Post by John "Sheriff" McBride on Nov 9, 2012 13:18:55 GMT -4
A black screen dissolves into a concrete walkway and a weathered pair of cowboy boots. We visually climb the tall figure, mapping the surroundings as the details develop. The vertical sign in the background juts out from the side of a building as the mans face comes into view. “Verizon Center” provides the backdrop as the sullen face of John “Sheriff” McBride comes into focus.
A quick transition and we are now a few feet behind him. A swirl of wind gathers a bundle of paper and debris, the collection forms into an urban tumbleweed. We see the side of his face as he turns his head, the tumbleweed rolls by. The street light on the corner trembled from the wind, from the trunk of the pole jutted two green signs placed perpendicular to one another; he stood at the corner of F st and 6th.
A rugged man dressed in boots, a duster, a tattered poncho and cowboy hat standing in the heart of downtown DC; the scene reflected an allegorical sense of reasoning. He watched the herd of pedestrians cross the black-tar street, dodging him as he stood still. Car horns and random commotion melded together producing a melancholy ruckus, an urban soundtrack to the scene. The city seemed alive, apathetic to the unhurried nature of the man on the corner. Time crawled, as if god slowed the perpetual motion of time, allowing the opportunity to appreciate this paradoxical moment. The moment continues as the narration begins.
A rugged voice with a slight drawl, it emits a sense of southern wisdom, but is dressed in hospitable courtesy.
John McBride:[/b] I was a boy tha first time I visited a big city, not but seven er’ eight years old if I recall. I remember how fast it all moved, like everythin' was alive. Tha people were diverse, so was tha smell. I remember feelin’ small, feelin’ unimportant and pointless. I held onto that feelin’ for a long time, in some ways it acted as an insecurity, I didn’t want to believe it was true, and it frightened me to believe it could be. I used that feelin’ to carry me through life, to motivate me when times were tough.
I often hear that time moves fast when you get old. I’m forty eight, and time has yet to move fast for me. I can’t complain, only thin' tough about my childhood was tha expectations of my father, and my fu-tile attempts at meetin' ‘em. It molded me though, strengthened me. Put a fire in me that burns even to this day.
Most of us acquire our motivation from somethin' in our past. Others try to stamp it out by comparin' their hardships, trivializin’ your foundation by claimin’ theirs is stronger because it comes from a type a growth only hardship instills. I don’t know much about psychology, but what I do know is that motivation only gets ya so far. Sometimes tha mud is so thick you can’t see through it, let alone keep movin’ forward.
It’s moments like those that determine who a champion is. Tha man or woman who can climb out of tha mud by sheer force of will. Not unlike tha city, they keep movin’ forward, progressin’, never slowin’ down. That is me, tha Sheriff of Seminole county. A man who never slows down, always ahead of time, pushin’ past tha thick mud of impossibility, never allowin' myself to give up or give in. Just like tha city, I keep reachin’ higher, reachin’ out into tha beyond, into tha unknown, unwillin' to give up on those expectations. It will never be good enough, I will never be good enough...I can always be better.
You wanna know me? Who and what I am? Why that childhood fear and those age old expectations still burn within me like tha fires of Persepolis? Look no furthar than your own reflection, look no further than tha wanderin' eyes that stare back at you in tha mirror. As you swim in that endless sea of tha unknown, wadin' in tha black waters of your mind, strugglin' to stay afloat, look to tha horizon, to tha vast distance that seems too far to reach. It is there that I dwell, it is there that I persist. Out of reach and too far to map, a perpetuity of potential.
[/color]
The wind shifts, his duster lifts off his back, it flutters in the wind like a cape. He lowers his head to fight the wind while others, still emotionally paralytic, turn to the sky in fear of another hurricane. John continues to stand still, his duster flapping behind him. He looks towards us, showing us his grimaced face and sun beaten complexion.
John McBride:[/b] There’s a new Sheriff in town...and his name is John McBride [/color]
A quick transition and we are now a few feet behind him. A swirl of wind gathers a bundle of paper and debris, the collection forms into an urban tumbleweed. We see the side of his face as he turns his head, the tumbleweed rolls by. The street light on the corner trembled from the wind, from the trunk of the pole jutted two green signs placed perpendicular to one another; he stood at the corner of F st and 6th.
A rugged man dressed in boots, a duster, a tattered poncho and cowboy hat standing in the heart of downtown DC; the scene reflected an allegorical sense of reasoning. He watched the herd of pedestrians cross the black-tar street, dodging him as he stood still. Car horns and random commotion melded together producing a melancholy ruckus, an urban soundtrack to the scene. The city seemed alive, apathetic to the unhurried nature of the man on the corner. Time crawled, as if god slowed the perpetual motion of time, allowing the opportunity to appreciate this paradoxical moment. The moment continues as the narration begins.
A rugged voice with a slight drawl, it emits a sense of southern wisdom, but is dressed in hospitable courtesy.
John McBride:[/b] I was a boy tha first time I visited a big city, not but seven er’ eight years old if I recall. I remember how fast it all moved, like everythin' was alive. Tha people were diverse, so was tha smell. I remember feelin’ small, feelin’ unimportant and pointless. I held onto that feelin’ for a long time, in some ways it acted as an insecurity, I didn’t want to believe it was true, and it frightened me to believe it could be. I used that feelin’ to carry me through life, to motivate me when times were tough.
I often hear that time moves fast when you get old. I’m forty eight, and time has yet to move fast for me. I can’t complain, only thin' tough about my childhood was tha expectations of my father, and my fu-tile attempts at meetin' ‘em. It molded me though, strengthened me. Put a fire in me that burns even to this day.
Most of us acquire our motivation from somethin' in our past. Others try to stamp it out by comparin' their hardships, trivializin’ your foundation by claimin’ theirs is stronger because it comes from a type a growth only hardship instills. I don’t know much about psychology, but what I do know is that motivation only gets ya so far. Sometimes tha mud is so thick you can’t see through it, let alone keep movin’ forward.
It’s moments like those that determine who a champion is. Tha man or woman who can climb out of tha mud by sheer force of will. Not unlike tha city, they keep movin’ forward, progressin’, never slowin’ down. That is me, tha Sheriff of Seminole county. A man who never slows down, always ahead of time, pushin’ past tha thick mud of impossibility, never allowin' myself to give up or give in. Just like tha city, I keep reachin’ higher, reachin’ out into tha beyond, into tha unknown, unwillin' to give up on those expectations. It will never be good enough, I will never be good enough...I can always be better.
You wanna know me? Who and what I am? Why that childhood fear and those age old expectations still burn within me like tha fires of Persepolis? Look no furthar than your own reflection, look no further than tha wanderin' eyes that stare back at you in tha mirror. As you swim in that endless sea of tha unknown, wadin' in tha black waters of your mind, strugglin' to stay afloat, look to tha horizon, to tha vast distance that seems too far to reach. It is there that I dwell, it is there that I persist. Out of reach and too far to map, a perpetuity of potential.
[/color]
The wind shifts, his duster lifts off his back, it flutters in the wind like a cape. He lowers his head to fight the wind while others, still emotionally paralytic, turn to the sky in fear of another hurricane. John continues to stand still, his duster flapping behind him. He looks towards us, showing us his grimaced face and sun beaten complexion.
John McBride:[/b] There’s a new Sheriff in town...and his name is John McBride [/color]
