Phoenix Risen

A phoenix is a mythical bird that is consumed by fire by its own act and rises from its own ashes, restoring itself to a beautiful state. By doing so, the phoenix symbolizes resurrection and is considered to be an emblem of immortality.

There are many times in people's lives it seems that things could not get any worse. Their lives decay and deteriorate to the point where there's nothing solid left. They can merely sift through the ashes and remains of their lives and ask themselves, "What happened?" They look around and wonder where to begin to rebuild their lives. In such a dark hour, it is hard to see the good in life. But if someone reached out to any of these people and showed them the light of hope, love, and faith, they wouldn't have to wander around blindly.

Wouldn't it be amazing if we could take these people from the ashes of their dead lives and bring them in the world of the living? Wouldn't it be amazing if we could inspire hope, love, and faith in these lost souls?

The truth is that we are able to do these things, because of God. All it takes is for us to reach out with the fire of our hearts, our love, our compassion, and touch these lost people and set them ablaze. And by doing so, we bear witness to a beautiful transformation, from the dead ashes of an old life to the first flight of a free bird on fire with hope, faith, and love.

So I implore you to do something along with me: take a step forward into the unknown and reach out to somebody.

Hello there. Let me introduce myself, in case you don' t know who I am or can't remember. My name's Sam VanGeison. It's been a long long time. Some of you probably have wondered where I've been or what I've been up to. Well, my mom decided to cut the landline and the internet went with it, which I don't blame her. Here's a quick update on my life. I'm working at MAI, again, but it's much easier this time around. It's good to be working and earning money. I know it definitely takes some stress off my mom. She's been more than generous and caring. I'm still writing and still loving it. I'm really close to finishing a writing project. That's all I got for now, but in case I don't see you...

take it easy and take care.

Wow, a whole two months have passed since my last entry. Oh well, I have been writing outside of this a lot more often. I've been busy with school, going to school five days a week in Springfield. Classes are going well. I just had two tests this week, one in Biology and a lab practical test in Geology. I aced the biology exam, which feels good since I got a C on the first exam in the class. I managed to get a B on my lab practical where we had to identify certain minerals and rock (there is a difference between the two) that we had identified in previous labs and answer some questions about the samples. I feel I could have gotten an A had I studied a little more about the smaller details of the minerals and rocks, but I did identify every mineral and rock correctly. Unfortunately for the rest of class, they didn't do so well. Out of twenty-three people, only twelve people passed.

For some reason, I've always had this fascination with maps. I have caught myself just staring maps or globes, contemplating all the cities and towns that are listed, imagining all the people that might live in those places. If I see a map nearby, sometimes I will look at it absentmindedly. I have this weird dream of resting my face against a map and just melting and sinking into it. I would simply just drop out of the sky. If I wanted to go any place on Earth, I would just have to think about it and with a rush of air against my face, then I was there. The dream reminds of a game I used to play with my sister. You would spin the globe and you'd stop it with your finger. And wherever your finger landed, that's where you were. And sometimes in this dream, I find myself flying past planets, moons, and stars, past this solar system, past this galaxy, past this universe, hurling through light and darkness, space and time. I guess I'm fascinated with the mystery of the unknown, that search for truth and knowledge, a spark that seems to light a fire in people where there is fuel.

Don't look for any great thoughts in this post.

Summer's almost at an end. My fall classes start this Monday, all of which are up in Springfield. I'll be up there Monday through Friday. I'm excited to get back into class, ready for a challenge. And I think this semester will be just that, since they are all science related.

At the moment, I'm downloading a free word processing software program. My trial copy of Microsoft Office expired, so I decided to just move on. And now I have no excuse to put off writing. I'm hoping to get back to work on my story, Finding the Way Back Home, soon.

