Allusions

All posts tagged Allusions

On archetypes and assumptions.

Published September 4, 2012 by mandileighbean

I have to be at the high school around 7:30AM tomorrow.  I really am excited for the school year and to be teaching full-time.  The only aspect I’m currently apprehensive about is waking up before 9:30AM, as has been my habit the last month.  Also, I’ve been suffering from insomnia lately, tossing and turning for at least an hour before falling asleep that is restless and broken.  More often than not, I pop an irritated open to see the neon green lights of my alarm clock glowing an absurdly early time.  I know I will be exhausted, but I’ll just have to power through it; no big deal.

Well, I say it’s no big deal but that is easier said than done.  I know my anxiety comes from the upcoming academic year and I have yet to figure out how to master my own emotions.  Does that come with age, or does that elude us all for forever and ever, amen?

I finished reading Divergent by Veronica Roth today.  It was highly entertaining and there were times where I had to physically force myself to put it down.  The characters were well-developed and I admired the allegorical aspect of the novel, as well as the adult themes that were presented and successfully tackled, despite the novel’s Young Adult label.  I’m not sure if I’ll read the others in the series, and I’m not sure if that fact detracts from my glowing review.

I started running again.  My goal is to be able to go to where the pavement ends, and then back again.  I was able to do it about a year ago, and I remember how amazing it felt to be sore, to try on clothes and have them fit, and to feel pretty.  I did gain back some of the weight I lost, but the trick is to not let it get me down, and to stop the bleeding; start losing instead of continuing to gain.  My mantra this time around is “I want to look the way I want to feel when the man I love takes me in his arms.”  I know my friends will say that I shouldn’t lose weight to impress the opposite sex, and that it is a personal decision I should make for myself, and they are right.  But I am also a realist; how will anyone find me attractive if I don’t even find myself attractive?  There is a certain kind of confidence and appeal that goes along with looking good and feeling good.  That is what I’m truly after.

I haven’t heard anything about the editing process for my novel, so I sent an e-mail politely asking for an updated.  In turn, I will keep you all updated.  I’m anxious to hold a copy in my hand, to begin marketing myself and my dream and my passion.

I love when I walk into my bedroom and “Thunder Road” is playing.

PROMPT: “I’ll have an egg-white omelet and a side of sausage.  And a beer, if you’ve got one.”

PIECE: I watched the man in the paint-splattered jeans mosey on up to the counter, his flannel shirt stretched tight across a pronounced belly.  His trucker hat sported greasy thumbprints along the brim, and he could use a good shave.  I smiled brightly enough, always keeping tips in mind, even though I had dismissed him as a vagrant, as just another truck driver passing through.  Their faces seldom repeated, though their stories were eerily similar.  They’d been on the road for months and were either running back home, or running from their loneliness.  The trick to handling such customers, and how to get awesome tips, was to listen patiently with a sad, but understanding smile.  These guys ate it up every time.  Oozing confidence in my pheromones – or at least, I felt like I was – I walked in front of the man who had just entered the diner, immediately pouring him a cup of coffee.  Not yet meeting his eyes, I smiled wide and asked, “What can I get for you today, buddy?”  Buddy was an excellent moniker; truckers used it among themselves regularly, so it helped me give the impression that I was an insider, almost one of them.

“I’ll have an egg-white omelet and a side of sausage.  And a beer, if you’ve got one.”

I stopped pouring, even though the cup was nowhere near full.  Wide-eyed and bearing an incredulous smile, I met the trucker’s eyes and let a small laugh escape me.  He had to be kidding.  It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.  “A beer?” I asked, repeating his order so he could hear it back and recognize the insanity within.

“Yeah, if you’ve got one,” he said, cool as could be, like it was the most normal thing in the world to order at the breakfast counter in a diner in a small town before the hour of nine.

“Um,” I say, trying to be careful with my words and being unable to stop myself, “it’s not even nine o’clock, yet.”

The trucker smiled and dropped his gaze.  It wasn’t an act of submission; it seemed to me like he was feigning humility, like he was finally acknowledging the social taboo he was committing.  “Darling, if you knew the night I’d had, you wouldn’t begrudge me a beer.”  His eyes rose to meet mine, and at the utter sadness that tinged the edges, I felt my heart ache.  Whatever had happened to this man was terrible, and he believed it warranted a beer.  Who was I to argue?  Besides, I was looking to cash in on the tip and the first rule of customer service is that the customer is always right.

“Let me see what I can do,” I offered.  Before I hurried to the back, I finished pouring his coffee, set out the creamers and sugar, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.  I asked Rick, the manager, if it’d be okay and Rick poked his head out from the swinging doors of the kitchen, scanning the counter.  His assessment of the man must have been that he seemed harmless enough, because Rick nodded and then promptly continued shouting at the kitchen staff.  I left to the sanctuary that was the fridge and grabbed an amber bottle.  Lucky for me, we only carried one brand.  I returned before the customer with the odd request, opened the bottle using the hem of my uniform and handed it to him.  “Here you are,” I smiled.

