when i read, i sometimes feel like the boy in the wheelchair at the side of the playground watching as the others play with a ball while the storm approaches.

when i write, i am like a little child running for shelter from the rain which fill the skies above me.

some days i like to sit on a bench in the park, on the museum square or overlooking the canal where anyone that passes seem to hold some story; one with a slight shuffle walk and a head full of concern about some relative close to the border, another couple on a bench who underneath their feigned affections whisper a resentful tale about the hurt they’ve caused each other, even children shout the goings-on from hidden concerns at home.

the work of louis stettner, a namesake, has the right transportive haunting quality. his life consisted mostly of big cities since he was interested in the architecture of people; cityscapes and street scenes, black and white printed versions of the inside of my head. i always wondered about those nostalgic scenes and how he remembers them with his coloured eyes. De l’objectivit√© nouvelle √† la photographie subjective becomes pertinent to my observations, for which i have no camera but only my eyes. louis captures inconsequential moments which provoke the sympathetic and uncomfortable alike; i quietly hope someone says that about me one day.

but i still wonder what i am to tell; an old man with a cane nods in acknowledgement, some have no tales, some only listen and observe while the days fall from the treelined streets.