Reflection

The other day, I was staring at my reflection in the mirror, trying to determine just how bad of a sunburn I had got that day at work. I noticed it when I pulled back the hair from my right temple. A horizontal line starts from an inch above my eyebrow and ends at my hairline. It’s barely noticeable; you’d have to have me point to see it. But it’s there. Perhaps faded and hidden, yet still a scar. The scar is from a surgery that I had five or six years ago. I had developed an aneurysm on my right temporal artery from some trauma to the head. It had started as a small bump on the side of my head, and as time went by, the bump began to grow, little by little. Then one afternoon, I placed my finger on the bump and I felt my pulse. So we end up in our family doctor’s office to see what it might be. His diagnosis was that it might be a cist above the artery. The doctor then suggests that he could stick a needle into the 'cist' to see if any pus came out. He fetches a nurse and asks her and my mom to hold my head in place to keep me from moving. After applying a local anesthesia, he presses the needle into the 'cist.' I feel a slight stinging pain and a few seconds later, I hear the doctor that I've had since I was little kid say, 'Oh. It's bleeding quite profusely now.'
To me, it sounded hilarious, partly because my doctor has a very strong Indian accent, and partly because I was thinking, 'Gee, doc, where did you get your degree? I think you might need to give it back. Looks like you snagged an artery and turned me into a human sprinkler.' I had to keep myself from laughing because if I started to laugh out loud, I would have had a hard time controlling it. I don't know about you, but uncontrollable fits of laughter and a needle stuck in your head don't mix well, in fact I'm certain a needle stuck in the head doesn't mix with anything. The thought of possibly losing a significant amount of blood kept the laughter in check. We found out that the 'cist' was actually a minor aneurysm on my temporal artery. The specialist suggested that the best course of action would be to operate and remove the aneurysm and bypass the artery. It had the potential to be life-threatening if left untreated, but mostly the operation would be for cosmetic reasons. The day of the operation came and I had the day off from school( I was sophomore in high school then). I was checked in and taken to a prep room. There, I was given an hospital gown, some matching pants, and some socks with footpads for traction. The nurses comes and pops an IV in my left arm, which in my opinion was probably the worst part of the whole ordeal).
And then we wait. A hour passes, then another, and as we're closing in on the third hour, a nurse comes and informs us that the surgeon had been needed to operate on a trauma victim who had been in a serious car wreck. I had hoped that the person would come out of it alive and well. Two more hours pass by and a pair of nurses, one female one male, have come to fetch me. I'm wheeled into the operating room and once there I'm hooked up to a few machines. I can't really see much from lying down. A nurse lays a warm blanket on top of me, and I say thanks. It becomes apparent to me that one of the machines is a heart rate monitor, I can hear the slow and steady beep every few seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a HUGE needle. The beeping sound speeds up. For a second, I thought they were going to stick me with that giant needle. Instead, they injected it right in my IV. The surgeon told me to count backwards from one hundred. I only got as far as eighty-five. About an hour later, I wake up with a blue cloth covering my face, just as they're closing me up. After that, I had dinner at an Italian restaurant (a big cup of tortellini soup and a salad drenched in French dressing) and I went home. I slept easily that night and attended school the next day.
Life went on as it usually did and so much water has passed underneath that fabled bridge since that time; only the sight of a faded scar summons the memory back into focus. I must admit that I wasn't very afraid or nervous about the surgery. I'm not trying to boast or brag, merely stating a fact that I find a bit odd. Now, I stare at my reflection and wonder for a moment, only a moment, what could have happened if the circumstances were different. Had I not gone to the doctor there's a possibility that I could have died with the wrong set of circumstances. I know, yes I went to the doctor, and you're right I did get the aneurysm removed, you're probably wondering why I'm wondering about the possibility of death. Well, the weird, funny, and sad thing is that it seems you start to live more when the possibility of death gets a little higher than usual. Let's face it. Death comes to all, eventually. It is going to happen, but when you realize that, you're reminded that your body is merely flesh and bone and that you are a mortal. Once you realize that again (it seems sometimes we forget), you'll find that you live a little more than you did the day before. I know it's true for me, at least. I'm not suggesting you spend your every waking hour thinking about death. It's your life, just remind yourself every and now again that it will have an end at some point in time, so make sure to live the life you've always wanted. For me, I think I've had enough of my reflection to last me a few days.

Well, well, well. It has been a long, long time. I've been away too long. The sad fact is that I haven't written a word in months. All because of World of Warcraft. The game is highly addictive, sapping any potential creativity from me. Instead of writing, I would sit at my computer killing a deer with the click of a button, and skinning its hide with another. Playing the game had replaced that want, need, and desire to write with a kind of idle content. Don't get me wrong. I liked the game and I had fun playing it, perhaps too much. It stole me away from my writing, something that I've come to take for granted. I ended my subscription to WoW the other day, even uninstalled the game. That addictive game was sucking away at my life, drawing my focus away from the more important things in life. It took me away from my writing. And that was the deal breaker. Growing up, I never had a strong grasp on my personality, my self. I used to change my voice all the time, because I could never really pin down how my voice was supposed to sound, just like I could never really pin down who I was supposed to be. I have spent many hours in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. I'm not a Narcissist. I just wondered who was the kid on the other side. Who is he? For the longest time, I didn't have any inkling or clue about the answer to that question. When I started to write, bits and pieces began to come and the blanks were filled. With each letter, each word, each sentence, each paragraph, I slowly stepped into this person that I've become. My hiatus from writing and my journey into World of Warcraft was like going backwards for me. As silly as this all sounds, I played nonstop some days, waking up at noon on my days off, and playing all the way until 6 am the next day. So I guess what I'm trying to say in a few short words is: "World of Warcraft tried to steal my soul." It wouldn't be the first time that this has happened to me either. Damn you, Monopoly! All jokes aside, it is good to be back again, to be writing again even it is not up to par with my usual.
Sometimes, I just lose my place in life, like you might lose your place in a book when the bookmark falls out. And sometimes it takes me a while to find that place again. I'm going to try to write in here on a weekly basis (keyword is "try") as a way of 'bookmarking' my life and to also jump start my writing.

a doctor, a lawyer, and a magician...

When I was only a child, I wanted to grow up to be a doctor, a lawyer, and a magician.I used to tell people it was because I wanted to make a lot of money for myself, defend myself in court if anything got messed up, and in the most desperate hour, I could disappear off the planet.

But I think what I really wanted to do with my life was to heal hearts, right wrongs, and dazzle minds.So I guess, in a way, it's only natural that I decided on the career path of author. This is part of who I am. And like any other part of me or my life, I would not give it up easily or freely.

And I start to look around at my family and friends. I have a bit of them in me, and each of them carry a piece of me. I would gladly take the place of any of my family or friends that suffer, take the pain away, if only I could. I would switch places with them without a second thought. I love my family and friends and with good reason. They are there for me when I need them most. I'm glad they're in my life. Without them, I'm not sure where I would be.

