WA 3 Draft 3

Defining Peace
Peace: Freedom from oppressive thoughts or emotions.
We are the roots that either feed or destroy our ideal of peace
So it is necessary to act justly and righteously towards our fellow man.
Turmoil results from a disregard for one another
Which in turn inhibits peaceful thoughts among us
And these angry broadcasts are normally the projection of our own insecurities
Therefore our lack of restraint undermines our need for peace.
So inner peace is necessary to obtain global peace.

Peace: a state of tranquility; freedom from civil disturbances.
While no community, region or country is absent of peace
That same area cannot be free from discord and turmoil.
This is the necessary juxtaposition of peace.
Without defined oppression there can be no freedom
Without disagreement we cannot have unity.
These two forces have and will be present and significant through all time
But we as communities and nations still must strive to live free of turmoil.

Peace: Freedom from oppressive thoughts or emotion.

Turmoil results from a disregard for one another 

Which in turn inhibits peaceful thoughts among us

Therefore our lack of restraint undermines our need for peace. 

We are the roots that either feed or destroy our ideal of peace 

So it is necessary to act justly and righteously to our fellow man. 

These angry broadcasts are normally the projection of our own insecurities 

So without inner peace global peace is impossible.

Peace: a state of tranquillity; freedom from civil disturbances.

While no community, region or country is absent of peace 

That same area cannot be free from discord and turmoil. 

This is the necessary juxtaposition of peace.  

Without defined oppression their can be no freedom

Without disagreement we cannot have unity. 

These two forces have and will be present and significant through all time 

But we as communities and nations still must strive to live free of turmoil.

"The Concept of Peace" WA3 D1

Peace: Freedom from oppressive thoughts or emotion.

Most turmoil is caused by a lack of willpower and consideration towards each other

and because peaceful thoughts are so rarely found in the mist of angst and distress

We seem to undermine our need for tranquility. 

Because we are the roots that either feed or destroy our ideal of peace it is neccesary to act justly and righteously to our fellow man. 

These angry broadcasts are normally the projection of our own insecurities so without inner peace global peace is impossible.

This is our duty to our self.

Peace: a state of tranquillity; freedom from civil disturbances.

While no community, region or country is absent of peace that same area cannot free from discord and turmoil. 

This is the necessary juxtaposition of peace.  

Without defined oppression their can be no freedom

Without disagreement we cannot have unity. 

Even though these two forces have been present and will remain significant through all time we as communities and nations strive to live free of turmoil.

This is our duty to each other. 

WA2 Draft 3

When he groggily came to, Darrell slowly raised his head, and as his vision slowly cleared Darrell’s hand came into focus. It was not until then until he began to realize his fuzzy surroundings.  He had seen the drab gray cinderblock walls before, their stark bleak faces stared back at him; dwarfing his prone body at over 18 feet tall, covered in sharp razor wire, crackling with electricity.  He knew his surroundings all to well.

Darrell heard a woeful cry in the distance, “God help me!” 

 The female voice floated over the charged walls, a desperate plea in such dismal surroundings.  He slowly worked his way to his feet and instinctively reached around behind his back but his scrabbling hands only grabbed air and shirt. As he brought his hands back around to his front he patted both pockets, but they had also been emptied.  He broke into a run towards the screams. The plaintive cry was closer now.  

“IM COMING” he yelled back.

Darrell Robert Randolph had worked for the UN-FIRM, the United Nations Foreign Institution for Rehabilitative Magnification, a task force used to drastically rehabilitate prisoners and terrorists.  He had been part of a unit that specialized in the construction of the labyrinth that he was now contained in along with his female companion. Its purpose had been to mentally torture its captives until they renounced their anti western ideas.

As thoughts raced through his head he too raced in the direction of the female voice, twisting and winding through the long fluorescent-lit corridors, his leather soles clacking against the immaculate floors. Floors and walls that no contained no direction or marks to indicate position; he was completely lost.  A blinding white light shown down on him that was made to penetrate the captives psyche and disoriented their thoughts. The desperate cry rung out again “PLEASE STOP” she cried, he yelled back in a measured tone “I’m coming, keep yelling and I’ll find you, just stay put." 

