in the name of progress and modernity. Adopting wholesale "western" culture, allowing it to displace the very essence that makes us unique. I once remarked to a friend that you don't really need to travel to the US. It is everywhere. Of course that is a generalisation, but there is a scary amount of truth in that statement. There is a thing or two us modern-ites can learn from cities like Istanbul. Lest we end up a modern city state, grappling with an identity issue; Trying to be uniquely something.

Looking Out

A black and white outlook.

On a cold winter's day, I sat with my angel in a warm cosy room, watching the snow fall gently on the white countryside. White on white. My angel told me a lie, like a sweet song, mesmerizing me with her gaze, and then darted out of the rooom. Enchanted, I dreamily gazed out of the window, watching the snow fall, watching my angel spirit across the countryside. White on white. She returned bearing the sweetest gift, one that gave beyond the matter that contained it. And I had fallen. If only all lies bore such sweet fruits. If only she wasn't my angel of death.

Technicolour

Lost in Tlos

A little colour to celebrate making it halfway through the work week. I've also steeled myself enough to at least browse through more photos from Turkey. However, I doubt that I will ever get round to uploading proper albums, even though I should. Life has become such a routine, everyday I just look forward to hitting the gym so I can pound the threadmill whilst the "ah beng techno" pulses of Satoshi Tomiie, Tiesto and Armin VB connect with my own pulse, jamming all synaptic impulses; effectively dulling the senses. Running whilst not moving is a bit of a irony. But life is full of ironies, and I can think of more tragic ones. Anyway, sometimes all that is needed is something to do, not a place to reach; to stay lost.

纸飞机

我的脆弱的自由

纸飞机的摺法
藏在回忆陪我们长大
纸飞机快飞吧
快乐方法并不复杂
不管未来怎样多变化
保留这牵挂
属于我们的童话

Semana

Hop on, Hang on.

The weekend has gone by like a Shinkansen/TGV/ Maglev. And now the transit to the slower local train, that will take me through the coming week, has begun. Its a strange sensation, changing trains without stopping. You disembark from one and try to run down the other. And for a brief moment you are running side by side with it, keeping pace, till you eventually catch it or get left behind. I wonder which is better?

Purple

A bloodied blue.

Intended to look through and upload the photos from Turkey but I didn't get far. Guess I'm not ready for them yet.

Veritas

Hungry for that which keeps me craving more.

In spite of travelling and pupilage I have managed to finish off a few of the books that I bought last month. One of the few books being, Francis Collins', The Language of God. Although the book is only 300 pages long, it did take up a fair bit of time, due to the structure of the book and its content. He makes constant references to the works of Darwin, C.S. Lewis, Dawkins, Wilson, St Augustine and of course the Book of Genesis which results in constant cross referencing on my part. Nevertheless, I think he puts forward a very objective argument.

As some of you may know, I am not a literalist. I do not believe that the Bible and Genesis should be read literally. Some of my friends who are Young Earth Creationist (YEC) would say otherwise. I would direct them to Collins' reply to the YEC position. YEC belivers generally acecpt the idea of microevolution whereby small changes within species can occur by variation and natural selection (allowing for the explanation of virus mutations etc) but they reject the concept of macroevolution, the process that would allow one species to evolve into another. They argue that perceived gaps in the fossil record demonstrate the fallacy of Darwin's theory. YEC interprets the six days of creation as literal 24 hour days and concludes that the earth must be less than 10,000 years old. YEC advocates also argue that the 2nd law of Thermodynamics rules out the possibility of evolution and that radioactive dating of rocks and the universe is wrong because decay rates have changed over time.

Collins therefore writes that "Thus, by any reasonable standard, YEC has reached a point of intllecutal bankruptcy, both in its science and in its theology... By attacking the fundametals of virtually every branch of science, it widens the chasm between the scientific and spiritual worldviews, just at a time where a pathway toward harmony is desperately needed. By sending a message to young people that sciences is dangerous, and that pursuing science may well mean rejecting religious faith, YEC may be depriving science of some of its most promising future talents." He ends the chapter with a brilliant quote by Benjamin Warfield, a conservative Protestant theologian in the late 19th and early 20th century.

"We must not, then, as Christians, assume an attitude of antagonism toward the truth of reason, or the truths of philosophy, or the truths of science, or the truths of history, or the truths of criticism. As children of the light, we must be careful to keep ourselves open to every ray of light. Let us, then, cultivate an attitude of courage as over against the investigations of the day. None should be more zealous in them than we. None should be more quick to discern truth in every field, more hospitable to receive it, more loyal to follow it, whithersoever it leads"

I have read YEC material, courtesy of a friend, and I dare say that I have read it with an open mind. However, I still remain unconvinced because not only do their arguments fail to win over my rational senses, they also fail to silence the voice that echoes deep within me. And it is that voice of conviction that warns me against atheism. I trust that voice.

Sunset

Small in the grand scheme of things.

I like to show man, dwarfed by his environment. I suppose this is my take on a modern spin of memento mori. On a more bloge-sque note, I managed to leave the office in time to watch the sun go down on Raffles Place. I don't really think it is a good or bad thing, its merely an observation. Work is good, even brainless stuff, because it keeps the mind occupied. Hitched a ride home with Dad and on the way the radio played Santana's Black Magic Woman. We both agreed that that was excellent music for chilling on the beach with a nice bacardi coke. I wonder how long more till then.

Sonnet 18

Behind the scenes, the unsung heroes of summer.

Summer may be a picturesque scene of beauty and serenity but behind that picture is a hive of activity. Work and effort is needed to ensure continuity. Yet, there will always come a point in time where we will question the reason for being and doing. Rationality is the key to purposeful engagement.
Where is the rationality in a Summer's Day?

Dead

Poisoned

Paracelsus said that everything is poison, it all depends on the dosage.
*Retraction. Not for lack of truth but for the sake of comity.
Form over substance. What a bureaucrat.
A literalist passing of as surrealist.
Poison.