I suppose it’s time that I wrote about my parents’ divorce. In fact, it is very much overdue, since the divorce was final many months ago. I guess I just didn’t really want to analyze how I felt, because the way I felt about it did not paint a very pretty picture. Imagine if you all the primary and secondary colors as paint and just splashed a bucket of each against a blank white wall. That would be a good definition of how I felt. A random amount of every emotion splattered everywhere in all directions. And sometimes the whole picture was beyond my comprehension. I would look at it helplessly and wonder what in the world was going on. I could maybe focus in one thing, but other than that I felt confused, abandoned, and, most of all, lost. It was if my mom and dad were leading me through a wilderness and about halfway through they went in their separate, opposite directions, leaving me in the middle, struggling to decide what to do, whether to chase after my dad and confront him or to go to my mother’s side and try to comfort her. Or find my own path and let my parents try to find me somewhere in the middle between themselves. I keep going back to the day my dad moved out, the day of New Year’s Eve, and holding my mom (who rarely cries) as she cried, and trying to figure out how I felt then. It felt like all the emotions flooded in, that all the walls and levies had fallen through and the waters came every side. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and only two options at the time: sink or swim. Or at least stay afloat. I felt the warm splash of pity and sorrow for my mom and the pain that she was dealing with. And then searing wave of rage and anger came and left me bitter at my dad. Finally, before all the other seas of emotions hit, the cold slap of a reality tsunami washed the hope from my heart and replaced it with the suffocating residue of despair. What direction would we go? Where would we find a safe haven from the storms that racked our lives? What strange waters would we float through to get there? Eventually, the storm subsided to a constant drizzle, but we still wandered.
Flash forward almost a year, and the rage remains. That doesn’t surprise me. Rage is the emotion that only takes a spark and a small amount of fuel, and before you know it, that little flicker of a flame turns into a bonfire. And it’s the hardest emotion to control. It doesn’t help that I see all of the mistakes, the unfinished projects that he left behind. The Thunderbird, the Dodge Ram, the Nissan pick up, all the decent vehicles he bought himself compared to the junk heaps he bought me. The promise that he would help pay for my college is left practically unfulfilled. The house, the shop, and all the little things that he said he was going to complete; they just went by the wayside. All the material stuff wouldn’t matter had he been a good father. Heck, I would settle for a decent father, but what I got is a half-hearted father. He expected me to be him, to follow in his footsteps. I will never set a single toe in his path or allow my shadow to even graze anywhere near it. He was my role model in the worst way a father could be. I saw with clear, sober eyes the things he did to such gross measure that the slightest thought of it repulsed me. I remember so many late nights, crouching at the top of the stair, listening to my parents fight, listening until their voices grew hoarse and raucous. I remember looking into his eyes whenever got home from the bar and seeing that strange blank and wild look on his face like we were meeting for the first time. I remember the times that he would say, “I love you,” with that look on his face, and wondering if that was Jim Beam talking or my dad. I knew there was truth in it, like everything he said when he was drunk, but his actions did always agree with what he said. I wish I could that he was a good man and believe it, but I see the things he has done and what he is doing. I remember him telling me that there was no other way. No other way? There were decent ways to go. How about marriage counseling? Or getting a divorce BEFORE you start seeing someone? Or owning up to what you did? Maybe stop pretending that your kids abandoned you when you were the one that alienated them, when it’s the other way around?
I look in the mirror and I see myself, but I also my father’s face when he was my age. My relatives tell me every time I see them that I look so much like him. And I wonder whether I will end up like him, but I remember something. I am his son, and he is my father, but I am not him and I’m not going to end up being “Roger, Jr.” or “Roger, Revisited and Revised.” What I really wonder about is if he knows what he’s missing? What he traded in for momentary happiness? Not just me, but Molly, and Jake and Leslie and their family, little Ryanne Reese, and now Braden Paul, he traded it all for something else. I watch Ryanne run around and I wonder how many times he has seen her. And what about newborn Braden? Has he seen his grandson since he was born? There are so many questions I wish I could ask him, but the truth is I could ask any time I wanted. All I have to do is pick up my phone and call him. I haven’t forgotten his number, but has he forgotten mine? How many months have gone by since we last talked?
But, in truth, I am writing this for one purpose: to let it all out, to let the words and be what they are so they’re “no longer inside of me, threatening the life they belong to.” This is me making peace with myself and my rage, taking away the fuel and watching as the flames slowly burn themselves down, because in the end, the person that is burnt the most by my rage is myself; because to whatever safe shores that I’m swimming to, I won’t reach them holding onto my baggage of rage and anger; because I never can be really happy with this rage still in my life. They will only slow me down and take me under with them. It is time to let the rage sink to the bottom, and swim with a hopeful and light heart. It’s time to let go.

Two Cents

Excuse me for a second. I should probably stretch a little before I really get started. It's been so long since I actually blogged that I might pull something in the process. As they say, better safe than sorry.

That should do it. Thank you for bearing with me.

I had to buy some postage stamps recently, because I finally decided to submit a story of mine to Downstate Story, a small-time literary magazine based in Peoria. I already had one stamp, donated by my mom, for the self-addressed stamped envelope(SASE) for the magazine's response, but I needed two more for the large envelope in which I would place my manuscript, the cover letter, and the SASE. I decided to ride my bike into Stonington for whatever reason I can't remember (probably gas prices) that afternoon. Town is a little over three miles from my house, a two minute drive or half hour ride.

The sky was slightly cloudy, and a steady, cool breeze flew eastward. It was an easy ride. I got to the post office and bought two stamps from the machine, receiving two 39 cent stamps with the American flag flying on them, and two one cent stamps with the image of the American Kestrel.

I mailed the story off a week and a half ago. I hope it finds its way to Peoria, safe and sound, and it finds its way to the editor of the magazine and finds her well.

I kept the two kestrels. There's nothing else for them to do, so I placed them on the title page of my leather bound notebook and wrote this underneath them: Here's my two cents, the rest is going to cost you extra. I did a little research on the bird. The American Kestrel is the smallest falcon found in North America--about the size of an American Robin. They are found in various enviroments--in the mountains, in the forests, in deserts, in the plains, in the marshes, in the prairies, in the grasslands, and in the cities and suburbs. They hunts whatever small prey it can catch, and usually they perch high above their prey. Enough Discovery Channel material for now, on to the point.

Dreams are very similar to this bird. A dream's prey and prize is to be granted in reality. It perches and waits and bides its time, watching for that chance. They are not born so that they may have their wings clipped and be confined to cages, to live lives of quiet desperation, uselessly hoping for the day that they can spread their wings and take flight. They are born to fly with the clouds in their midst and hunt and persue and chase realization. They can be crushed, they can die, they won't last forever. If you believe in them and in yourself, that belief will be enough to keep them alive, give them shelter from foul weather and predators, and perserve the strength in their wings for them to fly. Next time you think about your dream, free it. Let it out of its cage, let it loose, let it go, let it fly. And as you watch it soar through the sky, you'll feel your heart soar with it.

