Trevor, Felipe, and I have arrived in Villarrica, Chile, and are enjoying a couple days of rest. Well, we kind of rested yesterday. We tried to summit the Volcano Villarrica but were stopped by unfavorable conditions. Here are some photos!
 |
| Villarrica |
From here, we´ve decided to try and push it back to Tucuman, well, to see how far we can get on bicycles and still arrive before May 7th (Trev´s birthday!). It´s about 3,000km (very rough estimate) and I don´t expect us to be able to make it on bikes, but we´ll see :).
We will probably be parting ways with Felipe tomorrow when we head north, so tonight we plan to do some loving on him. Other than that, we´re doing well. I´m in the midst of the too-much-time-on-the-computer haze, and while I´m sure there´s quite a lot I´ve wanted to write here, I can´t think of it at the moment.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the photos. And may we honor, respect, and worship God.
Love,
Will and Trev
4 comments:
William!! That blood is gratuitous! I object on moral grounds.
Speaking of birthdays, you guys are flying up to attend Brian's party tomorrow night bringing Argentine mate with you, right?
We're expecting you. ;)
referee blood, regretting its offense I'm glad the picture was included, William holding his head. No poem necessarily needed but just in case:
Inventory
I’m a man, age, gender; my infancy way gone:
Puberty also. If my life is a long one,
I’m half way there, maybe more than.
Probably. Possibly not. I had a dream
Than might have told me I’ll die
Having lived 31,814 days.
In the Laundromat, with strong coffee
And Danish in me,
In struggle to be sure does a year have
365 and a quarter or 366 and a quarter days
I ask someone. I’m told 365 days and
366 days on leap year.
Folding my clothes I reach into the basket
On wheels. My knuckle bangs the corner of
A dispensing machine, the tall narrow kind:
Plastic bags, 25 cents.
Angry, I think I can make a tight fist and
If I punch with all my might
All my body behind the punch I
Can tear the machine off the wall.
Something tells me this is a good idea.
It’ll be impressive.
Something else tells me I may not
Get my Laundry folded if I do.
I fold my laundry. My knuckle is bleeding.
I continually have scratches and scrapes
On the backs of my hands. My father is
Known for continual scratches and scrapes
On his head. Head cuts bleed copiously,
Our bodies defense against infection in this vital
Area I’m told. I also remember my father’s
Red neck. Jack’s neck is red as watermelon meat.
Not the back, not from the sun; from just above
Jack’s collarbones to the beginning of his beard
Jack’s neck is as red as a fire engine.
I lift my father into my arms; cradle him there.
He rests his head gently on my bosom.
I stand there in the Laundromat holding him,
Nowhere to go.
He’s not heavy, he’s my father.
Thank you for your objections to my spilt blood. I do want you to know that the only reason there´s such a large stain is that friends were pouring water on it to clean and check it. I didn´t lose a pint or anywhere near that. Still, I don´t recommend it. I still pick at the scab sometimes, though. It´s a difficult habit to break, picking. Sometimes a little clump of hair comes off with the bit of scab. Too gross for blog? Perhaps... Again, avoid head wounds.
Oh yes, and:
Happy Birthday, Brian!
Post a Comment