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This is one of many art pieces that have been appearing over my town of Matamoros, Tamaulipas in Mexico. They are done by a group of artists that call themselves “Arte por la Paz”. Photography is by Daniela Borrelli.
(Source: stencils)
Such a blessing
we had a press-conference excercise. My professor put a youtube video on the projector of my city’s police captain giving a statement to the press and taking questions from reporters.
My classmates and I were to take shorthand notes, followed immediately by writing the news story in ten minutes, as if we were breaking the story on deadline.
Then, we were supposed to write an additional paragraph about how we’d get more information about the case.
My report was as follows:
An unidentified man was shot by a Eugene Police officer during a shoot-out this afternoon in West Eugene.
No officers or other citizens were injured during the shooting.
According to Captain Rich Stronach, calls were received at roughly 3:15 by residents of the Briarwood Mobile Home Park off of Barger and Candlight Drive with reports of an armed man menacing people with a possible handgun.
An unidentified patrol officer encountered the suspect after being pointed to where he was last seen by residents of the mobile home park. After a short foot pursuit there was an exchange of gunfire, resulting in the suspect being shot.
Captain Stronach says at this time it is unclear who fired first, or how many shots were fired total.
The suspect was not fatally injured. He is now recovering at Sacred Heart Hospital.
The officer who engaged the suspect will be put on administrative leave, as per procedure.
The incident will subsequently be investigated by the Lane County Inter Agency Deadly Physical Force Investigation Team, a unit supervised by the Oregon State Police and consisting of investigators from the Eugene Police Department, Springfield Police Department, Lance County Sheriff’s Office, and the Oregon State Police.
Then, I wrote:
I would also try to obtain the 911 calls, in case one of the recordings possibly identified him. I would also interview neighbors to at least get a description, find out if he was a neighbor, or maybe get a first name
If it was really important to me, I would probably go to the hospital and try to find out the identity of the suspect by pretending to be a family member. This would probably consist of me putting on as much denim as I could possibly find (at the minimum acid-washed jacket & trousers) and the jersey of a professional sports team that doesn’t exist anymore, then running into the lobby screaming “DEY SHOT MY BRO!!” and collapsing dramatically, or, you know, something like that.
Online, I just saw the outcome.
Grade: A
Comments: LOL, nice~
It feels good to finally get something.
That being said, the document reads as follows:
What I really need to do is sit down and shut up.
I’ve been doing a lot of talking lately; and it’s only ended in numerous fights with the boyfriend.
Today at lunch I said, “Oh, no. I’ve become my mother,”
No matter how charismatic the expression on my face seemed to be, it could only pale in comparison to the extreme discomfort that I actually felt. Recently, I’ve become far bossier. (Bossier is a word? Wow. Really? Huh. You learn something new everyday with Microsoft spell check.) Continuing on…my main squeeze and I have finally moved into our own little apartment together. It’s adorable, by the way. However, my attitude since our arrival is far from cute.
He will reach into the fridge and try to make yet another cheese filled creation, and I go completely bonkers. It’s not the automatic screaming and yelling crazy; no, that would be too easy. It’s the devil stare which, once acknowledged, can do nothing but terrify its prey while they stare back, looking helpless.
I know the stare.
My mom wasn’t one for letting our personal turmoil become public. Oh no, she was one of those mothers gave you the piercing look of hell which let you know that you were in for some terrible hours once you arrived back at home.
You know, yesterday I had the “toilet paper talk” with my boyfriend. What self-respecting twenty-year-old feels the need to have that conversation?
Commence head banging.
The night that the paper we write goes to presses.
Print night.
But really, Wednesday night is so much more than just that.
It’s a night to be overwhelmed. Edit night. Rewrite night. Concession night. The long night. The night of togetherness. Pizza night around a large conference table as we talk noise about the subjects and figures we all interviewed in the past seven days.
Today in the refrigerator we found a box wrapped up in christmas wrapping paper. Scribbled on the front with a sharpie was “PRINT NIGHT- FROM SANTA.”
The intrigue was palpable.
The sports editor opened it to discover a chilled bottle of Grey Goose vodka as well a bottle of Odwalla organic orange juice.
Everyone except me was curious about whom Santa was.
