Indie

All posts tagged Indie

On longing to be trendy.

Published February 25, 2013 by mandileighbean

“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story and writes another.”

– James Matthew Barrie

This week’s way to blast my blubber was to use time wisely; if there are only 30 minutes free in your daily schedule, use it to pack a nutritious lunch and to closely watch what you eat, rather than try to squeeze in a workout. I usually stick to that rule, but this week, I worked harder to make sure I did not go over my daily calorie limit. As a result, I lost three pounds this week. My confidence is bolstered and my determination has more than doubled. So please ignore the fact that I am currently contradictorily snacking on some Funyuns.

My colleague, Jill Ocone, is such an inspiration. She is truly following her passion, regardless of cost. She stopped living to work, stopped being consumed by work at home. There is no reason why I cannot do the same.

photocone

Sometimes, when I am running in the morning, I try very, very hard to find the moon in the sky. I make myself dizzy by searching in spinning circles, neck bent uncomfortably backwards, and though there are plenty of stars to go around, I cannot find the moon.

Sometimes, when I am running in the morning, it is so frigid that my iPod’s battery is completely drained after about 20 minutes. I do not usually get rattled on my morning walk and jog, but with no contemporary music to drown them out, I become aware of the creepiest sounds. The wind makes the branches of the trees creak and groan. A few American flags snap in wavelengths. A dry, crunchy leaf scuttles across the barren pavement – the perfect horror movie soundtrack and every now and again, I snap my neck this way and that in a futile attempt to determine the cause of some noisy disturbance in the blackness around me. Was the snapping of a twig merely evidence of movement by some furry, cuddly woodland creature, or something more sinister, if, in fact, it even existed at all?

I think I need to indulge in writing some fan fiction again; it can inspire something of literary merit. Many borrow characters and plot lines and images to create a foundation for something new. Currently, I am thinking of “True Blood;” I know vampires are passé, but I keep having this recurring image of a beautiful but battered young woman with a bruised and broken body and beaten face. She is sitting in the front pew of an old and tiny church, at the end. She has been crying, sitting and staring straight ahead with dead, vacant eyes for presumably hours. Then, a devastatingly handsome man – or monster? Or a creature? – suddenly appears, standing in the carpeted aisle beside her. He looks concerned and seems genuine, but her response is icy cold: “You don’t belong here.”
It’s not like her to be cruel, especially not to him, so he deflects her verbal barb with an easy smile and explains, as he has done many times before, that vampires not being able to enter churches in actually a myth, and he’s about to begin a long-winded explanation when she cuts him off.
Misunderstood, she nearly snarls to clarify that she knows damn well that he can be there, but she does not want him there. She has wounded him and it shows all over his face.
“I’m not the one who beat the shit out of you. Why are you so pissed at me?” Though her body language is coming through loud and clear that she wants to be left the fuck alone, he sits beside her. Begrudgingly, she moves for him.
And I want her to unravel – tell him EVERYTHING. Her boyfriend, a bartender who is slowly but surely developing a drinking problem, got loaded and hit her. It has never happened before and she believes her boyfriend is really and truly sorry, but everything is different now and that is sad and scary. She was trying to help him, to be loving and supportive and all the good things, but she still got rocked. In her moment of weakness, she is bitter and vengeful and hateful. It is unlike her, and it makes him nervous. He is not easily rattled and his change in demeanor is not lost on her, though her demeanor is changing as well. She asks him if he’s all right, seamlessly slipping back into old habits and tired behavior.
He laughs without much humor and says that he’s fine, that she shouldn’t give a damn if he’s fine or not, and that maybe she should be more vicious and guarded, like it might not be such a bad thing. She nods and wipes her eyes. Silence falls over them and he feels as if he needs to break it, so he asks her how long she’s been there.
She shrugs and says nothing.
He suggests they leave and go somewhere else.
“Why?”
“Because, honestly, you’re just sitting and stewing in your misery and that solves nothing- it only begets more misery.”
“What could we do?”
It’s an innocent question, but the answers that immediately spring to his mind are not. He takes a second to compose himself because he doesn’t want to scare her; she is good and pure and that is what he likes – loves? – about her. He has to protect it; he has to keep it safe. “Where have you always wanted to go, but have never been?” “France,” she answers without hesitation, like she’s simply been waiting to be asked that very question.

“… if you’d only asked me.”

