Paris Burning: Part XI

Paris Burning: Flight is Freedom

Part XI

(Paris) The night went past when they should have shut it down and gone to bed; but the hours they kept now were like a family at a hospital death-watch. When it would end, they couldn't discern. Gathering together, sifting through the rubble, they hashed out details already known.

During their zig-zagged walk, holding each other's warm hand, gripping like a lifeline but also staring each other down, they discussed her leaving Paris, returning to America. Wine-stained lips expressed to the other how a split would rip them down the middle, or justifying it in the first place. 

Gabriel said, “We don’t split up as easily as you do…” Charlotte confessed, “my ancestors have been doing it for three generations. My dad, his sister, my sister, the uncles, hell. It’s a family tradition.”

“Maybe we can’t love,” she said. “But that’s so sad,” Gabriel replied.

They were different. Too young to realize that where they were unlike, or dissimilar, was where they fit together like puzzle pieces. Their families had contrasting ways of altering, unfamiliar methods of executing conflict. With immature priorities, too selfish right now to see how their unusual relationship might bind them for another chapter; instead, they came apart. 

“Work. We work. That’s for damn sure. We work!” “I’ll go back, and go to work. Study, make money, practice law, maybe some art. Gabriel, maybe I’ll be happy?” Wistful tears gently rolled out of her blue eyes.

Forlorn, he pleaded: “My heart is yours, Charlotte; it’s softer than yours, I couldn’t make the decision you’re making. It is not part of my soul.”

Most of the serious regret wouldn’t surface for decades; doubt planted like a small tree that would grow into a giant oak. Their special enchantment was more substantial and profound than their notion of love at this point in their lives, they were blind to it. And experimenting with this sort of ardor was reckless, presumptuous, like fooling around with hard drugs.

Charlotte: “I know Gabriel, I feel like I’m forfeiting mi âme doing this.” “Do you realize that? I don’t want to defend myself—I’m trying to define myself…”

Gabriel: “But if you give up your soul how will you make art?” She answered, but it was empty, “I’ll have to figure that one out.” She couldn’t speak to how long that would take.

I’m so fâché Charlotte! 

She replied, “Don’t riot, you’re not a tax protester—you’ve got no yellow vest.”

“Maybe I should leave Paris too.” “But where would I go?” “I’m a Frenchman!” They were exhausted and broken, and it was late; but neither of them were petty or belittling. The rioting comment was flippant, she didn’t expect him to compare her nature to the hurricanes back in Houston.

Smoke wafted through the air, sirens screamed in the night, and the CaféSociety changed forever. A peaceful summer they knew along the Seine dissolved into a cold, crisp, dark, winter of discontent. The city, like their relationship, simmered and popped with tension; she was determined by her will, and he was disillusioned by his love. She seemed practically gone, and he lost focus on art because of the vacuum developing in his heart. Paris crumbled before their eyes, and his dreams were now blurred, abstract, and vacuous. He went looking for a pencil.

There were “spaces” in his life, gaps in the story—white canvas, ready to be painted, or in reality blank for a reason. But why? What happened during those gaps? How many white pages can there be between episodes? He questioned himself, meditating on summer’s calm, anxious about next year. He longed for the stillness, the peace, but he felt the isolation, the loneliness, approaching, crouching at the door. Could he start another chapter without Charlotte? How would he fill the gap? He looked to the white; he could see the patterns of the Gods. Sharpening his pencil and going to work; he looked to the white.

(end)

-30-

Fibonacci Sequence

2018©fiction by Mark H. Pillsbury

[this last video talisman is dedicated to the real Gabriel & Charlotte, from Bruce & Bonnie:

https://youtu.be/ZTIu4UbkK94 all these short chapters are read together to say this...]

