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All posts for the month August, 2012

On Gary Sinse.

Published August 20, 2012 by mandileighbean

I’m no one special – far from it if my greatest fears are to be realized – but I’ve been blessed enough to have some special things happen to me and my loved ones.  I got to meet Gerard Way, the lead singer of My Chemical Romance which, despite all the torment I endure from some friends, is one of my favorite bands.  He signed his comic book and talked to me for about a minute and it was nice. My friend Maeve had set the whole thing up for my 19th birthday and it meant the world to me; still does, actually.

Melanie and I traveled to Maine to vacation – but really, I was mildly stalking Stephen King – and we got to see the real Pet Sematary and meet incredibly nice people.

I visited the location where “Friday the 13th” was filmed.

Oh, and this one time, I saw Stephen Colbert walking out of a hardware store in Montclair, New Jersey.  I also saw him at Church for Palm Sunday.

But of all the random and cool things that I have been blessed enough to experience, last night was the most amazing.

Those closest to me, but particularly my college roommates, know of my love for Gary Sinise.  He stars in “CSI: New York” and most famously portrayed Lieutenant Dan in the movie, “Forrest Gump.”  He also portrayed Stu Redman in the television miniseries “The Stand,” based upon one of my favorite books of all time by my favorite author of all time, Stephen King.  Basically, Gary and I have a history in the sense that I have been stalking – again, mildly so – him for years.

It was genuinely serendipitous how the whole thing came together.  The other night, as referenced in my most recently posted short story, my family and I watched a documentary about Sinise’s band entitled, “Lt. Dan Band: For the Common Good.”  It was incredibly moving as it showcased the band’s dedication to honoring veterans, wounded warriors, first responders and those who gave all through their performances and visits overseas.  My father and I watched in awe as two of the female singers pulled a young serviceman on stage and serenaded him, hugging him and cooing in an endearing and yet incredibly embarrassing display of affection.  We cried as Sinise visited family after family, location after location and spent an impressive majority of his time and money in honoring those who serve.

I turned to my dad and said, “How great would it be if he could perform at the fundraiser for Nick?”

Dad laughed and said, “Yeah, he could pull me on stage.”

What started as a joke turned serious when I did some research on Sinise’s foundation, which monetarily and charitably aided veterans, first responders and their families.  I wrote a letter, requesting the foundation participate in Nick’s fundraiser but unfortunately, the request was not timely enough as Sinise is booked solid through the end of the year.  I clicked around and discovered that the Lieutenant Dan Band was playing at Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson – only thirty minutes from home – in four days.

My mind began to put together a wild kind of scheme – if Dad wore his uniform and we both wore our pins commemorating Nick’s memory, then maybe, just maybe we could get his attention and he could sign a DVD copy of “Forrest Gump” for us to raffle off.  Hell, maybe we could even meet him and take pictures.  It seemed doubtful, but it was worth a shot.  I bought the tickets and told Dad it was a done deal, we were going.

The day of the concert I slept in later than I wanted.  Dad and I were rushed, as he came home from work and immediately showered, shaved and changed into his uniform.  He had me type up a letter and enclose a flyer detailing the specifics of Nick’s fundraiser so that if we couldn’t speak with Sinise, we could at least pass along a letter … possibly.  As I went to the mall to pick up a copy of the movie, Dad decided to go ahead to the park where he was not charged admission, got the letter and flyer to Sinise, made friends with the New York Fire Department and then met Gary Sinise.

I shit you not (pardon my French).

When I showed up, the band was doing sound check, so I only got to watch from the stage.  As I had the camera, the merchandise for autographing and the pen, I was nervous we wouldn’t get a second chance.  I gave my dad a real hard time about meeting Sinise without me and blamed him for botching the entire operation.  It was in jest though because as the day progressed, I met amazing men and women who answered the call on September 11th and have continued to do so ever since.  I met first responders, firemen, veterans and other heroes and there were several times I could not hold back the tears.  The stories I heard and the characters I met were priceless and had I not met Sinise, the day would have been a godsend for other reasons.

