Check

Just wanted to make sure that you got my email about what I had done for the final grade?

Week 16, Journal Entry 5

Well went to help my friend today on the house. We started at a pretty good pace. He was cutting the cabinet walls out of a big sheet, and taking forever so I made a rip board to speed it up. We knocked all those out and then I realized he didn't really have a game plane for supporting the sink. Long story short, we spend almost the entire day working on a suitable frame for the sink to sit on; and when we finally got it ready for installation the water pipe for the cold water broke and spewed water all over the place. Ended the day with more work to do than we had started with.

Week 16, Journal Entry 4

Went to visit my mom today in Eustis, so I didn't make it up to work on the house. Had a nice game of baseball with my little siblings. My sister Mary was impressive, got on base every time up to the plate; she's only 7. I'm heading down to work on the house tomorrow morning. I think we're going to start trying to tackle building the actual cabinets if he hasn't already started.

Week 16, Journal Entry 3

Went up and helped out today for about four hours. We built all of the bases for the cabinets in the kitchen. Pretty tedious work; I've never done finish work before, so it should get very interesting when we start putting the displayable parts up. The real pain so far is figuring out how to work with the L shaped parts of the cabinets that we're building.

Week 16, Journal Entry 2

Well I didn't get up to help out with the house today. Had a relatives graduation to go to, and an award event. Talked to my friend, however, and he said he finished up the dry-walling for the rest of the walls that we had built. He initially started with three bedrooms upstairs, and we ripped out the middle room to make it all one big room. We then made a new wall and created a master bath, and built a special frame for his two person tub. I think the place will look pretty good when it's all done. 

Week 16, Journal Entry 1

We've been working on my best friends new house lately. He' s completely gutted it out. For the past few weeks I've been going up and helping him work on stuff, and it's been a great learning opportunity. For instance, I had no idea how to build walls, and drywall. We going to start building his kitchen cabinets pretty soon; and from what I hear that should be quite a task. I'm looking forward to seeing how they go together though, as I think that it will help me when I get my own house.

Theme, Week 15 Two

Collage from random T.V. shows., including commercials.

He brought out a knife,

He garnished a knife

it just hit him

into the house

I saw him with the knife in his hand

He told me he didn't do it

we were suppose to go pick him up

His mental health is clearly in question

He was neglected

We're not bad parents

I'm suing them because

It's a lie

I didn't want the memories I had before

He'd never hurt anybody

He promised me

He's got attention deficit

Clinical Depression

You all are pathetic

Thought it would be an opportunity to build a relationship with him

The symptoms kept coming back

My doctor prescribed Advair

You might think your sunk

The right call is easy to make

Paint the trim a dark brown

Let's get started now that we know who's in control

It's all about position

Theme, Week 15 One

Collage of things that were said on ESPN over the course of about 30 minutes.

Let's go, let's do this.

Nobody makes me bleed my own blood.

Severe Stuff

Mike D'Antoni is our number 1 target.

He strained his hamstring

Felt A Strain

Good Enough

Behind the Scenes

He's a fighter

No doubt about it, a home run

But can he pull through this slump?

Give me momentum any day

I just don't think there's any chance that they can win

The fact of the matter is, their just not good enough

Up against history, and that's not a good thing

Stay with us

I don't think so

Do whatever, whenever, wherever

This guy is selfish, and that is his biggest downfall

A must win

Theme, Week 14

I watched the Kentucky Derby over the weekend. It was spectacular; the winning horse (Big Brown) moved with such grace. As the horses came out of the gates, they collided, shoulder to shoulder, fighting for position. Big Brown started on the outside post, and moved to the front with a nice rush out of the gate. As the horses rounded the track, I couldn't help but admire their speed, and beauty. Big Brown hung with the top five all the way around, and at the final quarter mile, he burst. His muscles rippled as he jolted forward. It was like watching a Ferrari on the freeway. He passed the leaders on the outside and broke away for a huge lead. Crossing the finish line, the jockey raised his arms in triumph. Big Brown the powerful champion trotted to the cheers of thousands; his owners eyes filled with tears of joy; truly a glorious celebration of a magnificent creatures abilities.

I saw a shadow, at the crossing of the finish line; that showed another side of this champion's sport. The shadow of a jockey flying through the air. The second place finisher, a philly by the name of Eight Bells had collapsed on the track, throwing her rider. Vans pulled up on both sides of the horse to shield it from the eyes of on lookers. The media stayed focused on the champion as he trotted around the track. Slowly, news came that the philly had broken both of her legs and had been put down. There, laying on the track that she had come so close to winning on, she lay dead; she had run the race of her life. I was shocked and saddened. Suddenly, Big Brown's owner, with the tears in his eyes no longer appeared as an overjoyed patron, but instead, he took on the shadow of a tyrant. A man who used these beautiful creatures for his own profit; a man who cared nothing for the life of his horse. A greedy man. I couldn't get the thought from my head that Eight Bells had died; living a hard life, a life in which she had given up her life to please her masters. I felt ashamed that I had cheered as she raced around the track.

Theme, Week 13

The waves crashed in like a mother shushing her child to sleep. Seagulls called above, alerting one another to the presence of food. Mary pushed her toes deep into the sand and raised her face to the sun; she loved the beach and everything that it meant. At home she wore suit pants and dress shirts. She walked with an assertiveness that foretold her importance; a CEO. The only time she ever looked up toward the sun was when she was stretching her stiff neck. At college she had been austere and quiet. She had been dedicated to her studies, and her idea of life and what she wanted it to be. The only semblance of personal upkeep was her contrastingly shining hair; something she always took great pride in. Now the sun gleamed from the strands on her head; she felt like she used to when she was young, she felt like Mary. Growing up on the ocean with her grandparents, she had come to love the ocean. Work kept her away. Now she was back; 100 miles from where she had grown up, but the ocean stayed the same and it reminded her of her grandparents.

