Fish & Chips with Rimbaud

A drink with Rimbaud

On fine summer evenings, I shall walk along paths,
Prickled by wheat-stalks, trampling the fine grass,
Dreaming, and feeling its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind rush through my hair.

I shall not speak, I shall not think,
But endless love will rise up in my soul,
And I shall go far, far away like a gipsy,
Through the countryside – happy as with a woman.

Summer Girls

You taunt me

I am drunk with the blood

that flows,

blue,

beneath your white,

rose-tinted skin

I blush red,

at your merest glance,

reading entire novels,

in the language,

of your

fearful motions

The sound

of your heels,

parts the street,

like Moses,

parting the waves,

I take cover

The sun dances,

a frenzied circle,

around your,

red-white patterned dress,

disturbing my peace

Your thoughts sheltered,

behind unfeeling eyes,

and inscrutable

sunglasses,

offer nothing in return,

for my kind attentions

There is no mystery

in you,

I pretend to myself,

You don’t touch

me, I lie,

Life is pretending,

and I am the greatest,

pretender

 

Summertime 2: Coming soon

Pocketable Wisdom

To work,
is to afford the accoutrements,
of happiness.
But work,
for most,
is unhappiness.

To work,
is to afford the essentials,
of survival.
But survival,
for most,
is unhappiness.

Thus lies,
the conundrum,
of modern life.

(wise yogi man of LondonTown)

Summertime

Farthest memories of childhood

If I point a telescope into the deepest corners of my brain (in the same way we point telescopes at the farthest and oldest corners of the universe), the earliest childhood memory I can think of, is that of the death of my grandmother. I don’t remember that event as the death of my grandmother per se, but as the wailing and crying of my mother. You see my grandmother never lived with us, she lived in Kashmir, and I have no memories of her at all. But memories of her death are really the memories of my mother crying. I remember it being rainy that day. And her crying. And a tree in the garden. A little apple tree. Being smothered by the rain. That’s all I remember. Nothing else.

Another memory is of a dream. A dream in which my older brothers head was missing. Just the stump of his neck. Not sure what that’s about! I’ve never harboured any hatred or ill-will towards him. Maybe it wasn’t him? Maybe a movie I’d watched or some other horror? Who knows.

My strongest and most vivid early memory was a little later. I think I was 7 years old, and the moment is still fresh in my mind. It was the moment I realised – as a 7 year old – that my mum would die one day. That I would die one day. That everyone I knew would die one day. I remember it clearly because I cried my eyes out. The cold bony hand of mortality touched me that day. Before that day I’d presumably harboured some idea of immortality. Or, more likely, I hadn’t given the matter much thought. But on that day, due to some wonderful wiring of my neurones, my brain suddenly became aware of its own mortality and fragility and some innocence was lost. An acute and shocking awareness of my place in the scheme of things. A seminal moment? Perhaps. While my friends and siblings were presumably playing games, and fighting and dirtying their clothes in the mud, I was becoming painfully aware of my eventual death, and more importantly, the death of my mother. What a wretched and dark little philosopher I was! I remember the realisation welling up inside of me and the pressure of it being so great, and finally my stifled tears, and my eyes, a flood of tears behind them, until it all just came out, out of me. I was alone when it happened. I don’t know why it happened at that particular moment. Whether something had triggered it. All I remember was that there was no one around to comfort me. And even if my mother had been there, I doubt I’d been able to explain my feelings to her anyway. And would she have understood? Though I knew she loved me, she wasn’t, like most women of her ‘upbringing and culture’, the tender, expressive sort. So yes, I was going to die and so was she. I remember thinking how much I’d miss her when she was gone. I didn’t think how much older I’d be then. Presumably I still imagined myself being the same 7 year old brained person!

I was an introverted child I think. More happy and comfortable in the world of my own imagination. I was a serial fantasiser! I’d fantasise about all sorts of things: spaceships, superheroes, magic and fantasy, and the freckled neck and chest of my school headmistress. I remember being obsessed with the shape of her breasts underneath her tight jumper! Not obsessed in a sexually deviant way – I was only 7 years old! But I have vivid memories of school assemblies; full of memories of only her freckled slightly blushing neck and chest. I am still a serial fantasiser. Not of women’s chests! But of other things. Like, well…this is kinda embarrassing, well of saving the earth from a nasty alien invasion for example. Or, of saving a pretty girl from; not a monster, but from some other misery afflicting her! I have this urge to rescue girls from stuff! Silly and puerile really. Ahh, this is so embarrassing that I am blushing. I am only confessing this to an iPad! Please don’t get me wrong I’m not obsessed by women. I mean I have other fantasies too you know like winning the Noble Prize, or writing a brilliant piece of literature that changes the zeitgeist…and then suddenly dying afterwards. Oh yes I must die afterwards so that the only piece of work I have produced, becomes a one-off. No sequels so that it is endlessly studied and dissected and taught at school to children. I want to die at my brightest and not when I have withered into a feeble benign and withered memory of my once glorious supernova self.

What kind of work of literature? I have no idea! If I knew, wouldn’t I write it? As opposed to blogging about it?!

Just had a thought. Maybe blogging is a way for me not to write it? A way of procrastinating, and pushing it till later. I know I have it in me you know. I have lots in me (apart from the freckled chests of headmistresses). That 7 year old introvert has accumulated a lot of ‘material’ over the years. Great ideas and thoughts are not what you have learnt from others, but what you have thought of yourself. Ideas that are your own limbs, not someone else’s prosthetics. And because they are your own babies, you know them intimately. You can talk and write about them effortlessly. As effortlessly as breathing or walking.

It’s a lovely summery Saturday today. I am reading – sorry, re-reading a biography of the infant-terrible of French poetry: Arthur Rimbaud. Written by Graham Robb. I find Rimbaud (who was born in 1854) a fascinating creature. His life was a wonderful experiment in life. A new design for life.

Anyway, time to get outdoors and put the book away, and take a wander in the sunshine.

Ahh, the sunshine. Elixir and giver of life.

 

Part III – Shoot the Fatman ‘Minutes’

So…

After having saved the world and,

After having made love to all the women in the world (metaphorically speaking of course) and,

After having talked about Me so much that my ears were about to fall off,

We were feeling hungry.

Very hungry.

So we decided to do something about feeling hungry and get a bite to eat.

Ross had a snazzy restaurant in mind but unfortunately him being from Surrey and therefore not au-fait with London night life on a Friday, he’d neglected to book it. So that when we arrived no amount of Fatman charm could get us a table. The lady at the door was saying no. She wouldn’t budge. She was as stiff as an old witch with metal implants in her legs.

