Sunday afternoon DVD Fest: The Vanishing of the Bees

Someone once said that if the honey bee disappeared off the face of the earth, then man would only have four years left to live. Why? Because: one in every three bites of food you eat at the dinner table depends on the industry of the honey bee. Without them there would be no pollination of flowers. Without flowers there would be no more apple pies, no more oranges, grapes, water melons, coffee, cucumbers, broccoli, valentines day, onions, sunflowers, cherries, cows, chickens, lamb cutlases, citrus fruits, tea, chocolate...

This fascinating documentary tells the bizarre tale of various beekeepers who woke up one morning to discover that their hives had emptied - their lives had changed - their bees had literally disappeared, overnight! The bees are disappearing...nobody knows why...nobody knows where. They're leaving in drones. They're leaving us forever. Off to another world presumably. BeeHive World! - It's a mystery buzzing to be solved. What's causing the bees to vanish? The silence of the bees...

The World Without End

So ?...

So I head for the great wall of books, extending from floor to ceiling, from left to right, and arrrrround the bend, all along the bedroom wall. My bedroom wall. If you sit cross-legged at the foot of the bookshelves in my room, and look up, you get intellectual vertigo. On the top shelves, where the air is thin, its tough out there. The wind blows harsh up there on the top shelf, and there is a real risk of death - from exposure. So high - to the sky - they stretch - forever - worlds - and books - of possibilities. Every book I read. Every book completed - understood - absorbed - breathed-in, written on, strengthens my force field. A force field that protects me; like rubber padding, from the unpredictability of the world, and the caprices of its bipedal inhabitants. With every book I read I ingest the person that wrote it. I swallow them. And thus I have become many people - plural - destroyer of worlds. I am invincible. Reading has made me so. I am a superhero. I have in me the souls and minds of many men. Many of them dead - but a flicker; a faint candle of what they were once - burns in me. Nothing can harm me now. I cannot be hurt no more. I feel no want or lack thereof. It's all inside - my wealth. Everything I need is within me. Nowadays I am always smiling, though you will not see this on my face. The smile is etched on my mind. The strength of it though, if you look closely, radiates through my eyes. Next time take a peek. Look how my eyes shine so bright. But do wear sunglasses if you plan to stare at them. They shine like gold dust on the rings of saturn.

To write well, is to write truly. To write truly, is to search deep and hard - for eternal things. I do not wish to impress with elaborate Gaudi-esque wordplays. I want to write so that when you read me - you feel that I am writing to you. And to you only. I am profoundly interested in the nature of man and the nature of existence. That is my subject - everything. I want to stand outside of man and step out of existence - and watch from the sidelines. Watch man at play. Man at war. Man at love. Watch what he does. Watch how he does. Understand why he does what he does. It is difficult; I admit, to be objective because I am as much a part of that which I wish to understand. I am man and I exist and this makes me part of the subject I wish to study. So it is difficult to see through the veil. But there are times however - moments actually, when the veil lifts momentarily, like tufts of cloud burnt off on a sunny day, and I see then with such clarity and force and vision, things of such comprehensible truth - that it leaves me stunned.

At such moments it feels as if I am untethered from the umbilical cord of the world. As if I am floating freely in my own watery tank of muffled sounds - with nothing to hold me down fast. With naught to belong to me but my thoughts. People don't belong to me at such moments, nor lovers, nor friends, nor anything else. I feel like a child that has nothing serious going on in its life. But then what is so special about serious anyway? It does make me a little melancholy though - to see people but me, firmly rooted in life. Firmly planted: children to take to school, things to do, doctors appointments, family visits, colleagues to slag off, careers to climb, ladders to fall down, walls to paint, garages to visit, washing machines to fix, moments to share. My time is spent thinking about things that matter to no one but me. Like the moons of Jupiter for example - and what it would be like to live on them. I think about the 'thin blue line' of our atmosphere - and how something so tenuous, this slither of blue, could be the only thing that protects us from the cold and life-unfriendly vacuum of space. In trains, looking out of the window, I see green plants and imagine their photosystems arrayed like radio telescopes pointing to the sun - eating it up.

