I wish for a warm summer day when, while on a drive along some big empty interstate, I can stop at a an old gas station and find a copy of Bob Seger’s greatest hits, buy it for $6.99, and play it till the sun goes down.

Shoolhouse, mountain village, Haiti

We had been driving for nearly two hours when the road ended. Not that it was much of a road - we had wound up and around and up again through rocky terrain on what would be better described as a dirt path, just wide enough for our 4wd vehicle. Little did we know that we were not yet half way to our destination - a small mountaintop village, inaccessible except by foot - a place without electricity, running water, or a well.

The reason for our visit was to deliver medical supplies and visit with some school children that our organization supported. The village was said to be one of the most remote and poorest in the region. On the way up the mountain, a journey that was at times more of a climb than a hike, we passed women villagers making their way down, balancing large casks for water or huge bundles of laundry on their head. Some of them carried children, too. They were on their way to their only source of water - a river at the bottom of the mountain. I marveled at how they managed to make such an arduous trek every day. It was so steep, the sun scorching. My camera gear, weighing probably no more than 8lbs, felt like half a ton. I couldn’t imagine making the same trip with 10 gallons of water on my head.

After 2 or 3 hours of hiking, my canteen dry, I was nearly at the village. Just outside of it I was met by a few men with a large blue cooler. As I approached, they opened it and offered me an ice-cold Coca Cola - for a hefty price, of course. Again I wondered at how they had managed to carry these large coolers full of ice all the way up there.

Coca-Cola is unique in Haiti, as it is in most countries outside of North America and Europe. First, it tastes better because it is made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup. Second, it comes in the classic glass bottle. The bottles aren’t new, however. They are recycled - not the type of recycling that means melting and re-casting, but recycled as in washed, refilled and re-capped. They are scratched and scuffed and murky - a visceral drink, and good. I bought one and drank it.

One of my hiking partners, a guy who had lived in Haiti for a number of years and had visited this village a few times, told me that the people there are so poor that they cant afford to buy the cokes for themselves. Instead, they buy a case and keep it cooled for when people from our organization come visit. We get refreshed, they make a few dollars - an economic symbiosis, built on aid relief and fizzy drinks.

The village itself was more like a camp. Most people lived in tents or lean-tos. It looked like many people lived without any roof at all, just a circle of blankets and belongings around a fire pit. One of the few true structures was a one room schoolhouse. As we entered, the students sang and said their ABCs, their teacher doubling as choir director and drill sergeant. They stood up, sat down, recited Bible verses. It was a grand show that even got the villagers attention - they watched from outside through the large gaps in the walls. We all applauded.

Shortly after the performance one of my teammate’s bottles of Coca-Cola made its way to the children, and the most remarkable thing happened. The first child took a sip, and then without prompt passed it to the girl on his right. She sipped and passed it to her right. And so the bottle was selflessly consumed one sip at a time, child to child. I took a picture.

I think we gave the children a lesson in English or taught them a new song, but I have no recollection of what we actually did or said. Instead, what I remember is what the children taught me about being selfless. It’s ironic that one of the first lessons we are given in school is how to share with others, and yet its so easily forgotten. Here’s hoping we can all remember that lesson now, especially as we have so much and those very children in Haiti are in such desperate need.

Widow, Bord Mer LaSalle, Haiti

In 2000, I had just finished college and volunteered for a short time with a non-profit faith-based organization based west of Port-au-Prince, and had the chance to make some photographs one day when a nurse and I went out for an eight mile hike down the beach to a remote village called Bord Mer LaSalle. We were going to “thump bellies.” Not knowing what that meant, I asked and the nurse explained that the village was in need of medicine, and the easiest way to determine how many of the children were suffering from parasites was to thump their bellies. Once you learn how to distinguish it, anyone can determine whether a child’s swollen belly is caused by either malnutrition or worms by the sound the belly makes when you thump it. One is hollow, the other is a thud.