We begged (I begged). We pleaded (I pleaded). We swore (I swore). We then decided we hated all women (I decided I still loved all women) – and so vanquished and crestfallen with our tails between our legs, we gave up.

Well, we gave up at that restaurant. Not gave up eating!

At that point Ross came to the rescue and suggested a brilliant idea. Pizza!

Now, I have nothing against pizza as such. Pizza is cool. Pizza is safe. But only on weekends and only in front of the telly when you are watching Chelsea beat Bayern Munich.

So instead, we headed for a South Korean restaurant for some BimBim Bap. I ordered the spicy beef with rice and Kimchi pancakes. So did Cesar. Ross ordered something that looked like porridge without any flesh (body parts) in it. We drank to our health, and the rest of that meal is a sort of blur!

After the meal we headed back to the lounge at the Rathbone Hotel for part deux. Having had a little bit to drink my mind felt a little cushioned. I was feeling very happy walking through the purple skied dusky summer London evening. I don’t actually remember why I was happy. I just was. Just happy with simple existence I suppose, and happy to be doing something I genuinely enjoy: great conversation over drink.

Conversation that is free, where one can enquire, prod, poke about, rummage, and go up blind alleys of the mind. Like being at the helm of a spaceship in endless Space, without any restrictions on where you can go.

That kind of conversation.

We continued our dilettante evening over another bottle of wine and a cheese platter.

We talked about the Origins of life and the possibility of extra-terrestrial life forms.

Are we alone? Is there intelligent life on other planets? (Sometimes I doubt whether we have intelligent life on this planet!)

I then (being a biochemistry graduate and a bit of a scientist) gave a little lecture on my views on alien life forms:

 

*** START OF MY LECTURE!***

“Life can adapt to almost any conditions. Life is found deep down in underwater vents where there is no sunlight. Where the temperature is hundreds of degrees Fahrenheit. Life has found a way there…so life is extremely adaptive. Life is found tens of kilometres below the earth in solid rock where it lives off the rock itself. Bacteria have been found floating and living in the outer extremities of the atmosphere on the border with Space.

Life always finds a way…

BUT…

That is not the question we should be asking. We talk about the icy moon of Jupiter, we talk about it possibly having a liquid ocean of water below the surface, and we wonder whether it harbours life…but, the question to ask is this:

What are the conditions required for life to first EMERGE? It is the ORIGIN of life that we need to think about not it’s eventual adaptation. Once life arises, it will adapt to almost any conditions. For example, I am confident, that life can live and adapt to Mars. But ONLY, if it first emerged there.

So, what are the conditions required for life to emerge? Are these conditions special and unique? How improbable was the emergence of life on earth?

THAT is the question!

THAT is the question! (repeated for affect)

And them there is another follow up question. Once life emerges on a planet, how improbable are the other steps to get it to intelligent life? For example, the first life to emerge on earth was unicellular (single celled – Prokaryotic). Then the Prokarotic cell became a Eukarotic cell, and this too was a major improbable leap. Perhaps as improbable and unlikely as the emergence of life itself. The next step is for Eukarotic cells to gang together and become multicellular. So now you have multicellular life. So life gets bigger and more complex. Then you have life with nerve cells and nervous systems, and finally, you get life with brains so complex they are self aware and conscious. Just like us.

Each of these steps on the Inca trail to our human level of awareness and intelligence could be, and probably is, as improbable and unlikely as the previous step. So that getting to our level of intelligence requires the multiplication of vast improbabilities together. So perhaps, intelligent life i.e like us, was a gigantic mind-bogglingly improbable fluke event. An event of stupendous chance and luck.

In which case, we may very well be…alone in the universe.

Which is all the more reason to look at yourself in the mirror and say:

‘You fucking freak of nature you! You glorious beautiful living and aware thing! You beauty you! Mooowah!’

I don’t mind being alone in the universe.

I am alone in my head, aren’t I?”

***END OF MY LECTURE (oh finally!)***

 

So after having said all that, I sat back, relaxed and took another puff of my ganja, sorry my spliff, sorry I meant my glass of wine…and cheese.

The evening was now approaching its twilight hour. My mind, our minds, now winding down. The dawn approaching and encroaching upon the night. The world a less of a mystery. Life a beautiful cut diamond. Love, still waiting. And women – still smelling nice.

Time to return to our beds…

…like Gods returning…

To the real world.

 

Shoot the Fatman Club ‘Minutes’ – part II

The conversation then moved onto the Greek/Euro/Global economic crisis. I’m not going to bore you with a detailed description of how the crisis occurred. But I will say that solutions to the crisis were proposed by us – solutions that would work, solutions that could be implemented, solutions that nobody else had thought of, solutions that would and could save the world. Solutions that could win us a Noble prize.

Which one?

Well, the economics Nobel prize, and since economics is ostensibly about people – the Peace prize as well. That’s hitting two birds with one stone.

Not bad for a few minutes work over a glass of wine. It’s amazing what you can achieve if you bang a few coconuts – sorry heads – together.

So, having saved the world from falling off the precipice of certain economic disaster, we then decided to treat ourselves, and talk about women.

Not a woman, but all womankind.

We talked about how much we love women. Well, actually, I generally talked about how much I love women. The others were talking about how much they couldn’t stand them. But me. I love you all women! How could I not? I am a man am I not? With a hairy chest and deep booming voice and bristling rippling muscles oozing out of my shirt. Nor am I homophobic, so if you happen to be a man that likes other men, then you are also still a man. Just thought I’d mention that in case some of my readers are gays, or lesbians, or bisexual, or trisexual or something else not covered in the Oxford English Dictionary – or dirty web sites.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was talking about how much I love women. Women are nice. They look nice. They smell nice. They taste nice, and if you ask nicely, they do nice things to you too. No not the washing! Other stuff. Can’t talk about it here. This is a PG rated site and it is not yet pass the 9pm watershed. Ah, women! Wonderful creatures. I love them.

All of them.

Even the fat one with a hairy moustache that lives next door.

(actually I think she’s a lesbian)

 

Aneeeeway…

 

So after having paid homage to the woman, and all women, we then moved on to the next topic: almighty God.

But being devout infidels and heathens, and devils sperms, and amoral, immoral, wicked, fork-tongued, horny-headed, blasphemous, evil, supercilious lumps of devil flesh – we weren’t going to pay homage to Him! The discussion on God generally focused on the fact that he don’t exist, which kinda killed the conversation because there’s little point talking about something that don’t exist. Much better to talk about something that is just as great and grand that DOES exist.

So we talked about…Me.

