the person pretended to be a goat so the goat pretended to be a person
"Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel depressed. It would never occur to us, unless we stumbled on a book or a person who explained to us, that we were in fact in the process of change, of actually becoming larger, spiritually, than we were before. Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening. Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed."
Alice Walker, Living by the Word (via larmoyante)
"What’s the good of sacrificing yourself to the idea you want people to have of you?"
Such a pretty song. Fav
Art is life is work is love.
Cosmin always tells his students to finish, finish what you start. Even if you do it badly, just finish it.
Things I’m learning:
Growing up = the responsibility to complete things, and if possible, to complete them beautifully.
Egypt, 1920’s, in colour. Autochromes taken by Gervais Courtellemont and W. Robert Moore for National Geographic.
Hekmatullah (10)- Lost his father, Mohammad Dawood
I was afraid and awake. I pretended to be asleep and hid under my blanket. First, he stepped on me. Then he tripped over my brother. He pulled my father off his bed, brought him out of the room. My mother followed. Then he shot my father. My fathers last words were, ‘Have Mercy’. When he left, he stepped on my fathers dead body. When he left we locked the door and brought my father into the room. We watched over him the whole night.
Rafiullah (15) Lost four family members, and six heavily injured.
He shot at us, one after another. My grandmother died immediatly. My sister and I were injured. The shot went through my right leg. Then hit a wall, came back and hit my other leg. In the middle of the night, when all were sleeping, you went and killed them. Why?! Did we hurt you?! You were in your base. We had nothing to do with each other… Why? Shooting people for no reason? This is not fair.
Haji Mohammed Wazir (38) Lost 11 family members
The Americans, the occupants of our country say: ‘We bring you reconstruction and progress’. They brought no development, just destruction. I was not home. At the break of dawn I received a call. They told me my whole family had been killed. They said the Americans did it. They were sleeping in different rooms. He killed them. Brought them into one room. And set fire to their dead bodies. When i arrived in the morning, the vilagers had already gathered. Then i saw the dead bodies. All burnt and covered with blood. Talking about this, it feels like a fresh wound. My mother is dead, my wife is dead, so are two of my sons and four of my daughters. My brother, his wife and their child was killed too. On the very same day, they took the solider and flew him to the USA. We could not prevent it. We did not have the power. They say he was insane… but would the government give an insane person such a responsible position in the army?
Still Night (2013)- The night Sergeant Robert Bale murdered 16 Afghan Civilians in the Kandahar Massacre.
"Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them."
The lights of Bebek shimmer over the waters of the Bosphorus - delicate gold and glassy green, tangerine orange, icy blue - a vision, a painting almost 3000 years in the making. There isn’t time enough in four and a half months to place the idea of Istanbul within the frame that it deserves.
Istanbul is Jason and the bridge in the distance is the Golden Fleece - you cannot see how the endless stream of cars across the Bosphorus twist themselves into woolly golden yarn, carrying their passengers like Nephele’s ram. The air is growing colder in this city, and a sleepy cat purrs in my lap, its internal engine adding to the roar of motorbikes and traffic on the streets below. I have trouble distinguishing, at first, whether these sounds are not a symphony - they sound like cellos and I thought I heard singing, but then again isn’t this entire city made of music? Music and myth, spun into a fantasy by Romans and Latins and Byzantines and Ottomans and people, people, people - the very same ones who drive their golden lights along the shores of the Bosphorus not knowing - or do they? - how they are weaving this purpley nighttime vision, a tapestry splashed with color, inviting one to dream. Istanbul in technicolor, Istanbul of before and after, Istanbul of roses and history and traffic, of fortresses and castles and testaments to humans of extraordinary vision.
I am caught between the Istanbul I see, whose beauty reminds me of a movie I once saw set in Paris, and an expectation of Easternness that cannot be reconciled with what actually exists in this city. Said’s Orientalism is a necessary lens here, undoing essentialism internalized. A need to categorize and failing to, and the underlying feeling of identity crisis that pervades this city belies its greatness. Istanbul is, perhaps, in the midst of standing up - unbending its knees, unfolding its wings. An arduous process, to be sure - waking up sleeping limbs and dormant memory.
Missing my home country is perhaps a product of too much familiarity and not enough - Istanbul is similar, but different, and it being almost there but not quite is a tiring middle ground. Stretched between expectation and forced forgetting, this is the challenge of insecurity in collective memory. Selective amnesia, created by leaders, created images, created black holes in remembrance. When, I wonder, will Istanbul embrace its complete evolution? True greatness is not contrived of false facts and cleverly disguised inferiority complexes - harsh words, softened by brave new scholarship and gradual undoing of ingrained ideas. Perhaps the day will come soon when the knots holding back the tides of memory are loosened - when neighboring ideas form a glorious spectrum and the poetry of this city is allowed to be heard in full.
istanbul istanbul istanbul missing you
Weed-puffing folk hero, energetic polygamist, political rabble-rouser and all-around badass, the late Nigerian bandleader Fela Kuti is one of the few figures to near-singlehandedly concoct an entire musical genre — in this case the magnificently propulsive, polyrhythmic Afrobeat. A new tribute to the Nigerian bandleader features Jim James, Kronos Quartet, tUnE-yArDs and more.
This is good. this is very, very good.