Theme, Week 12

1.  

There they were, standing, facing each other. The distance between them was magnetized; seemingly pulling them together. Each step brought them closer and closer. When they finally met their bodies rushed with emotion and joy. They embraced for the first time in a year; their starving love had suffered under the weight of a foolish war.

2.

Each day, he went to work, and slaved in the hot mill. Wood chips filled his shirt and cut his skin and hands.  Each grueling hour wore on his soul, another weight to his death chain. At home, his angry wife had her own problems; and didn't think much of his. Threats of divorce and loneliness forced him to sacrifice his true happiness to subservience and humiliation. A strong man brought to his knees by a hard life, and a bitter wife.

3.

The wind blew like a angry beast striking his face. As he looked into the sea he could see his reflection glaring back at him. He had left his helpless family on the shore; his life was now that of a single man. A fishing man. Seeing himself in the blue water made his stomach sick, and he turned his head in shame. He was a coward. He launched his hook into the sea and caught the buoy line. It came to him like his courage did not. Pulling it into the wheel, he coiled the slack as it came in. When the trap appeared he saw the crabs; trapped and helpless. He thought of his family.

Theme week, Eleven

There is a coin that sits on my desk; It's gold and red and on the face there is the image of a black lion poised to strike. My girlfriend picks it up and looks at it quizzically, "What's the big deal with these coins?" Suddenly I'm up, I walk quickly to the door. Pushing it aside, I stormed in; like a the god of thunder. My legs swayed back and forth and slammed to the ground as I marched. I halted sharply, and cut a left face toward the Command Sergeant Majors (CSM) sitting before me. I had a "case of the ass" as the army liked to call the hardcore disposition that a soldier was suppose to posses. I barked out, "Corporal Laverdiere reporting for duty Command Sergeants Majors!" 

CSM Chase stood up. He looked at me hard; examining my uniform closely. 

"Right Face!", his voice filled the room. 

I turn quickly to my right and stood steady. 

"Forward March!"

Stepping quickly, I obeyed his command and moved forward.

He continued to give me drill commands, and all of the board members observed me closely as I obeyed them, ensuring that I knew each command and it's execution. They ordered me to take my seat. 

Next came the questions; the part that had fooled me last time. I was directed to CSM Brown at the far right of the table. I turned my hard sharply to face him and glared sternly at his forehead; he looked impressed. 

"What are the ten principles of leadership as defined by the U.S. army?"

I kept my eyes steady, and recited the principles. After working my way through the several questions that each of the seven CSMs asked, I was directed to proceed to the back of the room. There I found a M-16 rifle. CSM Chase pulled out a stop watch and told me to disassemble my weapon. I began to tear it apart; my hands were confident as I found it's releases and removed it's parts. I placed the last piece on the table and snapped to attention. CSM Chase stopped his watch and informed the of CSMs of the time, "thirty seconds". He ordered me to reassemble the weapon and I did. 

CSM Chase came to the table and checked the weapon; everything works, I was lucky. He stepped close to me and examined my chin, ensuring that I had shaved completely. He checked the lines of my hair, and the laces of my boots. Pulling a ruler from his pocket, he measured the distances of my awards on my uniform. Standing in front of me he yelled, "Attention! Dismissed." I turned sharply to the door, and marched out of the room; my squad leader followed behind me and closed the door. 

As my body relaxed, a smile filled my face; I had done well. I had known most of the questions and had avoided being yelled at, or thrown out. 

When the CSMs came out of the room we all stood at attention and waited for the word. CSM Chase stood in front of me, "Corporal Laverdiere, your the Non-Commissioned Officer of the Year." He put his hand out and I shook it; as our hands unclasped I found that he had left a coin in mine. 

Now that coin sits on my desk; with several others that I won while I was in the military. My girlfriend, holding it in her hands, asks me, "what's the big deal with these coins?" My mind flashes back in time, and I tell her, "It's just a coin that I won." 

Theme, Week Ten

My sister Tara hates hunting. She reasons that it's brutal to go out and kill innocent animals regardless of an individuals purpose. I can certainly respect her intention; it shows that she at least has a consience. It's strange, however, because Tara grew up in a household where hunting was a mainstay. Every year, every season, my father, brothers, and even some sisters would hunt for deer, partridge, ducks, and rabbits. I suppose that seeing all of these dead animals, and witnessing them being cleaned must have had some impact on her current opinion of the matter. 

This last week I asked my sister to lunch when I was in Portland  for the day. We ordered our food, and Tara began to tell me about a hunter that she had fooled this last deer season. With her face flashing between humor and disgust (depending on the part she was talking about) she told me how she had seen a hunter creeping up a hill with his bow toward a group of deer. Expressing her disregard for the sport of hunting (as I'm sure she did that day in her car) she chuckled as she told me that she had honked her horn and scared all of the man's prey away. After informing Tara of my disgust with her actions, she proceeded to go into a rampage about how, "these poor deer have moms and dads, and just want to live! What gives us the right to go and kill them, just because some asshole has a superiority complex and feels more like a 'hairy caveman' when he murders some innocent creature." 

Just then our meals arrived, Tara grabbed her big juicy burger and took a bite. I couldn't help but think about the farm that I used to hunt on with my father. The farmer, Bussy York, used to come out and tell us about butchering his cows. I can still picture his wrinkled face as he would express how terribly he felt about the way that he ended so many of their lives. He would use a bolt gun and shoot the bulls at the base of their skulls while they were trapped in a metal frame. 

Tara's still outraged by the fact that hunters go out and find their "wild" prey and kill it. She's really passionate when it comes to the ethics of killing. 

