Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

RoadToEmmaus (1 day ago) marked as spam
Thank you or the picture of the horse. I found it to be one of the powerful images i saw fron Iraq. Sorry about no credit but the pics didnt havent any. I hope you approve of the video. If not, I respect your opinion. Thnak you for your service and all those whom served with you.

scatmav (3 days ago) marked as spam
you guys have obviously never been to the middle east or experienced war....if you had then there wouldnt be anything about kicking each otehrs asses......

Ive been there and wish never to see it again....the pic taken of the wounded horse was taken by myself....downtown Basra......

RIP to those fallen over a governments stupid mistake

stilltrucking wrote:the comments to this video are very interesting

RoadToEmmaus (1 day ago) marked as spam
Thank you or the picture of the horse. I found it to be one of the powerful images i saw fron Iraq. Sorry about no credit but the pics didnt havent any. I hope you approve of the video. If not, I respect your opinion. Thnak you for your service and all those whom served with you.

this is one from a soldier I think.

scatmav (3 days ago) marked as spam
you guys have obviously never been to the middle east or experienced war....if you had then there wouldnt be anything about kicking each otehrs asses......

Ive been there and wish never to see it again....the pic taken of the wounded horse was taken by myself....downtown Basra......

RIP to those fallen over a governments stupid mistake

Roadsterguy (12 hours ago) Show Hide
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(Reply)
I can't stand loud mouths like you who can't see past your nose. If it wasn't for the United States sending in their people to fight and die for other sorry azz countries, you'd all be speaking German, or Russian. And if you deny that, you are as dumb as you sound. Join the army and fight your own effing wars and then hope someone comes in and saves your buttt when you're losing. And I hope it won't be the U.S.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=48KVZXroyjA

Mary admired the two little girls I'd brought, mixed them in with her own children, sent them all upstairs to play games and watch television. It was only after the children were gone that I sensed that Mary didn't like me or didn't like something about the night. She was polite but chilly.

"It's a nice cozy house you have here," I said, and it really was.

"I've fixed up a place where you can talk and not be bothered," she said.

"Good," I said, and I imagined two leather chairs near a fire in a paneled room, where two old soldiers could drink and talk. But she took us into the kitchen. She had put two straight-backed chairs at a kitchen table with a white porcelain top. That table top was screaming with reflected light from a two-hundred-watt bulb overhead. Mary had prepared an operating room. She put only one glass on it, which was for me. She explained that O'Hare couldn't drink the hard stuff since the war.

So we sat down. O'Hare was embarrassed, but he wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I couldn't imagine what it was about me that could burn up Mary so. I was a family man. I'd been married only once. I wasn't a drunk. I hadn't done her husband any dirt in the war.

She fixed herself a Coca-Cola, made a lot of noise banging the ice-cube tray in the stainless steel sink. Then she went into another part of the house. But she wouldn't sit still. She was moving all over the house, opening and shutting doors, even moving furniture around to work off anger.

I asked O'Hare what I'd said or done to make her act that way.

"It's all right," he said. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't have anything to do with you." That was kind of him. He was lying. It had everything to do with me.

So we tried to ignore Mary and remember the war. I took a couple of belts of the booze I'd brought. We would chuckle or grin sometimes, as though war stories were coming back, but neither one of us could remember anything good. O'Hare remembered one guy who got into a lot of wine in Dresden, before it was bombed, and we had to take him home in a wheelbarrow. It wasn't much to write a book about. I remembered two Russian soldiers who had looted a clock factory. They had a horse-drawn wagon full of clocks. They were happy and drunk. They were smoking huge cigarettes they had rolled in newspaper.

That was about it for memories, and Mary was still making noise. She finally came out in the kitchen again for another Coke. She took another tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator, banged it in the sink, even though there was already plenty of ice out.

Then she turned to me, let me see how angry she was, and that the anger was for me. She had been talking to herself, so what she said was a fragment of a much larger conversation. "You were just babies then!" she said.

"What?" I said.

"You were just babies in the war -- like the ones upstairs!"

I nodded that this was true. We had been foolish virgins in the war, right at the end of childhood.

"But you're not going to write it that way, are you." This wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

"I -- I don't know," I said.

"Well, I know," she said. "You'll pretend you were men instead of babies, and you'll be played in the movies by Frank Sinatra and John Wayne or some of those other glamorous, war-loving, dirty old men. And war will look just wonderful, so we'll have a lot more of them. And they'll be fought by babies like the babies upstairs."

So then I understood. It was war that made her so angry. She didn't want her babies or anybody else's babies killed in wars. And she thought wars were partly encouraged by books and movies.


* * *
So I held up my right hand and I made her a promise: "Mary," I said, "I don't think this book of mine is ever going to be finished. I must have written five thousand pages by now, and thrown them all away. If I ever do finish it, though, I give you my word of honor: there won't be a part for Frank Sinatra or John Wayne.

"I tell you what," I said, "I'll call it 'The Children's Crusade.' "

She was my friend after that.


* * *
http://www.ereader.com/product/book/exc ... house-Five

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