“If I don’t ask you, would you ever think of asking me?”

truebloodbilleric

I am always surprised (whether it is pleasant or not has yet to be determined) by which blog posts garner the most attention and end up receiving the largest amount of views. The last entry I posted was personal and somewhat pessimistic, kind of made me seem shallow and pitiful, and has more views than the short story I wrote. A wonderfully caring colleague sent me a Facebook message absolutely dripping with sympathy and a classmate whom I have not seen nor spoken to in years, left an encouraging, empathetic and appreciated comment on my blog. These things surprise me.

I guess it’s like that part in the movie “The Breakfast Club,” where Basket Case Allison dumps all her baggage – literally and metaphorically – on the couch, thereby inviting everyone into her problems. So it’s unreasonable then for her to be angry when people comment, offer advice, and so on and so forth. It’s just that I honestly was not looking for pity, sympathy, or attention – I was just purging thoughts, just writing. It is a fine line between my private self and public self and balancing how I see myself against how others do. I know I shouldn’t care, but I do and that’s how I am, take it or leave it.

bcluballison

I have a deplorable habit of being interested in men whom I cannot have – the distance keeps me safe from rejection, and it keeps me romantically tragic.

I need to start reading Stephen King again.

When it’s rainy, I want to stay in my bed, curled beneath the covers.

The roses in my classroom are dying.

roses

Why am I always so negative?

A radio station contacted me back! It is run by a high school in Atlantic City. It will most likely have an incredibly small audience, but it will be more of an audience than I have now.

My second royalty check came for the month of December: $23. 22; one print book and nine Ebooks.

The Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library forwarded my information to the larger – and frankly, better – Toms River branch. I am hopeful.

Yesterday, I ventured to Brooklyn with a friend to attend a bridal shower. It was wonderfully trendy and beautifully artsy. The music completed the atmosphere perfectly and I never wanted to leave. I made plans to travel to Paris, fell in love with love all over again, and yearned to be more creative and artsy in everything I do. It was an awesome shower.

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On being a bag of bones, and nothing more.

Published September 3, 2012 by mandileighbean

“Sometimes I wonder what I’m a-gonna do.  There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues.”

–      “Summertime Blues,” The Who

“I got that summertime, summertime sadness.”

–      “Summertime Sadness,” Lana Del Rey

Well, well, well; we finally meet again.

            I’d like to sincerely apologize for my prolonged absence and offer an explanation.  I am afraid I was battling a severe case of Summertime Blues.  I felt extremely lethargic and did nothing of consequence.  All my dreams, all my expectations of living were surrendered to an ultimate kind of laziness that robbed me of my health (I can’t even begin to estimate how much weight I’ve gained back, and how much hard work has been all for naught), my inspiration (I only wrote – really wrote – for a two week stretch and its value is debatable) and my passions (I stopped reading).  I could have and should have been out with friends, but I picked loneliness instead.  I would have rather been at home, alone, stuffing my face and watching mindless television instead of engaging fully in love, and laughter, and life.  It was terribly depressing and altogether frightening.  I was the exact opposite of the person I had planned on beginning to become.  I wasn’t living; I was just slowly dying, merely existing and nothing more.

            Stephen King, a personal hero of mine which I am sure has been mentioned, says that all writers drink from the same pool, meaning that all writers are inspired by the same pantheon, so to speak.  Therefore, it should come as no surprise that King quotes Thomas Hardy in his novel Bag of Bones: “Compared to the dullest human being actually walking about on the face of the earth and casting his shadow there, the most brilliantly drawn character in a novel is but a bag of bones.”  In the television adaptation of King’s novel, the main character named Mike Noonan goes on to explain how he fears that is what he has become; nothing more than a bag of bones.  I totally understand that.  I could have said that quote myself this past month, this last month of summer.

But now it’s the beginning of September and it’s time to cut the pity party and do what I am supposed to do, and to do what I want to do.  I want to lose weight, so I will.  I want to be a writer, so I will.  I want to be a good and an effective teacher, so I will.  I am going to turn twenty-four in sixteen days.  I’ve never been good with numbers, but these numbers seem manageable as long as I am always striving to be the woman I want to be.

Happy September, everyone; the year is coming to a close, but the academic year is just beginning.  My wish for all who read this is that they learn something about themselves from now until June; that they discover a truth about themselves that gives them comfort and hope in tomorrow.

“I plan to crawl outside these walls,
Close my eyes and see.
And fall into the heart and arms,
Of those who wait for me.
I cannot move a mountain now;
I can no longer run.
I cannot be who I was then:
In a way, I never was.

