Him. Or Her. Or Me.

me. by will perreault

there is a group of people soon to be my family. now only uncommon indivduals with their own mysterious feelings and furrowed brows. they will wake up tomorrow and get on a plane. they will see nicaragua and so see me. and then we will recognize each other.

a letter for when you return.

Dear brothers. Dear sisters. By now you have flown south for a week and back again. Seen Nicaragua. Not the postcard. Painted on. Coffee and and green pasture Nicaragua. Not any Nicaragua your friends would believe. Really. if you told them the truth. I know. By now you are fumbling for phrases that hold the weight of what you saw. every trash can reflects the sin ripped open and spread acroos the grit grey ground of la chureca. Davidson walkways and walls, a reminder of all those bright painted buildings and the feeling of dirt and dust dragging against your feet. Your eyes are showing the faces left behind. The women and their cloth. The men and their stories. The children and their sturdy innocence. Sandino’s silent stare across his once was city. You miss it. I know. Searching for the Nicaragua beneath all that red brick. And textbooks. And money. I know. How your words and your pictures tell of something so urgent now. How your lungs breathe relief when a team member passes you going to class. How Nicaragua has now become a part of your story and not just someone elses. You are changed. and the truth you hold is Beautiful. Important. almost unbearable. I am not writing to tell you it anything you don’t already know. You probably know it much clearer than I remember it now. I only want to say that we, all the groups that woke early in the dark, and traveled south, and watched Nicaragua move before us, remember and support you and the truth you now carry. I believe you are now the builders. the memories. the believers that something has begun that cannot be stopped. Fair trade. Fair wages. Knowledge. Words. Movements. slideshows. Stories. Ssshh. You are changing the world.

May the road rise up.

In a Telescope Lens

some phototgraphs developed from my last roll of film...

my neighborhood


ben

dylan.

Do They Collide, I Ask and You Smile

Today is Ash Wednesday and I am feeling indulgent. Giving things up is for the pious I whisper into my espresso. Teenagers who want to loose weight. people who want to pass the time. That sort of thing. But what if we really are turning to dust. My espresso. My house with the slanted floors. Myself. If it is true, then maybe I need to touch these things before I do go down into all that dirt and darkness. The mud in my front yard that I usually curse at after stepping in it on my way to work. The slick stairs I skip for the elevator. And all those puddles pushed against the pavement that take weeks to dry up after it rains.
Maybe the answer is to forsake my car for my feet so I can feel these things rightly. But I have grown so fond of going places quickly. Of keeping out the weather and other people. Of Sealing up my secrets inside metal and gasoline.
I suppose Jesus knew a bit about walking. Feet all calloused and cracked from the sandals he wore. I guess rubbing against that desert dust everyday reminded him. How all these cities and disciples would be sunk beneath the sand someday. Speed. Space. And all this sand. isn’t what matters. He whispers as he bends down to feel the forehead of his friend.
The air is getting warmer. I am learning the feel of grass. carpets. sidewalks. we are all turning to dust. Jesus is leaning forward to lace his sandal.

Birds and all The Time in the World

Here's my stethoscope... www.myspace.com/ashleyelizabethbrown