Darrell continued running towards the cries. Until he rounded the corner, where he stopped dead in his tracks. A woman was bound in a chair, a masked assailant held a small derringer in his hand, no larger a man’s hand, but lethal enough at close range.  Her mouth screamed but she made no sound, a whisper barely escaping her mouth, “Run he’ll kill you."

“Now don’t do anything irrational, I’m sure we can resolve this without violence”, shouted Darrell, but the masked man only smiled and tightened his grip on the gun now aimed at Darrell. 

It had begun to rain, a soft patter on the tin roof, which stood a good 30 feet above his head, a comforting sound.

“Who are you?” asked Darrell; the masked man responded, “ In the words of my brother Technique 'I’ve been to many places but I'm third world born. Guerrillas hit and run where I'm from, the third world son. You polluted everything, now the third worlds gone. The waters poisoned where I'm from. Revolutions come where I'm from, the third world son. Constant occupation, leaves the third world prone.'” He stared directly into the camera across from him. Abigail Cain you have been sentenced to death for your crimes committed against humanity and your inability to escape the paradigm that blankets the American civil service. For these crimes you are only worthy of death.”

 And with that statement he shot the blond woman in the chair. The fragments of her brain and chunks of skull rained down on Darrell.

Robert Darrell Randolph woke up in his suburban house and stared at his white wife, his heart beating madly.  His clock went off a second later Hip Hop blaring loudly, he quickly reached over to his bedside table slamming down on the smooth snooze button. After groggily kissing his wife Robert walked down the hall to the shower and turned on the radio; “Another beautiful day full of Sunshine and clear weather, put away your raincoats folks it’ll be a clear dry weekend. This is Bob Cain and I’m your AM host on CB—”.  Robert shut off the radio, and the knob broke off in his hand, “GREAT” he thought, one more thing on top of another beautiful day wasted in the lab testing rat intelligence. It was 9 hours of mazes, peanut butter and cheese.

 

WA2 Draft 2

As he awoke his head jumped to attention, but his mind reeled, and as his vision slowly cleared and Darrell’s hand came into focus he began to realize his fuzzy surroundings.  He had seen the drab gray cinderblock walls before, their stark bleak faces stared back at him; dwarfing his prone body at over 18 feet tall, covered in sharp razor wire, crackling with electricity.  He knew his surroundings all to well.

Darrell heard a cry in the distance, “God help me!”  The female voice floated over the charged walls, a desperate plea in such a dismal place.  He slowly worked his way to his feet and instinctively reached around behind his back but his scrabbling hands only grabbed air and shirt. As he brought his hands back around to his front he patted both pockets, but they had also been emptied.  He broke into a run towards the screams. The plaintive cry was closer now.  “IM COMING” he yelled back.

Darrell Robert Randolph had worked for the UN-FIRM, the United Nations Foreign Institution for Rehabilitative Magnification, a task force used to drastically rehabilitate prisoners and terrorists.  He had been part of a unit that specialized in the construction of the labyrinth that he was now contained in along with his female companion. Its purpose had been to mentally torture its captives until they renounced their anti western ideas.

As thoughts raced through his head he too raced in the direction of the female voice, twisting and winding through the long fluorescent-lit corridors his leather soles clacking against the immaculate floors. Floors and walls that no contained no direction or marks to indicate position; he was completely lost.  A blinding white light shown down on him that was made to penetrate the captives psyche and disoriented their thoughts. The desperate cry rung out again “PLEASE STOP” she cried he yelled back in a measured tone “I’m coming, keep yelling and I’ll find you, just stay put”. He continued running towards the cries. Until he rounded the corner, where he stopped dead in his tracks. A woman was bound in a chair, a masked assailant held a small derringer in his hand, no larger a man’s hand, but lethal enough at close range.  Her mouth screamed but she made no sound, a whisper barely escaping her mouth, “Run he’ll kill you”.

“Now don’t do anything irrational, I’m sure we can resolve this without violence”, shouted Darrell, but the masked man only smiled and tightened his grip on the gun now aimed at Darrell. It had begun to rain, a soft patter on the tin roof, which stood a good 30 feet above his head, a comforting sound.