Ah yes, Me – my favourite topic. Not enough discussion on this topic if you ask me. We need more Me on the news, the papers, and on the television. And on giant advertising billboards too if possible. Anyway, all the guys agreed that I was an interesting, intriguing and fascinating person albeit a little aloof and big-headed. I was also, according to the Shoot the Fatman Club members, a unique specimen of humanity – but then I realised that they were simply being factual. We are ALL unique DNA specimens of humanity. I did try and get them to admit that I was also funny – but they just laughed…

 

….to be continued…

 

‘Skywalking’

 

and…

 

Shoot the Fatman Club ‘The Minutes’…(to be continued)

The evening began with a rush of air. That was the air in the room decompressing as we were about to blast off into the stratosphere – and beyond!

Ross was dressed in a ‘respectable’ looking suit befitting a man who works in private equity and lives in salubrious leafy Surrey (with apple trees in his garden and a cider making factory in his garage). Cesar came suitably cosmopolitan and casual – urbane in his dark glasses. Whereas I, (not in any of the pics unfortunately), was dressed in sharp cotton black suit, blue shirt and pink socks – with a whiff of unrespectability – (just how I like it)

Vik, the mad stem-cell scientist (and Dawkins’ Bulldog), was unable to make it because he was suffering from some serendipitious spasm of the face (?!? – exactly!) and Ataur – well, Ataur lives in Birmingham! (a place somewhere in the north where the sun don’t shine).

I ordered a fine red Chilian to begin with (Chilean wine that is not a human being). The evenings proceedings began with style as Cesar went for the jugular vein – a full frontal attack on Ross’s vegetarianism. We prodded, we inspected, we poked and we fiddled about with Ross’s brain trying in vain to figure out what it was that had made him so (applaudingly I might add) vegetarian.

“The suffering off animals. The suffering of animals in the food industry is profound” was his answer.

And it is true. The cruelest food company in the world (in terms of absolute numbers of animals that suffer) is KFC – Kentucky Fried Chicken ‘finger lickin’ good’. The thing is, animals are not human. They are not us. They are not we. We practice a form of speciesm  - our own species is protected by law. The human foetus enjoys a protection far beyond that accorded to a chimpanzee – yet how more sophisticated is the brain of a chimpanzee than that of a foetus! A foetus can’t feel pain. But a chimpanzee, or a whale, or a dolphin, or a chicken – can.

The Zeitgeist will move on, and in the future – I really believe this – in the future, all animals will be protected. The killing of animals; something we do today without even blinking, will be looked upon by our descendants, as something cruel and primitive. Something that belongs in the dark past. A bit like how we view slavery today.

The Zeitgeist still has a long way to go…

The conversation then moved on to the Greek and European debt crisis…

An evening with the venerable Shoot the Fatman Club

(All images courtesy of the Fujifilm X-Pro1 and 35mm 1.4 lens)

Man of the World

shall i tell you about my life?

►

 

Life: a glorious improbability on a colossal scale

Our subjective judgement of what is possible, probable and certain is dependent on how long we live. We humans typically live to about 80 years of age (on average). Thus, our entire subjective experience (subjective = how things appear to us. Objective = what things are in themselves independent of how they appear to us) our entire subjective experience of probability is shaped by our lifespan. It is shaped by how long humans live in general.

Let me explain. Because we only live for about eighty years on average, the likelihood of us, as individuals, being run over by a car on the road is very slim. Most of us will never get run over by a car (fingers crossed). This is because in a life-span of 80 years we will cross the road ‘x’ number of times. Because ‘x’ is so small, so the risk of dying on the road is also very small. But what if ‘x’ is larger? i.e. what if we crossed the road a ‘Y’ number of times? ‘Y’ being a number several orders of magnitude greater than ‘x’. Under what circumstances would ‘Y’ be so large? Under what circumstances would you cross the road many many more times?

Answer: If you lived much much longer.

Imagine an alien race for whom the average life-span is a million years. Imagine that this alien race has roads. Also imagine that there are alien cars on these roads. Do you think the people of this long-living hypothetical civilization would cross roads? Of course not!

Why not?

Because, If they did, after a few thousand years, most of them would have died in road accidents! How many times do you have to cross a road before it becomes more or less certain that you will get run over and die. Such million year long living aliens would never cross roads. It would be too risky. They would not take such silly risks. Nor would they for that matter sun bathe, or eat fatty foods, or fly in aeroplanes, or go for a swim, or smoke. In fact they would be risk averse. Their subjective judgment of what is probable and possible in a life-span would be very different to ours. We live for 80 or so odd years, whereas they live for a million. This makes all the difference.

We humans cross roads because we only live for 80 years or so. Thus the probability of us dying in road accidents is very very small.

But there is a reason I am discussing this. And a very telling reason too. Our whole subjective apparatus that allows us to calculate probabilities and feeds into our judgment of what is probable over vast expanses of time, over vast stretches of space, over many planetary solar systems, in a galaxy of billions and billions of stars, in a multiverse of many universes; this subjective judgment of ours is wrong by huge error margins. When it comes to what we think is probable over such expanses of time – we will always be staggeringly wrong. On smaller scales of shorter distances and time – our subjective judgement is fairly accurate. The reason it is accurate is because this is the middle earth we live and have evolved in.

If our judgement was wrong for events occurring in our 80 year life spans – i.e. if we were unable to make an accurate judgement of whether something was risky or not we’d probably not live long. We’d more likely die of accidents. But when it comes to larger numbers; when it comes to immensely long geological epochs and interstellar distances – we have no clue. Our risk calculating brains let us down. Because we don’t live for such long times and our brains don’t need to make risk assessments for such long time spans. This explains things like why people are afraid of flying, why 60% of American teens literally believe they will be famous one day, why people drive, why people are impressed with coincidences and why people don’t believe in evolution. It also explains why people get married and fall in love – thinking they have found the ‘one’.

If we had a more intuitive grasp of probability and risk theory, we’d live and behave differently.

Life – our existing – our living, is a statistical improbability on a colossal scale. Life’s emergence is hugely improbable. But it requires no miracles. It requires no sleight of mind nor sleight of hand. It requires no spark of divinity. It requires nothing but time. Time – time and time! And worlds – worlds – and worlds!

You are staggeringly improbable. So am I. So is that flower. So is that turgid bee hovering above it. So it is with our wonderful brains, and our wonderful eyes, and our fleshy ears, and our pointy bulbous noses and our disarming smiles. It’s all so wonderful. And it’s all so fucking improbable. Yet given plenty of time, and given plenty of worlds, it’s more or less…inevitable.