When I have lunch I don't just eat my Pret 'topside beef with mustard and rocket' artisan baguette. I think about it! Oh yes! I think about the beef that came from a bovine creature that has evolved from a fish, I think about the rocket leaves and their chloroplasts with their thylakoid membranes stacked together, and the fact that the rocket leaves came on the morning flight from Italy. The baguette makes me think of (I don't know why) sun-basking wheatstalks bobbing in the breeze! When I see a pretty girl (and I do see plenty of these) I don't wish she was mine. Instead I smile at the silliness of the brain inside my skull that makes me want to have her. I do find her attractive. I can't help it. I am after all human! Many times I wish I could escape and not be buffeted by these random capricious winds that blow my way - nudging me, bothering me, picking on me, making my heart jump through endless hoops, making me blush, making me hungry, making we want, making me love, making me desirous of things. If only I could switch all such things off and be at peace for once. Sometimes I can be so sensitive to stuff - like a lightning rod charged with static. Sometimes I just want to hide in my bed, close my eyes, shut out the world and me

...and pretend not to exist.

and still she pops into my bed, smiles a little, and melts my heart,

into a puddle,

that's licked up by a dog...

called 'Spite'.

_________

The essence of life is a statistical 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 70 years of age (on average). Thus, our entire subjective (subjective = how things appear to us. Objective = what things are in themselves independent of how they appear to us) 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 seventy years 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 70 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? Answer: If we 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 alien race would cross roads? Of course not!

Why not?

Because, If they did, after a few thousand years, most of them would have perished 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? Such million year living aliens would never cross roads. They would not take such silly risks. Nor would they for that matter sunbathe, or eat fatty foods, or fly in aeroplanes, or go for a swim, or smoke. Their subjective judgment of what is probable and possible would be very different to ours. We live for 70 years whereas they live for a million. This makes all the difference.

We humans cross roads because we only live for seventy 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 syatems, 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 70 year life spans - i.e. if we couldn't make an accurate judgement of whether something was risky 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, interstellar distances - we have no clue. Because we don't live for such long times and our brains don't need to make risk assessments for such long times.

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 worlds - worlds - 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,

Well at-least once anyway. And we are not equipped to see it.

___________

Coming soon...Adventures to the home of the Aurora Borealis

A difficult road

I travel,

a winding high mountain road which is reachable only by a steep path.

I travel - a path to Philosophy, edged with sharp stones and prickly thorns and acacia trees.

It is an isolated road, with the occasional mountain goat, and the occasional fellow traveller whom you meet on your way up - I pass them all.

I travel alone.

The road becomes more desolate; more isolated, the higher we ascend.

No fear! Brethren! You must show no fear if you wish to pursue the path.

And moreover, you must leave everything behind, everything. Carry nothing on your back, save the skin stretched taut on your very bones and those pearls of sweat decorating your brow - like a crown. Of Philosophy.

A King indeed - of your own castle.

It's tough. I know It is tough. Nobody said it was going to be easy, but you must be confident and steadfast in your resolve. Often you will espie a path, that leads back down to the plain - I know how tempting it is, but you musn't. You musn't take it.

Sometimes you will come to a precipice and look down on the verdant valley below. A violent attack of dizzyyness and vertigo may grip you and draw you over the edge - but steady! Steady my friend! You must remain in control of yourself and cling to the jarring rocks with might and main and utmost fibre.

Utmost fibre.

In return for your endeavours, as payment in kind for all that hard work, you will eventually... reach the top...

And when you do:

The whole world you will see beneath you. Its sandy deserts and morasses will vanish from view, its uneven spots and moraines will be levelled out, its glaciers will no longer cut you with their jagged corners, its cities will look like smears of grease. Its aches and pains and troubles - so far - so distant - so small. its jarring sounds will no longer reach your ears. The truth of the worlds roundness, its wholeness and its completeness will be revealed to you - as a purple-blue smudge of a horizon - that curves.

that curves - There is no escape from a Sphere

At night, as you sit on the mountain top, with a cool breeze stirring you to ponder, with the stars piercing your skull with their light spears, with the great heavenly machine with its planets and celestial spheres sounding your depths with its immensities - you will cry.