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein above is not an infringement of copyright law, 17 USC  Sec.107)

One Step Up and Two Steps Back

One Step Up -- And Two Steps Back :

Progress is Perfection

“When I look at myself I don't see, The man I wanted to be. Somewhere along the line I slipped off track, I'm caught movin' one step up and two steps back”

The apostle Paul says, "let us rejoice in the hope of God’s glory, not ours. Additionally, we must also rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that our current hardship produces patient endurance. In endurance, proven character is developed, and in this character, hope and a confident assurance of our salvation results." This brings us back to God’s glory. It’s a holy progression.

To quote Springsteen: “When I look at myself, I don't see, the man I wanted to be. Somewhere along the line I slipped off track. I'm moving one step up and two steps back." Don’t we spend our whole lives trying to move up a notch? To "get ahead"?

Progress is measured in so many different ways, but our tendency is to focus always on the goal: the quota, the grade, the sale, the child, the bonus, the end-zone, the accomplishment. The question is whether we can adjust our internal "success-meter" to focus on the great amount of progress made in learning, growing, changing, and adjusting to the inevitable ups and downs of life; instead of comparing and despairing in the futile illusion of being perfect, or reaching the “Goal”. Truth is, progress is perfection.

Instead of calculating our net worth, or assessing our self-righteousness on a lofty standard, could it be possible that God blesses us with adversity, teaches us through hardship, and honors our work of survival and resiliency? In light of eternity, earthly triumphs do not seem so valuable, and seeking perfection becomes narcissistic. Are these truths passed down to our children, or do parents constantly strive to protect them? What seems natural could actually be holding them back.

Paul also wrote that God wants us to focus on spiritual matters and rejoice in our suffering; even though we spend a lifetime seeking comfort. God promises that anyone who does what pleases Him will live forever; but we say that money isn’t everything – it’s the only thing. Man seeks pleasure, while God gives wisdom (through adversity).

Spiritual currency can be spent throughout eternity, but our earthly bank accounts are devaluing quickly. If we are broken, dependent, obedient followers of Jesus, our trials are heavenly blessings, because they cause us to draw near to Him. A christian must value Christ's sacrifice, and God's word more than their own timetable of priorities, but this is difficult. 

Otherwise, our comfort, wealth, and ease of living pushes us away from a Godly life, into a habit of choosing things, or following people outside of God’s will. It’s counter-intuitive but clearly biblical, that we are most fulfilled when we empty ourselves. (see Philippians 3: 7-8, and Mark 9:35)

God wants us close to him, in a relationship. Sometimes he uses discipline to open our eyes, recognize our weakness, and turn to Him for help. We can be following the wrong leaders, or accepting a counterfeit agenda as we navigate through our lives, so what do we do? It's one-step-at-a-time: first recognize the need, then accept the solution which is outside of ourselves, and then take up the vision (cross) of God, and follow.

We think He approaches with a warrant for our arrest, but God is serving us with an invitation to a massive party, celebrating His glory alone and not the world. Accepting this also requires we re-focus, re-calibrate, re-define progress, and re-frame setbacks as opportunities. ##

Blog post ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Crossing Over to Distant Shores (Part Ten in a Series)

Part X -- Paris Stories -- Sleep

[Interlude:  the human body shuts its systems down with amazing efficiency preparing for the transformation of sleep. The brain curates thoughts and memories like a director of a vast art museum; but when awake, stimuli evoke obvious reactions, whether provoking, eliciting, or sensory. Closely observing the response to a difficult question, like the one proposed by Gabriel to Charlotte about America, was curious.]

Charlotte looked at Gabriel and flinched, "What?" She seemed wide-eyed, caught.

"What do you mean: What?" said Gabriel. 
He watched her intently; locked stare, beating heart.

She was classically trained as a lawyer in school, but hadn't practiced as an attorney enough to learn how to lie very well.

"You... you mean what I said about crossing over, I mean jumping in?" She knew exactly what he was asking, and that Gabriel was smart enough to interpret her inner-turmoil, illustrated so well verbally by describing plunging into the cold water, swimming across. [See Part IX, previously posted]

This rare awkward moment between them now turned on how fixed their relationship was; and whether Charlotte's life-plan centered on French art, or U.S. law?

