frustration and imitation

As my laptop is yet in the hands of my now (ex) boyfriend, I cannot write this on the privacy of my comfy couch. Instead, I'm currently in the computer lab at my apartment complex, which I thought would prove superfluous, along with the tennis courts, tanning bed, swimming pool, billiards room, and basketball goals - but I was sorely mistaken. I actually like using most of these things, as I damn well should, considering I'm taking out excess loans to live here (though it's worth it in my opinion). The abundance of trees and westside location sold me. Maybe it is all a bit much...

ANYWAY, I digress.

So, getting back to life and such. Richie and I broke it off, in a surprisingly mutual and civil manner I might add. Though I made the late-night-sobby-text the next evening, which is to be expected from someone as over-emotional and hyper-sensitive as me. And now he is fixing my laptop. The absence of such a seemingly marginal possession has been extremely frustrating for me, since I am sort of an internet junkie, along with being addicted to my iTunes library. But I'm able to use the computers at school and the ones here, so my situation isn't all that desperate.

Speaking of school, the reason I wanted to post today is because I just turned in an extra credit assignment for Dr. Rivers' rhetoric class today that I think is pretty jazzy. He calls it "creative imitations," where an excerpt from a written piece is re-written on an (ideally) completely different subject matter, using not more than 20 to 25% of the original words, keeping the same sentence structure and style.

And I wanted to share mine.
So here it is. :-)


Original (Philip Caputo’s A Rumor of War, Page 18)

Whenever I think back to those days at Basic School, the recollection that first comes to mind is always the same: A double file of green-clad men, bent beneath their packs, are tramping down a dirt road. A remorseless sun is beating down. Raised by our boots, a cloud of red dust powders the trees alongside the road, making them look sickly and ashen. The dust clings to our uniforms, runs in muddy streaks down our sweating faces. There is the rattle of rifle slings and bayonet scabbards, the clattering of mess kits bouncing in our haversacks. Our heads ache from the weight of steel helmets, and the cry “Close it up, keep your interval, close it up” is echoing up and down the long column.

Imitation

Whenever I think back to my days at parochial school, the memory that remains clearest in my mind is always the same: row after row of uniformed boys and girls in khaki shorts and plaid-pleated skirts, knelt beneath the crucifix, are mouthing the words of the hymnal printed in our praise books. A merciless god is beating down. Raised by their prayers, a cloud of holiness surrounds the priests and deacons situated just behind the altar, making them appear righteous and devout. The cloud envelops our visages, moves in hypnotizing tufts about our credulous bodies. There is the ring of the altar boy’s bell, the pounding of organ notes bellowing in the church. Our small bodies restless from the endless duration of weekly mass, and the monotony of “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy” is reverberating through and through the wooden pews.

Peace out, y'all.