When the concert started, I loved it.  I wasn’t sure what to expect at first, but the band sounded amazing and the crowd was into it.  Then my dad WAS pulled up on stage and serenaded.  Then we DID meet Gary Sinise backstage and I do not exaggerate when I say he is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, celebrity or otherwise.  He talked to us for a solid five minutes; he bonded with Dad about being in Iraq and the crazier aspects of the war, and he suffered through my gushing.  I talked about The Stand and “CSI: New York.”  I made him sign everything we brought and hugged him more times than he was probably comfortable with.  But he did it all with a smile and was never anything but gracious and friendly.

Why am I telling you this?  It isn’t to bore you with a long-winded, personal anecdote, or to impress you with my celebrity encounter.  If I am being honest with myself, which is this new thing that I’m trying, I am telling you this because I hope it restores your faith in humanity as it did mine.  Gary Sinise really does use his celebrity for good.  He pays the band members out of his own pocket as the ticket sales from every show go to charity.  Sinise will pass the time with anyone, is genuine and compassionate and just all around spectacular.

Here is the DVD Gary Sinise signed. It will be raffled off at Nick’s memorial scholarship fundraiser in September.

I asked Gary Sinise to sign my battered copy of Stephen King’s novel The Stand.

And Gary Sinise signed it, like an awesome gentleman. It says, “To Mandi, Take Care, Gary Sinise.”

Here’s photographic evidence of the encounter.

And last but not least, here is a picture I will cherish for a long, long time.

The only bummer of the day was that the incredibly attractive young man who took the pictures for my dad and me (since my camera battery died, of course) did not seem too interested.  Alas.  Also, I can’t help but think this whole enterprise was guided by some divine intervention.  I honestly believe Nick had my back the whole time.  He is sorely missed.

On idols.

Published August 17, 2012 by mandileighbean

Today marks the thirty-fifth anniversary of the death of Elvis Aaron Presley, the King of Rock and Roll.

Thirty-five years is a decent amount of time.  It’s strange to think that Elvis lived, laughed, loved, performed and perished all before I was born, before my parents even met, before I was even a thought.  Yet, here I am, mourning his death and spending an entire day reminiscing, watching corny films and old news reels, flipping through photographs and listening to scratchy, dated recordings.  Elvis and his legacy and his story have captivated me for as long as I can remember.  My father loves him, and I can remember watching a rebroadcast of the Aloha from Hawaii concert with my father, my mother and my twin sister crowded on the couch with the speakers vibrating from the effort of amplification.  My twin – who would absolutely murder me if she knew I was writing this in a place where anyone could see it – would sing along to “Fever” while shaking her hips as she stood on the couch, and I would pretend to be a crazed female fan, screaming at all the right times.  My twin was Elvis for Halloween one year, even.  He was, undoubtedly, an integral part of my childhood.

I made a pilgrimage to Graceland with a good friend, college roommate and fellow artist.  I spent hundreds of dollars and took hundreds of pictures.  I am dying to go back to experience more and learn more.

And as a result, Elvis is an integral part of who I am.  All my wildest dreams of not only becoming a successful, popular and beloved writer but of finding romance and connecting with someone as beautiful and talented as he was stem from watching him perform and researching his biography.  He is such an epic and elusive figure.  He was an enemy of the state, sure to corrupt the youth with his gyrating hips and soulful music.  But at the same time, he loved his mama and served his country.  He was a miraculous kind of contradiction that revolutionized popular culture, celebrity status, sex and music with an air of humility and authenticity that has yet to be replicated.  Sure, there were revolutionaries who came after him: the Beatles, Michael Jackson, my own beloved Bruce Springsteen, but he was the first.  Elvis is an original.