Gabriel softly probed this line of inquiry, once he saw Charlotte's flustered response to his stimulative question about the other shore (America): "I thought the way you described your dilemma was fascinating, since you mentioned it involved a destination?"

Strangely uncomfortable, Charlotte realized what she said about a distant shore came from a deep, subconscious place. She said, "To get to the other shore, I have to go across." But was this journey pre-ordained? Was it required? Did it seem unpleasant, and why?

They didn't discuss the future, nor did she know much about her own plans, at least in a cognizant, logistical way. However, her analytical mind worked constantly in the background, especially during the sacred hours of sleep.

"Maybe we should talk more about what you're thinking after your study term ends here in Paris?" Gabriel asked, in a classic flanking maneuver.

Charlotte grew up in a family where the dangerous currency of emotion was used or flashed only in extreme circumstances. Less mature emotionally as she appeared, for her crying was a weakness, in her unfledged opinion of herself. But here, with Gabriel, the floodgates opened, and she wished they were anyplace but in bed, where right now she felt vulnerable and weak. 

But she pulled him in like the moon created the tides, and as her emotions swelled, he felt fiercely protective and watchful over Charlotte. Gracious Gabriel held her close and they each thought about their own hidden interpretation of this "crossroads" meeting, like an evolving mystery. Charlotte was a long way from her home soil, confused and exposed. Gabriel was on the precipice of artistic discovery, and yet at the same time, in love with this fragile girl.

Youthful naiveté prevented them from forming future plans using as much skepticism as angst; but who knows the future, or can guess which path is the best? Life plays out like a book, with each year, and then each decade, reflecting a distinct chapter in our history. Sometimes chapters weave together as part of a larger storyline, but often one chapter abruptly closes the interplay of that particular representation of our lives, not necessarily influencing its outcome. 

Gabriel could not fathom what life would be like without Charlotte, but did he really know if this relationship was best for him right now? For a Frenchman he still was "conservative" with a lower-case "c" - even though he wasn't in the "elite" upper class, nor was he very religious; in his heart he envisioned having a traditional family, including marriage and children. If both lovers moved on, would they always look back to this fortnight in Paris as the highest form of a partnership they’d experienced? If what’s past is prologue, meaning the past has set the stage for the next act, as a prologue does in a play; how would the rest of their lives be changed by the decision today of whether Charlotte would return to America without Gabriel?

Silence enveloped the moment. Quietly, her sobs pierced the reticence either had to speak again. Enough had been said already; and they were together now, sitting at the edge of the water to which Charlotte referred, feared, but knew she had to confront.

to be continued...............

 ##

Fiction 2018©Mark Pillsbury

August National Geographic Magazine Cover Story on Sleep:
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2018/08/

The Girl Kneeling (Aristide Maillol) Bronze Sculpture (Paris Stories) - Part IX

The Girl Kneeling (Part IX)

La fille agenouillée

(Paris) “Sit with me here, Charlotte…” 

Gabriel was leaning up against the headboard of the antique Louis XV French Bed. They were both naked, yet felt no shame.

“What do you want?” replied Charlotte. She was pensive and withdrawn, curled up in the soft cotton sheets.

“How can I help you?” “What’s going on in your head?”

“I don’t know, Gabriel.” “I want you, I want my art, I want to share my life, but I’m as cold as a bronze sculpture.”

“You know how much I love Aristide Maillol’s works; I don’t see them as cold.” Sometimes she loved how literal the Frenchman could be, but not tonight.

“But they aren’t as detailed as the Realists.” Charlotte wondered what in the hell he was talking about, but strangely she sat up with her legs underneath her buttocks, facing forward, as beautiful as a statue.

Gabriel continued not knowing what to say, “You’re sort of abstract, Charlotte"; although he pondered her there as anything but abstract, face-to-face, kneeling like the girl in Maillol's bronze.