Theme, Week Nine

You'd think that a subtle hint would tell him that he should stop talking, but it hasn't. She's talking to him, but her legs are crossed and pointing away from him. Her eyes dart across the room searching desperately for a savior. As he talks she wonders to herself, "why am I still here, why don't I just get up and say 'I'm sorry' and walk away?" Instead her manicured hands accept the drink that he is handing her and she takes a sip; the bitter vodka startles her tongue but she likes it. He too feels uncomfortable, yet, he stays. He can tell that she is rejecting him, she hasn't said anything other than "oh really" and "huh" in the last minute. Instead of leaving, accepting the reality, he orders her the martini she wants; his precious cash buys him a few more moments of companionship. It's hard to hold a one way conversation, but he's doing his best. Sensing the urgency, he tells her that she is beautiful, and that he likes her hair. She smiles and says, "thanks."  Her eyes look away; his do too. After a while her friend comes over and abruptly grabs her hand, pulling her to her feet. Her diamond bracelet glistens in the light. He smiles as though they were his friends and the two girls walk away. She doesn't look back at him. Leaving the bar that night, he climbs into his saw-dust filled pickup and drives away; his chain-saw rumbles in the back.

Theme, Week 8

For this one I chose to go with a prompt start, (41).

"I think, therefore I am"(prompt 41). When I was small I was told what I was, a child. A child: one who may not do as they wish. I was told who I was and what I was by my parents and everyone around me. Now I am told I am a man, a human, an American; I am told I have a responsibility to my fellow man, my society, and that I must work hard to be successful. I've been told that successful means that I make a lot of money, and that I have nice things, and dress nicely; and can afford to. I'm told that I should pay $3.50 for a gallon of gas, and that it's right that I should have to obey certain restrictions placed upon me by others.

The things that I'm told are the things that I slowly begin to believe. After a while I began to believe that I was a child, a human, a man. I began to believe that I should work hard, and that I should contribute to society, and obey the laws of the land. I pay $3.50 for a gallon of gas because I believe that that is the appropriate capitalistic action. I become the the things that I am told that I am; that becomes my identity.

Who taught me my identity? My parents; they were once children, so who taught them, and who taught their parents? My identity is based upon the the identities of my parents; they taught me what was right and wrong, what to believe. What makes Queen Elizabeth royal but the fact that she is told she is royal, and everyone believes it? Did she know she was royal at birth?

The things that I know I base upon the things that I am told are truths. I'm told that killing is wrong. I'm given reasons, religion, morals, justice, fairness. All abstract ideas that I'm also told are right. After a while I stop questioning everything that I'm told and accept certain truths; because those who are wiser than me also accept them. When did my ancestors accept this truth, that killing was wrong? Thousands of years ago, was it as wrong as it is now? Did my ancestors feel that it was immoral to kill, period? Indeed, thousands of years ago killing was a mainstay of culture, doing it gave you power, and I dare say, "happiness". At what point did riding into a village, burning all of the houses, and killing all of the peasants become "wrong"; when did that become a reality? What set of my parental ancestors first told their children that to kill was immoral? Over time, that concept became common, civilization made it common, and now it is wrong, and it is part of my identity to believe that killing is immoral (except for the societal loop-holes that allow us to kill in war, in which case it's not immoral anymore but moral). Part of who I am now, is based upon a reality that is taught to me.

I am a copy of my parents, renewed in their values. A mirror image of their thoughts, now my thoughts. I might disagree with them; even change my beliefs as my life goes on, but the foundation is always there, the foundation of my identity. I will teach what I learn to my children, and they to theirs. They will be a continuation of me, a carrying on of my knowledge and beliefs. I am a copy of a copy.

This world is an illusion, based upon values taught to us by our ancestors. It is a great structure; built for years and years upon the blocks below. It rises into the sky undaunted; the highest blocks no longer see the blocks below them; they simply accept that they are very high, and that the blocks below are solid enough to hold them, and therefore must be right. Indeed, we too assume that we are right, because those before us have lived successfully believing the things that we now believe.

What we are told is simply true because we allow it to be true. I am not royal because I don't believe I am royal, and no one else does. They don't believe I'm royal because no one has told them that I was. What we are told is what we believe. So my question is; who am I?

Theme, Week Seven

I can remember visiting my grandfather when I was younger, about twelve, and there being a man there working for him. His name was Stanley and he had the typical look of hardened alcoholic. Stanley's face was either very dirty or very tanned, and it wore the wrinkles that come from years of hard living. Whatever its reason for being bronzed, his face was always disgruntled. Upon seeing him one might assume he was drunk, even when he was sober. He was very bow-legged, and walked with a slow, unsteady stride. Indeed, filming him, one might have thought that they were using a highspeed camera, for his snail-like pace was enough to slow even the thoughts of the person observing him. As it happened, this worked to Stanley's advantage, for his voice was even droller than his walk, and hearing it made time stop compeletly, making Stanley seem as though he could running. His Brownish hair was long and was thinning enough so that one could see the bald spots forming on the top of his head, and he wore an old blue jean jacket which had taken on the colors of his trade: painting. I can recall finding Stanley sleeping against the house one time, while my grandfather was away at work; when he awoke he had paid me $10 to help him finish up the spot he had been left to do. My grandfather noticed the paint on my shirt when he came home, and after a thorough scolding at having played near the wet paint, I foolishly informed him that I had been paid to help. He fired Stanley the next day for sleeping on the job; he was an unforgiving man. Stanley, moped to his car in no apparrent rush to leave (though one couldn't have known) and drove away. I can still hear his snail-like voice calling my grandfather's name as he was known to do, "Heeeey.....Eeeeaaarrrrlllll."

