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August 15, 2005

Memories like Flowers Decay

PNG Memory

PNG exists only in my mind. Clouded by everything happening here, did it ever happen? Those 6 weeks are just a flash. My photographs take part of me back, to wandering around gardens of exotic flowers, twisting limbs around fruit shapes, shaking soft hands and meeting beaming smiles. I can’t seem to integrate this life into my current one. I don’t want to lose it. Photographs are the triggers to take me back, a gift of the universe.

Posted by natalija at August 15, 2005 8:18 AM

Comments

Sounds like you have reverse culture shock, Natalija!

Keep your recollections of Pasifiki sights, smells and sounds never far from your thoughts - they are the things that transport you back in an instant.

Are you going to share some more of your PNG photos?

Posted by: nicole at August 15, 2005 11:05 AM

Design, at best, could be described as a process because design, phenomenally, is everywhere human mind is and intentionally acts. It is while we design what we design, what is already designed has designed us and our designing. From this perspective the future is always already in the past; nothing is ever finished, the product is never complete (Tony Fry 1997).
Now why didn't I say that in 1997 ... because I was preoccupied with other 'thoughts'. Now it is too late to say.

Each molecule in the universe, and beyond, has redesigned itself ever so slightly. Thousands died in PNG since 1997 and thousands were born. It has more or less grains of sand on the beach. Many millions of ice creams have melted. Many billions of childrens tears have fallen in sadness for lost loved ones in wars that crucify a generation, while capitalist nations pillage a cultures soul for the sake of a few trinkets know as diamonds. And children still go to sleep hungry, while I am concerned about how much oil my car needs ... oh, that was bowser 7, and I will have a mars bar and a can of coke ... and tears begin to blur my vision as I observe the vagrant peering into the bin as a Cottesloe breeze gently lifts his tattered worn shirt, and our eyes meet, generations apart.

Posted by: Dirt Settlers at August 27, 2005 6:37 PM

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