Oh yes you will definitely cry.

Oh my,

For you are here - and at this moment - you can see it all in an instant

Eternity - and the truth:

Life is a Jest

And all things show it

I thought so once,

But now I know it

___________

The day I found out I was going to die

Please don't be unnecessarily alarmed. I am not suffering from a mortal disease or from a cancer. I am not going to die - yet. I am simply referring to that day, way back in childhood; a day I can recall with alarming and rather frightful clarity, when I realised, I would die one day. I think I was seven years old. Though I can't be too sure. Do you remember the day you found out that you were gonna die? I'm not sure if this is a common theme / experience that everybody goes through - or whether it happened just to me. I suspect it's common.

Anyway, I clearly remember that day when I was about seven. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck me. I don't know what initiated it, all I remember is being alone, and then suddenly without warning, realising that one day, I would die. And it made me cry. But the tears were not for my demise. The tears were for the eventual and certain death of my parents. It was their assured departure from my life, that frightened me - my mum mostly. What would I do? How would I cope when she was gone? And I still retain that faithful day in memory. The day when the shrivelled old arm of mortality touched me with its cold and rigor mortis flesh. The day I learnt that the world could also be a scary place and not all playground funland. It was the day I grew up in the universe. Grew up Almost, into a man. For after that moment of lightning-bolt realisation; once the tears had dried, I went out into the garden to play. It is what separates us from the other members of the animal kingdom. For no other animals; dolphins, chimps, bonobo monkeys, squids; for all their famed intelligences, not a single one of them bury their dead. Because they never find out that one day they will die.

Anthropologists know that mankind made a Great Leap Forward approximately 50,000 years ago. It is the first time man started using language; and the earliest cave paintings in France date from this period. But most importantly, this period is marked by the first instances of human burial practices. It's when we first began to bury our dead. My Great Leap Forward occurred when I was seven years old. A mighty leap forward! A magnificent 5-steps-in-one-bound jump into the unknown!

It's an arresting thought, but I think that at that moment, when I was seven, I became self-aware. It's hard to prove but I think, that that self awareness manifested itself, as a sudden lightning-bolt realisation of my mortality. To be self aware. To know you are alive - you must know you will one day die. Otherwise without death how can you know you are alive? And I remember it! That moment! When a light-bulb switched on inside me. The day I found out I was gonna die.

Did this light bulb switch on suddenly? With the press of a switch? Off and then On? Off - On, Off - On. Or, from the day I arrived screaming into the world, was it more gradual, like a dimmer switch getting brighter and brighter and brighter? Now we're straying into deeper territory where the grass is longer with more tangles. This blog entry could grow the necessary legs and crawl all over this mountainous region - It could even grow a set of wiiings (Red Bull gives you wiiings!) and soar, but now is not the time for wings or legs or soaring. Perhaps some other time. Now is the time to make myself a cup of delicious Monmouth coffee and, if I'm lucky, to find something pleasant and sweet in the kitchen, to put in my mouth.

_________

Cognitive Adventures with my 7 year old niece

I must admit there is much adventure to be had with children. Not chubby faced 'come here and let me gobble your pink cheeks' babies. Babies are plain annoying and scream the place down. Nor do they allow you to concentrate on Schopenhauer (and you really do need to concentrate hard with Schopenhauer!). My main issue with babies is that they don't respond when you ask them a question. How insolent! So clearly, as you can see, there is not much intellectual food to be gotten from them. Not however with 7 year olds like my niece for example. She's great fun. Particularly great for experimentation purposes. What makes children of this age ideal subjects for experimentation is that; for all intents and purposes, they're still blank slates. Experience and knowledge haven't touched them yet so their answers are not tempered by caution and dread of shame. I love asking my 7 year old niece tricky questions! Don't get me wrong. I don't plug electrodes on her temples, I just make her sit beside me on the sofa, and through endless bribes of chocolate and crisps, I probe her mind via questions. Through her I can learn about the world. Through her seven year old brain I can scan the human condition. Through her I can learn about myself. What kind of questions? Questions like:

'Alisha, where does the cashpoint get its money from?'