Let me tell you a secret. If you understand this, than more of life should make sense!

 

Shoot the Fatman Club – a history

The ‘Shoot the Fatman Club’ was officially founded in the year of the Lord Two Thousand and Eleven (2011). The club is actually descended from another club called ‘The Knob Club’ that was founded in the Cayman Islands for knobs of good reputation…The Knob Club even had an honorary female member and a machine called the ‘knobamatic’ for instant Knob release…

The name ‘Shoot the Fatman Club’ is inspired by a famous Anthropological study conducted around the world to determine the source of human moral behaviour. In the study, various people from various habitats including desert dwellers, forest people, sophisticated city dwellers and primitive tribesmen, were all asked a serious of questions (some of which were adapted to local cultures and lifestyles). The aim of the questions was to find out:

Where do people get their sense of goodness and badness from?

Do people get their sense of justice and morality from local customs, religion, culture, education or from some place else?

One of the questions that was asked by the anthropologists to the various people around the world was the following:

 

Imagine there is a railway line. On the railway line there is a stationary train carriage on the platform with people in it. Further behind, a few miles away, there is a out of control runaway train that is hurtling towards the stationary carriage. If the runaway train crashes into the carriage many people will die. You can see the whole scene from a high bridge across the track. Between the stationary carriage and the runaway train there is a fat man crossing the track. You have a rifle with you on the bridge. If you shoot the fat man, he will die and block the track, and the runaway train will crash into him and stop, thus saving the lives of hundreds of passengers. Is it right to shoot the fat man to save the lives of many people?

 

Almost everybody that was asked this question – be they tribes people living in the jungle, or primitive desert people, or people from London, or Muslims or Jews, or Atheists, or Hindus – they all agreed that it would be wrong to shoot the fat man.

Over 90% of people felt that there was something immoral and not right about shooting him even if they could not explain why. The religious beliefs or background of the people had little impact on their moral compass and sense of justice.

The question was then repeated, but this time the people were asked:

What if the fat man has a heart attack and drops dead on the track. Would you move him?

Most people answered no, they wouldn’t.

What this anthropological study proved was that humans have an innate inner sense of what is good and what is bad. We are born with this moral sense, and our religion, or culture, or language or upbringing has surprisingly little affect on it. Religion does not make you a good person! Your sense of goodness is innate and a part of your genetic heritage…it is something all humans share.

 

The Shoot the Fatman Club got its name from a club member (no names!) who argued that he would shoot the fat man if he was put in such a position!

 

It is interesting to ask why is it that most people would not shoot him? Perhaps people are afraid of firing a gun, so what if we change the method of death to make it easier so that instead of a gun, you just have to press a button in a room, and the fat man will drop dead on the track – thus saving the lives of the passengers. What are the results then? Answer: the same! Most people will not press the button though the % is lower.

So, why is that? Why are people reluctant to have him killed even if it results in more lives being saved?

The answer appears to be that most people recognise that the fat man is an innocent man who just happens to be crossing the track at that moment. By killing him, you are effectively killing an innocent bystander. Most people’s inner moral and ethical compass sees this as wrong. If he was to have a heart attack than that is a natural event, and by not moving him out of the way, you are simply not interfering and that is much easier to do.

 

The Shoot the Fatman Club will be meeting this Friday. Who knows what wonderfully quirky stuff will happen. Watch this space…

 

Fatman Forever.

Coming soon: An evening out with my friends…

This Friday, me and some friends, will be hitting London town, as part of our ‘Shoot the Fatman club’ meet up!

The ‘Shoot the Fatman club’ is an exclusive gentlemen’s / geniuses only club founded by erm, me! It is very exclusive. If you are worthy of membership – we will find you. We don’t just let anybody in. To date we have five members. Five top people who comprise the creme de la creme of what human DNA has to offer!

4.8 billion years of the pinnacle of human evolution – crammed into a single place. So many ego’s together that even the universe is not big enough. So much brilliant brain power that the sun in comparison looks like a 20 watt bulb.

During our meets we discuss topics beyond the comprehension of mere earth people. Oh yes. Topics so profound that even Plato and Archimedes would wish they were here. Topics so weighty that the ground underneath our feet shudders and cracks. Topics so ‘out there’ that your brain might explode. We also like to have fun (just a little)

When we meet the Universe is our playground.

This time, I’ll be taking along a camera and a pen, to record the Minutes…

Science, travel and the meaning of life

I am writing this (wrote this) in a little cafe amongst the labyrinthine souks and stalls of Istanbul’s rowdy-crowdy bazaar. The merchants are singing their merchant patter and the alleys are crawling with the buzz of humanity: bartering, begging, laughing, shrieking, stalling and lying. It is all good natured on the surface but underneath I can’t help but feel the tension. The store holders are tense because they want to seal the deal with the customer. A customer on whom they have spent much time. Time spent stroking the customer’s sensibilities, gently bewitching him or her, using subtle subconscious mechanisms of guile and guilt, to lure them in, to trap them in a cage of emotions such as regret and pity from which the only way out is by making a purchase! Ah, the dark arts! The merchant is a sort of modern day wizard of psychology. He, I no doubt, has a greater practical understanding of humanity than the most highly esteemed university Professor of psychology.

I sit here and watch. I sit here and watch the game of life. I am becalmed on a sea of tranquility. I have no wants right now. I have no needs right now. I am desireless. I am in that gorgeous sublime state of total contentment and happiness. And it is in such a relaxed state that my mind explodes like a rocket from the present to the farthest reaches of space and time…

 

Who would have thought, that 370 million years ago, when our fishy ancestors first crawled out of the swampy water onto land, that I – yes ‘I’ – would be sitting here, right now, at this moment, in a world so astonishingly different to that fishy beginning!

Here we go now. I am about to take off. Are you wearing your seat-belt? Please do.

 

To fully understand life,

you must understand where you came from.

You see – where you came from, and how you came to be, are intimately connected to the big questions of meaning and purpose. Look it’s very simple (it is!). To understand why you are here, you must first find out how you came to be.

What am I?

A biological organism.

Where did I come from?

My mother?

Well yes, but where did I ultimately come from?

Well, the prevailing idea is that life began on earth about 3.8 billion years ago. That is such an astonishingly long time ago that it doesn’t even bare contemplating. Your mind cannot possibly grasp the sheer scales of time involved. My all too brief existence is a mere squeak in a thunder storm. So life emerged 3.8 billion years ago. What was the first life like? It was very simple. Much simpler than the bacteria we find today. Bacteria, when you look inside of them, are very complex. They are like a miniature city with some parts specialised as ‘power stations’, other parts form the ‘internal transport system’, there is the ‘port’ whose job it is to bring supplies in from the outside. There is the ‘sewage system’ to get rid of waste material and there is the ‘central library’ and the ‘planning office’ where all the instructions and plans for building a new bacterium are kept.