Along with the story, the letter, and envelope, my hopes and dreams and aspirations are inside that large envelope, now in the hands of the postal service. All I can do now is hope that it finds its way to the hands of the editor, and if possible into her mind and heart as well. I know there is the chance that the story could be trashed sooner than it could be published, because there are many talented writers in this world, all with the same dream as me. I'm not afraid of rejection or failure. I'm persistent, and I won't give up easily on my passion. If I do get published, it will finally prove to myself that I do indeed have talent and my writing is good enough for publication. I imagine it would be a very joyous hour. In fact, I believe they will have a great deal of trouble in bringing me down.

This was long overdue. I apologize for the long wait to the very few people that still read this.

Taking off from here on out,

Sam

The few people that actually bother to read my blog probably know from my writing habits to read it once a month, because I rarely get two entries in thirty days' time. You may have been wondering what I have been up to. I have been here and there, doing this and that. Mostly, I have been doing schoolwork for the time I have been absent from my blog. I had a twenty page term paper to write, and believe it or not I actually procrastinated on it until three days before it was due. Well, it is turned in, and all I can do really is wait and study for my exams, which start tomorrow. After Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, I am done with school for the semester. I just get past this week, and summer(no matter how horrible the weather is now) will be mine. Don't look for any great thought or ideas in this post. I guess it's a little late to be telling that, but what can you do? Life's going pretty well for me. There is not much that I can frown at, rightfully. That is well. It feels much better to smile. For now, this entry will have to do.

One Last Huzzah For Nostalgia

Last night, I took a midnight ride on my old DK Cincinnati. I felt this impulse, this urge to cruise around my driveway on my old bike. I remember now I why loved riding so much. I got such a thrill from speeding down the road at breakneck speed. I loved it for the sheer simplicity of it. I was propelling myself forward, and if anything went wrong, I knew exactly who to blame: myself. My problems would be blurred to an incoherent blob. I never escaped them, because let's face it. No matter how fast and far away you go, your problems will follow you wherever you go like your shadow.
I remember the first time I bunnyhopped. The first bunnyhop is much like a baby's first footsteps, lifting the entire combined weight of yourself and the bike only a few inches off the ground. It was summer then, possibly the second night of the Stonington Summerfest. Fog had begun to roll in thick and fast, so much that the roads were flooded with it and you could barely make out the outline of your own hand right in front of your face. I forgot about the cold rush of wind that hits you when you are pedaling that fast.
I remember one year in high school or perhaps it was junior...sorry I digressed from my point. I went to a high school youth group convention regardless of my age or the current grade I was in. I remember attending some college preparation class there and we were asked to tell our hobbies to the person sitting next to us. That person would then relay the information to the entire group, kind of an icebreaker. I recall very distinctly telling the guy I was talking to that my hobby was riding BMX. Instead of saying that, the guy said writing. I found the idea of writing to be ludicrous at that time.
It took me about three years' time to finally consider perhaps writing was not ludicrous. It is truly strange how these things come about. I think what attracted me to write was the same thing that attracted me to riding. I was the one holding the pen and making it dance across the paper and whatever mistakes I made I knew who made them: me. It surely was not the paper's fault that I messed up. Plus I could go back and fix what was broken.
But what I think attracted me to both of them the most was the power and freedom they offered. Not power and freedom over everything, but power and freedom over myself. I think a good deal of people view the world we live in as dark and bleak and that we are powerless and that we are just small sailboats being blown from one place to the other by the wind of fate. Yes, people are thrown by the wave of chance from coast to coast, but only if they let themselves be. We all have a choice to make in our lives and the control to set course for that final point on the horizon, that final destination. We all have the freedom to choose which direction we go, and the power to propell ourselves forward.

Bon Vovage,

Samuel L. VanGeison

Due to the fact that there is only one day left in January and I haven’t posted in a month and nine days, I believe it is time for a post. I’m pretty sure the contest results will be announced tomorrow, and maybe, maybe just maybe I can make the deadline for Glimmer Train stories, which pays $500 on acceptance.

I’m working on two stories at once, which can be draining sometimes. They’re both coming along nicely. One is like 6 pages long, or 1,737 words. I think I am two-fifths of the way done with it, so it could end up being pretty long. I am pretty excited about it and I think I might have an idea how it is going to end. The other one I have partially typed out on my computer, and some on my typewriter. I forgot to pick up my floppy disk with the two stories on the way out the door this morning, so that means not being able to work on them while I wait for my composition class to start at 6. In other news, Matt Kay will be arriving shortly, and as always, he’ll be looking to play foosball. At this time, Matt and I have played 59 games since school started. He has won 14. I have won 45. Not that it really matters.

What matters a lot to me is the fact come February, Kelsi and me will have been going out for six months. She is amazing; no matter how many times she tries to deny it.

One other thing that matters to me a lot is the fact come September, I will be an uncle to yet another child. Ryanne Reese, my niece going on 2 now, is so cute and so smart. She is really an amazing gift to this family.

Well, I don’t have much else to say.

Take it easy.