And my niece will frown and squint her eyes into her 'thinking pose'. She'll screw her nose into a bear muzzle, and she'll suck the question through and through - like a boiled sweet. But she won't answer. Because she doesn't know the answer. So I tell her:

'Alisha, there's a little man on the other side of the cashpoint and he pushes the money through when you press the buttons'

I can see her brain mulling this over. A little man - on the other side - with lots of money - pushing it through, Mmm...she seems satisfied with my answer.

I can see the new direction her mind is going: 'Uncle? Now you have no excuse for not buying me everything I want'

I played another Q & A game with her the other day. I wanted to know whether she knew the difference between a 'living' and a 'non-living' thing. Here's what happened:

'Is a chicken alive?' I asked her

'Yes!'

'What about a cow'

'Yes'

'A sheep?'

'Yes uncle'

'A frog?'

'Yes munkle!'

"Hey, don't call me munkle. I'm your uncle!'

And now something a little trickier for a 7 year old: 'What about a carrot'?

Slight delay, but eventually she said: 'Yes'

'A cabbage? - Is it alive?'

'Yes'

'A flower?'

'Yes'

'A tree?'

'Yes'

'A rock?'

And then she paused.

'No'

'The moon?'

'No'

'Rain?'

'Er, No'

'A TV?'

(giggles) 'No!'

'A car?'

'No'

'My laptop?'

'No'

'Your mother?'

'Yes'

'What about me? Am I alive?'

'Yes!'

'How do you know?'

She shrugged her shoulders. And that's the thing. If I ask her why, she just shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't know why - she just knows. Knows that I, her lovely clever uncle, am a living thing. It's almost instinctive isn't it? It's something she's too young to articulate and explain - but it's something hardwired into her little seven year old brain. She's never been taught at school the differences between living and non-living things. In fact she won't be taught that living things grow, breathe, reproduce, excrete, move, till she's at least 11 years old.

How does she know then? Or more importantly: what does this tell us?

That children are much smarter than we give them credit for?

Sure

What else does it tell us?

Never tell a child that endless money can be had from the little man behind the cashpoint machine?

Sure

But, what does it really tell us? What does it tell us about the childhood of mankind? The fact that a seven year old knows - deeply, instinctively, within the marrow of its bones - that the twinkle-twinkle little star, is somehow different, to the Baa Baa Black Sheep...

These are questions I think about all the time. I can't help it! My thinking life is so strange; I suppose, to others...but its through asking simple questions, like these...that we learn to see and feel and touch the human condition. Einstein; when he was young, used to imagine what it would be like to ride upon a light beam. Look where it got him! The very edge of Space and Time. I'm not saying I'm Einstein (!) - but what I am saying, is that, within the answers of a 7 year old - to the question of whether a bumble-bee or a rock is alive - lies the mystery of - the earliest stirrings, the birth pains, of our ancestral origin myths. It's all there. Etched on the tongue of my seven year old niece. And all it took to fish it out was patience, pertinent questions and lots of chocolate.

Told you children are wonderful, brilliant creatures. Not babies. Babies are annoying. But seven year olds; on the cusp of self-awareness. They can tell you everything you need to know.

You just gotta ask the right questions.

'Is a man alive?

'Yes'

'An angel?'

'Yes'

'Father Christmas and the tooth-fairy?'

'Yes'

And there you have it. If you don't know what I'm talking about - well, you've not been asking yourself the right questions!