The whole system works as a whole. It works automatically, following the instructions. None of it ‘knows’ what it is doing. None of it is conscious or aware. There is no one central planner or leader or dictator or boss that runs the whole show. It is a collaborative affair. But none of it knows or even cares what the other is doing. It is pure automation on a grand scale. It is a miracle of minituarised unconscious brilliance! It is one gigantic humongous city that looks and behaves as if it has an ultimate meaning and purpose. But that is a false impression. It does have a short-term narrow purpose in the sense of maintaining its structure and shape and function. I.e. staying alive. But staying alive can never be an ultimate purpose or raison d’être for being.

So what is my purpose? What is yours?

To stay alive?

What’s the point of that! Would it not have been better to not have been born at all so that there would be no reason to have to stay alive at all?!

The question to ask is this:

 

What was the purpose of the first living thing on earth that eventually evolved into all other things including ourselves?

If you can understand the purpose of the great ancestor that gave rise to us, then you will understand your purpose and the purpose of all life. So what was the purpose of that first simple ancestor of all life?

Answer: none! It had no purpose. It was such a simple molecule that it arose by chance from simple chemistry. There was no miracle to its coming into existence. Just chemistry. But it had a special property which is why it was our earliest ancestor: It could replicate and make copies of itself. i.e hereditary. Once you have a replicating molecule that can make copies of itself then Darwinian Natural Selection takes over, and then billions of years later…voila! What do you get? You get you and me and…these merchants! These customers! These people I see around me, in this bee-hive of activity buzzing away doing stuff – what is their purpose and why do they do what they do? What is their aim? What is their goal?

Well in their minds their aims and goals are legion. To buy presents, to work and feed their family, to look good for a lover, to be the envy and talk of town, to impress, to climb the ladder of a career etc etc…da dee da dee daaa..

But in the end does any of it even matter? Your life will end, your friends and family will die, your career will end when you retire – and a generation or two after you have died, you will be forgotten. And a hundred years after your death it will be as if you had never even lived! Look at the graves in a grave yard, read the inscriptions – these are people that once lived, that once loved, that once had a life, had aspirations and hopes and dreams – just like you and me, and now it is all forgotten. They took their lives with them. And now they are only thought of by a random stranger reading there inscriptions.

Nothing lasts. We will not live forever. We are extremely fortunate to have this moment in the sun. This all too brief moment. We mustn’t waste it worrying and jostling and planning for an uncertain future and a life that eventually ends. Carpe diem!

Seize the day.

Seize the moments.

And er…take a walk in the summer sun!

Go on. Just do it.

 

Istanbul as panacea

The screams from the shop keepers in the bazaars sound like the sufferings of parrots. I listen attentively. I shut my eyes to only allow one sense in: sound. I want to saviour each sense separately. Individually. Like a rich dish of many things, I want to taste each item in isolation.

So I shut my eyes. There are the familiar shrieks of the store keepers advertising their wares, competing with each other. To grab attention you must shout the loudest. You must be the brightest bird of paradise. The pluckiest shrillest (and most annoying) parrot! And then there are the languages. The babble of the hordes. A rich assortment of tongues. Turkish, Kurdish, guttural Arabic and in lesser amounts – Russian, German, French, Hindi, Yiddish, and of course English. The lingua franca of commerce between tongues is English. When shopkeeper converses with foreign customer it is in English they haggle and barter. I can hear the voices of women – higher pitched, screaming in delight. I can hear the pseudo fake-imitation Hollywood accent of the young man as he tries to ingratiate himself with the American couple:

[young guy] “This is cool, check this out…” – and out roles reams and reams of beautiful fabric

Haggling with the shopkeepers is an art form. It’s like making love. You must be patient and whatever price they quote you must dismiss it with an insouciant brush of the hand and suggest a price that is half the amount. You must be prepared for lengthy bartering, lengthy discussions, and in between all this – many cups of turkish tea. At the end of the price haggling, when all parties have agreed a price, you will leave with a warm embrace as good friends, and a promise that you will return.

…and you will return to the same shopkeeper. Why? Because we humans are sincere creatures and it would not feel right to go someplace else. In the West if you want to buy something you just pop into a shop, pay and leave. Not here! Life is warmer here. People are warmer. Things are less clinical but also more chaotic. Which world or mind to embrace? The cold, clinical, efficient and progressive mind that achieves a sort of greatness from sheer dog headedness. Or the warmer, less organised and fumbling mind that achieves no great feats.

Who knows.

The sun beats down on my head like hammer blows. I take shade breaks under the awnings. The river of people is immense and seemingly endless. I find myself walking against the current. Humanity is so vast that I wonder where these people have come from and whether we can all live under the same starry roof. So vast is the number of shoppers that I suddenly realise what a blight and disease mankind is on the earth. These hungry mouths must all be fed. They need water. But most important of all they have wants. They want things: new clothes, fancy kitchen utensils, phones, entertainment devices, and luxuries. These things must come from somewhere. From the earth! How can it be?! Is there enough for everyone? What happens when it all runs out? I must get out of this mad rush as my thoughts are taking a turn for the worse. I head for the cool and relatively crowd free port area. On the way there I think about the school of thought that say’s we shouldn’t worry too much because man will and can find solutions to all his problems. That no problem is insoluble. That yes there will be problems but man is such a creative and ingenious creature that he will find solutions. Suddenly I am overcome by a feeling of warm optimism. The dark menacing cloud that had so clouded my thoughts has gone.

Man can achieve anything. He is a creature of genius. Yes there will be problems. But yes with science and reason ŵe can overcome them.

But for how long? 99% of species that have ever lived have gone extinct.

But then so what?!! Why does that bother me? I’ll be long gone by then and it won’t matter. But why should I care for the faith of the human species anyway? I only have to care for myself, my friends and family. The future faith of the human species is too mighty a concept – too large a grouping – for me to be concerned.

Here I am in Istanbul and I am thinking about mankind’s faith! How dim-witted of me.

At the port I decide to get on board a boat for a 2 hour cruise around the Bosphorus strait. The sky is blue. The sun is warm and golden. The breeze is delicious and the sea is a beautiful azure blue. I relax and watch the gulls swerving above me playing. I listen for the boats propellers and when they switch on I watch the foaming white flotsam and jetsam exhaust. Are we not all cast by life upon this seething bubbling mass of white water? What are we to do?