“Who are you?” asked Darrell; the masked man responded, “In the words of my brother Technique I’ve been to many places but I'm third world born. Guerrillas hit and run where I'm from, the third world son. You polluted everything, now the third worlds gone. The waters poisoned where I'm from. Revolutions come where I'm from, the third world son. Constant occupation, leaves the third world prone.” He stared directly into the camera across from him. Abigail Cain you have been sentenced to death for your crimes committed against humanity and your inability to escape the paradigm that blankets the American civil service. For these crimes you are only worthy of death.” And with that statement he shot the blond woman in the chair. The fragments of her brain and chunks of skull rained down on Darrell.

Robert Darrell Randolph woke up in his suburban house and stared at his white wife, his heart beating madly.  His clock went off a second later Hip Hop blaring loudly, he quickly reached over to his bedside table slamming down on the smooth snooze button. After groggily kissing his wife Robert walked down the hall to the shower and turned on the radio; “Another beautiful day full of Sunshine and clear weather, put away your raincoats folks it’ll be a clear dry weekend. This is Bob Cain and I’m your AM host on CB—”.  Robert shut off the radio, and the knob broke off in his hand, “GREAT” he thought, one more thing on top of another beautiful day wasted in the lab testing rat intelligence. It was 9 hours of mazes, peanut butter and cheese.

 

WA 2 Draft 1

As he awoke his head jumped up instantly, but as his mind reeled, and vision slowly cleared Darrell’s hand came into focus and he began to realize his fuzzy surroundings.  He had seen the drab gray cinderblock walls before, their stark bleak faces stared back at him; dwarfing his prone body at over 18 feet tall, covered in sharp razor wire, crackling with electricity.  He knew his surroundings all to well.

 

Darrell heard a cry in the distance, “Help”.  The female voice floated over the charged walls, a desperate plea in such a dismal place.  He slowly worked his way to his feet and instinctively reached around behind his back but his scrabbling hands only grabbed air and shirt. As he brought his hands back around to his front he patted both his back and font pockets, but they had also been emptied.  In one swift move he raced in the direction of the female voice. “Help” she screamed again.

“IM COMING” he yelled back.

 

Darrell Robert Randolph had worked for the UN-FIRM, the United Nations Foreign Institution for Rehabilitative Magnification, a task force used to drastically rehabilitate prisoners and terrorists.  He had been part of a unit that specialized in the construction of the labyrinth that he was now contained in along with his female companion. 

 

As the thoughts raced through his head he too raced in the direction of the female voice twisting and winding through the long fluorescent-lit corridors his leather soles clacking against the immaculate floors. Floors and walls that no contained no direction or marks to indicate position; he was completely lost.  A blinding white light shown down on him that was made to penetrate a captives psyche and disoriented their thought processes. The desperate cry rung out again “Help” she cried he yelled back in a measured tone “I’m coming, keep yelling and I’ll find you, just stay put”. He continued running towards the cries. Until he rounded the corner, where he stopped dead in his tracks. A woman was bound in a chair, a masked assailant held a small derringer in his hand, no larger a man’s hand, but lethal enough to kill the woman held captive.  Her mouth screamed but she mad no sound, a whisper barely escaping her mouth, “Run he’ll kill you”.

“STOP”, shouted Darrell, but the masked man only smiled and tightened his grip on the gun that was now aimed at Darrell. It had begun to rain, a soft patter on the tin roof, which stood a good 30 feet above his head, a comforting sound in such his tense environment growing exponentially more difficult as each nuance was revealed.

 

“Who are you?” asked Darrell; the masked man responded, “Been to many places but I'm third world born. Guerrillas hit and run where I'm from, the third world son. You polluted everything, now the third worlds gone. The waters poisoned where I'm from. Revolutions come where I'm from, the third world son. Constant occupation, leaves the third world drone.” He stared directly into the camera across from him. Abigail Cain you have been sentenced to death for your crimes committed against humanity and your inability to escape the paradigm that blankets the American civil service. For these crimes you are only worthy of death.” And with that statement he shot the blond woman in the chair.

