Friday, December 24, 2004

give it up you wimp

ok so I think that I am just going to say screw it and let the other blog I have (not telling) be the incognito one cause thats where all the tricky stuff goes anyway. So now that I am no longer "hidden" or whatever it doesn't matter to me as much if I post pics. So I might do that ... but for now... I will just link up my shutterfly albums and my acct. when I get to it.
Ok so I accidentally ran across an old bf's webpage... cause he is on blogger and still lists barbershop as a style of music he likes... and since there are so few of us out here on the internet these days of course his name just popped right out at me. Weird huh? Anyways, it just goes to show you how life moves on with or without you. I'm glad he's happy and doing the whole domestic thing. Thats cool. Alright so I was going to post Patrick's other term paper and I had not done that yet so that is what I will do right now.
PATRICKS PAPER with his speech included

"Okay, last time. After coming to the conclusion that I wasn't going to get a good grade in this Feminist Psych class regardless of how good this paper was, I woke up this morning and wrote my last paper for it. Yes I'm pig-headed, but like all pig-headed sorts I'm quite sure I'm right. So here's my paper, it's not quite what was asked for and I'm pretty sure it's "below threshold" but I'm actually kind of pleased with it. I titled it "M is for Metaphor". Without further ado..." -Patrick

Firstly, let me apologize in advance. This is not a college paper.
I was standing in a high school gym, a man with iron grey hair and the strength of sorrow was handing out half-sheets of paper to people, to the people who were supposed to get a message. I was walking slowly towards him as he was loudly calling directions to the group of people who were picking up their papers, and he looked up at me and pointed. He pointed with his whole arm straight and his fingers partly open, like someone who’s accustomed to directing a crowd, and he called something out to me, I saw his lips move and I remember his rough, brisk voice but I don’t recall the words.

I was standing on a sidewalk at dusk, in a city, at the base of a tall building with someone important at the top, someone so important he didn’t even need to be mentioned. I was seeing as if through a video camera lens, and standing behind a square-jawed, clean-shaven white cop and his buddy. They were kneeling and practicing restraint techniques on a suspect. The one cop stood up with his hands in the air and his buddy called out his time and congratulated him, I looked down and a small fellow had been hog-tied into a bundle with something stuffed into his mouth to keep him quiet. I looked down the street to my left, and in the failing light of evening there was a single prison cell, built like a human-sized dog kennel made of black iron. A man in uniform was playing in it like a jungle gym, doing pull-ups to the encouragement of voices I could hear but not see. Further down the block were two more law officials, one had a machine gun and a grin, and he was making gestures pretending he was shooting. His pal egged him on, and the man did. He fired across the street, across three lanes of late evening traffic, of normal people going to normal places with normal lives. The first car through, a smallish SUV, kept driving and escaped harm. A second car screeched to a halt causing several cars to smash into a pileup behind it. A small blue car tried to follow the example of the first, accelerating through the stream of bullets, with no success. The bits of metal tore through car and driver, and my view followed this car as it careened into two parked cars on the far side of the road. I watched to see if anyone would get out, and heard the gun still firing. My view was diverted by another SUV that had been hit, which swerved around the corner. Cars stopped in chaos and drivers got out, and it seemed the gun had spread to other people, like a disease but one at a time. Normal men and women, who had been going normal places with normal lives. It appeared in another persons hands, and then jumped to another, and each kept the trigger pulled and bullets kept spraying everywhere until everyone had been hit and even still the gun kept travelling from hand to hand. Everyone was dying and the last fellow with the gun, the man with iron grey hair, curling up around his gut-wound as he died, kept the trigger pulled because it wasn’t really a choice it was just what one did when one had the gun. There was no reason for it except for the first man who had pulled the trigger and the man at the top of the building who had authorized it, and I cried. I cried alone amidst the dying men and women, in the full darkness of night through the morning. Crying because it seemed nothing could be done by the last one living, the last man on the sidewalk under a tall building with someone important at the top, someone so important he didn’t even need to be mentioned.

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