Simple.

Relax and smile and watch The Greatest Show on Earth.

Istanbul: sights, sounds & tastes (Part II)

(All images taken with the X-pro1 apart from three!)

Istanbul: sights, sounds & tastes (part I)

Istanbul – a little stingy mingy taster

Due to the fact that the wi-fi in my hotel is crap and  that I’ve not had time to go to an internet cafe, I’ve only been able to download one three stingy picture! (all images shot with the Fujifilm X-Pro1)

More to follow…

Many many more…

Coming soooon…Istaanboool

iPad dreams

Tap, tap, tap these words out. Tap em out and watch em go. Watch em flow like a stream of consciousness. Watch em fall from a great height, into your lap. Watch em grow fat with a puff of anger. Watch em sting like a bumble-bee’s bum. Caress like the kiss of a foul-mouthed stinky witch.

I can make you JUMP!

and I can make you…normal size again.

I can make you feel tiny.

And make you feel big

And fat,

And make you feel s t r e t c h y. Like eeeelaaaaastic.

I can delete you from my world, and make you so bold in the face of life and LOVE.

But with words I can do something REALLY special.

I can make you…

F

A

L

L

in love…

With

The mightyEnglish language.

If you think about it for a moment,

think about it…

isn’t language a miracle?

Just think! Here I am, a hundred, thousand miles away from you. We can’t see each other, we can’t hear each other, we can’t smell each other, we may not even know each other – yet through the means of some modern miracle called language and an iPad and the Internet, I can

literally…

plant thoughts in your head.

Through these symbols called letters and words

That travel through space like magic…

…into your eyes,

and then into your brain,

Your beautiful brain.

I can make you feel things.

I can tell you things

I can teach you things…

via these symbols *${@^%$  and squiggles ∫ζφÅ∞

typed on a keyboard.

I am amazing,

But…so are you!

Cos you can do the same thing too…

Just tap, and see what happens.

You never know,

you might make me feel something 2.

Sent from my wicked iPad.

Tap tap tapping away – on my iPad again

Language. Ah! language. What an amazing invention eh? So expressive. So damn useful. Whether it be Schadenfreude, Je ne sais quoi, y’all ah habibee or Twaadi maa…there is no doubt that without it we’d be er, speechless! Modern life would be nigh on impossible without the babbling tongue.

I may not soar gracefully like a bird.

I may not dive a thousand feet like a whale

nor sprint as fast as a cheetah

nor hear in the dark like a bat.

But by God I can speak!

And I can write…oh how I can write!

And with these simple tools I can conquer the world (steady on there). Just imagine trying to tell the girl of your dreams that you love her without words – without language what would you do? How would you tell her you love her? Use sign language? Like how? Make Kissy-kissy pouting faces like a chimpanzee? Touch your heart with your hand and smile (nah, too gay), sit and stare at her with entreating soulful eyes (no, too weird). Before language came along how did men spill out their hearts to the whims of a ladies soul?

I’ll tell you how: they impressed ladies by fighting bears to the death and wrestling lions with their bare hands. They chased antelopes on the savannah’s and killed men who despoiled their honour. Those were the days when might was right – when mean was queen – when worldly passion was outta fashion – when language was naught and everything was fought.

But have you ever wondered when men first learnt to talk? And why? Why did man put down his spear and his stones and his lion and engage in prittle-prattle? Why? To score with chicks that’s why! Men learnt to talk to impress the ladies. Chicks dig men who know how to use their tongues (not in that way). It has been proven by scientists that women developed the ability to appreciate speech before men learnt to talk. So, all it took was for one man, one of our ancient forbears; some genius of the Upper Neolithic Period, one ancient Shakespeare, to sit down and utter those first few words of love.

You can just imagine him, sitting near the fire, the girl of his affections sitting across the licking flames, the first man ever to say something romantic to a woman. So he sits there. Shy at first, but slowly, gradually, he gathers his courage and his words and finally lets fly with some verbal verbosity and verbiage verifying his valour and vainglory amongst these verminous volks with a vertiginous voracity that only a woman can love.

What did this first speaker man say? Who knows? Perhaps something along the lines of:

‘Me kill lion. Me you eat?’ (the first ever romantic meal invite) followed by:

‘Me like Lion. Lion Tasty. Mmm yummy… You find tasty?’ (the first ever after dinner conversation) followed by:

‘Come my cave. Watch stars’ (the first ever night time entertainment) and finally:

‘Me want you. You want me. Let’s make baby?’ and so we have it. The first time a man ever told a women he loved her. Well almost…!

So today in the year 2012, thousands of years since that first tentative fumbling foray in romance, has man come far? Judging by what I’ve seen, not really. If you wanna impress a woman don’t take her to an expensive restaurant or a popcorn movie. Don’t wrestle a lion to prove your testosterone levels. Instead read her some delicious poetry. Man evolved language for poetry’s sake. Language is for wooing women with.

Use your wicked plucky-lucky tongue: and win the girl of your dreams!

Yes win her. Her ears are waiting for some verbal seduction.

Sent from my plucky lucky wicked iPad

 

Coffee, politics and how to remain forever young

I am sitting in a coffee shop. The rain I can see through the window. It is like a sheet of water and it is lashing against the window. Outside it is grey, cold, windy and wet. Inside it is bathed in a warm glow. I am glad to be inside, in the warmth, with coffee swilling around in my tummy.

I am trying to read but my thoughts are elsewhere – on a number of things actually. There is a coffee festival in London this weekend at the Truman Brewery in the East End, and I am thinking whether I should go. It could be interesting and I have my camera with me but..the weather. The rain and wind don’t look very inviting.

I am also thinking about whether I should buy the new Ipad. It would be great for surfing and posting to my blog. I hate posting with my smartphone because the keys are too tiny, and the small confined typing space also shrinks my thoughts. My thoughts need space and they need to be typed faster, otherwise they run out of steam.

I am also thinking about politics. I don’t usually occupy myself with politics for I find it disingenuous and fake and, well… a rather ‘low’ activity. I prefer the lofty heights of the Arts or Sciences. Anyway, in the UK, a large political scandal is brewing, and it has got me thinking about how people achieve power and why. I have much to say on this subject but this teeny-weeny keypad won’t let me articulate my thoughts!

I have also reached a startling conclusion about people. Four ignoramuses in a room do not make an intelligence! One hundred idiots together do not make a genius. I am a single lone person, and many times when in a room full of ignorants, I feel the need to go outside and breathe the fresh open and reviving air of my own thoughts.