Journal Entry, Week 6

I have often wondered what we leave behind us when we finally walk away. What portion of ourselves do we instill in the things that we have touched, the people that we have met, and the work which we have labored at? Do the things that we remember, remember us or help us to be remembered; and if so does that make us significant, does that help us to last? Often the idea of what is in one's blood can lead us to believe that we can achieve the impossible; if we have had some distant relative who has achieved much, does that make us more likely to do the same? Does sitting in the chair of a once great man, make us great as well?

I wonder all of this as I stand gazing at the armor of Louis XIV in the Louvre in Paris, France. Earlier that week I had seen his home at Versailles, and had stood in the bedchamber in which he slept, and walked the halls that he had walked as he commanded his empire. The vastness of that building had made an impression upon me; and I felt that same feeling now as I stared through the glass at the king's armor. Indeed, it seemed that everything that Louis XIV came into contact with (that I was aware of) seemed to have a certain awe inspiring feeling to it. Oddly, He might not have ever worn this armor, and yet it feels like he must have. As I examine it I can visually picture his kingly figure donning it; perhaps riding on his horse, or walking the lines of a battlefield. There is a certain, powerful feeling to it, as though it carries with it the essense of its former master; as though it is its master, or all that is left of him.

As I stand in the white halls of the Louvre, surrounded by glass, I 'm consumed by the powerful feelings that tug me from every direction. In the room ahead of me stands the great black stone which bears the famous Code of Hammurabi (the ancient Babylonian stone which bears the worlds first known written law). Behind me is the corridor which leads to the great Mona Lisa, and to my left the Venice De Milo stands, armless and surrounded by asian tourists. Though I am surrounded by thousands of people, the feeling between the Louvre and I is intimate, and private. I'm standing as close to the great men of the past as I ever will, and they are speaking to me. 

This building gives its residence eternal life; and that idea draws the millions that come to visit it and imagine. Each hoping for even a hint at what it takes to stay within its walls for all time; students, mouths agap, absorbing the teachings of the most experienced instructors known to man. As I walked into the Parisian night, I turned to see the Louvre once more, and take in one last breath of its power. It's light filled the sky, a glass pyramid shining in the dark; an everlasting tomb.

 I have never forgotten the intensity of my visit to the Louvre, and I never will. I learned that day that we each leave behind us, pieces of ourselves in everything that we come into contact with. The ideas that we have in this life, and the things that we do are impressed upon those that see them and into everything in our lives. As to how long those things are remembered for what they are is dependent upon how deeply we are able to make our mark. The memories that our work can inspire serve as fodder for the masses that observe them; and teach them that greatness is possible; tudors them. Once the human mind understands that something is possible, it has no limitations; and my visit to the Louvre was one of the best lessons my mind ever received.

Theme Week Five

It was the biggest thing happening my junior year of high school; a party at Marina Langston's house about two weeks before the school year ended. I had flirted with her quite a bit that year, so I was not surprised the day that her best friend Chancel approached me at my locker and invited me to come. Closing my locker door (two hide the magnificent picture of Anna Kornakova lunging for a tennis ball) I quickly accepted. Indeed my locker in high school never did contain anything valuable to my schooling; rather, it contained a pair of boxing gloves (which I would use on my two cronies, Gordo, and Chappy), the picture of tennis goddess Anna Kornakova, and the random, hardly edible concoctions that I would intermittently make to dare my friends to eat or drink at our lunch table.

The worst of these concoctions was one comprised of water from my dog's bowl, six month old previously opened cranberry concentrate, and lintel stew which my friend Gordo drank for five dollars and a challenge to his manhood. Now to visualize this, one must have a clear image of what Gordo looked like. He was a rotund fellow, with a curly red afro and freckles all over his face. His stomach protruded out at least four inches past his pectorals and as he chugged the magical mixture I had created for him it convulsed in noticeable rhythmic beats which the entire table found funny enough to laugh about. With each sip and he made loud gulping sounds attracting the attention of all the tables around us. Upon lowering the empty bottle, his face was red but triumphant at having proven his hardness to the rest of the table. His face turned frighteningly white upon hearing what the mixture had contained, and he suddenly threw up all over our round lunch table.


Chappy was a different character entirely. His upper body was thick but muscless, and was carried by disproportionately thin legs. His feet jetted outward like those of a duck and he when he walked he took up twice his own width with his large strides. Chappy’s structural irregularities ironically played to his advantage on the dance floor. At high school dances his large body could be seen jettisoning above the crowd, limberly carried by his thin legs which would create oddly “hip” angles for those who watched him. People who tried to get dancing lessons from him often left disheartened by the fact that they couldn’t quite create the same movements. His ability on the dance floor, and the fact that he had a car, and I did not, make Chappy an invaluable wingman during my high school years.

Upon inviting me to the party, it was understood that Gordo and Chappy were also invited. Chappy picked me up at my house and we headed over to Pumpkin Lane, in Phillips, Maine. When we arrived it was dark and the field adjacent to Marina’s house was filled with cars and people. Chappy parked the car in the back of the field and we got out of the car and headed over to the giant bon fire. Marina and Chancel ran over and hugged us and we talked for a while (until I noticed that Marina had a boyfriend) and we met up with Gordo at the edge of the field. All in all the there were about 100 people at this party and I couldn’t help but wonder at how kind Marina’s parents were to allow them to destroy their field by making “doughnuts” with their cars, and throwing beer cans all over. The party was lively, music blared from the house across road, and people danced in headlights, and the flickering flames. Soon couples were making their ways to the backseats of their cars, and drunks were falling asleep in random places on the field.