From there, print night took on a new form. The coffee mugs we’d been refilling all day long were rinsed out in the hallway drinking fountain and refilled with screwdrivers.
The girls took off their heels, the boys took off their glasses.
Knowing we had ‘til midnight before it goes to the presses, we put a playlist of Rick James’ greatest hits on the ipod speakers, turned off most of the lights in the offices, and danced.
It didn’t feel like normal dancing, like the kind you do at concerts or a club or whatever. There was something deeper about it; something so much more intimate- more primal. We weren’t just dancing, but we were dancing with a purpose; together, achieving liberation. It was like we were our own tribe.
During the second verse of ‘Give it to Me Baby,’ it hit me.
Wednesday night is also 80’s night.
iViva la noche!
Or I’m more comfortable saying I want the former than admitting I need the latter. Why I don’t argue against monogamy is that I’m not evolved enough, maybe, for an open relationship. Most of us aren’t. We’re marriage animals. But I’m also not trusting enough- or naive enough- to believe in giving up the illicit. Why I don’t argue against monogamy is that part of having great moments, I fear, is having both. The monogamy and the illicit thing, and the passion and the guilt that bridges those two foreign countries, are what deepens our layers, even if some of those layers end up morphing into the slick crusted scales of a snake.
-Lisa Taddeo
They want to peer under the surface of the big everything.
But, this can be a very painful process that’s full of surprises. It can dismantle the world as you know it. That’s why most people prefer to remain on the surface of things. Maybe you should go home…let sleeping dogs lye…take it easy- what do you say?
I say I don’t give me the brush off. Please, I want to know. This is big.
Have you ever transcended space and time?
Yes. Wait. No. Time, not space. No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I take it you don’t make much money, do you?
”It just says, YES. I know that these have holes in them, they’re not perfect. And no, my knees aren’t cold!” he half-yelled. ”And you know what else? I bought them this way.”
I smiled, and nodded slowly. I agreed that jeans with in them holes can in fact send that message. Why shouldn’t I?
“It just makes me think,” he continued, more slowly and reflective on his words, “maybe she could somehow accept me too.”
Again I nodded, but this time I wasn’t smiling at all.
I had expected to hear a lot of depressing things today, but this particular vomit-of-thought struck a particular cord with me. One I didn’t know that I had. A chill went up my spine, then meticulously back down again. I swallowed hard and my fingertips went cold.
Then I walked away.
Love & Appreciate by Murs
This captures exactly how I feel.
is one of those days when your Nikes start squeaking.
Only my guy friends really get that reference.
The shoes that you’ve had for years- those black Nike Dunks, those coke-white Air Force Ones. They were your favorite pair of shoes; worn through the best and worst of times and never ever became scuffed, or dirtied. They made you look good. They made you feel…fucking. Amazing.
But none of that matters today, because today is the day that you were walking down the stairs and you heard a loud squeak coming from under the ball of your foot.
Shook, the good times together were the highest of highs. You remember the first time you walked into the party with them. In fact, they were solely responsible for giving you the courage to walk into that party in the first place. You wish that you could of told them.
But today you realize that every step forward you try to take with them, there’s a good chance that you may be destroying them from within.
Even in the worst of times, the days that we try desperately to forget but will always vaguely remember; the days walking home alone in the middle of the night. Heavy pessimism looming thick with the overcast showering us. Even then, during those walks, you knew that they were special. Especiale , even. You felt blessed to be with them. They were so profoundly wonderful that even though it was a bad time, it didn’t feel that bad, considering you were with them.
There is a squeak with every step. A sinking feeling, even. Your posture isn’t quite the same.
And today is the day that you realize you’re just wearing them out.
It’s been one of those days when your Nikes start squeaking.
That’s what today has been; and that’s what’s happened, both literally and figuratively.
I’m not really talking about my shoes, though.
It’s a sad, sinking feeling.
My girlfriend and I have been going through some problems lately. She yells, she screams nasty insults, she throws things.
Despite this, I remain a hopeless romantic; or rather a pathetically blinded optimist.
So last night, we sit down with one beer each and propose a toast.
We raise our glasses.
I say, “to love.”
As I say this, however, she simultaneously just says “dirty pony” at the exact same point in time. Her two words dancing on top of mine, muddy feet and all.
And before either one of us could even react- CLANK
And cheers
