Pool_2

celebration in historic costume many times. But John was too enthusiastic to pop his bubble with heard thats. It was about Saint Patrick's day being the very first American called celebration of Americans for Americans. It was called by Washington himself, in the middle of battle. That year, not even Christmas was celebrated and yet Saint Patrick's Day was. John sprinkled in a wealth of curious detail. He knew what was required to retell an old tale, new spice. It was indeed curious. Similar people tossing off foreign rule and inequality in one place and yet not in the other. To what degree did the newness of place allow old habits, customs, respects, reservations, and fears to be shed. Was it place? Distance? Was it just that a hero had emerged in the one place and not the other? A hero for the times? One with the will to do real damage, to draw lines that must not be crossed? A willingness to destroy leaving no prize worth winning? Marcus slumped back, licking at a miniature cannoli. There were little flecks of chocolate in the creme. Curious how we draw pleasure from variety yet war for purity. Whose dumb ass idea is that anyway? Are children born with this narcissistic self destruct? Whose echo do they hear? Is it nature? Or does the ill tempered babbling nurture of a gone mad society suckle a poet and rear a killer? Macaluso had half tuned out John's history, feeling grateful to have been born here, free of that sort of gravity. He had no idea that the impulsive hatred of repression crushed into a young Irish poet's mind would bring mayhem into the lives of nearly everyone in this room. Instead Marcus thought, "When do they turn, the young ones?"