“It’s because I’m out of my comfort zone; I’m in between chapters of my story.” "It's almost, but not yet."

“How do you mean, Char?” (again, transfixed on her).

“My heart is wrenching, numb; and I don’t know what to follow, how to step into the water.”

She said, “You know you can dip your toe into cold water, and it might be OK, but it’s just too cold to jump in. I’m old enough to know how to swim and I know that to get to the other shore, I have to go across. But the water's too cold and if I jump in, it'll be terrible - for awhile, but I’ll get used to it. It might even feel good! When I’m acclimated to the cold water, I’ll be ready to swim!” Her perfect paragraph speeches captured the moment, always.

Nevertheless, Gabriel was pretty slow when it came to American metaphors: “Right now you’re just sitting there looking at the water, and you don’t know if you’ll jump in?”

“Exactly." Charlotte huffed a frustrated response. She almost rolled her eyes.

“Well, I can understand that Charlotte; thank you for saying what you did. I want you to jump in when you’re ready, but I don’t know if I’ll jump in with you?” Gabriel stood his ground.

He added with some hesitation: “Can I ask you if the other shore is America?” 
##

[my video talisman for this piece is dedicated to the real Charlotte:
of course, it's "Jump" by Van Halen, 1984] https://youtu.be/bX9RMdcFQAw

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury

To be continued..............

Part VIII - Vulnérabilité

Paris Stories (continued) -- Part VIII

They spent the late morning together, drinking delicious coffee at one of their favorite cafés.

Auburn hues, and bold aromas drifted down avenues—fragrance wafting in the city air. Life’s rhythm slowed down in such moments; they would think back later and realize the magic of love sets aside time like an invisible hand.

By midday the streets of the arrondissement bustled with weekend activity.

Separate Paris lives bumped into one another, in close proximity but with uniqueness; like red-blood cells coursing through the body’s arteries. 

City dwellers’ living kinship, the concord of the masses: coexisting diversity, common values, the momentum of time, and a collaborative friendliness pervaded most of the neighborhoods along the Seine, at least those frequented by artists.

“I’m peaceful right now, Char.” “It’s hard to put to words, but exploration has exploded my creative boundaries.” They were long on both intimacy and communication, a powerful duo.

“Tell me how, Gabriel,” smiling, waiting expectantly for his answer.

“Its heart is energy,” he told her, “from my center, creativity hisses like a volcano; the earth’s about to crack open.” He continued, “there’s definitely a pressure building,” “It’s a mysterious force.”

Gabriel continued, “when I feel most accomplished, besides when I’m with you; is when the creative explosion erupts but I can still grab hold of it, use it!”

She loved his explanations, because she was pretty sure the wheels in his beautiful mind always spun.

“I didn't know the power of my thoughts; what to do with them?”

“I knew I was different but by secondary school, my classmates let me know for sure!” (winking)

“I miss Middle School,” deadpanned Charlotte.

She added, “Like I miss having Poison Ivy.”

He barked, “being different in secondary school… like being sent to the gulag—you’re labeled… doomed!” "Condamné."

“The hidden fruit finally came to the forefront, didn’t it?” Charlotte said.

“Thank God,” he replied.

Charlotte said, ironically, “I’m not trying to conform anymore, myself.”

“I want to be different, but I’m not sure making a living is something I should ignore,” Charlotte confided, “but if I devote all my time & energy to a law practice, there won’t be anything left for myself, for my art?”

Charlotte concluded, “Working in the law won’t give me the buzz that expressing myself does, artistically.”

Gabriel said, “Stimulus doesn’t pay the bills, Charlotte;” showing, maybe a firmer understanding of economics than she gave him credit for?

“But legal expression isn’t the same,” she concluded, “As a lawyer you have to say what your client wants you to say, or what they need you to say.” “And you have to fight for causes you don’t believe in!”

“The worst is when you know your client is lying to you.” He could tell she was agitated.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Char,”

[Did Gabriel mean that he had a better grip on the art business than she did?]