And because Elvis was a phenomenon unfamiliar to our culture, we didn’t know how to truly deal with him.  Parents scorned him, adolescent males wanted to be him and dyed their hair dark and gelled it to perfection and adolescent females cried and swooned and held out glossy photographs in quaking hands.  We loved him, but he was removed because he was rich and famous – wildly so.  Thus, his story turned tragic and he became one of the first, but unfortunately not the last, victims of the machine of Hollywood.  Everyone watched him implode and mourned the loss.

I’ve pontificated at length about Bruce Springsteen and how he is a romantic hero of mine.  I have to admit, and not just because I’m mourning the anniversary of his death, that Elvis is a greater romantic hero.  His songs and his personal life meld together in my mine to create a kind of colossal figure that is to be loved and admired and feared and pitied and mourned.  As always, Bruce said it best: “…it was like he came along and whispered some dream in everybody’s ear, and somehow we all dreamed it.”  John Lennon, another performer gone too soon, said: “Before Elvis, there was nothing.”  Bob Dylan said: “When I first heard Elvis’ voice, I just knew that I wasn’t going to work for anybody; and nobody was going to be my boss…Hearing him for the first time was like busting out of jail.” Hell, even 50 Cent bowed to the King when describing the difference between him being in Vegas and Elvis being there: “That period was different. When Elvis was there, they were stopping everything. Elvis had the moment for real. While I’m here, it’s not all about 50 Cent, but it was all about Elvis.”

Elvis is an inspiration and a cautionary tale.  He is the stuff of American legend.  He is greatly admired and missed tremendously.  Of course, I am speaking personally and would never dare presume to speak for anyone else.  I really would love to meet a boy who looks like Elvis, who performs like Elvis, and who is as passionate as Elvis was.

I’ll leave with you a few quotes from the King himself, and wish you all a good night.

“I ain’t no saint, but I’ve tried never to do anything that would hurt my family or offend God…I figure all any kid needs is hope and the feeling he or she belongs. If I could do or say anything that would give some kid that feeling, I would believe I had contributed something to the world.” –Elvis commenting to a reporter, 1950’s.

“When I was a child, ladies and gentlemen, I was a dreamer. I read comic books and I was the hero of the comic book. I saw movies and I was the hero in the movie. So every dream I ever dreamed has come true a hundred times…I learned very early in life that: ‘Without a song, the day would never end; without a song, a man ain’t got a friend; without a song, the road would never bend – without a song.’ So I keep singing a song. Goodnight. Thank you.” –From his acceptance speech for the 1970 Ten Outstanding Young Men of the Nation Award, given at a ceremony on January 16, 1971. (Elvis quotes from copyrighted material with lines from the song “Without a Song”.)

“Man, I was tame compared to what they do now. Are you kidding? I didn’t do anything but just jiggle.”  –From the press conference prior to his record-breaking Madison Square Garden shows in New York City, 1972

“…the image is one thing and the human being is another…it’s very hard to live up to an image.” –From the press conference prior to his record-breaking Madison Square Garden shows in New York City, 1972

On making trips home.

Published August 16, 2012 by mandileighbean

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, hello there stranger.

It’s been some time since I last wrote, and I apologize.  I suppose I could lie and say that I was terribly, terribly busy.  I could lie and say that I was off doing fabulous things with the most interesting people.  I could lie and say that I had remarkable adventures that taught me things about myself in the process.  That seems like something a writer would do, no?

I have a feeling you’d be able to call my bluff, so let me be honest and save myself some embarrassment.  The family reunion was fun; it really was, even though I acted like a fool by drinking too much, throwing up and passing out.  I awoke the next morning, sweaty beneath a heavy blanket on a hammock with unfamiliar faces casting sideways glances.  I was embarrassed and took it easy the remainder of the party by sleeping.  I kicked myself for being so lame when I had been so excited for a break in the monotony.

The week after the reunion, my nephew Jimmy came to stay with us.  I turned down a teaching job in favor of another closer to home and though I believe I did what was best, I shed a lot of tears and twisted and turned my stomach into all sorts of knots about the whole thing.  I am a people pleaser; I like to make everyone happy, or at least I like to try to make everyone happy because in my short time upon this earth, I realize that it truly is impossible to please everyone.  I let people down and I am truly sorry.