 

Robert Darrell Randolph woke up and stared at his wife, his heart beating madly.  His clock went off a second later Hip Hop blaring loudly, he quickly reached over to his bedside table slamming down on the smooth snooze button. After groggily kissing his wife Robert walked down the hall to the shower and turned on the radio; “Another beautiful day full of Sunshine and clear weather, put away your raincoats folks it’ll be a clear dry weekend. This is Bob Larred and I’m your AM host on CB—”.  Robert shut off the radio, and the knob broke off in his hand, “GREAT” he thought, one more thing and another beautiful day wasted in the lab testing rat intelligence. It was 9 hours of mazes, peanut butter and cheese.

 

Draft Three

It was late August when he died; he simply faded away in his bed, a vibrant jokester full of insight and laughter reduced to a frail pile of bones. It had become obvious when he began having trouble remembering things, so the doctors prescribed medicine for Alzheimer's and conducted a series of tests. He had continued to swim at the "Y" across the street and write poetry, as he always had but he began to lose weight. The doctors believed it was just the medicine and his swimming regimen which he had just started; waking at five and swimming till six thirty. Not until the very last days of his life did we find that he had pancreatic cancer; incurable at that stage.

We all gathered in the house; sons, grandsons, and friends, the air clouded with imminent death and awkward conversation. We visited him and chatted, but he seemed to be a different person, my grandfather without the jokes, stories and obscure nomenclature. He was a poet through and through, and he published his last poem the day before he died, the day after I left. He had written over nine thousand poems in his retirement; odes to family and friends; fellowship and solitude but his last poem was nonsensical and confusing, death had not only stripped him of his body but also his imagination.

A nurse would come and check on him daily and every day people would come with food, staying briefly to tell stories and talk to him, but as the food piled higher my grandfather still died. My grandmother would bake and cook, and entertain everyone who passed by, an attempt to keep her mind off of her dying husband, masking his impending death with squash cassarole, rum cake, and apple pies. My father sat at his head talking to him and patting his sweaty brow with a cloth, while I sat in the kitchen unable to concentrate enough to read or listen to music. The house was mostly quiet and lonely, and this feeling was only interrupted by the doorbell or the phone; visitors with more food.

We were destined for the beach the very next day and before I left I served him his last shot of scotch, one could call it his dying request to me. We recieved word the next morning and drove close to 17 hours in a span of three days, from the beach to Charlottesville and from Charlottesville to Charlotte stopping only to shop for suits and shoes. 

We sang and read poems at his funeral, all laid out before he died. And we spread his ashes in a garden, leaving a bottle of scotch and a book of Robert Burns under the plauque with his name on it.

Farewell
can not elicit full feeling from my
tenure; can say I tried to be ready;
mother died, sea was crossed, I was steady;
but without wife, granchild, I could not cry;
let me tell you that I love you: those dead,
those taken ill, those driven by their life;
and those who seem to have lived through strife;
I think I have been honest in your stead;
neither misery, nor woe, could rob your joy;
is not your life in this your past year, yours,
your own one fullest, your most heuristic,
do we not have friends elsewhere: home, employ,
but do we not have feeling for seniors,
we happy few, right into the mystic.

EWM 12/5/2000

Draft Two- 9-21-08

It was late August when he died; he simply faded away in his bed, a vibrant jokester full of insight and laughter reduced to a frail pile of bones. It had become obvious when he began having trouble remembering things, so the doctors prescribed medicine for Alzheimer's and conducted a series of tests. He had continued to swim at the "Y" across the street and write poetry, as he always had and began to lose weight. The doctors believed it was just the medicine and his swimming regimen which he had just begun; waking at five and swimming till six thirty. Not until the very last days of his life did we find that he had pancreatic cancer; incurable at that stage.

We all gathered in the house; sons, grandsons, and friends, the air clouded with imminent death and awkward conversation. We visited him and chatted, but he seemed to be a different person, my grandfather without the jokes, stories and obscure nomenclature. He was a poet through and through, and he published his last poem the day before he died, the day after I had left. He had written over nine thousand poems in his retirement; odes to family and friends; fellowship and solitude but his last poem was nonsensical and confusing, death had not only stripped him of his body but also his imagination.