________

Panasonic Lumix GF-1 - A Review

I want to use this blurb to say a few things about this camera: the Panasonic Lumix GF-1. The holy grail of photography; the one thing that photographers have always desired, is a compact camera that is not a compact. Compactness is desirable. Who doesn't want a 'take everywhere you go' camera that fits neatly in the pocket? Normally, if you want to take fantastic pictures when you go on holiday you have to take along an SLR. And everyone knows that SLRs are huge lumbering beasts that require a backpack, a strong back and biceps. They also draw attention to the photographer (due to their size) and are not ideal for spontaneous photography. In addition, they serve as a 'rob me' label around the neck of the bearer. Many people are therefore intimidated into not taking large cameras on holiday. The other factor is the cost. With an array of lenses an SLR system can be prohibitively expensive. Hence, why many people prefer compacts for holiday snaps. The problem, if you happen to be a perfectionist like me who happens to take image making seriously, is that 'holiday snaps' are just that: holiday snaps!

The problem with compacts has always been the sensor. The sensors of all compacts are way too small. This limits the dynamic range which basically means that colour rendition is not as accurate or as rich - greens are not truly green, reds look orange, and blues have a purple hue. In addition the range of colours that a small sensor can record along the electromagnetic spectrum is limited. Apart from colour issues the small sensor has poor low-light performance - it is noisy and has poor high ISO performance. Thus the need to use flash under all but the brightest indoor lighting conditions. And flash is no good. It is harsh and unsightly and brings our flaws in skin. To be honest I have no idea why professional photographers at weddings continue to use flash?

The Panasonic Lumix GF-1 is part of a new breed of Micro Four-Thirds technology cameras. They may be the answer; the holy grail, that photographers have been looking for. What makes these cameras, such as the GF-1, so special is their sensor. The sensors of these cameras are considerably larger than those of compacts. In fact, even though they are considerably smaller then SLR's in body size, their sensor size approaches that of SLR's. Thus they have all the advantages of a large sensor camera. Namely:

i) Much better low light performance (no need for flash but the darkest of situations)

ii) Better 'depth of field' (see below)

iii) Improved dynamic range

But significantly, what raises the bar even higher for the GF-1 in particular, is the lens. The GF-1 comes with a 20mm f1.7 prime pancake lens. The lens, as you can see, is small - but that is not what makes it special. Let me tell you a little about this lens. The first and foremost thing to note is the maximum aperture of f1.7. This baby is bright - it let's in lots of light...if there is light in the room, even a candle, this lens will suck it in like a black hole. To give you an idea, the maximum aperture of most lenses that people normally have on their cameras is about f4.0 - f5.8. These perform poorly under low light conditions. The maximum possible theoretical aperture is f1.0. This baby is an f1.7. The maximum aperture lens you can actually buy is a Canon f1.2 and it'll set you back a hefty £2,000. This lens costs considerably less. In fact the whole camera set up including the 20mm f1.7 pancake lens will cost you about £600.

But a large maximum aperture lens has other 'creative' advantages: the Bokeh. Bokeh is a Japanese word used to describe the quality or amount of blur in the out of focus parts of the image. Bokeh is a highly desirable quality especially in portraiture as it allows the subjects to stand out from the background which is blurred. Technically Bokeh is determined by the 'depth of field' and the depth of field in turn is determined by the aperture. The higher the maximum aperture the better the Bokeh and the greater the depth of field. The image below gives an indication of the Bokeh achievable with this camera.

This is a beautiful camera that has few of the 'size' encumbrances of an SLR. It's not perfect though. There are negatives. For example it lacks a zoom function, so if you want to take a close up from far away say...you can't. You have to physically move closer to the subject. i.e. use your feet! But that is a price you pay for the high aperture lens. But these minor issues (in my opinion) are more than compensated for by the creative potentials that a camera with an f1.7 lens can offer. Not only that, but combine this with speed of focus, receptability, excellent ergonomics, and restrained but sexy aesthetics, and you have a toy that is a real pleasure to use. It brings the fun back into photography. The only thing is - it's not a toy. This is a serious piece of sophisticated photographic hardware and any serious photographer worth his salt would be well advised to get one!

