John Travolta The Boy In The Plastic Bubble

For all reading lovers. What do you think of my writing?

Chapter one.
The old woman sat at a small rock beside the entrance of the garage. A black veil encircled her wrinkly, brown face and a mauve cloak swayed in the soft breeze at her narrow shoulders. The soles of her feet were black with dust. Last week, she sold her sandals to buy herself a scarf.

Beside her, Adham, her grandson banged his wooden doll against the rocky floor of the garage, where they lived. He looked at his grandma, waiting for a reply to his misdeed.

She held him up, throwing the doll away and walked into the small hut at the end of the garage. Her gait was slow. Her hips moved upwards and downwards as she dragged her feet over the cement stones, implanted in the ground.

The door to the hut was a towel torn at the middle. At night, she had to press its lower edge under a heavy stone to thwart any intruders. Inside the hut, a bed stood against unpainted, grey wall. White sheets spread across the wavy floor, Where Hayam slept. At the head of the sheet, an oven with a dangling door stood, waiting to heat a crust of bread or an expired tuna can.

She sat at the edge of the bed. Her grandson ate at some stale crusts of bread from the floor and after wincing with saliva bubbling at his lips, he spat it out. After some minutes, he fell to his back and slept.

Hayam walked to the window above the oven. It had a wooden door, painted in green. She pushed it and looked at a small pigeon standing at the stone where she sat some minutes ago. It was a beautiful pigeon. Her head was black and as you went lower, her body turned brown and right at her feathery tail it turned nearly purple. It bent down, poking a crust of bread with her peak into, what Hayam thought to be her husband’s mouth. it was so lovely to see such love, such warmth.

Hayam closed her eyes and imagined her husband, Hassan, sitting with her at their farm with the sun rising at the horizon. He would have a quick draught of his brown mug of milk then wash it and make tea for her in it.

“To my beautiful gypsy queen,” he would say as he would bend down, offering Hayam the mug. His green, narrow eyes would sparkle against the faint, light of a candle, as if he was about to cry.

Something stirred behind her. She turned and a hefty man walked into the hut. He wore a shirt smeared with black patches and a plastic, green sandal that failed to cover the black feet and long, dirty nails. Some oily patches between his receding hairs glimmered under the light of the lamp that hung down from the ceiling by a wire. His blue trousers were smeared like his shirt, especially at the knees. It seemed he spent a long time kneeling on them to fix one of the cars at his small shop.

“I can’t manage your son alone, Ramadan,” Hayam said, holding the baby boy from under the armpits and placing him at the bed, against the wall. “Your wife must return. I can’t do everything alone.”

“Mom, I told you. I can’t do anything about it.” Ramadan said, opening the door of the oven and peering into it. “There was a piece of meat right here this morning…”

“I ate it,” Hayam said, “I was hungry…”

“I’m hungry too,” he said, kicking the door of the oven. It closed over the oven, creaked, and clunked back over the floor. “Fine look, Mom. I am letting you to live with me, out of the purity of my heart. You should be grateful. I am not letting you to live in my home to eat my food. You can manage yourself; it is not my problem you are hungry. I’m the one who works, I need this food.”

“And I need someone to be with me,” Hayam said, “I’m alone; can’t you see that.”

“I don’t care,” Ramadan yelled, “I’m not here to stay with you; I have a family to feed, I have a wife waiting for me.”

Ramadan felt a warm, bony hand at his shoulder. “Am I not a part of your family, boy?”

“Take your hands off me,” he jerked his shoulder and Hayam withdrew her hand; her fingers outstretched towards her son’s body.

What is theme of this poem?

The Concrete River
by Luis J. Rodríguez

We sink into the dust,
Baba and me,
Beneath brush of prickly leaves;
Ivy strangling trees–singing
Our last rites of locura.
Homeboys. Worshipping God-fumes
Out of spray cans.

Our backs press up against
A corrugated steel fence
Along the dried banks
Of a concrete river.
Spray-painted outpourings
On walls offer a chaos
Of color for the eyes.

Home for now. Hidden in weeds.
Furnished with stained mattresses
And plastic milk crates.
Wood planks thrust into
thick branches
serve as roof.
The door is a torn cloth curtain
(knock before entering).
Home for now, sandwiched
In between the maddening days.