Bord Mer LaSalle was a tiny fishing village situated just off the beach and in the shadow of a long dormant volcano. No more than a few dozen people lived there. They had a few wooden boats and the houses were really just shacks made from salvaged materials, mud and wood. Roofs were thatch, cloth or sheet metal. Smoke hung densely in the hot, humid air as the villagers tended to a number of small open fires. There was a distinct odor. Most of the children were naked, the adults wore mostly rags. Its hard to describe the place and not slip into some pejorative, colonialist cliche, but it really was just like one of those Sally Struthers Christian Children’s Fund commercials.

As the nurse carried out her thumping duties, I wandered around the village, closely trailed by half a dozen little naked boys, most of whom you see repeatedly in the outside edges of the photographs. I met villagers, fishermen. A widow invited me into her home and asked me to pray for her. She was old and frail and sick, and half of her house had burned a few weeks before my arrival. I didn’t know what to pray, but I did my best. As my pathetic attempt was translated into Creole by the nurse, the old woman rose up and put her hand on my head.  As she stood there she swayed back and forth and repeated “Merci, Jesi, merci, Jesi,” over and over. Running out of things to say I abruptly shoved in an, “Amen” and she immediately took me by the hand and led me to the burned out portion of her home - it wasn’t any larger than 5×8′ - and in Creole said, “Now, pray for my house!”

How does a 21 year old kid with a camera (who happened to be going through a crisis of faith at the time) intercede for a half-burned mud house? As best as you can, I suppose…and with a little boost from a poor, sick and widowed woman whose faith seemed to be in abundance.

I wonder about that widow now. If she is still alive, still in Bord Mer LaSalle, or whatever is left of it. The children with the bloated bellies we thumped that afternoon have adult bellies now. They probably have children of their own. I wonder about them too, and how all of them in that tiny fishing village off the Leogone Plain, situated within 10 miles of the recent earthquake’s epicenter, has faired.

I guess all I can do is offer up my best attempt of a prayer again.

Children, Bord Mer LaSalle, Haiti

Fishing Boats, Bord Mer LaSalle, Haiti

Mending Nets, Bord Mer LaSalle, Haiti

Fisherman, Bord Mer LaSalle, Haiti

“Wanna know what my DJ name is, man?” he asked. “It is the best.  Proud of it.”

“Yeah, of course,” I answered.

“DJ Honky White Cracker.”

“Uh, wow, how about that.”

And so went my conversation with Thomas the strip club DJ/Doorman/Bartender, as we stood – or rather as I stood and he sat on the curb – at the streetcar pickup on St. Charles and Common St.  It was around 3a.m., and he had just given me a Budweiser from a 24 pack he must’ve taken from the club.  The beer was cold, and the cardboard case was covered in condensation, making a little pool of water there on the curb.  As he cracked open his second beer he told me that he was a writer and that he had taken the job in the French Quarter to do research for a book.  

“It eats at your soul, man.  It eats at your soul,” he said.  “You see these girls, and they come in – they ain’t nothing but a bunch whores.  A bunch of fuckin whores.”

I asked if he still fell in love with them anyway.  You know, in the ‘you’re a damsel in distress/I’m a knight in shining armor’ sort of way.  He laughed in response and called them all whores again.  I’m sure he had had a thing for one or two.  How could a man not?  And I’m sure there were a few that had liked him – he was affable and decent looking, with sharp features and intense eyes.  Unfortunately his good looks were hidden under some questionable sartorial choices: a panama jack hat, hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts.  Good smile, though, and he had an endearing Matthew McConaughey kind of accent.

“Well, there was this one girl, man,” he said with a slow, drunken shake of his head.  “You know, working her way through med school.  She had it, you know, you knew she might make it out and not get sucked in.  Thought she was special – that she might be my lead for my story, but before long, man, she was up on the third floor after her shift suckin’ cock.  Disappeared a few weeks later.  Never saw her again.  Whores man, they’re all whores.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.  “That’s terrible.  Really sad,” I said.  I then asked, “So are you, like, one those dudes that stands out in the street and tries to get me into your club?”