No Longer an Astronaut,

SLV

"Who is the happier man: he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on the shore and merely existed?"-Hunter S. Thompson at the age of 17.
"As always I am rebuked for my wise advice, I will say my intentions were of the kindest and greatest nature. I just do not wish that Sam wastes away his life with this false ambition. Poor kid, you never know the joy and splendor that is publication. You will spend your life scribbling away on some notion that it means something, that it will all add up. There is no room for hack writers in this business."-Jack
"Well, well, well, how long has it been, Sam? Six months have seemed to pass since I advised you to quit writing and was scolded by your readers. I see that my counsel has gone unheeded and it has not deterred you from writing thirteen more posts in this pathetic excuse of a blog. Riches and renown from publication are far from your grasp. Where are your readers to chide me away now. So why are you still writing? Your audience has abandoned you. Why try, then? Why write when it gives nothing back? Throw down your pen and paper. Stay away from the computer. Give a rest. You will waste away your life with this charade."-Jack
Questions must be springing into your minds like fireworks on a calm winter night, just too many and too bright for recollection, or comprehension for that matter. These are just a few of the comments that I have received from this person who calls himself Jack. From what I can make of him, he must be some writer who took his shot and missed, or perhaps he is the real deal. Maybe he's some idiot racing around the Internet dumping criticisms onto those he stumbles upon. I cannot be certain. I am certain of one thing, that his comments mean nothing to me.
I have bounced from my bed each and every day of December like a little kid on Christmas Day, stampeding down the stairs with the rest of his family to check what Good Old Saint Nick left in our stockings and under the Christmas tree, but instead of that I have checked my email account to see if Rockstar Games left anything, some notice exclaiming "Congratulations, Sam. You have won The Rockstar Uploads 4 Short Fiction Contest. An affavidit is being sent through the mail for you to sign to confirm that your writing is your own and no else's. After we've received that, your check will be sent shortly afterward. Once again, congratulations." Unfortunately, nothing of the sort has happened. I would rather have been told that my story hadn't made the cut than to sit here waiting, not knowing what is happening. Yes, three thousand dollars would have definitely lifted a bit of burden off my shoulders. Yes, I am making an assumption, but I did not enter the contest solely for the grand prize. I did it because the contest provided a chance for me to show my quality, the very highest, to put myself and my writing to the hazard and to the judgement of absolute strangers, to have my writing compared to quite possibly a million other writers. I cannot rightfully say whether I won or lost here, but I can say that I tried my best.
Writing is in my nature. I found my Young Authors book recently and it reminded me of the fact that no writer is born. "Jack the Lego Maniac" was my first venture into the world of fiction writing. Any thoughts of seriously writing were far from my mind's grasp. I remember hating the whole ordeal, being forced to write, what an abomination. That was elementary school. I would later go on to junior high and high school to find more forced writing for all. How horrible. I took a Creative Writing class the second semester of my junior year of high school. I believe that is where I actually began thinking about writing seriously and I have been ever since. I love it.
So here I am, doing exactly what you don't want me to do, Jack. What made you think that you could pop into my life, tell me to stop writing, and believe that you are in the right? Yeah, perhaps you're right. My name will never be mentioned among all the great writers that dared to pick up the pen and tell a tale, at least not in this lifetime. The odds are that I will probably never get published. I might forget to sit down and write that novel that I know that lives inside me, but none of this stops my pen. I am not discouraged by these thoughts. I write because I have a love for it it that is genuine, pure. The words are waiting on their tips to be chosen, to be used, waiting for the chance to escape onto page and last forever. The greatest reward a writer could receive is not that grand prize of $3,000, that million dollar movie deal, or that third bestseller. This reward often goes by unnoticed in this commercial world we live in because it holds no real monetary value. The reward is the fact that someone somewhere at sometime read your words and it really meant something.

Some rubbish to read.

Beginning is always the hardest part. The page or screen is empty, the color of intimidating white that makes eyes ache and minds blank. With each line, the wheels start to give way and slowly turn.
Life can be so confusing sometimes. One day, you are the king of the world. The next you are the lowest man on the totem pole, so low that your head is almost buried and only your forehead is showing. How crazy is that? I guess that that proves life isn't a constant, stable, straight journey. Curves, twists, bends, and turns await us. Where upon this winding road, I ask, are we to find the slightest strand of sanity? We have no map or compass to guide us, yet some force tends the light that is the North Star, to shine even brighter when we lose our way and the path we tread has been scattered to the wind. This is nothing but a test, a trial. Look to the next point on the horizon and reach for it. Let yours legs take action and one step further, that's it, just one more step. We will make it. We have to.
Whisper on the wind to one you love before it is too late, too late for speaking, for any call to satisfy that desire to simply say what we want to say. Do it while the days are full and light and young, before death sets foot on your doorstep. So I ask just what are you waiting for? Perhaps another to hesistate and lose that opportunity.

www.dictionary.com defines the word lucky as 1. Having or attended by good luck, 2. Occurring by chance; fortuitous, 3. Believed to bring good luck. Many men have thought of luck as being fortunate in wealth and luxury. I believe I have a different kind of luck. I have luck in things like family and friends. I have always been surrounded by great people, no matter how hard life gets. Extraordinary people have been there for me at every turn of my life. Is this a gift or guidance? I don't care. I'm just grateful it happened.

The very last year of my teenage years draws near with every second, every minute, and every hour. I think that age is really just a glass door that we pass through, shut, and move on. We continue on the journey, and these doors follow us wherever we go, so that we can glance back and see the memories, the ups and the downs, the joy and the sorrow, whenever we wish. I have looked back over the years, looking through the glass doors, all eighteen of them. I marvel at how little I was and how amazing life really is.

Tomorrow at half past one in the afternoon I will pass through the nineteenth door and look back for the first of many times to come. Then I will look to the horizon to see what lies ahead, definitely not first time, but also not the last. Many people fear the unknown. I think that is one of the best parts of life, not knowing what is going to happen next. The unknown leaves a billions of possibilities for events to unfold.

I have had my picture taken every year since I was born and stored in the same frame. The present covers the past. If you were to take all of the pictures out, you could see the changes. From who I was and to who I am now. I think about the untaken photographs, the ones to come in the future...and I smile.