He believed Charlotte’s work as an amateur laid the groundwork for a long career as a professional artist. 

“You’ve got the self-control,” continuing, “You’ll know when it’s time to quit Lawyering; the art will meet the artist, when the writer is ready.”

“Keep exploring, Char, and drink from the waters of creativity,” Gabriel seemed confident. “You’re on the right path, I'm sure of it.”

“I just read Ayn Rand, she said that art is… 'a selective re-creation of reality, according to the artist’s metaphysical value judgments'.” “Isn’t that cool?” she said. This might be where Gabriel's English language skills broke down?

“The purpose of art is to exhibit and concretely make known, the artist’s fundamental view of existence,” “which I think is so evident in your drawings, Gabriel.” He was flattered, but also flummoxed.

Charlotte: “So, the metaphysics of your designs are made within the principles of mathematics, geometry, and uniformity. The black-and-white is obvious when you look at your art; but at the same time, the art is independent of the world’s measurements and reflects your own knowledge, beliefs, feelings, and desires of how the world should be.” Gabriel was completely focused; transfixed by this brilliant woman.

Image 2018 ©Charles Crumb via Facebook

“Maybe I know more than the casual observer, but to me drawing's a means of survival,” “a way to make sense of the world, your life, how you think things should be. That which is internal still makes its way onto the canvas!” After saying so much, she was physically spent—out of breath.

Gabriel just stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. 

Most Frenchmen weren't as sapiosexual as he was at the moment.

But this vulnerability exposed him to great danger.

He felt like his skin was transparent, and she was gazing right inside: into his beating heart. 

"My art is my own language, Char; it's unconventional, but on its face it looks systematic, I know. It's learned from an apprentissage of my own mind; and a long period of experimenting, or doodling as you call it in English."

Gabriel proudly finished his speech:  "I don't know if it's capital-A art; but it's neither a sob story, nor a confidential whisper. You're correct, Charlotte, my art is a translation of my personal life into visual terms. As weird as that looks."

Image 2018 ©Charles Crumb via Facebook

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein above is not an infringement of copyright law, 17 USC  Sec.107)

##

The video I'm posting to celebrate Part VIII is one of the sweetest love songs I've ever heard, slow dance: #TupeloHoney

https://youtu.be/3DbTIKHYwog

_______________________________________________________________________________

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Legal disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Part VII -- The Paris Stories

(Part VII) "I Didn't Know Art" 

With powerful energy, their love burned brightly for a fortnight in Paris.

They wanted everything, to do everything, seeing the city from every angle on either side of the river; they felt it was the first time they’d lived.

“I’m an artiste, Charlotte. I’ve become strong enough to concentrate on my work, vigorous enough to calculate what’s in my head, and brave enough to paint it,” Charlotte smiled. His roots bled into her like indigo ink on a canvas he'd drawn.

He continued, “Medication affected me. An artiste is the last person in the world who can afford to be desensitized.” “The drugs carried me along fine, but I had no zest—it was, how do you say it? Mediocre. I didn’t like or dislike it, actually; it was just existing, not living.”

“It wasn’t good for me, but I didn’t know Art yet.”

Charlotte could see his pensive face as he told her. She agreed, “Your art lives through you, Gabriel, you’re dedicated to it, it runs deep.” “Thank you for sharing this with me.” At the same time, their toes carried on a conversation without words; the relationship was tangling like the soft cotton sheets.

Photo©A. C. Akin

“Is what I draw really Art?” he questioned her. “With a capital-A”. Charlotte considered this question awhile as they laid next to each other, intertwined.

“I don’t know how to define it, but some things I know are faking to be art.” She laughed, “it’s like an old law professor told us about Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter, who said once, I don’t know how to define whatever it was he was defining in the brief, but I know it when I see it.”

“I believe that art influences other art. The work of one discipline can inform and inspire another. What you do, drawing in such detail, gives me the confidence to try to write in a different way, or play guitar--of course what you draw is capital-A, r-t”.

