Persepolis

But in the end, what difference does it make?
Persepolis burned, and Fallujah is emptied.

All that remains of once mighty Persepolis are a few columns and arches. What happened here? Us humans always feel compelled to give a narrative for anything that happens in our lives and the lives of others we know or the things we observe. Some call in storytelling, others call it lawyering. Regardless of the nomenclature we adopt, this is a phenomenon that has been prevalent since the first written texts and perpetuated by the very fact that our knowledge base is built on such prior texts. We all know that these writings are inherently subjective narratives and yet we choose to ignore this fact, instead deeming persons well versed in such prior texts as intellectuals. Even Herodotus, the great grand father of historical texts beings his masterpiece with "To preserve a memory of the deeds of the Greeks and barbarians, and in particular beyond everything else, to give a cause to their fighting one another". Nothing has changed since then; when will we ever learn?

Dignity

Date Seller, Esfahan

This simple dates seller has such a dignified look that I would have mistaken him for royalty if not for the surroundings and his stained shirt. In fact, it is this contrast that makes this photo interesting. I like how his regal presence is juxtaposed by his shirt, crumpled and soiled by a honest day's hard work. It is a reminder that dignity comes not from our trappings but from within; an introspective perspective.

Parallel

两个人的回忆

我知道不能再留住你
也知道不能没有骨气
感激你让我拥有秋天的美丽

Solo

Who am I alone?

Why is this little girl alone? Where are her parents? I find it difficult to describe myself and my life without referring to another person. And to a certain extent I think this stems from our very human desire for validation. I am my father's son, I am my mother's boy, I am a loved one to the people or person (surely there must be at least one) who love me, I am a buddy to my friends and I am a being struggling amidst humanity. After all, in King Lear, Shakespeare through Edgar philosophizes "When we our betters see bearing our woes, we scarcely think our miseries our foes". I used to seek solitude because I thought that was where I could find my true self. Now I've realised that even though fragmented, my true self is reflected in the people around me. Everything is relative, even our identity.

Voyage

Voyage Collage

I always thought that French had a certain je ne sais quoi about it. Which makes me wonder if languages are capable of conveying different feelings and emotions. Of course, I am simplifying things with this statement as there are a myriad of conditions to consider. Nevertheless, love songs in Chinese never fail to strike a chord in me whereas I can't say the same for love songs in English. Even Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor once said "I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men and German to my horse". Is an emotion tied to a language? If so, what emotion does French convey? Oddly, I immediately think of love and mourning. From Rimbaud to Verlaine one would be hard pressed to distinguish between the two emotions. Even the occurence of rain, be it on the city of Paris or just on Bastille square seems to convey this feeling. Perhaps love and mourning are so intrinsically link that they become one in the same. After all, in the absence of a love, there is mourning; a forbidding mourning.

Scraps

Leftovers Compiled.

What does one do, with all the words left unspoken?
Pack it up in containers, like last night's leftovers?
It'll go to waste anyway, but we get to hold on to it.
If only for just one more day.

Purge

锋利的回忆

At every new beginning,
we find the need to do
a spot of spring cleaning.
To wipe clean and wash away,
It is for our own good
that's what they all say.

:(

Remembering

Faces Frozen, Bread Baking.

I love the smell of freshly baked bread. When I was a little boy, my aunt would bring me to a bakery just like this to pick up a freshly baked loaf of bread. It was not the fancy gardenia or gourmet bakery bread that graces our table these days. It was just simple bread, with a slightly burnt shaved off crust, soft fluffy white centre, in a transparent plastic bag that was knotted at the top. Everything was so organic, even the packaging. Last Friday, on my way home from work, I detoured through the old estate. It was late and everything was closed, everything has changed. Memories overwhelmed me and I kept wondering what it meant to remember, when the present at that very moment was a reminder that I should forget. How ironic. Conventional wisdom holds that memory is like a serial recording device, something akin to a computer hard disk. In reality, memory is more dynamic, not static, like a paper on which new texts will be continuously recorded, thanks to the power of posterior information. Memory is more of a self-serving dynamic revision machine; you remember the last time you remembered the event and, without realizing it, change the story at every subsequent remembrance.