Missy, my oldest sister, came to pick up Jimmy and brought Jack with her.  She had to take care of some legal documents, so she stayed through until Tuesday.

And that brings us to today.  Dad and I visited the veterans’ cemetery to pay our respects to Grandpa, Nick and Ron.  Nick and Ron were classmates of mine.  The trip inspired me to write a short story which I plan on submitting for publication to at least two magazines.  It is very rough – still needs to be edited and re-worked, but I thought I’d share it here with you.  I hope you enjoy it, and I’d like to dedicate the effort to Grandpa, Nick and Ron; heroes I was blessed to know.

MAKING THE TRIP BACK HOME

It was hot, but not unseasonably so because after all, it was August.  The sun for sorrow would not show its head, or so the romantic in me liked to believe, and spent the majority of its time behind large, stationary, ominous-looking clouds.  It was warm, but not sunny and the contradiction carried itself through the day’s activity; it seemed I only visited the cemetery in the summer, and only on the hottest days.  I don’t know why I did this and even now, I can’t say for sure what it is about the warmth and the light and the life of summer that makes me travel to the painful nostalgia and ever present grief of a haven for the dead.  I have been to visit my grandpa’s grave three times in the twelve years since his passing, and each time it has been so warm that my fingertips burn against the metal marker, and I can smell the pine needles baking on the outskirts of the trees, lying in the rays and simply simmering.  Every time I visit, I cry so that the mascara runs down my cheeks and every time, I forget to bring tissues so that, as embarrassing as it is to admit, my fingers and forearms become snotty messes.  I used to only kneel and say a prayer and kiss the corner of my grandpa’s marker, but unfortunately, in the past two years, I’ve added two more stops to my tour of grief.

That day, I convinced my dad to come with me.  He’s a combat veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and we had been talking about making the trip out to the cemetery for a while.  It’s hard to say for certain what finally got us moving.  Maybe it was the fact that Dad had attended Nathan’s funeral with me and had a vague understanding of how his passing had affected me.  Maybe it was because he missed Grandpa as much as Mom did, as Grandpa was the only father Dad ever knew; his own had been absent and his stepfather had been abusive, so when Dad met Mom, he was adopted into the family readily.  Grandpa helped Dad earn a job on the waterfront and had taken him under his wing.  Maybe it was because the night before, we had watched a particularly moving and patriotic documentary about a band that toured military bases and performed in support of the USO and veterans.  Whatever the reason, Dad and I were going on a random Wednesday in August and we were taking his car, as mine did not have working air conditioning and it was hot as hell.

During the thirty-minute drive, conversation was easy between Dad and me, but sporadic and usually superficial.  Dad was the kind of father who loved fiercely and blindly and did so through fun times and crazy antics.  He took us kids canoeing in icy cold water down the river that ran through the neighborhood and when the canoe flipped, he scrambled to get us on shore to safety and then dove back in for his keys.  He’d run after the school bus after my twin sister and I boarded it.  He would wave his arms wildly in the air and run for about a block and all the other kids would laugh and point and whisper.  My sister and I would feign embarrassment and rolls our eyes in commiseration about the insane guy running down a school bus but in all honesty, it meant everything to us.  He would tell us to say “shit” after we got hurt to stop the tears and start the smiles.  He would give us money to go out with friends even if Mom said no, and would always play chauffeur when asked.  He was a great father, so when he went to serve his country overseas for a year, the family was apprehensive and terrified.  The greatest fear was that he wouldn’t come home.  The second greatest fear was that he would come home, but would no longer resemble the loving, traditional Southern boy who left his children in stitches when he showed us the “Flea Circus” and unwittingly killed the performers when he gave appreciative applause, or who would offer to tell us a dirty joke and then say, “A white horse fell in the mud.”