Lemon Monkey Delicatessen (a review) - In the heart of Stoke Newington

Lemon Monkey is a delicatessen on the concrete shores of Stoke Newington High Street. It can be found at the junction with Church Street, not very far from that other favourite haunt of mine, the 'Stoke Newington Book Shop'. As an establishment serving quality fair it seems Lemon Monkey is a little incongruent amongst its less esteemed neighbours. There is a KFC a few doors to the right and a Kurdish greengrocers to the left. Not too far away next to a cashpoint a tramp sits shiftily beneath one of the doorsteps. But he is a gentle tramp and ever since reading Orwell's 'Down and out in Paris and London' my feelings for the tramp have softened somewhat. But this article is not about tramps. It is about Lemon Monkey.

I love coming here to invigorate and recharge my creative batteries on delicious coffee and pastries. The walls inside are packed with quality foods from the continent (which you can also buy). Pastas from Italy, olives from Sicily, sardines, jams, quinces, wines, biscuits, exotic chocolates and coffees and teas amidst much else besides. Foodstuffs from all over the world stand in soldierly rows. The decor is rustic and it has something of the Edwardian about it. If you forget to bring a book you can always stare at the walls or read the labels. The clientele it must be said are not a mixed bunch. When contrasted with the denizens of Stokey as they shuffle pass the large street window, they seem positively hand selected. They're more likely to be Guardian newspaper readers and foppish types in here.

I love coming here for a spot of reading on my days off. The coffee served is from the veritable Monmouth Coffee Co. (which every coffee connoisseur knows is one of the finest coffee houses in London). The sandwiches are delicious and stuffed with continental chorizo, prosciutto, and bries. The pistachio pie is sublime; not as sweet as the others, and the lemon provencal is simply zinging. The music piped through the speakers is not too loud so as to interfere with the serious business of reading and thinking. Only the other day I was seated there and a most brilliant thought visited me. Luckily I caught it before it flew off again, for if I hadn't been on the look out for it, it may have landed on another perch.

I'm currently plodding through 'A life of Montaigne' by Sarah Bakewell and 'Torquemada - and the Spanish Inquisition' by Rafael Sabatini. Montaigne (Michel de Montaigne (1533-92)) wrote his famous 'essays' in the 1580s. These bite sized pondering's of a nobleman are like modern blog entries. He writes about himself. He writes about what he see's. What he feels. He casts his gaze inwards letting it fold and refold itself within him. As if he is kneading the dough of his internals. He's never certain. Always adding a qualification 'but I don't know' at the end of his sentences. He lets his writing meander, and it does, and it takes him to wonderful places in thought space. Montaigne was the first blogger in the world. He advocated moderation in everything and encouraged introspection. He also said that everyone should 'keep a room at the back of the shop' - by this he meant everyone should have a place to retire to now and again. A place away from everything where one can be oneself and where one will not be disturbed. Montaigne lived in a castle in Bordeaux and he himself 'kept a little room for himself' in one of the castle turrets. The turret is round so the room was circular and it had a little window which looked out onto the family estate. One of the walls was covered with about a thousand volumes of books Montaigne had inherited from his father and his friend La Boetie. There were tomes from Greek antiquity to contemporary literature. Montaigne would retire to his little room of contemplation whenever he needed escape from life, his wife, family, children, and the demands of running an estate. He'd come in, take a book off the shelf, seat himself comfortably and pour over the wisdom of the ancients. He read Plutarch, Cicero and Seneca. He read Marcus Aurelius, Plato and Socrates. He read everything. For the age in which he lived; an age of Witch burnings, Catholic-Protestant internecine conflict, the rape of the New World, the auto de fas of the Spanish Inquisition, the intolerance, the talk of 'end of days' - his mind and his 'little room at the back of the shop' was a sanctuary. In fact it was a time warp. The future.

I love the idea of the little room behind the shop as a metaphor for how to order one's life. There are a lot of wise men in the world. They are mainly Greek or French and unfortunately, they're all dead!

Oh well, they live on in their hallowed written pages. In their witty aphorisms and mild mannered admonishments. Which I, now hundreds of years later, keep securely fastened to my chest - like butterflies in a box - lest they escape.

____________

Further adventures at a Pakistani wedding...

[All images taken with a Panasonic Micro 4/3 Lumix Gf-1 (20mm @ f1.7 or thereabouts)]