A nurse would come and check on him daily and every day people would come with food, staying briefly to tell stories and talk to him, but as the food piled higher my grandfather still died. My grandmother would bake and cook, and entertain everyone who passed by, an attempt to keep her mind off of her dying husband, masking his impending death with squash cassarole, rum cake, and apple pies. My father sat at his head talking to him and patting his sweaty brow with a cloth, while I sat in the kitchen unable to concentrate enough to read or listen to music. The house was mostly quiet and lonely, and this feeling was only interrupted by the doorbell or the phone; visitors with more food.

We were destined to the beach the very next day and before I left I served him his last shot of scotch, one could call it his dying request to me. We recieved word the next morning and drove close to 17 hours in a span of three days, from the beach to Charlottesville and from Charlottesville to Charlotte stopping only to shop for suits and shoes. 

We sang and read poems at his funeral, all laid out before he died. And we spread his ashes in a garden, leaving a bottle of scotch and a book of Robert Burns under the plauque with his name on it.

Farewell
can not elicit full feeling from my
tenure; can say I tried to be ready;
mother died, sea was crossed, I was steady;
but without wife, granchild, I could not cry;
let me tell you that I love you: those dead,
those taken ill, those driven by their life;
and those who seem to have lived through strife;
I think I have been honest in your stead;
neither misery, nor woe, could rob your joy;
is not your life in this your past year, yours,
your own one fullest, your most heuristic,
do we not have friends elsewhere: home, employ,
but do we not have feeling for seniors,
we happy few, right into the mystic.

EWM 12/5/2000

It was late August when he died- he simply faded away in his bed, a vibrant jokester full of insight and laughter reduced to a frail pile of bones. It had become obvious when he began having trouble remembering things, so they prescribed medicine for Alzheimer's and conducted a series of tests. He had continued to swim at the "Y" across the street and write poetry, as he always had but he began to lose weight. The doctors believed it was just the medicine and his swimming regimen which he had just begun. Not until the very last days of his life did we find that he had pancreatic cancer, incurable at that stage.

We all gathered in the house, clouded with imminent death and awkward conversation we would visit him and chat, but he seemed to be a different person, my grandfather without the jokes, stories and adjectives. He was a poet through and through, and he published his last poem the day before he died, the day after I had left. He had written over nine thousand poems in his retirement; odes to family and friends; fellowship and solitude. His last poem was nonsensical and confusing, death had not only stripped him of his body but also his imagination.

A nurse would come and check on him daily and every day people would come with food, and stay and tell stories and talk to him, but as the food piled higher my grandfather still died. My grandmother would bake and cook, and entertain everyone who passed by, an attempt to keep her mind off of her dying husband. My father sat at his head talking to him and patting his sweaty brow with a cloth, while I sat in the kitchen. The house was mostly quiet and lonely, this feeling was only interrupted by the doorbell or the phone; visitors with more food.

We were destined to the beach the very next day and before I left I served him his last shot of scotch, one could call it his dying request to me. We recieved word the next morning and drove close to 17 hours in a span of three days, from the beach to Charlottesville and from Charlottesville to Charlotte stopping only to shop for suits and shoes.

We sang and read poems at his funeral, all laid out before he died. And we spread his ashes in a garden, and left a bottle of scotch and a book of Robert Burns under the plauque with his name on it.

Farewell
can not elicit full feeling from my
tenure; can say I tried to be ready;
mother died, sea was crossed, I was steady;
but without wife, granchild, I could not cry;
let me tell you that I love you: those dead,
those taken ill, those driven by thier life;
and those who seem to have lived through strife;
I think i have been honest in your stead;
neither misery, nor woe, could rob your joy;
is not your life in this your past year, yours,
your own one fullest, your most heuristic,
do we not have friends elsewhere: home, employ,
but do we not have feeling for seniors,
we happy few, right into the mystic.

EWM 12/5/2000