When Dad did come home, he was different but the change was slight.  He was more reserved.  While he’d still be the first guy to offer you the shirt off his back, he wasn’t as forthcoming, I guess you could say.  One night, shortly after he returned, he was out in his shed.  It was light and moths were thudding against the floodlight Dad had attached himself over the entrance.  Music was playing softly and he had been out there for hours.  It made me nervous, seeing him so removed and with tears in my eyes, I begged my mother to check on him, convincing myself he was going to commit suicide.  Mom told me I was being silly, and I was; Dad did no such thing and never would.  As a writer, I have a flair for the dramatic and it can be bothersome at times.  I wanted Dad to be as dramatic as I was, to cry and spill his guts and then move on.  I wanted to talk about Iraq and everything he had seen and everything he had done and then I wanted to lock it all up in an iron chest and sink it somewhere far away and blue.  I didn’t want to watch him cry silently during war movies, or look for him in a crowd to realize he was already back at the car because it was too much for him to handle.

It wasn’t until some five years after his return that Dad started to open up.  Before, there was no way in hell he’d come with me to the cemetery.  Now, here he was beside me, where I always wanted and always needed him.  It was an improvement and it was progress, but he was still haunted by the memories and doing his best to cope.  Every once in a while, a vivid image would come through and he would share it to stunned silence.  Like the time we were eating dinner and in the middle of a laugh, he described how he’d been doing the same in Iraq, when a bullet struck a man to his right.  Dad remembered the man had been drinking Coca Cola from a glass bottle and the bullet had travelled up through the bottom of the bottle and exploded the glass and the man’s mouth.  He was dead instantly.  Mom didn’t know what to say or what to do and neither did I or any of my siblings.  As much as I wanted Dad to release his emotions and heal, I didn’t want to witness it.  It made the war real in a disturbing kind of way.  But my father had returned home safe and, in contrast, that kept the reality of the horrors of war at bay.  Dad had to live through near tangible recollections, but I did not.  Like Dad, Grandpa had been unscathed by war.  He served during the Korean War but only for a brief time.  Grandpa passed because of congestive heart failure, not because an unfriendly face on foreign soil had ensured his demise.  When I thought of Grandpa, I thought of his perfect pancakes and so-delicious-it-should-be-illegal spaghetti sauce.  I thought of his lack of fashion sense and the typewriters he’d buy, only to let me break them a short time later.  I had relatives who had been to war, sure, but they had made it home safe and sound.

We visited Grandpa’s grave first and in retrospect, I think we visited Charles Louis Thogode first because subconsciously, it was easiest to deal with.  Twelve years had passed; the grief was aged and manageable.  Dad knelt to clear it off grassy debris; the groundskeepers were mowing and weed whacking nearby.  I planted a small kiss on my fingertips and transplanted it onto the corner.  Dad breathed easy, smiled and whispered, “Hey Charlie.”  That was it; there were no heaving sobs, no collapsed bodies, no desperate minds begging for answers.  Dad and I, we were okay.  We walked back to the car, ready to continue onward, when a middle-aged man called to us.  He asked, “Find what you were looking for?”  He must have seen the pair of us meandering through the rows.  He must have heard us calling out plot numbers and reading out names.  He had a full, gray beard and a rather rotund belly.  Stretched over the pronounced stomach was a tee-shirt that read, “Property of Grandkids.”  He had a ball cap on and sunglasses.  His unremarkable shorts ended at his knobby knees, knees which were nearly swallowed up by tall socks.  The man certainly looked the part of the doting yet incorrigible grandpa.

Dad would talk to anyone and everyone.  Walking over, he smiled and said, “Yeah, but we got two more to see.”