A journey of faith, writing a story, and running a marathon have a lot of things in common. They're all not a race. It does not matter who finished first or who ran the course the fastest. It doesn't matter how far you went or how ragged the course ran you. It matters that you cross the finish line. It matters that you don't quit. All those long miles that you trekked mean something and when you get to the end, you feel this complete joy. That you accomplished what you set out to do. I have written a few stories and I have ran a marathon, too. I know the feeling well. The feeling that no matter what toll the course had on your body, mind, spirit, and soul that it was the right thing to do, that you felt compelled to embark on this course. You gave it all you had and then some more. I haven't finished my journey of faith yet, but I know when I do, that the joy and providence from it will be the greatest feeling I ever will have, more than anything I could imagine or dream of. Each day I move the distance of one grain of sand in this journey. The road will be rough and it will seem everlasting for a short while. And then I will learn the true meaning of words like eternal and love. I will leave this world and go down the path that no one returns from. I will come over the hill and a clearing will be at the foot of the hill. Waiting there for me will be all of my loved ones. Such is the glory of His kingdom, forever and ever.
"The very definition of our lives lies within our footsteps. Every step we take brings us that much closer to our destiny."---Samuel Levi VanGeison

Hmmm....How shall I start this? The weeks between my last post have been hectic and the weekends have been perfect and blissful. Summer is fleeing and autumn is chasing it away, but some warmth still lingers.

Kelsi came over last night, whick makes my week. The girl is amazing, folks, she makes me so happy. I can't believe it will probably be another week until I see her again. She makes me feel like everything is right in my life, if only for a short while. She is spectacular.

After Kelsi left my house at ten o'clock, I started working on my short story, Nine out of Ten, again. When I last worked on it, I had written 974 words so far. The final deadline for the contest was at 11:59 on that night. I got done somewhere around 11:40 p.m with 2,167 words. That's 1,193 words in one hour and fourty minutes. I have to say I was more excited about finishing the story and having what I know in my heart and mind as the right ending than submitting it to the contest. I might have a chance of winning, but it doesn't matter. I would post the story on here for all of you to read, but I think that might complicate things if the judging panel were to find the post on my blog. Those of you who are interested in reading it, contact me. I owe Keith the short story in the person. He read what I had written so far on Thursday. There's a saying, "Don't give a starving man a taste of something delicious unless you plan on feeding him the whole meal."

I'd like to take a second to personally thank two pretty awesome folks. Jenn and Keith, you guys rock. Not only for inviting the group into your homes, but for inviting us into your hearts, minds, and lives. I have met few people like you guys and they all are alike. Thank you very much, I appreciate it.

The Worst Way to Wake up Your Mother

by

Sam VanGeison

As my mom and I pulled into our garage, I snatched a glimpse of a smashed pumpkin in the frostbitten garden. The clock on the console stated it was midnight. Wasn’t it just two hours ago when my cousin, Brian, and I were in my room playing video games? A life in the country is a dull life, especially for a kid, but I found some entertaining activities whenever I kept an eye for one.
We hunted each other down in the mean streets of some spaghetti western ghost town, all of this epic gunfight played out on my television screen. Brian quickly grew tired of playing, not because he was losing. Oh no, that was surely not the reason. He suggested a venture to the great outdoors of my backyard, which had been freshly coated with a six inch layer of snow. I hinted that we have a snowball fight as I threw a recently made slush ball at his face. We chased each other through my backyard. I ran towards to my mother’s garden where I stumbled onto an idea. When I say ‘stumble’, I actually mean trip. When I say a ‘idea’, I mean a pumpkin.
My cousin rounded the corner of the garage with a snowball in each hand. He attempted to throw both of them at the same time. The snowballs landed softly twenty feet away from where I sat. Needless, my cousin is not the most athletic bound person in my family. He spotted the pumpkin and a flash of insight ripped across his face.

“I got an idea,” he said excitedly. The idea was pretty straightforward as are all ideas when you’re just a kid, so straightforward that I already knew what it was. We were going to smash the pumpkin to miniscule bits. Brian ran into my garage. A moment later, he came out with two baseball bats, one in each hand. Perhaps it is just pure boyish quality to destroy objects. I have often heard of boys walking miles upon miles to an abandoned house simply to bust out the windows. We each took our weapons of miniature destruction and approached our prey, sitting peacefully in the frozen grass and weeds of the garden.

Brian took the first swing. The bat swept right through the plant, rotten all the way to the center. I grand slammed my Louisville Slugger deep into the center of the pumpkin. The pumpkin was rapidly becoming just fragments of what it had been, pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that could never be put back together again. Brian winded his bat back high above his shoulder. What I left out of this equation was the fact my cousin is left-handed and I was standing to the right of him. I hadn’t taken these facts into consideration at the time and before I could step back, Brian took a huge golf swing through the pumpkin. The pumpkin was so rotten and smashed that it didn’t slowdown the bat, let alone stop it. The only object that slowed the bat down was the right side of my face.

Blood ran down my face, and I ran towards my house. I think the adrenaline was the only thing keeping me conscious. All the while, my cousin was standing in the garden, shocked. Blood dripped from my face onto the concrete, the bricks, and the wood as I raced inside. I cleaned all of the blood off my face and looked at the deep cut that was on the edge of my eye socket. I realized that this was the kind of injury that ended people up in the hospital. I wrapped gauze around my head multiple times. I went my mom’s bedroom and shook her awake. We jumped into the car and drove to the emergency room at the Saint Vincent’s memorial hospital. A splitting headache and eight stitches later, I arrived home with my mom. I decided that I wouldn’t charge my cousin with battery as I had considered before.

The moonlight hits me just right and a sense of utter esctasy washes over me. Overall, the climate is perfect. Not just the weather, mind you, but in a broad sweep things are delightfully pleasant. I agree with the music playing, which is surprising because it's the radio. My stomach is reasonably stuffed with Monical's pizza, Dairy Queen, and of course, Mountain Dew.