Charlotte told Gabriel that in the law they’re taught to look to what others have said in règle du précédent; but in art one gets to be original - saying further, “what I like about your use of angles, measurements, and the exactness of your shapes, is that you’ve taken what is Known, and created the Unknown.” She was mesmerized but most all, calm. Her heart's rhythmic beating was strong, but barely perceptible.

“You think so?” He said as he sat up in bed. “I get lost in those designs.”

She added, “You borrow from the abstract realm, like nature’s sequence, and mathematics, or geometry; but this is a fundamental style, I know the order you seek in life is represented in your drawings.” “When do you think you’ll have an inner need to add color to your art?" Charlotte was thinking out loud: “I don’t know if adding color to your abstract art would have the same psychic effect as it does with impressionism?” 

It was a valid point, but wasn’t addressed then; they were hungry.

Public Domain Photo

The couple rose late in the morning, the sun's ivory rays warmly flushed the room, making bright boulevards to their bed, and revealing dust in the air like snowflakes. They ventured over a block to one of their favorite bakeries for breakfast and dark, French-roasted coffee.  ##

Fiction 2018©Mark H. Pillsbury

Shadows Seen Through the Veil

Artiste: Transcendental Truth

Quote by G. K. Chesterton ("The Everlasting Man" Ignatius Press 1993):

"Long ago, the human imagination reached beyond the limits of reason to find its true object."

 "Every true artist feels that he is touching transcendental truths; that his images (art) are shadows of things seen through the veil." (end quote)

Paris Stories, Part VI: Arrondissements Municipaux

Paris Stories – Arrondissements Municipaux

[Part VI] like a person, Paris shines brilliantly, as the “city of lights”, but with 22-different personalities. Actually, the twenty-two districts are called arrondissements in French, originally numbering around a dozen in 1790; each sub-divided into four ancienne (“former” or older) districts.

The twenty-two arrondissements are arranged clockwise in the form of a “spiral” (often likened to nature’s nautilus shell-shape, reflected in the Fibonacci sequence -- see Part IV of this series), starting from the center of the city, with the first on the “Right Bank” (north bank, or la Rive Droite) of the Seine. Similar to minor divisions in a personality, or the gradual differences we all share, but which make us exceptional through individual personhood; these subdivisions each exhibit the idiosyncratic variances in Paris which make it so complex.

Visiting cafes and restaurants gives a vision of each district’s grandeur. Making the twirling route from the center of the city outward in mathematical precision, moving from scene to scene; one can picture the different affiliations and intrigues of each group of writers, philosophers, artists, and curators whose lives are similar but vary according to their own experiences and worldviews, reflected in each neighborhood. (See Poirier’s book, Left Bank, Holt & Co. 2018).

Just as DNA bonds like a ladder along a double-helix, so Paris' personality trails upon either side of the Seine, and in each municipal district. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, of course; however, stereotyping Paris is impossible, and every arrondissement links almost symmetrically to the next neighborhood either Left or Right bank, Montparnasse or Montmartre, as unique as brothers or sisters from the same family.

As different as the two young lovers were, they shared the spark of discovery, the relief of escape, the procrastination of youth, the magnetism of common art, and the freedom of time. What they lacked financially, they made up with the richness of creativity, tolerance, curiosity, health, confidence, and the comfort of common attraction. In one way poor, there are many who'd label them infinitely wealthy. 

And they were in Paris!

to be continued..........

2018©Mark H. Pillsbury

The Paris Pivot (Part V)

The Paris Pivot:

(Part V):

Until the first time he picked up a pencil, which saved him, and after failing out of secondary school, even a miraculous honorable discharge from the Armée de terre; Gabriel didn’t draw, paint, or visualize art at all. Instead, he suffered for 5 months under fumbling, misguided, veteran’s socialized medicine; mostly sleeping, in a bewildered confusion brought on by prescription drugs—numbing his senses and drowning him in a haze of disorder worse than the fog of war.