“Tell you what,” the old man began, “counting this one, I’ve got –“ he paused to count upon stubby fingers – “ten in all.  This one was my colleague.  I was his ‘boss,’ but I never pulled rank on him not once.  Every time I come, I make sure to visit him first.  Next is my daughter-in-law; today is her forty-fifth birthday and she’s buried next to my son.”  The old man then proceeded to list seven other relatives who had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country and were now resting beneath the grass around us.  Dad offered his condolences, as did I, and we parted.  I was trying to hurry away, hiding the tears of sympathy I couldn’t stop from the poor man who was smiling, sharing memories and looking for a connection.  Dad was there, ready to be a compassionate ear but I wasn’t as strong as all that.  I could only show pity and buckle beneath the emotional weight hanging all about the place, waiting to drop when it was least expected.

Across the way was the burial site for Ryan Klein, the first of my classmates to become a casualty of war.  We weren’t close and hadn’t spoken in some time before his death.  The last time I saw him had been at the local mall.  He was just passing through, hurriedly walking, and I was with friends, friends who were not his friends.  That’s not to say there was animosity of any kind, only different social groups.  But Ryan had always been kind and I remember he hugged me, told me about his band and what else he had been up to and wished me well.  That was the last time I ever saw him.  He moved and went to a different high school and I was ignorant of what path led him to Afghanistan and the military.  When I learned of his death, I did not immediately recall that last encounter, but instead, I remembered fifth grade.  We were having a Valentine’s Day party in class and Ryan thought I was cool because I watched wrestling and knew who KISS was.  No one had ever thought I was cool before, and few have used that adjective to describe me since.  I remembered bonding with him during that party and though it was a brief connection, passing as quickly as childhood itself, I am grateful for it.  Standing at his grave, looking at the cold, stone numbers and performing mathematical equations like some kind of masochist to remind myself we were the same age and I was there and he was not, the tears came freely.  Dad bent to clear the grave of the debris, telling me absent-mindedly that “The guys do the best they can,” reassuring me no disrespect was meant, that it was just a side effect of lawn maintenance.  I nodded and slipped my sunglasses down from atop my head to over my leaking eyes, trying to make Dad more comfortable.  He tried to do the same for me, and thought it’d be best to keep me moving, so we went to visit Nathan O’Sullivan.

Nathan and I had gone to school together from kindergarten to graduation.  Up until the fifth grade, I was enamored of Nathan.  Having an older sister, I was exposed to cinematic notions of romance at a young age and thought such escapades were easily attainable at ten years old.  Other girls in my grade had boyfriends, and I was too young to realize what a farce it all was.  I wanted Nathan to be my boyfriend and I asked him to be my Valentine every year.  Nathan said no because to say yes would have been social suicide, even at such a young age.  I was weird; I read too much and didn’t play any sports.  I was overweight and didn’t care much about how I looked.  What I lacked in beauty, I made up in persistence and it paid off.  Close to the end of fifth grade, there was a school dance.  Nathan promised to save the last song for me.  Dressed in one of my mom’s shirts and my mom’s pants because I was too fat to wear anything like the other girls, I waited anxiously in the middle of the gym for Nathan.  He showed up, and I was elated.  We stood next to one another and silently rocked to Selena’s “Dreaming of You.”  Later that night, back in the bedroom I shared with my twin sister, I couldn’t stop smiling and thought that was the beginning of everything.  It wasn’t, but that’s okay.

I saw Nathan every now and again through middle school and high school.  Occasionally, we’d have the same class and we would reminisce together about our elementary school years.  It was nice.  I had nothing but fond memories and nice things to say.  So when I received a text message during work about his passing, it hit me hard.  I was working at the Navy Exchange at the local naval base; I was in a tiny, little room with small, covered windows, counting money.  I was trapped in there with the sudden news and onslaught of emotion and I didn’t know what to do.  Ryan had died a year earlier and now Nathan was gone.  Two little boys that I had known, one of which I had even fawned over, had become men and had become heroes but were gone.  We weren’t the invincible students that we once were.  We were young adults, making hard and fast decisions and living with the consequences.  It was a dose of reality I didn’t want and railed against, but failed.  Nothing was promised, nothing was guaranteed, and it truly was a blessing that Dad had made it home.  Not everyone did, and now I knew that.  That knowledge was awful, and it was enough to knock the wind from me.  I knelt before Nathan’s grave and just cried.  I told him I was sorry, and I thanked him.  I was that fat kid again, with swollen, stubby fists scrawling “Nathan and Mandi” in an untidy scrawl across a notebook.  How could he be gone?

