Eavesdropping

All posts tagged Eavesdropping

On uninspired.

Published May 6, 2013 by mandileighbean

uninspired

I must admit that I have been feeling incredibly uninspired as of late.  Not only have I utterly and completely fallen off the wagon as it pertains to dieting and exercising, but I have not written anything creative in quite some time.  My journal is filled with entries in which I complain about my shortcomings and nothing more.  It is a disappointment and again, I berate myself for having nothing to write about because I have not done anything worth writing about.  There has been no chance encounter, no startling image, no overheard turn of phrase to fire up my neurons and facilitate some kind of epic brainstorming session.

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Then again, that might not be entirely true.  The other day, as Dad and I were getting ready to watch “The Following,” (which is an excellent show on FOX starring Kevin Bacon that I am thoroughly obsessed with now) he was making himself a sandwich.  As he reached for the loaf of bread in its plastic bag in a drawer beneath the meat slicer, I noticed an unpleasant look of disgust smear itself across his face.  He picked up the bag with what seemed like intolerable reluctance and hurried to place it on the kitchen table, looking at his hands in disbelief.  Naturally, I asked him what was the matter, and he told me the bag was wet.  Intrigued, I removed myself from reclining upon the couch in the living room to investigate.  None of the other bags bread, bagels, and rolls was wet.  As a matter of fact, I did not notice anything peculiar or out of place about the bread drawer.  I looked at Dad and shrugged before moving to examine the bag in question.  The top of the bag, near the tie that closed it back up, was wet and there were tiny, red dots of moisture both on the inside and the outside.  I was completely baffled and asked Dad what he thought it was.  He brought a hand to his face and sniffed.  His face went pale and he told me plainly and simply that it was blood.  Then, betraying his flair for the dramatic, he told me it smelled like “dead blood.”  While it took both my father and I all of ten seconds to figure out that while Mom had been slicing roast beef in her brand new meat slicer, some blood had dripped onto this particular bag of bread and that nothing sinister nor truly creepy had occurred, regardless of how gross it was, I thought it was a great scene to manipulate, twist and dramatize and use.

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Similarly, I had a totally bizarre dream the other night.  The details have faded and in all honestly, the dream was more like a few weeks ago than “just the other night,” but the main image has resonated and stayed put.  It was a royal blue beetle of large proportions, and with legs made of pink, plastic straws, crawling across the face of a female.  The beetle began small, walking in meandering lines across the face and out of view.  But when the female stranger turned to face me once more, the bug had suddenly become huge and covered a quarter of her face.  It seemed so genuine and real, that I wondered if I wasn’t hallucinating more than dreaming.  Thinking of hallucinations had me thinking of one of my ideas for my next novel, one involving a man on lithium and I wondered if I couldn’t somehow forge a connection between the two.  I suppose it would be fairer for me to say that there has been inspiration, but I have been too lazy to utilize it.  I need to be motivated and I promise to you that I am working on it.

 

I am reading two novels currently (one I kind of hate but have to finish now that I’ve started, but the other is absolutely fabulous) and cannot stop listening to the soundtrack for the upcoming movie “The Great Gatsby.”  My obsession has reached new heights, actually, and is not restricted to the compulsive, repetitive playing of the soundtrack.  When I visited BookTowne in Manasquan to try and set up an event, I ended up dropping off contact information and buying a t-shirt.

megatsby

I cannot remember which author it was, but rumor has it that a contemporary novelist would type out The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald whenever he had writer’s block to cure himself of it.  I am curious as to whether or not I shouldn’t give it a shot.

 

I recently ordered a photography book by Eric Meola which features Bruce Springsteen from the year 1977 to the year 1979.  Perusing the photographs and reading the lyrics and essays which accompany them, I did feel a creative sort of tingle and briefly pondered returning to the idea for my next novel which was entirely inspired by the Boss.

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I am going up to Bloomfield this afternoon for drinks with some friends from college.  I am going to catch up with some of the most wonderful and beautiful women I have had the privilege and pleasure of knowing, but also, selfishly, to perhaps be inspired.  Perhaps something will happen along the way; why knows?  I suppose the point is that no one knows, and that therein lays the point. A very wise colleague of mine, who is unfortunately retiring at the end of the academic year, encouraged me to take risks and I am proud to say I have taken that advice to heart.

brothers

On feeling like you’re about to cry.

Published July 14, 2012 by mandileighbean

Mimi and Jimmy left this morning, with Teddy, to take Jimmy back to Virginia.  I find the gray skies to be fitting.

PROMPT: “You accidentally overhear a conversation between two people you’ve never met. The topic of the conversation shocks and dismays you. Write about these conversations and describe how you respond to the content:

 ■1. A conversation between two stockbrokers

 ■2. A conversation between a priest and a member of his parish

 ■3. A conversation between a woman and the man with whom she’s been cheating on her husband

 

PIECE (#3):  I was taking the train home from the city after visiting with a friend.  We had strolled along Manhattan’s Upper East Side like we actually lived there, dreaming and scheming about ways to fabulously grow up without losing our juvenile tendencies to laugh loudly in a crowded room, to be unashamed about pretty much anything and to dream big even when the results had the potential of being disastrous.  I was staring out the window in the darkness of the night, squinting and trying to discern solid figures and shapes among the shadows.  It was difficult and as a result, I was becoming bored.  A voice in the seat behind me grabbed my attention.

