Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!
We visited my favourite of the tent communities so far today. Not that we should have favourites.
However, in February it was Marassa (which means twins, btw) #14 and #9 that stole the hearts of the team. I wrote yesterday about the desperation of their ongoing plight. Some of which is caused by their distance from the city centre, from any hub of activity, thus economic activity.
- Nā tō rourou, nā taku rourou
ka ora ai te iwi
It means with your basket and with my basket, together the tribe will thrive.You're supposed to feel something in a place like this, in every moment of the day. There's little space for numbness for if you hold onto it you begin to lose focus, like your hand slipping off the shutter button too soon. The colours are bright, the smell potent.. and all as it's meant to be – anger, love, hope, frustration, joy, disbelief, passion, laughter. I think about all that i've seen and all the images I want to share with you. I will – when bandwidth allows. Right now getting this post up has taken too many hours. But that's like everything… we have every intention of telling a good story with our lives but we get lost along the way. We aspire to be engaged in some meaningful work or efforts while we live but we get distracted by life and all it's companions… but you're supposed to feel something and you're supposed to respond. That much of how we are made is sure and certain. If for a kid who is living in a tent made of tarps, set on stones and rubble of the house he once lived in, that in falling down killed his grandmother and brother won't even withhold a film frame from his best friend; who am I to hold onto anything that I have?
hanging like a dew drop
of a concrete leaf
broken back of a spine
no tree to speak of
but onè respe
to a graveyard of stones
clutched to the surface
of an unfaithful earth sphere now small sparrows of dark ruby skin
cling to rubble and stones
or it could be that dust
clings to them so earth, flesh
and sweat hold one another
life embraces death and likewise
death quivers in the flutter
of fabric houses, rusting tombs. in the dewdrop and the song
of sparrows sitting in mud
onè respe, respect and honour
in a good death & a pointless death
to a graveyard of silence
to sparkling glass panes in sunlit rain
swinging in the breeze of hope & folly
there is no rest in Haiti.