We aim spray into paper bags.
Suckle them. Take deep breaths.
An echo of steel-sounds grates the sky.
Home for now. Along an urban-spawned
Stream of muck, we gargle in
The technicolor synthesized madness.

This river, this concrete river,
Becomes a steaming, bubbling
Snake of water, pouring over
Nightmares of wakefulness;
Pouring out a rush of birds;
A flow of clear liquid
On a cloudless day.
Not like the black oil stains we lie in,
Not like the factory air engulfing us;
Not this plastic death in a can.

Sun rays dance on the surface.
Gray fish fidget below the sheen.
And us looking like Huckleberry Finns/
Tom Sawyers, with stick fishing poles,
As dew drips off low branches
As if it were earth’s breast milk.

Oh, we should be novas of our born days.
We should be scraping wet dirt
with callused toes.
We should be flowering petals
playing ball.
Soon water/fish/dew wane into
A pulsating whiteness.
I enter a tunnel of circles,
Swimming to a glare of lights.
Family and friends beckon me.
I want to be there,
In perpetual dreaming;
In the din of exquisite screams.
I want to know this mother-comfort
Surging through me.

I am a sliver of blazing ember
entering a womb of brightness.
I am a hovering spectre shedding
scarred flesh.
I am a clown sneaking out of a painted
mouth in the sky.
I am your son, amá, seeking
the security of shadows,
fleeing weary eyes
bursting brown behind
a sewing machine.
I am your brother, the one you
threw off rooftops, tore into
with rage–the one you visited,
a rag of a boy, lying
in a hospital bed, ruptured.
I am friend of books, prey of cops,
lover of the barrio women
selling hamburgers and tacos
at the P&G Burger Stand.

I welcome this heavy shroud.
I want to be buried in it–
To be sculptured marble
In craftier hands.

Soon an electrified hum sinks teeth
Into brain–then claws
Surround me, pull at me,
Back to the dust, to the concrete river.

Let me go!–to stay entangled
In this mesh of barbed serenity!
But over me is a face,
Mouth breathing back life.
I feel the gush of air,
The pebbles and debris beneath me.
“Give me the bag, man,” I slur.
“No way! You died, man,” Baba said.
“You stopped breathing and died.”
“I have to go back!…you don’t
understand…”

I try to get up, to reach the sky.
Oh, for the lights–for this whore
of a Sun,
To blind me. To entice me to burn.
Come back! Let me swing in delight
To the haunting knell,
To pierce colors of virgin skies.
Not here, along a concrete river,
But there–licked by tongues of flame!
The higher you set your expectations of yourself the futher you will go. The less you expect from yourself is the least you will recieve.
the top sentence is what i think the theme is but i’m not sure.

Melanie Part 1 – 1982 – Burton Cummings & Glynnis O’Connor

1982 Movie Part 1 of 8 Starring Burton Cummings, Glynnis O’Connor, Paul Sorvino, and Don Johnson If this movie is available on legitimate DVD, I haven’t been able to find it. I do not own the copyright on this movie. No infringement intended.

I’m a Monster

MST3K Style Stinger for The Boy in the Plastic Bubble starring John Travolta. Toddler Gina is a monster.

CALIFORNIA DREAMING Movie Trailer 1979

California Dreaming movie preview 1979

What is the best way to keep a clean, healthy tank… And happy fish too!?

I’m looking for very extended answers! I’ve always had trouble with disease and I’m stomping my foot down on that!

Tank 1: Freshwater, 23 Gallons (This is my main tank and where all my adult fish are kept.)
Filter: Penguin 330 (Recently changed the cartridges and put fresh ones in; BTW how often should I change these/wash them out in tank water?)
Plants: Mostly plastic! I have a few pieces of Java Moss though. I plan to get more real plants!
Heater: Check! (78-82 degrees usually!)
Bubble Maker: Big bubbles! Yes I have one.
Gravel Vacuum: Check! (How often should I use this?)
Hiding Spots: Check! (Nice dark cave, as well as many plastic plants!)
Aquarium Salt: Check!