As I stood with Gordo and Chappy and a few other friends from school I suddenly noticed the flashing lights of doom approaching the field from down the road. Blue and red cut through the air as the patrol cars sent out sudden “whoops” from their sirens. As the large spotlights began to scour the field, bewildered high school students began to stampede in every direction. Not wanted to be the only one left to hold accountable I rushed to the nearest woods line and ducked down inside a bush. The lights swung back and forth through the woods as the officers hounded orders from their speakerphones. To my astonishment I suddenly realized that I was lying beside our very drunk, future class valedictorian, Luke. He didn’t look impressed with his situation and began to concernedly tell me of how this could ruin his whole life.

Upon hearing this tragic tale, I begin to think of how evading arrest could ruin mine and stood up once the light had passed my bush and made my way to a part of the field were it would appear that I had been there the whole time. I found Chappy there; he hadn’t moved from the time the police had arrived (apparently his mother had put the fear of God into him about running from police). As the police rounded up the many drunks that were foolish enough to stop within 20 feet of the woods line Chappy’s reasoning that we couldn’t be in trouble for anything, as he and I had not had anything to drink began to make sense to me. Upon checking our breaths for alcohol, the officers apparently decided that Chappy and I were valuable assets when it came to having to move all of the drunkard’s cars off of the field and they quickly began calling us by name in friendly tones. I noticed Marina standing in the center of the field speaking to two officers. She was crying and her boyfriend was hugging her. I overheard her tell the officer that the field was not actually her parents, but that they were merely thinking about buying it (lets hope they did after that). Soon the parents began to arrive, including Marina’s mother who seemed less than impressed with the situation, and even less impressed with Chappy and I for having been present, as she knew us well. We helped move all of the cars off of the field and parked them tightly in Marina’s driveway, and Chappy and I headed back to his house for the night, glad to have escaped this affair without it ever coming to the attention of our parents.

The next day at school the tales of individual responses to the bust began to appear. Apparently a large group of students had escaped by making their way approximately three miles through the woods to Josh Plov’s house and spent the night. Gordo was among them, and somehow picturing his large personage huffing through the dark forests, wondering whether dogs were after him brought a chuckle to my mind. Luke had stayed in the woods with the intention of coming out when the police left, only to awaken at about four in the morning in the very bush I had found him in. Most of the students ended up going home with parents. All in all about 13 had been arrested for underage drinking and rumors were rampant that some big investigation must be underway to determine the names of those who had hid. I assume that this was not the case as nothing else ever came of this. Later that year I would date Marina, and go to many more (smaller) parties at her house but THE famous high school party on Pumpkin Lane would always be the most memorable.

Theme Week Four

1.
At the age of 13 I killed my first deer. While hunting, I shot it while it ran down a hill, in the lower back. When we finally got it in, it weighed in at 189 pounds with 8 points. I found that the experience of killing that deer was similar to that which I felt the first time I had a man in my sights while serving in Iraq.

2.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the shocking reality of my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.

I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a WWI British rifle, and I wondered about whom the men were that had held it before me. I was curious as to whether my predecessor had trembled when his finger pressed its deadly trigger. Had sweat stung his eyes as he aligned them with its iron sight? I held it up, measuring its stature against my own, ensuring that I was worthy of filling the shoes of its former owners. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.

The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the one hundred and ninety pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head, looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot stunned him sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, still dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.

He had not gone far. He was lying there placidly, head raised, looking directly at my. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at the unexpected moment of accountability. I had not been trained for this. This was not in the stories that I had been told, stories of the grandeur of hunting. I stood there, unable to move or think. His nostrils flared, opening and closing, blowing engines of steam toward me through he cold air. His shining coat was now bloodstained and ruffled. Looking into his eyes the shame overpowered me. What had I done? We stayed like that, locked in gaze until he slowly lowered his head, his deep black eyes, fading to grey. I had killed him.

When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down, wishing I could somehow melt in o the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big, and strangely similar to the eyes of my past. My sights rose up and down with each breath. I knew that it would be quick, and unrelenting in my memory. Caught in the sudden accountability of life and death once more, I stumbled, and as I did so, I heard an explosion to my right. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Someone else had killed him.

Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I never would have paused that second before I fired to ponder the importance of life. I would have killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. Thankfully the question of whether or not I would kill again did not need to be answered on that day. The unexpected intervention of the memory of my hunt had been just enough to halt me, that one moment necessary, and save me from the trauma that such a thing could cause. I might never have been free of the guilt. My memories of Iraq haunt me to this day, but they will always be the memories of the things that I saw, and not of what I did.


3.
When I think of my childhood I think of hunting, of the cold crisp morning air waking me in our small country camp. I recall the pedal chill of my worn and still frozen boots as I prepared for the adventures of each day, and of the smell created by my father's burnt, thick morning coffee. I'm reminded of the joy at owning my first gun, the excitement of my first hunt, and the manliness that I felt after my first kill. Yet, my greatest and most surprising connection to hunting is the things it taught me about life itself, things that would indeed find me through the tempests that destiny had yet in store for me.

I can remember the first time I held my gun; I was thirteen and it was mine, and as I ran my young fingers across its form, its textures thrilled me. The depth of the colors present in the shining, smooth, wooden butt-stock reminded me of the vast oceans of forests in which it had been born. Cold steel stung the barrel and trigger, powerful reminders of the elegant force within its chambers. It was a magnificent new high powered 300 winchester, and I marveled at how lucky it was to have me as its first owner; for I was to be the greatest hunter of all time. My eyes gleamed with joy and pride. My enchantment with my new gift was overshadowed only by my ambitions for its use.