“Yeah, I do a little of that.”

“I hate those guys.”

He laughed.  “Yeah, kinda annoying I guess.  But it works.”

I asked how long he had been at it.  

“About 8 months, I think,” was his answer, but he spoke as if he had been doing it for years.  I’m sure it felt that way.  

And about that time the streetcar’s light caught both our eyes and diverted our attention as it rumbled around the corner of Canal St.

“Well, there’s your ride,” I said.

“Yep.” 

He stood up, and I thanked him for the beer.  With a few swigs left for us both we raised our cans to each other, said cheers and chugged.  A moment later he was stumbling up onto the streetcar and I was left looking for a garbage can for our empties.

I took the Crescent line, New Orleans to Birmingham, on Tuesday and saw the following:

A black Methodist preacher with a mustache and prosthetic leg, which he pulled off and kept next to him when he sat down.  He led his congregation of 3 in a prayer for safe travels as the whistle blew and we pulled out of the station.

A sunrise of orange and purple that wiggled through the old pier pylons just off the banks of Lake Pontchartrain.

A Bob Dylan lookalike dressed in vintage jeans, denim jacket, plaid shirt, boots and aviator sunglasses.  He carried a guitar over his shoulder and an old briefcase in his left hand.  He kissed a tall redhead goodbye in New Orleans and was picked up by a spry blonde in Tuscaloosa.

An old black man with a beautifully large belly and a slight stoop waiving from his crumbling storefront in York.

Two men doubled over the hood of a Chevy outside of Boligee.

A group of half naked children at a birthday party, running through backyard sprinklers in a suburban neighborhood somewhere near Cuba.

A solitary man wearing a Crimson Tide tshirt, hands in pockets, staring at the train from an embankment near some woods, far from anywhere.

I’ve been working on a series of collages over the last few weeks using images taken from the Smithsonian photographic archive.  This and the previous few collages posted on the blog are part of the series.  With Google as my usual source for images, using the Smithsonian’s has been a nice new challenge to work within a specific archive.  Not that what is available is limited by any means - there is a wealth of beautiful images, and its through the strength of these pictures that I feel I’ve come to some nice discoveries in how to put things together.  Check out the Smithsonian Photography Initiative blog, THE BIGGER PICTURE, and browse the thousands of pictures featured at Flickr Commons.

Jack Kemp died.

Back when I was 18 and didn’t know any better than voting conservatively (growing up a fundamentalist in Alabama affects you in certain ways, and it takes some time to grow out of) I cast my first presidential ballot in favor of the Dole/Kemp ticket.  Around 10 years later I met Jack Kemp for the first time at the Vice President’s Residence at the Naval Observatory.  I was there assisting the VP’s photographer. I remember Kemp bounding across the room to where I was standing, and as he reaches me he stuck out his hand assertively and with great volume and force of character said, “HI.  I’M JACK KEMP!” He shook my hand heartily, nearly loosening my arm from its socket, and then wished me a Merry Christmas with a pat on the shoulder as he continued to work the room.

I thought that was special.

Its been a while since Joe or I posted anything about music. Its not cuz we arent listening, or havent both been absolutely bowled over by Wovenhand’s most recent record (as well as his entire back catalog) or enjoyed the latest from M. Ward and Beirut, or had Vetiver’s “Tight Knit,” Neko Case’s “Middle Cyclone” and the Great Lake Swimmer’s “Lost Channels” on continual repeat. Cuz we have. But the real record that seems to do it for me - and I think for Joe, too - is Elvis Perkins in Dearland. A few years ago Erin gave me Elvis’ first record, and it stands as a sort of marker for the beginning of our relationship. Therefore, it - and he - has a special place. That special place gets personified in the new record - its big and complicated and wonderful. Its happy and sad, triumphant and tragic, and is soaked with an atmosphere that begins at the first chirp of the recorded Cicadas on track 1 and ebbs and flows until the trundling, rumbling final track that asks “how’s forever been, baby?” Regardless of the question, the feeling, the weather, Perkins’ answer to it all in song is always beautiful.