“It’s not that I don’t love you, Joe – you know that I do.”  It was clearly a woman’s voice and she sounded tired, as if this conversation had been going on for months without a foreseeable end.  “It’s just that Sean offers me security and he provides for me.  Besides, he’s never been anything but sweet to me and I gave him my hand in marriage.  This has to stop.”

My mouth dropped.  Adultery?  Scandal?  I sat up a little straighter, like the change in posture would help me to hear better.  “But do you love him?  Do you love him the way you love me?” Joe asked.  There was a strain in his voice, as if Joe knew this could be the end of everything and he was running out of ingenious ways to prevent it.

The woman sighed.  “It’s different with Sean.  I’ve been trying to explain –“

“You don’t love him the way you love me, and there’s no way he can love you like the way I do!” Joe exploded.  “I could keep you safe, I could provide for you!  I could also make you happier than you’ve ever been.  Haven’t you been deliriously happy these past few months?  I know I have.”

“I have been happy, Joe.  But it’s not practical.”

“Since when does practicality have anything to do with love?”

The woman’s voice softened, as if she were gently smiling.  “That’s the artist in you, Joe.  Not everyone can live as carelessly you as do.  There have to be some responsible people in the world.”

“I’m not talking about responsibility!” Joe roared.  “Don’t treat me like a child!  I am talking about love and how if you want to be with me, then you should be with me.  Leave Sean; you haven’t really been with him since we met.”

There was a pregnant pause.  I was breathless waiting for her response, but not as tortured by it as Joe.

“It’s just not practical,” was all she said.

On missing information.

Published July 14, 2012 by mandileighbean

So for being Friday the 13th, today wasn’t half bad.  I spent some awesome time with Jimmy who, unfortunately, is returning to Virginia tomorrow.  I also had lunch with Raina and it was definitely enjoyable, and it was wonderful catching up.  Yes, the only thing that absolutely sucked was getting stuck in traffic on the way home … for HOURS.  My car has no air, so I was incredibly hot, sweaty and cranky from about 4:00PM until 7:10PM; 190 minutes of discomfort – that’s torture.

Also, I was offered the job at the school in Oakland.  It all happened really, really fast.  I assumed I was just meeting with the principal, but then my future supervisor brought me in to meet the superintendent and she asked if I was “interested.”  I told her I was, and she started talking about salary and meeting with HR after the Board of Education meeting on July 30th.  My head was spinning.  To be honest, it still is.  I’m already stressing, striking out somewhere unfamiliar on my own and far from family.  My neck hurts when I think about taking over bills, the possibility of having to commute and being independent.  I’ve told myself for the past two years that this is everything I want, but now I’m terrified.  Was it all just bravado?  Am I really content to be living at home, floating between maternity leaves?  Have I romanticized my loneliness and disappointment into something worthwhile?

I need to sleep.  Or drink heavily.  Basically, I just need to relax.

PROMPT: “You accidentally overhear a conversation between two people you’ve never met. The topic of the conversation shocks and dismays you. Write about these conversations and describe how you respond to the content:

 ■1. A conversation between two stockbrokers

 ■2. A conversation between a priest and a member of his parish

 ■3. A conversation between a woman and the man with whom she’s been cheating on her husband

 

PIECE (#2):  It had been a rough couple of months.  It had been months since I’d been to mass, let alone to confession.  Nothing had changed, everything had remained absurdly shitty, so I thought why not give the Big Man a try.  Maybe everything that could go wrong was going wrong because I’d taken Him out of the equation, so to speak.  I was desperate, and willing to try anything to get back on my feet.  I was broke, unemployed, living in my parents’ house, incredibly lonely and as if that wasn’t enough, my cat had gone missing.  Running my hands over and across my throbbing skull, I knelt in the pew closest to the altar.  I released a tremulous breath and looked up at the Crucified Christ.  His frame was twisted in a grotesque display of pain, and his stone, sorrowful eyes looked up for some relief, some absolution, something.  I was looking to Jesus, Jesus was looking to God and we both looked miserable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the priest treading carpet quickly.  He was obviously in a rush, a terrible rush, as he made sure his eyes remained downcast, evading even the most remote possibilities of making eye contact.  Intrigued by such odd behavior, – especially for a priest – I discreetly followed his progress from the rectory doors in the front, left corner of the church to the confessional booths in the middle of the back of the church.  I craned my neck, understanding that in the priest’s attempt to not see freed me to stare unashamedly.  I had never been to this particular church before, travelling to find anonymity as well as comfort, and was interested to try and case the place, to figure things out.  I worried the intrigue was over when the priest was just about to enter the confessional and begin his holy duties when the doors to the rectory flew open and a man unfamiliar to me burst onto the scene.

“Ben!” he screamed.  “You can’t keep running from this!”  The man’s shirt was stained with dirt and sweat and un-tucked.  He had run a formidable distance, but still managed to sound fierce in between gasps of air.  The priest, Father Ben as it were, remained silent.

“How can you kneel before the King and claim purity when your hands are stained?  How can you offer absolution to anyone when you are damned?”  I looked from the crazed man to Father Ben and back again, wanting to make sense of the conversation and to fill in the gaps myself.  It was near impossible, especially when Father Ben refused to participate.  As the man screamed, the priest remained perfectly still, more like a statue than a man; more like an imitation than the genuine article.

“Who are you going to confess your sins to?” the man asked.  He was gazing intently at Father Ben.  I don’t think he ever even knew I was there.

In response, Father Ben turned from the both of us and exited the church.

From what I could find out from parishioners and close friends, he never returned.  What’s worse: he never even said goodbye.

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