The forest was silent, but for the chirping of a chubby and obnoxious blue jay. Beautifully painted leaves swayed to the forest floor, taking their places among the sea of acorns and roots. Had it not been for the sudden and startling snapping of a branch I never would have heard the approach of the two hundred and twenty pound buck that was moving in my direction. I turned my head looking to the ridgeline with its vivid colors, overshadowed now by the rapid movement of the large brown juggernaut quickly approaching my position. He hadn't seen me; I had been still and raised my gun to my shoulder. Time stood still; heartbeats spaced by hours thundered through my brain sending tremors down my spine. I felt the cold bite as my naked finger touched the trigger. I aimed. The first shot ripped through his chest sending a horizontal waterfall of red through the air. He turned toward me, dazed and unsure of what had happened. Leaves flew beneath his hooves as he charged forward, finally spotting me and turning sharply. I chased him, running as hard as I could, deep into the thickets. My mind was racing, filled with doubt at what had just happened.

He had not gone far. He had run into a fallen tree and was motionless lying before me. I saw his great antlers, 12 points, powerful symbols of a hunters ability to all those that would see my kill. I was surprised by my own strength in this moment; I had killed and felt nothing. I was a man.

When my polished boots hit the pavement in Baghdad, Iraq, I thought I was ready. Russian AK-47 rounds snapped over my head, striking the walls behind me. I ducked down behind the tank beside me. Peering out to the roof of the adjacent building I spotted muzzle flashes. A dark figure jetted out, firing rapidly at the other side of the tank and then ducking back. I raised my weapon. My sweaty hands squeezed the wet grip of my rifle. My trigger was not longer sharp and cold. Its heat stung my finger as I checked my mark. Time stood still, the sounds of the helicopter above throbbed in sequence with each heartbeat. I could see his eyes, white and big; the eyes of my enemy. I took aim at his chest and fired. His dark figure keeled forward, falling from the window to the streets below. Adrenaline rushed through my body; in this the greatest test of my manhood, I had passed through the gates of fire with honor and courage. I had killed him, and I was even more of a man for it.

Had it not been for the lessons of my childhood hunt, I might have paused that second before I fired, afraid of the unfamiliar. Instead I killed, instinctively, instantly, as I had when I was young. I stepped up to the plate and did what my country had asked of me and I was the better man for it. My memories of Iraq will always remind me of the time that I tested myself and became the man that I have always envisioned myself at being.

Theme, Week three

Jackson was dreading this assignment. He had been on it several times before and there had always been problems.

"Are you ready?" He asked his driver.

Edwards responded quickly, "I'm ready Sarg."

"Good lets go!"

The two men climbed into a drab and crowded Humvee. Pushing on the giant radio mount between the two seats, Specialist Edwards mumbled, half to himself but loud enough for the sergeant to hear,

"This crap does more harm than good!"

The sergeant tossed a tired look in his direction.

"That's why people don't pay you to think Specialist Edwards. Hand me the log book."

"Huaaah"

Sergeant Jackson quickly noted the time on his watch and recorded it in his book.

"Move out Edwards."

The Humvees moved like a train of speedy camels through the weaving barriers of the gate.

Jackson knew what Edwards was complaining about. The placement of the radio mount blocked their alternate escape route; "Another great example of the army's attention to detail", he thought to himself.

At the end the barriers, where the road began, stood three ragged men wearing blue shirts and shiny badges.

"Do those sons-of-bitches do anything but stand around?" Edwards sneered.

"Just pay attention to the road and lock it up!"

The Iraqi police where notoriously lazy. From the gate soldiers would watch them sleeping in their guard houses; adding to the feeling of trust between the two sides.

As they moved through town the bright colors of the buildings made Jackson feel like he was in a crayon box.

An orange car stopped in front of them.

"Wave him off gunner!" Jackson demanded.

Private Dodd, who was manning the position on top of the Humvee, swung his arms wildly at the driver of the car.

"Move it!"

Throwing his hands into the air, the Iraqi pointed at the red light.

Dodd swung his turret so that the 50 Cal. was aiming into the back window of the tiny Honda.

Quickly, the driver pulled to the side of the road, making a path for the convoy.

Jackson hated having to slow down. That was when things were the most dangerous.

He grabbed the radio's handmike, "This is Bravo One Two, radio check over."

A voice came over the radio, "Bravo One Two, This is Blacklion X-Ray, Roger out."

The convoy moved swiftly along the highway. Trash lay strewn along the roadside; perfect for hiding Sgt Jackson's greatest fear: Roadside bombs. As they moved through traffic, helicopters flew overhead filling the sky with brown dust and loose trash from the streets. The sergeant's eyes quickly scanned the horizon; his eyes traveling from the old man standing by the roadside to the tire conveniently lying on the opposite side of the street. A young woman, dressed in a long black hood, which went down to her ankles, scurried into a nearby building. Jackson's eye's snapped to the roof tops; nothing.

"Clear that tire," he barked at Edwards.

Edwards swung the convoy to the right of the road, hugging the edge of the faded white lines. The old man stepped back from the road, disgruntled by the sudden American intrusion. They had cleared the tire.

Suddenly, there was an explosion behind them. Jackson knew what was coming. The insurgents almost always set up more than one bomb, letting the first vehicle pass and than hitting it after the entire convoy was in the "kill zone."

A flash blinded the sergeant as he looked, wildly for the bomb. The concussion pressed his body armor against his chest. He could feel the side of his door cave in against his leg. Glass from the windows shattered in tiny, hale like fragments, covering everything inside of the Humvee. Edwards shouted as he pressed his foot hard against the gas pedal. The tires were flopping against the pavement; steel rims sent sparks into their wake. The Humvee was still going.

"Dodd! Are you hit?" Jackson bellowed, turning his head to view his soldier's legs.

"Not bad Sarg, Good to go!"

Jackson looked back in his rear view mirror. One of the middle Humvees was flipped onto its roof behind them. He scanned for any insurgents moving in and saw nothing. They hadn't hit him hard enough and they knew it. He grabbed his handmike and shouted for the other vehicles to form a perimeter.

"Turn it around Edwards!" He shouted to the driver.