Gabriel almost didn’t make it out of the fog, but he made it to Paris.

I’ve labeled this chapter in his life the Paris Pivot, because it turned Gabriel’s life around. Concentrating on art as behavioral therapy rivaled whatever stimulant drugs (Ritalin), or psychedelic, organic tea had done for him so far. The tiniest details of his penciled drawings allowed him a portal to an awareness only achieved while meditating; but I experienced also the delicate social interplay between us focusing him intently, enlivening and stimulating him. Loosely called “flirting” in America, but very pedestrian in France, I didn’t know at the time whether a well-groomed American girl with a guitar could pull him out of his shell, but we recognized in each other an attractive detour from our pre-planned escape routes.

I represented for him a normal experience he could not have hoped to achieve while medicated. His depressive dullness kept him out of the cafés, and he was not self-confident enough to approach me at the time; even though his devilish grin and colossal frame, on the surface alone, made him radically gorgeous to me. I was falling backwards, spinning around, light-headed, over the moon, whatever you want to call it.

Out of the chaos of a mixed-up mind, he began to see eternal patterns. He drew the same self-similarity, or scaling, that is common among the seed patterns of flowers or trees. Even though Gabriel often seemed like a bumbling professor, or starving artist; his mind naturally pictured this famous ratio, with a long and honored history in mathematics, from Euclid and Aristotle to modern computer calculations. His black & white pencil drawings reflect the simple but divine “proportion” of Leonardo da Vinci, considered the most beautiful and important of mathematical standards.

Gabriel even sought the medicinal effects of mind-altering tea that has been brewed for centuries in the Amazon River basin. He found an underground tea-shop on the Left Bank, conducting ceremonial "tea-party" healing sessions where an Ayahuasca "potion" was served for many searching, tortured souls. Made from a blend of two plants, containing the hallucinogen "DMT" --  the psychoactive compound of organic elements provided a powerful, transformative, upending, "high," good for the ameliorating affects on numerous psychological conditions. Unfortunately, his brain activity changed little under the influence of ayahuasca, and the tea ceremony was anticlimactic. Gabriel's treatment-resistant depression was best fought by pursuing art.

He studied the nature of these forms and their relationship to each other (ratio), giving Gabriel a greater insight into the scientific, philosophical, psychological, aesthetic, and mystical laws of the universe. Natural inquisitiveness instructed him more than formal schooling; in fact, these symmetrical images opened his life onto a new path, resurrecting his future. During hours of meticulous sketching, grappling with all he had lost, fighting against the misunderstanding that dominated his existence before now; Gabriel used science to cure himself of dysfunctional mystery, reinventing and reinvigorating his soul. Detailed drawing was a small, simple way for him to express truth, and as deep as were his wounds, so deep too was the healing.

Failing to bring up the utility of studying law, nor my dusty, unstable ambitions of helping incubate struggling African democracies, we rarely discussed the chances that Gabriel could make a living painting, any more than to contemplate the average signing bonus for a beginning US “junior-lawyer”. His confidence, now rooted in his journey in the arts, also buoyed an exceptional faith in the rightness of his journey. Realistically, because I did not completely sell-out to my artistic abilities, instead falling back on my training as a lawyer; I was playing it safe while in Paris. But Gabriel didn’t have any other options, and I’ll admit to you here, that the question of whether his talent could carry him into his future, produced an unspoken tension between us. ##

Fiction 2018©Mark H. Pillsbury

Fast and Cool

What really matters... You gotta be cool... 

Three years ago (3/31/2015 -- "Up and Down the Dial"), I posted about the #SiriusXM satellite "highway"—taken each night; sometimes holding my sanity together on the parking lot known as Houston traffic, descending like a femoral artery into downtown.

The alchemy of memories and music transports me back on a tightrope time-machine to a place when we were all pretty "kewl", if I can say so myself. “Fast and Cool” as in the club, or Fast Times at Ridgemont High, for movie buffs.