How could Ryan be gone?  With chocolate smeared across our bright, innocent faces, we had discussed the finer points of The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin.  He had taught me about Generation X and how to perform the “Suck It” move that would completely infuriate my parents.  He had invited me to his birthday party.  How could he be gone?

And how could I still be here?  I felt guilty.  Dad had made it home and I had been so unappreciative of that fact.  All of the grief, the guilt, the despair, the mortality, and the uncertainty were purged in liquid form.  Dad thought it’d be best to leave me by myself and said he’d be at the car, but that I should take my time.  I wanted to thank him, to throw my arms around him, to keep him safe and close for forever and always, but I only nodded.  I sat and sobbed and felt stupid and small for a few minutes more before I returned to the car.

On the way home, Dad stopped at a roadside produce stand.  The sky was cloudier than before and was threatening rain, but Dad didn’t seem to care as he pulled in the gravel drive.  He put the car in park and told me I could stay where I was, that he’d just be a couple of minutes.  I watched him climb out of the car and shut the door.  He trotted over to the cart, heading straight to the watermelons.  He made small talk with the woman running the stand, asked about an antique car under a blue tarp, kept secure with heavy-looking rocks.  He bought a watermelon and more tomatoes that was practical, breathlessly explaining to me that he had made out like a bandit, that it had been a real deal.

On the way home, Dad showed me houses he had looked at with Mom before deciding on the unassuming, one-story ranch.  He showed me two, both painted white with finished basements.

On the way home, Dad made the radio louder and sang along to the country songs he knew and loved.

On the way home, I smiled at Dad and was thankful – incredibly grateful – for all of the trips home he had made, and for all of the trips home he would make, and for the trips home we got to make together.

In loving memory of my grandpa, Charles Louis Thogode.

In loving memory of Ron Kubik.

In loving memory of Nick Ott.

 

On mini vacations.

Published August 2, 2012 by mandileighbean

I have somewhat of a big day tomorrow.  First, I have a meeting that could affect all the other recent decisions I have made. Second, I am traveling to our annual family reunion that takes place at my aunt’s cabin every year.  We end up having a great time reminiscing and enjoying adult beverages on top of a mountain; I am very excited for the escape.

I won’t be able to update while I’m away, but I promise I will be writing and will be able to entertain you with all sorts of stories upon my return.

Stay gold. ❤

On video games.

Published August 1, 2012 by mandileighbean

I slept late today, despite going to bed at a decent hour.  I woke up feeling useless and felt that way for the remainder of the day.  Clearly, I could have done something productive or even just gone outside, but all I did was sat at this very computer and work on my music library in iTunes.  My library is very, very close to being as complete as it can be, considering I download new songs every day.  It’s not much, and I felt bad about being so aimless and tedious in the day’s activity, but I found a way to rationalize my behavior (as I always do).

Music quite literally is my muse.  When I sit down to write, and I’m talking every single time, I have music playing in the background.  I am pretty sure I mentioned in a previous entry that Her Beautiful Monster basically wrote itself after I listened to “Runs In The Family” by Amanda Palmer a couple of thousands of times.  I’ve developed an inspirational playlist for what I hope to become my second novel and I listen to it constantly; I even have it playing on repeat as I sleep.  A major song on that list is “I’m On Fire” by Bruce Springsteen, and that song also plays a role in Her Beautiful Monster.