What makes my thoughts different is that they do not suffer from the rot in the core I have seen in others. If the core is rotten the apple will die. A rotten core is narrow-minded, provincial, lumbered with superstitions and infected with the virus of dogmatic belief.

In the face of new information one should not be afraid to slough off one’s skin – moult like snakes do – and grow a new one. The biggest mistake we make is becoming too rigid. We should have some ‘plasticity’ in our brains – and if we do that – we will remain forever young.

London Today

(All images taken with either the Fujifilm X100 or X-Pro1)

It’s not the camera it’s the…

Return to Memory Palace

Random bile from my tongue

I’ve read a lot you know. Oh yes. This is no idle boast. No scheme to impress you. No cheap vanity plug. My book collection is rather big. Entire walls lined with crinkled and wrinkled and never touched before book spines. When it comes to books I am a serial adulteror! From science to the humanties. From art to travelogues. From Greek mythology to poetry. Nothing is out of bounds. Nothing sacred.

I am no literary critic but out of all the stuff I’ve read, how much of it, in my opinion, was worth reading?

Not much!

Most books are utter rubbish and just an attempt by the authors to prove how learned and intellectual they are. It’s true!

Do you know how to tell the difference between an author who genuinely has something to say and one who is just pretending?

The language.

There is nothing, no concept or idea, no matter how abstract or complicated, that cannot be explained in understandable simple language. That doesn’t mean to say that the language has to be dry or uninspiring. Just look at Richard Dawkin’s! He writes in such beautiful prose and he writes about complicated things in understandable, non-obscurantist language. He writes so well that afterwards you feel like a genius. Because you have understood.

People who have nothing to say wrap their sentences in technical, obscure and fancy vocabulary. They love to use difficult rare words when simpler one’s would have sufficed. For them writing is not about expressing something. It’s an exercise in showing off!

Most books make you feel stupid because you struggle to understand them. And you struggle to understand them because the writer either can’t, or doesn’t want to, or can’t be bothered, to write a clear sentence!

There are only a handful of books worth reading. The rest are just a waste of paper and your time.

Read less. Think more.

And take more photographs…

Rant over!

Sent from my Samsung Galaxy

Monologue of the motorcycle helmet selling man

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(Definition of ‘Monologue’: prolonged talk by a single speaker)

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Yes, that’s me lying on the pavement above. I am a motorcycle helmet man. I sell motorcycle helmets but that is just an excuse because what I really enjoy doing is watching the ladies as they walk pass. You see these ‘bibi’s', these demons of my heart; how they flay me so? These college ‘ladies’ think so much of themselves with their mighty educations and their higher aspirations and their haughty expressions. What am I but a gnat, an earthworm, toiling blindly under the soil; suitable for squishing under their heels. Do you know what it said on my birth certificate when I was born? ‘Instructions: ‘To be squished under the ladies heels’. Oof! Squish me lady do you hear! Hurt me! That is what I am for. Squishing!

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I have a question for you my ladies. Why do you pretend not to see me my lovelies? I am here! Right in front of your eyes on the pavement! Everyday I wait outside the gates of your prestigious ‘International Women Only College’ just to catch a whiff of those dupattas and skin creams and perfumes from gay Paree. Say lady, what perfume do you use? Oof! You bark! You say I should mind my own business? But it becomes my business when said perfume invades my private nostril space. Pfff!

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Would you like a motorcycle helmet? ‘No!’ you bark in reply

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I know what it is! I know what is the matter! I am not good enough isn’t it!? When was a motorcycle helmet man ever considered eligible for marriage or as boy friend material? I must live in a dream world, haina – yes? It is all status these days. Status! – Status! – Status! Silver – Gold – Platinum. I am not even bronze. Oof! bronze I am not even stone. I am twigs. Twigs on the funeral pyre! Ash! Yes I am ash. No! even ash gets thrown in the mother Ganges. Oof! I am dirt! Filthy defiling dirt!

But listen, come closer, I am more. I am more than this dirt! Don’t judge me so crudely. Hear the beat of my heart? Do you hear! It beats so loud at night even the djinns (ghosts) are scared. That beat is my status. Do you hear? You don’t agree? ‘Do I disappoint you? Do I leave a bad taste in your mouth?’. Do you know who that is? That is words from a famous song of the Western Kingdom. The mighty U2. I know what you’re thinking. What do I know about such Western bestern things Haina? Ha! This motorcycle helmet man knows much lady fool! I have depths. Deep trenches. Gaping ruts. Ravines that plunge down down down. There is much to see and explore. I am no hollow coconut. No fancy pancy oily gangster – the type you fancy no doubt. You think I have nothing? Let me show you nothing. Lady let me introduce you to Mr Nothing!

Ladies I present to you Mr Nothing:

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You see? Mr Nothing really has nothing. Poor man rummages through scraps of the heaps and rubbish tips. With his rummaging partner the pariah dog. He is worse than a dog for a dog has no choice, but a man! Tut-tut. A man can choose. You see? I am not so bad! I have some thoughts. With a bit of work I may even have ideas and who knows one day even ideals. Haina? No? And another thing I don’t smell neither. Unlike Mr poo poo Nothing over there sniffing in the dustbins. I have prospects and I have a skill. Selling motorcycle helmets is not easy-peasy lady-mystery. It is a mystery. An art. Many bahainchaut scoundrels out there trying to fleece you off a few rupees. What are a few rupees you say? A few rupees a day make a man, over a lifetime, a millionaire! Not that I don’t expect to move up in the world from my motorcycle helmets. Oh, yes. I will be going somewhere. It is up and up and up for me. It is also ‘up’ to you if you are coming on this boat. For I am leaving these shores and heading for Eldorado- the fabled city of gold!

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So are you coming? – No? Oof! You are most brutal! There is cruelty in you! Suit you! Don’t expect me to look at you tomorrow. I will ignore you. My eyes will be elsewhere. No, not on another lady! I may be a motorcycle helmet man but I have pride and I have a mother. Yes a mother! What has a mother got to do with anything you ask? Let me finish. I have a mother. And she chose me. And so did God. They both chose me. And for that I am grateful. If only God would choose to help me sell more motorcycle helmets. If only! He can do that for me can’t he lady? Surely it is within His powers whose magnificence created the light show I sleep under?

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Look! I have a customer! See, I told you I am going places. This is a portent. He has heard me! Eldorado here I come! Today it feels good to be a motorcycle helmet man. Tomorrow who knows. But today, right now, at this moment, I feel that motorcycle helmet man is king! Oof! You giggle! I see you. Don’t try hiding it from me. Why do you giggle so? Do I make you laugh? Or do you take pity on me? Oof! Arai, I see you smile. Come here lady. I want to tell you something. Listen: My father (God rest his pious soul) once put his arms around my shoulders and with a solemn voice he said to me.