“Thanks, darling; this is greatly appreciated.”  The man drank from the bottle like he had never done so before and never would again; like that beer in that diner was all that mattered.  I watched him with growing fascination and growing curiosity.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what was it that gave you such a thirst so early in the morning?”  I lean against the counter casually, so it looks like I’m talking to a friend with genuine concern, rather than humoring a customer.

His eyes roam over me, but not in a creepy, perverted way.  He was measuring me up, trying to make sense of me.  His brows furrowed for a moment before he said, “How about you run and put my order in and then I’ll tell you all about it?”

I blush deeply – what a rookie mistake – and quickly scrawl a ticket, running it back to the line.  When I return, the customer who has so consumed me is drinking again, drinking deeply from the beer bottle.  The coffee remains untouched.  I grin, perhaps admittedly somewhat impressed by such a display of manly tolerance, and resume my lean.  “Okay; I’m all ears.”

He set the bottle down and preferred to tear at the already peeling label, soaked from condensation, rather than make eye contact.  “Well, darling, if I am to be perfectly honest – and that is something I pride myself on – then I was on a romantic date with a pretty young thing, not unlike yourself.”  I smiled and bowed my head in recognition, just like I was expected to.  I’m not sure if he saw it because he was so preoccupied with getting the entire label off cleanly, in one long, exaggerated rip.  “I got myself all dolled up.  I bought new cologne and everything, had the flowers and the candy all ready and raring to go, and would you believe it?  She never showed.”

I gasped dramatically.  “You’re kidding,” I said.

“I wish I was, darling; I wish I was.”  He paused a moment, maybe to collect his thoughts or to let the weight of his sentiment settle properly over the conversation.  “I was hurt, like any man would be.  I felt I deserved an explanation.  So I drive over there and I’m going to knock on her door when I notice the curtains for the front window are wide open and that I can see into her living room.  I look – I couldn’t help it – and there she is, sucking on the neck of some guy I had never seen before.”

I frowned, offering up my sympathies.  I asked, “Had you been together long?”

“We had been closing in on a year.  I thought I was going to marry that woman and have a beautiful family.  But she had other plans, and boy, did I feel like a fool.  I needed to give her and him a piece of my mind, so I banged on the door.”  The label came off in a loud, aggressive tear and I jumped, startled by the sound.  He didn’t look to me.  He kept staring at the bottle and when he spoke next, it was in a dead sounding tone.  “She let me in and I was screaming loud enough to wake the dead- I mean, loud enough to wake the neighbors.  I grabbed her shoulders but I didn’t do it hard, just so I knew I had her full attention, and that’s when the guy came up behind me and started choking me, pulling me back.”  He looked to me and he must have seen something in my eyes and in my expression that verified the authenticity of my attention.  He leaned forward.  “Do you know what I did next, darling?”

I shook my head.

“I killed them both.”

I leaned back from him, terrified.  Rationale and logic returned soon, and I smiled, though it was most certainly skeptical and didn’t quite meet my eyes.  “You’re putting me on,” I accused, though I did my best to keep my tone playful.  His expression didn’t change – it was still intense and terrifying – but I threw my head back and laughed.  There was no way he was a murderer.  There was no way I was in any danger.  Those things only happened in melodramas created for the television, cinema and literary scene.  “Oh boy,” I said, laughter subsiding, “you had me going there.”  I slapped the counter with my palm.  “I’ll go check on your omelet and sausage.  I’ll be right back.”  I offered him a wink and departed.

As soon as I was out of his sight, my knees buckled and I had to grip the nearest counter edge for support.  Rick heard the metallic clatter and turned.  He nearly ran to my side and grabbed my elbows, raising me to my feet and offering support.  “What happened, Angel?  Are you okay?”

“That guy,” I said, suddenly breathless and feeling like I could wail, “that guy who ordered the beer, just confessed to killing two people.”

I expected Rick to do what I did; to laugh and dismiss it as insanity, but something about my appearance must have scared him.  “Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s sitting at the counter – he’s the only one there.”

Rick left me momentarily and when he returned, he looked confused.  I could understand – the guy looked like any other driver, weary from the road and looking for a meal.  He slipped his fingers under my chin and raised it, ensuring we were making full eye contact.  He licked his lips, like his mouth had suddenly gone dry, and he said, “Angel, there isn’t anyone at the counter.”

On trying to inspire.

Published April 24, 2012 by mandileighbean

I stayed for an hour after school today with two young women from the section of creative writing I am teaching.  We discussed their works, their methods and what their goals were for the rest of the year.  I believe I helped the girls, and the other day, another student said I was the type of teacher that could change a student’s life, that I was supportive and motivational.  Though my goal is to be a writer, teaching and thereby touching lives is not a bad way to make a living.

After school, family came over for a couple of hours and my schedule was wrecked.  I didn’t get a chance to write, but I thought I’d share with you my favorite poem of all time. Hopefully, it can inspire those of you who write.

Enjoy.

 

🙂

 

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.         125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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