I watch the clouds go sailing;
I watch the clock and sun.
Oh, I watch myself, depending on,
September when it comes.”

– “September (When It Comes),” Roseanne Cash featuring Johnny Cash

PROMPT: An architect is informed that his current project bears an uncanny resemblance to a “haunted” hotel destroyed decades earlier.

PIECE: Reggie was genuinely beaming, and his eyes were actually smiling, when he unrolled his blueprints across Mr. Field’s desk.  He grabbed the nearest paperweight (clearly engineered by one of Mr. Field’s many grandchildren), a stapler, a cup filled with pens and a legal pad to weigh down the four corners.  The white lines popped against the blue background of the paper and Reggie wasn’t sure if he had seen anything as beautiful as physical evidence of perseverance and a job well-done.  He was nearly breathless, thinking about all the cups of coffee and sleepless nights, hunched over at the desk in his studio apartment.  He thought about the sunrises he had watched, weary from a severe lack of sleep but alive enough to still appreciate the beauty and wonder of the rising sun and the shadows it cast, aided by the taller points of the cityscape viewed from the only window in his apartment.  Thankfully, that window was ceiling to floor and the only thing in the apartment that he cleaned regularly.  Percolating with enthusiasm, Reggie eagerly turned to Mr. Field.

Mr. Field looked less than pleased.  As a matter of fact, if Reggie was willing to put aside his ego which seemed to be ever-bruising, he would have to admit that Mr. Field looked downright terrified.  His face was ashen, and the lines all constricted so that his countenance was an uncomfortable mixture of horror and concentration.  Some awful, irrational truth was settling over Mr. Field, like a man on death row who was just denied his last appeal.  As Reggie’s smile understandably and considerably dimmed, he wondered if it could be as serious as all that, as life and death.  He cleared his throat and called out Mr. Field’s name.  He did so softly, so as not to disturb a clearly already rattled man.

Mr. Field turned to Reggie absent-mindedly, like he had forgotten the young man existed, let alone was still in the room.  He collected himself and offered a phony smile, but the jig was up; Reggie had seen his initial reaction to the plans.  Mr. Field watched Reggie’s smile completely disappear, now replaced with dread anticipation.  Mr. Field cleared his throat, swallowed hard and said, “You’ve done a good job, Reg.  I’m impressed.”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Mr. Field.  We’ve known each other too long to play this game.  Just give it to me straight, please.”

Mr. Field let his eyes take all of the young man in, the young man who was going to be so damn successful it seemed ludicrous; the young man who had no idea how talented he was; the young man Mr. Field had taken under his wing once Reggie had graduated.  He loved Reggie and wanted nothing for the best for him, and that desire directly conflicted with the answer Reggie had asked for.  Mr. Field sighed and walked to a filing cabinet in the far corner of the room.  It looked dusty and had dents all over the visible side.  Despite its neglected appearance, the filing cabinet was locked and it took some minutes before Mr. Field located the key, which was taped to the wall behind an extravagant kind of painting.  Filing cabinet unlocked, Mr. Field doubled over to rifle through folders in the very bottom drawer, mercilessly shoving all of the papers forward.  In the back, rolled up and folded over time and time again, was another set of blueprints.

Mr. Field brought the blueprints and unrolled them right on top of Reggie’s creation.  Paperweights weren’t needed as the papers had been folded for so many years that the paper did not curl up.  “These are the blueprints of the King Hotel downtown.”

Reggie looked at the blueprints.  “I never ….”  His voice trailed off as realization dawned.  He couldn’t talk; if he opened his mouth at all, even to breathe, he’d vomit all down his front and he’d rather not be so childish in front of his boss.

“You’ve never heard of it because it was torn down before you were even born,” Mr. Field explained, observing Reggie hunching over and growing quite still.  He tried to keep his tone as even as possible.  If he remained logical, he remained rational, and that kept the fear at bay.  “Twenty-seven people were killed inside the hotel over a span of six months back in 1935, its inception.  The hotel closed for thirty years before some asshole thought if it was restored and reopened, it’d be a point of interest for macabre tourists the world over.  It was; people flocked to the King.  The only problem was that not a single guest could last the night.  It was haunted.  There was talk of demons and poltergeists and hallucinations that were terrifying enough to drive men to suicide.”  Mr. Field took a deep breath.  “It was torn down five years later, deemed inhabitable.”

“You, Reg, have just recreated it, angle by angle.”

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