20 days have passed since my last post, but trust me I have sat here at my computer many times before just staring at the blank screen. Nothing has come to my mind even though a lot of stuff has been happening.

School has started. I'm actually excited about a few of my classes. Intro to Film is going to be entertaining. Composition will be great, too, mainly because I had the instructor pegged as an ordinary English teacher type. My oh my was I wide of the mark. Speech will probably prove unpleasant from time to time, mostly because I don't like to get up and speak in front of a classroom. Then again, that's the case with most people. Mass Media and Society and Beginners Newswriting look like they're going to be a challenge.

Life has been great lately. A few torches have kindled in my life. One, I started going to a small group, which for multiple reasons I'm glad that I did. It has got me thinking more, asking myself questions, starting wheels and gears in motion. The atmosphere is genuine and very comfortable. Though it's not to the point where I can open up, we are getting there. And the day I open up to the group is the day that we won't have to worry about anything. Two, because I went to this small group I met a girl. She makes me happy more than I have ever been. Thanks a lot, girl.

Here are some notes of moments that jumped out at me that I took over the course of the summer. There aren't many, so don't worry.

6/21
He looked like he had truly reached nirvana, sitting Indian style atop a rock formation on the river's bank, looking all calm, content, and Buddhist, like one of the hippie love children of the 60's. He had his grey, silver hair tied in a ponytail with a leather rawhide string. He was wearing plain calm blue shorts, authentic moccasins, and what possibly could be a hemp necklace. Where had this strange character emerged from? Amongst all the noise of the roaring waters, his serene demeanor seemed to overcome the raging of the rapids.

6/22
As I sit in the violent noise of the campground arcade, the smell of pine rises to my nostrils, igniting gun powder memories. My eyes close as I travel back in time. I'm sitting at a wooden table, 13 years old, with a bunch of my cabinmates. It is breakfast time, and today is the sweetest day of all days. French Toast Fridays, my friend. The mixed aroma of this amptheater of a cafetria is strong enough to send a person into euphoric slumber of content.

8/13
The caffeine explodes through my veins as I bomb down Route 48 in my trusty Ford "Danger Ranger" Ranger. I look into the rearview mirror and my right eye is looking particularly patriotic this morning, the dull white, the screaming sleep-depraved bloodshot red, and the ever calm blue. How long has it been? 20...perhaps 36 hours since these eyes of mine have gotten rest.

For now, I'm out.

I felt Hallmark, as I like to say, standing there in an almost abandoned parking lot with my arms wrapped around a girl who doesn't quite realize how beautifully she really is.

Seven hours. Seven spectacular hours together and we still can't bring ourselves to say good night.

I didn't want her to leave and she wanted to stay there, for perhaps eternity. Who knows? I felt the same way, but in my mind I knew her parents wouldn't look too kindly on the fellow they've never met who kept their daughter out so late. In the end, I had to make myself make her leave. She agreed that it was time for her to leave, but she still didn't want to. She said she knew she had to be getting home, yet her feet didn't start walking to her car and her eyes never shifted from their gaze into mine. For the briefest of moments, time froze and everything felt right. That's what I like to call Hallmark. Where worry and stress melt away and joy and happiness remains.

Funny how life works.

I went to Six Flags seeking thrills and excitement. I'll grant you that I found my fair share of those things along with something unexpected. The question isn't 'What did I find?'. It's 'Who did I find?'.

The answer is I found a girl that I clicked with almost immediately. Actually, scratch that. More like we found each other. Girls like this one are few and far between. I could probably go on forever weaving a beautiful tapestry of words, but let's keep it simple.

I like the girl a lot.

Today is a good day, I thought as I sat on my back porch typing up a story on my typewriter while sipping on Mountain Dew and wrestling my cat, Johnny, with my foot.

Yes, I think it's fair to say that it's been a good day for me.

I spent half of it sleeping in. Depriving your body of sleep for 36 hours is not the greatest idea. Let's get straight to the heart of this story. 32 hours ago, I, accompanied by many great people, was leaving for St. Louis to enjoy a day at Six Flags. The journey led us down countless miles of concrete and asphalt. Six Flags was fun, so fun that even the most minute details are too numerous to mention. Let's just say that the word "great" doesn't even begin to say how fun it was, ok? After failing to get into Dave & Buster's, we headed for Steak and Shake, at least some of us did. When everyone had safely arrived, we went in and ordered our food. Apparently, it was my "birthday,"but there was no cake or singing. I didn't get my food that I ordered, either. Last time I checked a grilled cheese sandwich and a chocolate milkshake aren't that hard to whip up. After we told the waitress, I got my food. Trust me, a grilled cheese and a chocolate milkshake are a perfect combination, especially late at night. They forgot to write up my check as well. So I left with a stomach and a wallet full. I had a poem written about me, which was quite exquisite The rest of the journey to Taylorville was a blur of cartoon conversation and movie memories. The final stretch home was ran by Mark A. and yours truly. We ripped down the country roads to my home. I walked up to my faded red back porch as Mark dissappeared into the oblivion of fog and darkness. After I checked on Johnny, I crawled to my room and then finally after 36 hours without sleep I closed my eyes and everything went black. I woke from a peaceful sleep at about one o'clock in the afternoon.

So you see we've come full circle. I've storytold my way back to present.

I was, am, and perhaps will forever be...a Mountain Dew kid.

Addictions run deep, trust me, because this vice stems back to my childhood years. I remember the garbage can in my kitchen was overflowing with empty 24 packs of Mountain Dew. My siblings and I made Mountain Dew vanish on a regular basis, but me especially. It got to a point where my parents started hiding it from me. The hiding spots weren't that well thought out, but addiction can drive you to your limits and then some. I remember one thirsty summer afternoon. I was home alone and far away from driving age. I decided to ride to Stonington on my bike to buy some Mountain Dew. I hadn't fully thought out the plan, so when I got to the Pantry(the Colonial Pantry for those non-Stonington readers) and realized that I would be carrying the 12 pack in the crook of my arm while pedaling the excruciating 4 miles home. Yeah, it's fair to say I'm thoroughly addicted.

