I like pretty things. Things pleasing to the eye. Wild colours, a unique perspective.
But more than that, I love things that make me think. Catch my breath. Smile. Wonder.
Posted September 8, 2009 at 7:48am
8/21/2009 - Quote
You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, for each one it finds the most suitable mask.
— Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
Posted August 21, 2009 at 6:56pm
8/21/2009 - Quote
…The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.
— Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities
Posted August 21, 2009 at 6:54pm
8/14/2009 - Video
From the OST of Ali, Tomorrow by Salif Keita
Posted August 14, 2009 at 4:28am
8/13/2009 - Quote
…if women’s rights are a problem for some modern Muslim men, it is neither because of the Quran nor the Prophet, nor the Islamic tradition, but simply because those rights conflict with the interests of a male elite. The elite faction is trying to convince us that their egoistic, highly subjective, mediocre view of culture has a sacred basis…Islam was not sent from heaven to foster egoism and mediocrity.
— Fatima Mernissi, Women and Islam.
Posted August 13, 2009 at 12:26am
8/8/2009 - Photo
A blue night appears
adorned by a fresh breeze of rain
A half cast lamp shines allure
on a dusky velvet street corner
The rain drops marvel their own elegance
in that warm patch of golden light.
The light that holds the night
together.
You were the croon
in some singer’s voice
mellifluous molassas
The sway of a belly dancer’s hips
You were the grace that epitomizes
a coconut tree
The riotous colours in some Spanish arbol
Electric vibrance.
And what dreams you dreamt
Of sailing to Gibraltar
in a tiny paper canoe
Of kissing the moon
Of siestas stolen
on sunflower petals.
You would transcend your physicality
and burn with the meteors.
But now,
blue night, fresh rain, half cast lamp
and that dusky velvet street corner
contain the foundations of your wounded hope.
Reality kissed you all over and in your soul
a sorrow weeps.
You look at the half cast lamp and think
that once your eyes used to shine as bright.