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‘Son, remember these words. You might be a motorcycle helmet man, or a chimney sweep, or a dhobi wallah, or a toilet cleaner flushing turds down the hole, or any of these things, but always remember, that no matter what or who you are, or what you do in the world, an apple tastes the same no matter how fortunate or unfortunate the tongue that tastes it’.

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Ah! You see what fine words he spoke! My father the philosopher. So, look here. I have in my pocket an apple. I bet that it will taste the same to me as it will taste to you. Shall we try? Would you like a bite?

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Oof! What do you mean it is not washed!

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****

Why I Love Photography

I vaguely remember taking the above shot. I say vaguely because it was one of many. It was part of a ‘blitzkrieg’ shooting episode in the heart of Delhi’s chaotic inner sanctums and alleyways. All I remember, was the instinctive lifting up of the camera, firing the shutter and then me moving swiftly on. Only later, in the comfort of my hotel room, when viewing the picture on the screen did I hum  ’ahhh’ – now I know why I had taken it. A lot of shots taken in the heat and mix of a swirling market-place are like that. You don’t have time to reason and compose and ponder. You see a scene and it’s instinctive. The geometry and the subject matter feel ‘right’. And you shoot. Only later do you realise why.

Delhi and India was crazy. It left me palpitating because everywhere I looked there were photo opportunities galore. I was like someone who has been put on a starvation diet, who is then suddenly released into a supermarket. So many things to shoot! So much noise and grime and people and poverty and wretchedness . A theatre of the daily rituals of life. So much life! And not just a sanitized version of life but the real thing: warts and all.

There were no hiding places here. All is in the open. And my camera soaked it in like a tea-towel.

What did I do? I had the camera tightly wrapped around my wrist. There was no way I was putting it in the bag to take out at every shot. That would never work. I had plenty of battery power. I felt good and confident – some of this no doubt due to the fact that I’d already been on the road for 5 months – so I was a seasoned soldier. Battle hardened as they say! I remember walking very fast through the choking Dickensian streets, shooting away, my eyes homeing in on anything of interest, my mind rapt with attention. I never lingered. You don’t linger. You shoot and move on. But the camera must be able to keep up with your eyes. Keep up with your vision. These shots are momentary – split second scenes, ephemeral glimpses to disappear forever. I caught them! These moments. But how many gems did I miss?! Oh the imagination can dream!

I remember feeling fear but also a thrill. The thrill of being in the midst of a frothing bubbling river and not knowing where this river; this river of people and humanity and the stuff of humanity would take me. I coursed along the narrow streets; the veins of the city, dragged by the rip tide, and let it take me – not resisting. Allowing the Brownian motion and random jostling’s of the universe shoo me along to my faith. Perhaps I would end up in the ocean? With all the other detritus and sewage and filth!

It felt dangerous! There were no tourists here. No others with cameras. And me, a little fly, buzzing around with a huge expensive camera dangling from its wrist. Alone in a universe of indifference. But the fear was more a fear of the unknown as opposed to a specific threat. Are these people bad? Am I stumbling into a rough neighbourhood? Am I taking unnecessary risks? I didn’t know the answers to these questions – I could only go with my instincts and they were unanimous: shoot! And get on with it!

It is probably the single most enjoyable photographic experience I’ve ever had. And some of the fruits of this are shown below:

Why do I love Photography?

Because it’s the best thing I know that makes me feel, most alive.

2012 Pulitzer Prize Winner for ‘Breaking News Photography’

Tarana Akbari, 12, screams in fear moments after a suicide bomber detonated a bomb in a crowd at the Abul Fazel Shrine in Kabul on December 06, 2011. ‘When I could stand up, I saw that everybody was around me on the ground, really bloody. I was really, really scared,’ said Tarana. Out of 17 women and children from her family who went to a riverside shrine in Kabul that day to mark the Shiite holy day of Ashura, seven died including her seven-year-old brother Shoaib. More than 70 people lost their lives in all, and at least nine other members of Tarana’s family were wounded.

Published December 7, 2011 (photographer: Massoud Hossaini)

18 things I saw Today

All shots taken with either the Fujifilm X-Pro1 or X100

The Fujifilm X-Pro1 (some silly thoughts)

The Fujifilm X-Pro1 is a camera you buy with your heart and not your brain. You could get a better performing DSLR for less money – so why get the X-Pro1?

If attraction was only a function of efficacy or efficiency than most of us would feel little attraction for the beautiful things in life. But we do feel attraction for such things and logic or reason has got nothing to do with it.

Some of us want to own beautiful things. Well designed things. Well designed in the sense of aesthetics: shape, colour, size, tactile feel, texture – all the visual elements. It’s nice to hold a beautifully designed object in the hands – no? Have you never marvelled at the shape of a bed-side lamp? Or the design of a plonguer for making coffee? Or the shape and feel of a Pelikan fountain pen? But a camera is not just a lump of material for holding – it is also for using. A camera – such as the X-Pro1, has inside of it, technical wizardry to make Merlin cry. How does it feel to use it?

How does it feel to use it? Notice the italics are on the feel. This is a very personal subjective thing – how you feel about a camera – may be different to how someone else feels about it. What does it mean when I ask ‘how does it feel?’.

Well, how it feels can also be translated to: ‘how do you feel’ when using it? Does it excite you? Does it feel comfortable? Does it make you want to go out there – when you could stay warmer indoors – and take photographs with it? Does the way you feel when using it, impact the type of photographs you take? Does it limit your vision or expand it? Does it get in the way of what you see?

A camera should never get in the way. My Canon 5DMKII does get in the way when I do street photography or travel photography – but it never gets in the way as far as its operational parameters are concerned (i.e. focus speed etc). In fact if it wasn’t for the weight and heft and size of it, I would barely notice it. But isn’t that the thing? If a camera is invisible to you, then it won’t make you feel anything. The Canon does not make me feel much. It works pretty well, is reliable. It neither inspires me nor holds me back. So you have to get that inspiration from somewhere else. Perhaps from existential angst, or some philosophy that allows you to see profundities out there in the world – when others see nothing.

Can a camera help you to see profundities ‘out there’? No, only your mind attached to a rapt eye can see profundities out there. But a camera can make you want to get ‘out there’, and take pictures. A beautiful thing can do that.

If you like beautiful things that is!

Oh you thing of beauty you!

14 Things I saw Today

All images taken with the Fujifilm X-Pro 1 with 35mm 1.4 lens