Edwards swung the vehicle around and sped toward the injured Humvee.

The sergeant grabbed his handmike again, "Blacklion X-ray this is Bravo One Two, we've taken enemy fire at position Lima Alpha Tango in rout to Spiker, standby over!"

The call came back," Roger standing bye over."

Jackson pushed hard on his crumpled door and it opened. He ran to the flipped vehicle and looked inside. The driver of the vehicle was unconscious; the gunner and truck commander were trying to pull him from his seat belt but couldn't reach him because of the radio mount; blood covered the overturned roof of the Humvee. Jackson grabbed his knife and cut threw the seat belt holding the driver up. As he did he could see that some of the blood was coming from a cut across the young man's forehead. Pulling him from the wreckage, Jackson rushed to his own Humvee with the injured soldier on his back. As he threw him into the back seat, against private Dodd's legs, he saw his nametag: Dubois. Other soldiers had already grabbed the two remaining evacuees and were calling over the radio that they were "Good to go".

"Move out!" Jackson yelled.

Edwards let out a quick, "Moving" and began to cut back toward the road.

There was no firing, just silence; it had been quick and cowardly; a hit and run. Two cobra helicopters appeared alongside the convoy as it sped down the road; watching ahead for a possible ambush. Sergeant Jackson could see that the unconscious soldier was starting to move in the back. He grabbed his arm and told him not to.

"Where are you hit?" He asked Dubois.

"I think just on my forehead!"

Jackson squinted his eyes to see threw the wind and saw the entrance to Spiker ahead. Soldiers were rushing to swing the gate open. As he approached the lead guard he flashed his I.D. at him and was pointed toward the awaiting medics. They had made it.

He looked at Edwards and said, "Good job Edwards, we made it."

Edwards nodded and closed his eyes. Pulling out his pen, Sergeant Jackson noted the time of arrival and began to fill out an action report. His hand shook; he had made it.

Theme: Week Two

I will be remembered. That is the voice that echo's in my mind and has since I can remember. I guess that everyone must think the same thing in one way or another. Some may wish only to be remembered by those close to them; while others want the world to know them, and remember what they have done. I find myself drawn to the later group; wishing to leave a mark on the empty slate that is the world.
I was born in October of 1983 to parents in their very early twenty's. My mother tells me that she was watching the movie Excaliber that night, as Morgan Le Fay gave birth to Mordred under the thunder and lightning above. Obviously, i'm hoping this wasn't symbolic of what was to come but as it began to to thunder that evening my mother (Morgen) went into labor. Apparantly, as my mother was giving birth the placenta was blocking the passage and the doctors thought that they would have to cut me out, only to be shocked when I kicked the obstical out of the way and made my entrance in to this world. I grew up in a family of ten, sharing a room with my three younger brothers. When I was five I was dubbed the family devil for having told my very christian aunt that "I liked the devil". I aquired a reputation for being a bit of an adventurer when it came to other people's homes, and frequenly would borrow things that caught my eye from relatives; "hide your crap, he's coming" became the family moto. I began visiting my grandfather, every summer, around the time that I was twelve. He would have me memorize the writings of great authors, and instruct me on the ways of the world; much to my mother's distress. I would come home full of ideas, and questions about history and where I fit in. As the years went by, I began to realize that history was but one man's view. I began to realize that I could write my own history and didn't need to mold myself after those who had come before me. My grandfather used to tell me "the lives of great men all remind us we should make sublime our lives and leave behind us footprints in the sands of time", a statement which I have often remembered in my later years. Up to this point, I don't believe that I had made any imprint on the history of the world; but armed with these ideas I set out. Joining the army after i finished highschool, I worked my way through the ranks and was deployed to Iraq. Now I knew, that many men had made their names in war, and that this may be my only opportunity. I went to Iraq with nothing buy my destiny on my mind only to find a place that was unexpected. I had pictured the battles of Alexander the Great, and of Caeser; yet I found a very different thing. I found a war in which i spent most of my time sitting on my cote, or in a guard tower. The cold truth of the matter was that war is long periods of boredom followed by sudden moments of intensity often from an enemy un identifiable. It was frustrating to me, how was I to test myself in the face of fear if I couldn't see my enemies. I made up for this by applying all of my rage and drive to military knowledge and execution boards. In the end, the only mark that I had made was a small one, I was in the military record books as one of the many NCO's of the Year that my unit had fielded for my division. So far my plan to make a mark on history was not working out very well. It was further aggrevated when I learned that my body was not handling my drive as well as I had expected; I was medically discharged from the military when they discovered a spinal injury I had incured in Iraq and suddenly I was out. I found myself in an unfimiliar and unexpected place with no idea what I was going to do. Since that time I am yet to make my mark on history; i'm working on it though. I'm applying that same drive that I did in the military to my schooling and i'm doing well. I've got one year left and i'll have my bachelors degree. I'm preparing now to make my mark on the economic world rather than the military. I've learned something from all this however, i've become more sensitive since the military and i'm glad. When I started i wanted to make a mark for myself; now I can see that there are greater causes; now I just want to do my part, whatever that may be, to help mankind become better. I want to make history for the generations to come, and if that history starts with my name fine, but if it doesn't and i'm just a small part of that history, i'll be just as happy.

Journal Entry, Week 1

I'm kicking myself in the butt. I looked at gold prices around mid-December and it was going for about $700 per troy ounce; now it's almost $900!. I knew I should have bought; anytime the stock market is going down, gold goes up. It's one the most constant things i've ever come across. What really blows my mind is that gold used to be held at a federal rate of around $30 an ounce until the 80's. Can you even imagine if you had bought into it than($30-$900 an ounce)? Oh well, it's not like I could have bought that many ounces anyway; it takes money to make money.