Maybe a long time ago, but I remember when we were buff and the feathered haircuts fell just right on starched oxford button-downs. The girls all dressed for each other, and the wild night was calling. There was a time, back in my prime, when your old-man could really lay it down; but we didn’t rely on Instagram or Facebook to show everybody. It was sealed in our memories.

The music, tasting the rum, giving or getting all the jokes; ok, crank up the car stereo, and take off. The feel of a slow-dance with that girl you like… in the end, there's only the dance. How did the years go by so fast but the memories play back so slow? The smell of a ski boat's exhaust, a bonfire; I can hear the roar of the crowd, or the whisper in the ear. Youthful discovery is like electricity, but the assurance of wisdom is comforting. Life’s a balance in every decade. Maybe my pendulum needs to swing back to happiness; time flies whether you’re having fun or not.

It could be the passing of an old friend recently, or the end of a long week sending me on this journey, but my “trigger” is often just the right song, which takes me to the file cabinet in my head: pulling out the right disk from the right decade. We manually take it out of the sleeve and place it on the record player, crackling and hissing with expectation. Easter is the season of passage from death to life. The memories linger tonight in the “bardo” or in-between: I don't try to reconcile the past, but I do go back.

Without a physical photographic record on social media, how do I prove our youth? We were from all over the state, and the world was much more laid back. Somehow we had enough money to pool our resources as a group; supporting a large social structure consistently together to have a good time, and act “big”. I went to high school and college with the fast and cool crowd, always looking for adventure, maybe we were like the Club Gryffindor before we knew about Harry Potter. Or it might have been a middle-child syndrome, seeking to fit-in?

I would like to think of those foolish, happy days not as my last fling, despite the age and the miles. I believe that there are new beginnings in every springtime; I’d like to be happy again. Maybe we can get together and shake off the worldly blues and stride out tomorrow with the same arrogant confidence we had in our twenties, when everything was possible?

Probably not, but at least give the same swagger. I have more money and less hair. My car is not as hot, but more reliable. I’m more educated, but hopefully wiser. The songs seem more poignant now; the friendships deeper and more valuable. At least we can commiserate rather than compete—like we did back in those heady days. I don’t want to impress anyone like we used to, I’d rather show humility and kindness than competence and success. My heart yearns to express connection, admit defeat, listen with an attentive ear, be slow to speak, quick to squelch my opinion, easy to talk to, or ask for a favor.

“Grief” and its verb “grieve” come from the Latin gravis, “heavy, weighty” and its verbal form, gravare, “to burden or cause to grieve.” Grieving is like being weighed down with sorrow and a sense of loss. “Mourn” has its origins in the Old English murnan, “to mourn, to be anxious”. Jung says that mourners are fortunate because they are involved in a growth process, that “even though it cost me a great deal to regain my footing; now, I am free to become who I truly am.” (end quote) This is God’s truth, because the more I’ve cried and felt wretched and worthless, the more often I've felt on-a-passage (journey), and that I could have occasional moments of utter joy.

I think we know now how elusive confidence really is; the escalator has made some unexpected stops. Values now drawing respect are affinity, realism, collaboration, servant-leadership, empathy, kindness, faith, relationship, and humility. Money, beauty and power are not only elusive but ephemeral. Age tends to level the playing field even for those who woke up on third-base. (you know who you are).

Character is formed in the crucible, but everyone yearns for a second-chance; like the magical saying under the pyramid, on the back of a one-dollar bill: novus ordo seclorum (“a new order for the ages”). That’s what's astonishing about Easter; with Christ there is always the opportunity to brush yourself off and start again. His work on the cross gives us new life, forgiveness in exchange for our brokenness. This year I will relish in free grace, give thanks for true friends: “put that one on His tab, please…” 

I need to write off a few things, people, and losses, starting again with a clean ledger; don’t we all? Happy Easter.

©Mark H. Pillsbury