All a fire needs to get started is some oxygen, some fuel, and a spark.
Oxygen, check.
Fuel, double check.
And right now, all I need is the spark to set me off.
Set me off into a roaring bonfire. Help me set these pages on fire. A torch to guide me through the darkness.

The moon paints the sky sterling silver as my computer screen stares angry-white at me. To the north, the horizon was being bombarded by a constant silent barrage of heat lightning. The fog creeps its way across the field, inching that much closer each minute. And so the World spins on and another second slips by like so much sand from my grasp. My tired eyes glance through cheap sunglasses out into the darkness that is my backyard. Bleak obscurity takes hold and everything vanishes.

When I wake, the birds are chirping and singing the way they always do at five in the morning. The question 'Have I lost it?' seems to reverberate through the walls of my mind. The answer that always follows 'You can't lose something you never had.'

The words fly outside my grasp.

Could I trouble you for a light? Or perhaps lightning will strike, but that is about as productive watching the grass grow.

A thought co-written by Sam and Molly VanGeison
There's a great moment in the film Throw Momma from the Train where Owen (Danny Devito), a childlike man that lets his mother run his life, shows Larry (Billy Crystal), his creative writing teacher, his coin collection. The collection is comprised of a penny, three nickles, and two quarters.
"Are these coins worth anything?" Larry asks.
"No." Owen replies.
"Then why do you have them?"
"What do you mean?"
"Owen, the purpose of a coin collection is that the coins are worth something."
"Oh, but they are. This one here I got in change when my dad took me to go see Peter, Paul, & Mary. And this one I got in change when I bought a hot dog at the circus. My daddy let me keep the change. He always let me keep the change. This one is my favorite. This is Martin & Lewis at the Hollywood Paladium. Look at that, the way it shines. Little eagle. I love my dad a lot."
"So this whole collection is..."
"Change my daddy let me keep."
The message here, I think, is that you can't take some things at their immediate face value. What appears to be a couple of coins to you is someone else's precious memories and moments. For example, a spent bullet shell on my dresser may just look like that to you, but to me, it is so much more. It is one of the eighteen shots fired to honor the passing of my grandfather, John James Callan, one of the greatest men I've ever met to date. The shell takes me back to that day, surrounded by family, friends, and all of those lives that my grandfather touched. The trumpet playing, the gun shots, the staggered breathing from sobbing incontrollably. I had never known such a sad day before this. Maybe there was some sad days when I was young, but for the most part I think I was blissfully ignornant. Santa Claus doesn't exactly hand out giftwrapped presents and parcels of tragedy, none that you remember anyways. When you're a small child and tragedy befalls your family, your first impulse is to cry. Maybe it hurts more when you're younger, maybe it hurts less, but I can tell you the sorrow I felt was nothing that I had ever felt before. They say tragedy teaches. And I, for one, think it does. It taught me that only when someone is gone can you truly how say great it was. I remember thinking no one can fill those shoes of my grandfather's, but that doesn't mean all attempts at greatness are futile.
Another example, you might see an your average photograph of a sunrise on my desk, but I see a moment where I was completely and most deliriously happy. I sipped on Mountain Dew in my father's ThunderBird with the top down, AC/DC making the stereo bleed, as the sun rose over in the treetops just on the horizon. It was the day after prom. It was a moment of self-discovery.

But what of self-discovery? In the end, is it worth it? Yes and no. It is equally important and unimportant. There are people that live their whole lives without a moment of self-discovery. This isn't wrong, really. Some people just don't need to discover who they are. Self-discovery is just not one event. It's in every step you take, every breathe, each door you open, which road you drive down. They're moments when something hits you hard and sticks. They're really just pennies that you collect on your way through life. Not really adding up to much, but it is always safe to have them. Share your coin collection with those who you hold dear to your heart. Shed a few coins into their share-a-penny box.

So in the end, is it worth it?

There are some questions that don't need to be answered and there are some answers that don't need to be questioned.

"My name. Your name. And everyone's name. They all have a story behind them, whether you think about it or not. Whenever you sign a check, divorce papers, birth certificate or a homework assignment. There amongst all the trivial things is a story. My name is like a book to me."- Samuel VanGeison

I wrote these words about 10 months ago and with every passing day I begin to believe in this philosophy(if you could call it a philosophy) more and more. Your name is on your birth and death certificate. It is on your tombstone and your resume. On your business card and your checkbook. It is your shorthand life story. Captured in just a few names. Ask someone who they are. How do they answer? With their name, of course. If only when we saw a name written on paper or spoke aloud could we be watching the major motion picture of their lives, but such a film would last too long. Maybe you don't agree with this philosophy. I don't care. It is my own. It is my thought. And so it works for me.

Recently, I heard the story behind my middle name, Levi. My dad used to meet his boss up at this restaurant in Springfield every morning. At this restaurant, a group of old men meet in the morning as well. And every morning, these old men would be bored waiting for the ringleader to arrive. The ringleader would burst through the entrance of this restaurant and a chorus of greetings and salutations would accompany his arrival. One of those classic old men. Jovial. A bit on the big side. The action began when this guy arrived. One day, the ringleader didn't burst through that entrance and there was no chorus to meet him. A week or so later, I was born into this world as Samuel Levi VanGeison. I'm a continuation of that jovial old man, that ringleader whose very footsteps sparked action and excitement. His ending was my beginning. It goes to show you that once one good soul departs from this world it is quickly replaced by another of almost the same caliber. Here's to you, Levi. Cheers.