Journal Entry, Week 1

I woke up this morning to the bad news that CNN was projecting for the economy! At the moment the Dow is down 287 points. I certainly makes me glad that I don't own any stocks. The Fed just cut interest rates almost a point to 4.5 yesterday and their anticipating another cut shortly. I've been waiting to buy a house for a while now, it this might just be the right moment. I'll have to keep an eye on the rates and try to get in while they're low.

Journel Entry, Week 1

Well its back to the grinding block for me. I've actually been surprised thus far at how eager I still am to come to school. I've been taking 7 courses a semester and classes in the summer and winter now for two years and i'm surprised that i'm still going at the pace that I am. It really makes me grateful for that blind step I took the first semester, when everyone else told me that 7 would be to many. I probably would have stuck with the number that I was used to, and I certainly wouldn't be finishing a bachelors degree almost a year early. Its always interested me how human beings self impose limitations on themeselves and assume that they can't do things that they actually can. I've actually found that 7 classes is well within the realm of possibility. I've actually been looking for an 8th class to pick up but can't find anything to suit my degree program. I guess the only thing I may be missing out on by taking so many classes is the depth that I might be taking from each class. Devoting so much time to so many things does take away a bit from each individual task. I think that all in all, my development as a multitasker will be just as beneficial for me however.

Journal Entry, week 1

They did it! The Patriots are going to the superbowl! What a satisfying culmination for a dedicated fan. I've been watching them all year, even went to a game, and now they've rewarded me by winning their way to the superbowl. Ah, the life of a fan; you don't matter, but you think that your willpower must help them win so you send it all their way. Its turning out to be a great year for Boston fans; aside from the NHL, but I don't really follow hockey anyway. This is the first year that i've really followed basketball and it's really starting to catch my interest. The sad part of this whole thing is that I know my football year will soon be coming to an end. They've got a pretty good cycle going, however, in that the only real dead spot is a small segment of time between basketball season and baseball season.

Week One, Journel Entry

I'm preparing to go to my biology class and find myself rather excited. The reason for this is that in the last class we talked about a new concept to me; metacognition. Apparantly, this term discribes the act of thinking about how we think. To be honest I find this very interesting as just this last semester a fellow student was asking me to help them in a class (by basically asking me how I manage to do well in all of the various classes that I take; usually seven per semester) and I found myself telling them that they needed to change the way that they looked at each course. In general, I wanted them to simply identify what it was that the professor wanted for that particular course, and do it; that would get them the A. It sounds simple, but in my experiences with people i've found that there are alot more students out there who go to class with a chip on their shoulder than you might expect. They have an idea of whats reasonable and whats bullcrap and that defines how they will do in that course, dependant upon where the teacher falls into those guidelines. I've found rather, that to be a good student you must be fluid and willing to learn in whatever way an individual teacher may desire. Fluidity that can be defined as changing how you learn at times. This concept of metacognition basically says that you need to identify three things when planning to learn something, or think about something. One, know your personal variable. Two, Know the task variable; or what the task at hand requires. Three, Know the strategic variables; that is to say know how your going to go about doing this thing. I can't wait for class so that I can learn more about this particular concept.

Autobiography:

First Person:

I've always been an avid student. Growing up, my mother's first love was always language, writing, and reading. She made me read anything and everything you can imagine. I home schooled until high school, and that mainly consisted of me reading whatever I wanted, so long as it wasn't junk (my mother's definition of a comic book.) I consider myself to be a fairly good writer, but I’m also fully aware that I need work when it comes to grammar and punctuation; this is something I’m hoping to get from this class. Though I’m still not sure exactly how to use them, you’ll find that semi-colons are one of my favorite things to utilize. As far as my reasons for wanting to improve my writing: I want to go to law school (my grandfather tells me that writing is the key to success there), and I firmly believe that being able to write well can get you far in life.

Second Person:

You have this idea in your head, of what success is, and you want to achieve that. You know that you don't like to see people pushed around, that you don't like to see others abuse their power and use it to harm people who can do nothing to defend themselves. You've seen this before, growing up in a poor family; you saw the smug looks from others, the cold shoulders, and the ignorant societal abuses that come with poverty. In your family, there has always been one rock, one who could always rise above the fray, one who no one ever messed with; your grandfather, he's a lawyer, and a damn good one and people respect him, and when he walks into a room people rush to help him first. When he speaks others are silent. He's taught you much of what he knows, and you understand that knowing the law, and understanding contracts is the only way to secure your true freedom. For this reason, you want to be a lawyer, so that no one can push you around and so that you can protect your family and friends.

Third Person:

He grew up in the shadow of two men; His step-father, and his grandfather. Both had served in the military honorably. When he graduated high school, the only thing that he knew was that he wanted to qualify himself in their eyes by joining the military. His step-father had made it to corporal the first rank of a Non-Commissioned Officer. His grandfather had been a Sergeant. As he started basic training, his mind was filled with doubt; would he make it, would he have what it takes. Quickly, those doubts would leave; however, as he soon realized that he was starting to look behind him at his peers as he ran. He was surprised to hear his name called at the distinguished honor graduate in basic training. Standing there in front of 4,000 people at the graduation ceremony, he stood straight, as a soldier should, feeling cold steel of the General's congratulatory coin in his hand. In Advanced Individual Training, he again won the top spot as distinguished honor graduate, and his confidence grew. He was assigned to duty in Germany, and was able to visit over seventeen countries while he was in Europe. During his second year of service, he was deployed to Iraq for thirteen months. It was a time great boredom, and sudden excitement. He worked hard, was promoted to Sergeant, and won the Non-Commission Officer of the Year award for his service in Iraq. Shortly following Iraq, he got out of the army after having served for four years. He had accomplished his goals, he had excelled in the military and his mentors where proud of him, and he was proud of himself.