Fish in tank one:
Molly Fish: 1 Male Sailfin Silver Molly; 2 Female Silver Lyretail Mollies; 2 Female Black Mollies; 1 Female Black Lyretail Molly, 1 Female Gold Sailfin/Lyretail mix Molly. (Lotsa Mollies I love them!)
Tetras: 3 Black Neon Tetras… I don’t know how to tell the boys from the girls.
Plecos: 2 ….Regular Plecos. >_>

Tank 2: (This is my fry/birthing tank) Freshwater, 10 Gallons.
Filter: Whisper In-Tank Filter. (Tetra) Not really sure what this is but it fits my 10 gallon and works great! Brand new as well.
Plants: Java Moss, some random plastic plants, and some live plants that my mom gave me.
Heater: Check! I keep it higher than the other tank, but not over 82 degrees. Usually stays at 80.
Bubble Maker: Check!
Gravel Vacuum: Check!
Hiding Spots: Check!
Aquarium Salt: Check!

Fish in Tank 2: Babies!
There is about 100 Black Molly (Lyretail and regular) fry in the tank currently. (Some are swimming funny and I’m assuming they have swim bladder disease, have started treating that.)

Anyways, I’m looking for any and all ways to improve my tanks by reading suggestions from experienced freshwater community owners!

lil’ wayne–weezy baby?

im trying to find this song so that i can listen but i cant find it i can only get the lyrics any one have some links that have the song in it?
Yeah… ma gurl get in at 1:15 am
The guitar’s crying right now
Just a couple things going on in my life, you know

[Verse 1]
Brim leaning, cup tilted, blunt flicking
Get money, fuck bitches
Young Weezy, young pimping, she love it
I keep going, she keep cumin, what you know bout it
So bout it…like Master P… but no coward
No I am no Howard the duck duck
Lead showers, black flowers
Black dresses, two hours, closed casket
Ma dough tactics is so crafty
No laughter, I do that after I get the dough bastards
I get the dough faster, what if I flowed faster
Like… oh Nancy the flow’s plastic, automatic, I’m
More drastic, ain’t no names compared to me
Who are you, where are ya, I can’t see, ya air to me
Ya not there to me, I ain’t fucking wit you bitch niggaz
I’m fucking ya sis nigga, it’s Weezy

[Hook - Nikki]
If you gon’ call him Weezy
Then you must say the baby
If you don’t say the baby
Then just don’t say it at all

[Verse 2]
I’m… slick as an old mac, I’m… sick as a prozac
And… the Carter 1 was the… dick for you hoes trapped
And… this is Tha Carter 2 and… this is the bozack
Digging you hoes back, quick if I blow back
Got it… gone Rabbit
Fast ma daddy’s Rabbit at home
What up pa (what up), what up Pac (what up), what up Pun (what up)
What up Big (what up), what up Solja
As the streets get colder I get chillier
What up Left Eye (what up), what up Aaliyah (what up)
Teck 9 close by touch ‘em up
I shoot niggaz in the mouth boy pucker up
Sweet sucker tash gee golly what the fuck
Where the hell all these new pussy rappers come from
I chew ‘em up like bubble gum… yum yum
Young Weezy so troublesome, what what

[Hook - Nikki]
If you gon’ call him Weezy
Then you must say the baby
If you don’t say the baby
Then just don’t say it at all

[Verse 3]
I ain’t talking fast you just listening too slow
I’m… getting them Benjamins
Can serve like the Wimbledon
If I’m in any predicament, nervous never that
Got a gat to knock whoever back back, very flat
Chest… caved in, mess on the pavement
Splat… cherry wax, rrraaahhh… bury that
Rats… scary cat, rrraaattt carry that
Hollygrove trigga man guns in a knapsack
Area code five zero four, I ain’t Nino fucking Brown
And… this is Tha Carter ho, this is a quarter stick
This in ya garter ho, leave out the back and go straight to the corner store
Return with the cake, come wit all ma dough
And if not they find you in a lake in the morning ho
Weezy Baby please say the baby
If not, don’t ya motherfucking say it at all, bitch

[Hook - Nikki]
If you gon’ call him Weezy
Then you must say the baby
If you don’t say the baby
Then just don’t say it at all