Dorothea Lange

Dorothea Lange was a natural photographer in the truest sense because she lived, in her words, "a visual life." She could look at something: a line of laundry flapping in the wind, a pair of old, wrinkled, work-worn hands, a bread-line, a crowd of people in a bus station, and find it beautiful. Her eye was a camera lens and her camera--as she put it--an "appendage of the body." During her last illness, as a friend sat near her bed, she suddenly said to him "I've just photographed you." Lange had engaged in this camera-less sort of photography for decades, from the time she was a young girl, and it served as both the foundation of her art education and her first apprenticeship.

Bored and disillusioned with school, she would often cut class and go walking through her neighborhood, the lower-east side of New York. She would make herself as unobtrusive as possible, and look at things and people. Down-and-outs of the Bowery, bustling marketplaces, the Jewish ladies in their schechtels, or black wigs.

Thanks Dorothea, I always thought I had a weird brain, now I know it's normal. =)

For once

The life you've been living as if you're setting yourself up for mid-life crisis. Please Victor, when you're free, do something that you're somewhat good at & happy doing. Write some poetry, enjoy nature, take some pictures, care for others more, n drum a little.

Help me believe

It was nine when I leave the office, stepping out into the cold night, walking towards the car and remembered the tears. Wiped off the after rain mist and drifted into dreams. The seven year old drove the newly twenty seven year old car home, with wrinkled hands of sea salt he steers gently off the end of road into the sea, changes into the 3rd shift and lifts his wings slowly, steadily towards the sky. High up as the night grows dimmer it gets less lonely as the other cars stopped and looked and laughed, a kind of hearty happy growl you would expect from a car engine as they knew it's time. Time to open their doors as their drivers' hearts light up in the chilly wind. The light flickers and flutters, it grew into a warm flow of lightness and lifts its master like a flower seed following the music of the steady wind.

All i see now is dozens of light lines flowing like streams just below the moon, just below the belly of the second sky.

Take me back to the time
When I was maybe eight or nine
And I believed
When Jesus walked on waters blue
And if He helped me, I could too
If I believed

Before rationale, analysis and systematic thinking
Robbed me of a sweet simplicity
When wonders and when mysteries
Were far less often silly dreams
And childhood fantasies

Help me believe
'Cause I don't want to miss any miracles
Maybe I'd see much better by closing my eyes
And I would shed this grownup skin I'm in
To touch an angel's wing
And I would be free
Help me believe

Tell me again

Tell me again how much do you love me, how much do you dance over me. Tell me what were you thinking when I was formed. Tell me that I am worth it. Tell me that I am created for your very purpose.

Photo emotion

This photo is taken at dusk at one of the stops along the highway. I never expect it to be that nice, "cos i no have DSLR" and it's not a must-see site, it's a place where people stop by to go to the toilet before continuing their way home.

I should always take notice of the beauty in the ordinary. What we make of life, every smile, every gesture; doesn't matter if we possess the skill and advantage of a "DSLR", not about what we lack; but in our current circumstances, in saying thanks to our maker and letting Him know what our heart whispers, and experiencing His peace.

Prayer

Prayer is the bridge between our conscious and unconscious lives...to pray is to connect these two sides of our lives by going to the place where God dwells. Prayer is ‘soul work’ because our souls are those sacred centers where all is one and where God is with us in the most intimate way. - Henri Nouwen (Bread for the Journey)