Joe and I are currently working on collages in hopes that they’ll find their way into making a successful poster for Perkins’ upcoming show at Bottletree in May. They are the hardest posters to make, the ones for bands we admire so greatly, whose music inspires us so much that it becomes hard to articulate a proper response. But what a great gift to have - sounds that are so soundly they turn you mute.

Hear more straight from the source on this NPR INTERVIEW.

ADDENDUM, Sat. Apr 25: “Doomsday,” one of the standout trax from the record, is about 9/11. Its the best 9/11 song I’ve heard, and it should be listened to while reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” The two go together like pb+j on warm bread eaten at a picnic where you sit in an ant bed after the canoe sank and you lost your frisbee. But you still have an ok time because its a beautifully crisp, bright Tuesday in Sept., and no matter what bad stuff happens, you’re alive and living and able to picnic.

I just found the following, something I wrote one afternoon to my girl a long time ago.  How things like this endeared her to me is a mystery and a miracle…

Last night I went to radio shack to buy some headphones.  Not headphones for permanent use, but some that would do until I can get to best buy or wherever one might go to purchase overly expensive personal technology that is used to close oneself out from the social and civilized world.  I originally typed “civilized” with an S instead of a Z, but the auto spelling keeps on changing it.  I don’t like that.  I much prefer the British manner of spelling in this instance.  And in spelling color with an U.  Colour.  Strange that the autospelling doesn’t change “colour” to color.  So, anyway, radioshack.  For ten bucks I got radioshack brand headphones, and I must say they are the worst headphones I’ve ever tried listening to music through, and that includes the headphones that came with my Nintendo gameboy back in the early 90’s.  My favorite game was maybe ‘metroid’ and my brother’s favorite was ‘paperboy’.  In metroid, you were an alien that crawled through a labirynth of tunnels on a planet in a distant galaxy, gathering objects and fighting evil monsters that threatened to mutate and take over the universe.  In paperboy, you played a boy who rode on his bicycle and threw newspapers at houses in suburbia.  The more windows you busted and dogs you hit, the more points you would receive.  The difference in our favorite gameboy games is a perfect representation of mine and my brother’s diametrically opposed personalities.  Cover your mouth, then try singing clearly through the fleshiest part, then run across the room and try listening to what you just sang and you might, just might, get a sense of what its like listening to paleo or pearl jam or andrew bird or bach on these headphones.  I need some good headphones because if I don’t I will go crazy because I wont be able to drawn out the voices in this room.  I am avoiding mentioning the voices in my head because to actually mention them would only be a cliché or petty joke that’s been made too many times before.  Dan is eating peanuts a few desks over and he spills some with every handful he throws into his mouth.  I wonder what number soda he is on at this hour.  4? 5? 6? I had one today with lunch, and I really want another but I am denying it, knowing that if I do it could contribute to my early death or at least another pound of jiggly flesh I do not need.  I’ve never been able to drink diet soda or be able to reconcile drinking it for its lower calorie and faux sugar benefits.

Hope you’re having a nice day.

On a side note, our blog is pretty much busted.  Thanks, web host.  Joey says he has to fix some stuff on the “back end,” and wow is it hard to not make dirty jokes whenever he says so.  Also: the new Andrew Bird record is great.

how can the wolves tiptoe
ever so slightly through the dim
through the slips and the curtains
find me at the door i lost my key

sways and sways the fall has been
scrapes along the tracks of trials
the air swoops up to stab my face
from deep below the black hole well

a dollar a wish and free for the rich
tiptoe songs behind the trees
hiding trails from where i came
overgrown willows and figs and fog

the last leaf drifts and dances down
while the morning sticky leaves
the hands i hold are heavier now
still sweeter still worth the while

clearings and clutter and times of rain
put roses to bed for winter sting
the ones i love remain near still
and nearer i pray they’ll stay