I remembered what you said, but maybe I only remembered it the way I wanted to.

Darwin

Swimming Lizards.

The 12th of February marks the 200th birthday of the father of evolution, Charles Darwin. Although there are some who still scoff at the thought of evolution and natural selection, one cannot deny that Charles Darwin was a unique individual. Personally, I admire his tenacity and his emphasis on the possibilities; constantly challenging the norm. Olivia Judson, an evolutionary biologist wrote a very complete piece about the man and not his science. It is most definitely worth a read. Any further elaboration here would pale in comparison to Ms Judson's article.

The Ideal Scientist

"He practised a kind of ideal, dream-like science. He examined the minutiae of nature - shells of barnacles, pistils of flowers - but worked on grand themes. He corresponded with lofty men of learning but also with farmers and pigeon breeders. He observed, questioned, experimented, constantly testing his ideas."

Eames

LCW; Out of the box.

Our traditions, society and environment defines us and intrinsic in this process is the creation of a parameter around us. But the best ideas lie beyond this parameter; outside of the box. And so we need to start seeing the proverbial box as the foundation on which we will build upon and not the prescribed limits. It is time we try to step out of the box, even if its only one foot at a time.

Right

iPod therefore iAm

Space is a rare commodity in the modern world. And as our personal space shrinks, more and more of us are trying to create or seek out new forms of personal space. Many of us resort to plugging in, be it an iPod, PSP2 or a cell phone. We plug in, hoping to tune out and by doing so create our own "pod", in which we are isolated from the rest of the world. Suddenly our personal space becomes defined only by the length of our playlist. It is logical that when outward expansion reaches its limits, it is time to search inwards? But humanity has always been defined by the space it collectively inhabits, space which has shaped human cultures, forged history and spawn disciplines such as architecture and design. So what will happen when this space suddenly becomes subjective? When humanity as a whole is unable to relate to the individualism of the personal worlds we have created. When we don't let anyone but ourselves into our "pods". I wonder if we are on the Right track?

Shiraz

The Septembers of Shiraz; Autumn in Shiraz.

I snapped this photo in one of the many lovely gardens that I visited in Shiraz. I always look up. I don't know if its indicative of anything but I like looking up, especially at the tree canopy as I walk under. Two and a half years ago, I was supposed to go to Iran. The tickets were booked but I busted my shoulder just a couple of weeks before and the whole trip had to be shelved. I was so sore about it but I had to accept my fate, that I may never fulfill that dream. The reward for my acceptance was an eventual visit, two and a half years late.

This morning's sermon was about letting go. I found it hard to follow the whole piece but one line that really struck me was, "to find our purpose in life, we need to let go of the things that do not belong to us". So is this what life is about? Letting go of things? Sometimes, not all things that we relinquish are lost to us forever. The seasons come and the seasons go. We let them pass and we know they'll return, but never belonging to us alone.

Time

An hour later; Blistering Barnacles

执着或傻， 都是爱情的脸孔吗？
让时间说真话，虽然我也害怕...

Horseshoe

Down the street

Last night I walked down a street, flanked by buildings on both sides. The canopy draped across the street kept out the harsh heat of the afternoon sun but allowed in just enough light to bathe everything in a warm glow. A soft breeze gently swayed the canopy and playful shadows danced across the street. The buildings although similar varied in colour and each had its own character. Every window presented a fresh insight, every door promised an opportunity. The street lead towards a familiar yet strange horseshoe shaped gate; a gate of contradiction. Here, I saw moorish architecture sit comfortably with christian effigies and the east blending seamlessly with the west. Alas, there is beauty in the meeting of opposites.

Last night, I dreamt a dream so real it made me doubt my reality. I think its time to pack my bags again, in search of a new reality.

Solo

音乐响起我一个人演出重覆的舞曲