For me as a writer, I believe music plays such a large role in my creative process because I think in images.  I see my stories as a movie in my head, in scenes, and every movie needs a killer soundtrack.  For today’s entry, I am going to share with you lyrics to the song “No Place to Hide” by Jace Everett.  The song was featured in an episode of “True Blood” last season and is epic (Everett also sings the theme song to the show, “Bad Things”).  The song is also what I was listening to as I wrote tonight’s prompt.

No Place to Hide

Jace Everett

There’s no place to hide down here
There’s no place to hide down here
Went to the rock, got on my knees
I heard the angels weep for me
No place to hide down here

Now where’s my brother’s keeper?
Who holds the flaming sword?
The field had turned to crimson
Thought I hid it from the Lord
But somewhere east of Eden
His blood cried out from the ground
I hung my head in shame where I was found

There’s no place to hide down here
No place to hide down here
Went to the rock, got on my knees
I heard the angels weep from me
No place to hide down here

Now I’m a wandering stranger
A scar for a name
A mark so deep and black my children’s children feel the shame
Oh merciful and gracious Lord, when shall I be released?
Was blood that has condemned me; only blood can set me free

There’s no place to hide down here
No place to hide down here
Went to the rock, got on my knees
I heard the angels weep for me
No place to hide down here
No, there’s no place to hide down here

There’s no place to hide down here

PROMPT: “You don’t have enough points, sir.”

PIECE: “You don’t have enough points, sir,” said a mechanical voice from somewhere behind Ben.  He whirled around, fast enough to make his head spin, and met an elderly gentleman who seemed spry enough and reminded him of a butler.  Ben cleared his throat and tried to calm his breathing.  Other than trying to regain his composure, Ben did nothing except stare at the old man whom he had assumed was the one that spoke.  As if he could read Ben’s mind and wanted to assuage Ben’s uncertainty, the old man said again, “You don’t have enough points, sir.”

“Enough points for what?” Ben asked, clearly confused.

“You do not have enough points to continue on, sir.”  The old man’s tone of voice was exacting, intimating there would be no room for debate and any pleas for charity or mercy would fall upon deaf ears.  Ben was going to try anyway.

“But I have to get through those large, wooden doors.  My lady is on the other side, in grave danger, and she is waiting for me to come to her rescue,” he argued.  He motioned to the doors before him with gloved hands.  The path led straight through the doors and continued on the other side, and the instructions given to Ben by the old, gypsy woman in the forest at the beginning of the journey had been explicit; do not stray from the path as it will lead to your love.  The gypsy also mentioned that time was of the essence and Ben needed to get a move on.  He had had enough of a delay already, between fighting off the robbers in the woods and evading the monstrous beasts that were chasing him.

“Well, sir, if I may be frank, you should have thought about points before making it this far.”  The old man’s face was impassive, almost impossibly serious.  How could any human being be so stern, so completely devoid of emotion or compassion?  It was then that it dawned on Ben that this man may not be a man at all.

“But I don’t understand,” Ben persisted.  “How was I supposed to know how many points a task was worth?  I fought my way here – do you understand?  I was nearly killed by thieves on countless occasions and as I was surviving, the awful, hideous monsters pursuing me crept closer and closer.  I have spilled blood and shed some of my own.  I have seen terror and have not flinched.  I have earned the right to advance, so let me through!”

The old man did not seem impressed.  He crossed his thin arms over his frail chest and walked around Ben to stand before the wooden doors.  “You may not pass.  You don’t have enough points, sir.”

Ben stopped thinking and his right hand immediately found the hilt of his sword.  What was stopping him from running the old man through?  How many points would Ben earn if he were to slit the old man upon and spit upon the intenstines that fell to the dusty ground?  A demonic smile tried to fit itself upon Ben’s mouth, but he came to his senses before it could fully materialize.  If he were to kill this old man, what would he become?  Ben reasoned he would be no better than the thieves he had killed, no better than the monsters coming after him, and no better than the cowards who had taken his lady love hostage.  He needed a different approach.  He sighed, suddenly weary, and asked the old man, “How can I get more points?”

The old man smiled.

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