”A desolate expanse that you looked upon and realised that the comprehension of language would never suffice and attest the truth that my eyes saw. Those desolate mountains that were half faded in the mirage of the distance. Wind flushed and shimmered upon the sand, effigies of illusion that only added to the vague emptiness this land held. There was something, something there in the emptiness. That great ocean, my hands reaching down to scoop up some glistening sand from the belly. So fine, so silky, as my fingers traced through, little impressions that were soon swept into oblivion.” – Memories of Jordan, an essay
“It was a land so dry, so arid and plain that your eyes were uncomprehending in its expansiveness to the point that you couldn’t detect where the land became the sky as they all got blurred in the dust and the sun and heat. And we raced along in that car, the engine whirring alone and the only other sound, the click of my camera’s shutter, trying, but without even looking, failing to capture a frame that would hold the view in check.”
“Someone called it primitive, and yet in those moments, days and times, I would have died without the knowledge of the locals. A lazy excuse extended by those who are one of two things: Uncertain of uncertainty or perceive themselves as the paragon of man. A single comment that could hold so much in its meaning behind the words, yet it only served to tell me they were an idiot. To be primitive casts the idea of a plain society. One lacking taste. There was taste in this dish that made an empire expand its colonial reach. The very idea of calling someone primitive when you have come to rob them, casts deep hooks into the antecedents of truth.”
Writer and Photographer Alexander S.W. 