"No Drama Obama"

This post is in response to an article concerning United States foreign policy.

Although it may be frowned upon, the U.S. is pushing aside the foreign policy to focus on domestic policy. I see this as a necessary evil. In order to be an asset to the rest of the world, we need to deal with our own problems first. If this means delaying foreign policy to a lower spot on the agenda, so be it. Paul Reynolds of the BBC said that even though President Obama believes "yes we can" he has left but a light footprint on our affairs with Afghanistan and Iran. Reynolds says that this approach, "no drama Obama," will not last. My stand is this: I agree that we must increase our attention towards foreign affairs; but I understand that domestically we may not be prepared. However I do think that Obama is trying to reform more than is necessary. The President should distribute the time he spends focussing on each issue, as opposed to one at a time.

Story of the Image Journal

For this journal the assignment was to write a story based on the picture. We knew that the dog was named Barder and the turban granted the power of flight.

Story of the Image

Jimmy was a quiet child. He spoke to nearly no one, not even his family. Jimmy had but one true friend in the world, a dog whom Jimmy named Barder. Jimmy had rescued Barder whilst he was still a pup from a speeding truck. Barder was injured (from who knows what; perhaps a fight with another dog) and had collapsed in the road. Jimmy spied the truck from afar down the long street and then he spotted Barder. Jimmy being rather noble for someone his age raced into the street and moved the dog to safety. After a long discussion with his father about responsibility, Jimmy was allowed to keep the dog.

Out on a walk with Barder one evening through the large unowned field, Jimmy spotted something peculiar. It was mystifying and Jimmy came closer. Picking it up, Jimmy realized that it was a piece of orange cloth. He wondered how it got so far out away from anywhere. He did know though that it didn't belong there in the tall grass. Jimmy was about to put the cloth back, but then he decided it would be best to keep it in his pocket. He couldn't justify taking it. He only knew that it was no ordinary cloth. It was now somehow connected to him in an untangible way.

He took it out of his pocket and stared at it deeply. Jimmy took the cloth, wrapped it around his head, and began to do impressions. A pirate, a cowboy, and oddly enough an Arabian tradesman. Impressions for an audience of Barder plus a single oak tree. Pleased with himself Jimmy took a bow. Barder began to bark.

"What is it boy?" Jimmy asked.

He looked down and realized he was no longer standing, nor sitting, but floating.

"The cloth!" thought Jimmy.

He floated down ontop of Barder, and then back up again, this time with Barder, higher than before; above the tree. Jimmy and Barder flew higher and faster. Quickly approaching his house Jimmy landed. He put the orange cloth in his pocket and went inside. During supper Jimmy said nothing about the cloth or his adventure.

He though about the turban while he was in bed. He got out of bed and snuck out. Jimmy had the cloth with him. He wrapped the turban around his head and woke Barder. They were off to explore the world.

Writing in Reverse-The Story of Mr. Jones

This post is a response to a photo taken by Bill Sullivan. Bill Sullivan took photos of people passing through the gate to the subway station. The rest of the photos can be found at
http://www.3situations.com/BillSullivanWorks/MTmaster.html

The Story of Mr. Jones

Edward Jones was not a unique individual. He stood out in absolutely now way. He never traveled. He never had an extraordinary career. Mr. Jones was very plain. He did what a normal retired accountant should. Every morning he would wake up, eat breakfast, bathe, and get dressed. Then he would go to the park and read the paper. Occasionally he would play chess. When he was ready to go home, Edward Jones would take the subway back to his block. This had been the life of Mr. Jones for the past fourteen and a half years. Nothing adventurous. Nothing grand. Just life.

That is until last Wednesday when during a friendly game of chess, Mr. Jones collapsed. The stranger opposite Edward rushed him to the hospital. Edward Jones awoke in a hospital bed in an empty room. He called for a nurse. The nurse told him to rest, but Mr. Jones insisted on seeing a doctor. Moments late a tall young man entered the room. The doctor informed Edward Jones that he had been diagnosed with cancer. He would be free to check out after completing some paper work. The doctors told Mr. Jones to take it easy and enjoy the last few months of his life. The cancer had already spread and there was nothing more they could do to suppress it. Mr. Jones went home that night and went straight to bed, but he did not sleep.

Edward awoke the next morning weary. He put on his brown suit. It was an ugly grotesque suit, but he didn't care. He didn't even bother straightening his tie. As Edward Jones headed out the door, he reached for a hat to wear. It was a special hat. It was given to him by the same person who gave him the suit, Alan Crowe. Alan had passed away only four years ago. He was not a particularly close friend of Edward's. But Alan was the friend Mr. Jones saw most frequently. Alan Crowe died of liver cancer. Mr. Jones thought about Alan as he passed through the gate at the subway station. He thought about what would happen to himself. He had contemplated death before; what old man hasn't. However, Edward Jones had no family with whom to spend his last days. Nor anyone whom he could give his possessions. He was not lonely, however, he was in fact alone.

Edward Jones was very sidetracked as he passed through the gate. He had only his ticket with him. No newspaper. No book. Nothing. He was too distracted with his thoughts. He thought to himself on the subway. He thought to himself in the park. Mr. Jones was so unfocused that he missed his stop on his way home. It did not bother him to walk an extra two blocks. He sat at home in his chair. It was late. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Now Edward Jones was not an emotional man but he did worry about the grim future ahead of him.