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)

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 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

Paris Stories: Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV)

Unlearn What You've Learned (Part IV):

(Paris) Along with differences in age, language, size, and demeanor; between us walked our constant companion, his art. Training alongside the verbal, linear logic of legal precedence, my companion spun mathematical formulas out of his mind into symmetrical circles of exacting care, drawn softly with pencil and later illuminated with black & white acrylic paint.

As the practical, grounded, first-born daughter of an accountant and a classroom English teacher, my style epitomized the ascending power of the American Female Lawyer. It is true that women still struggle in the workplace for equality, but my experience was like a clear, fortunate passage into a profitable career.  At the same time, Gabriel showed me how an unorganized giant, uncomfortable in his own skin, could give his art the hyper-focus it demanded; producing large scale paintings that drew your eye into a tunnel of precision, a mystical maze of fastidious circles.

His art bloomed out of more than a mere triquetra (trinity knot), it subtly revealed the sacred artistic geometry of life; exact, mathematical, but more than just slide rules and protractors. Exhibiting the formulas of Fibonacci and the ancient truths of a sunflower’s pattern of seeds, the paintings communicated the consistent, repeatable thread of life going back to the beginning—the historic symmetry of the human struggle.

[artist and author]

Drawing by hand, sequences appearing to have come from a CAD drawing and a laser printer, Gabriel believed the complete, ancient flower of life formed an inter-dimensional tool, like a portal. Meditation showed him a mental window into what some call the inter-space plane. Not only therapeutic, his mind now had a factory in which to process traumatic stress that had once destroyed and dismantled his natural genius. He patiently waited, unbridled the yoke of mental illness, practicing his art with hope, and what Cameron calls our true nature:

"No matter what your age or your life path, whether making art is your career or your hobby or your dream, it is not too late or too egotistical or too selfish or too silly to work on your creativity. . . . I have come to believe that creativity is our true nature, that blocks are an unnatural thwarting of a process at once as normal and as miraculous as the blossoming of a flower at the end of a slender green stem." (end quote) by Julia Cameron 

Gabriel created two series of curves winding in opposite directions, drawing with a fine mechanical pencil. Beginning at the center, they stretched out to the widest part of his canvas like petals. With each seed-shaped unit sitting at a certain angle from the neighboring seeds, he demonstrated the precision of a spiral, which exists everywhere in the physical universe. The angle found in the “flower-of-life” is the universal “juste-milieu”; yet, it is the most irrational number imaginable for such a drawing, a feeble approximation of a fraction. This number is sometimes called the golden mean, or the golden angle, which is 137.5⁰.

Aristotle thought the angle was the middle point between extremes, e.g., if courage is a virtue, its excess could manifest in one extreme as recklessness, and in deficiency, cowardice. The Greeks thought the golden mean was artistically beautiful but at the same time closely associated with mathematics, being both beautiful and true. Because the best known group of American artists are usually said to be the abstract expressionists of the “New York” style, my artistic palate wasn’t typically exposed to this degree of exactness, but I guess the lawyer in me liked it? Gabriel helped me realize that the artist often must "unlearn" what she has learned, in order to know her path. ##

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

The Burst of Bloom

The Burst of Bloom (Part III)

[Paris]

“Like the soil, mind is fertilized while it lies fallow, until a new burst of bloom ensues.” (John Dewey)

Without being an adept guitarist, still I joyfully practiced chords and songs in my Paris flat. With a cool breeze coming through the window, the street noise soothed my anxiety about learning. For hours we’d try songs we both knew; singing and reminiscing about each one’s importance; forging the kind of connection that led to a greater one, later. Music’s power moved us to experience different feelings, its primitive elements combined to reflect our own artistic predilections. These times playing guitar together fostered concord in our relationship, although we were hardly aware of it.

We also read together and discussed the state of our interests. By the hidden interface of fellowship through art’s revelation, we shared our personality struggles and became closer to each other’s quest for a new kind of beauty. 

Eventually it became possible to articulate how and where each of us sought validation. My gut told me that God sanctified mathematics through Gabriel, using his imagination as a soul-force. He would humbly remind me that a poem is not a legal argument, and that I could grow beyond my American biases and idols.

Once I read a passage that struck for us a note of truth: 

“Art celebrates with peculiar intensity the moments in which the past reinforces the present, and in which the future is a quickening of what now is;” Dewey continued, calling art’s qualities: “commemorative, expectant, insinuating, and premonitory.” 

This resonated between us, with a fervently mutual hope that the art would be such things, as our intensity grew. 

Kusama Infinity Room -- Dallas Museum Exhibit (2017)

Kusama Infinity Room -- Reflections on Immersion Art

(Dallas) Yayoi Kusama’s mirrored room gives the appearance that spotted pumpkins go on forever, in what’s known as an “infinity mirror box.” A small, 12X15X12 foot box at the Dallas Museum of Art contains 62 plastic pumpkins, bright, yellow-orange, and highlighted by black polka-dots.

Surrounded by 45 mirrors (55% on the interior ceiling of the box) a visitor has but 45 seconds to go inside and look at the flowing fields of pumpkins stretching out endlessly into a limitless horizon. Inside the room was stuffy, constricted, and we were shuffled in, and out rapidly—making me feel like a carnival barker hoodwinked me to hurry inside and see the fat lady or the house of horrors.

I wondered if Kusama’s series of infinity rooms are each reflections of her complex mind, or rather small slot machines for paying customers to move through like coins in a casino. A similar exhibit at the Broad Museum in Los Angeles sold 50,000 tickets in less than an hour.

Seeing a photograph doesn’t give the illusion credit; three-dimensionality and the infinitude of the box cannot be captured in a photograph, and weren’t meant to be. The black/orange contrasted well with the polka-dotted pumpkin patch theme; but I didn’t have enough time to think about any deeper meanings.

After taking 20% of the allotted visitation for a smartphone selfie, I could not study the size of the mirrored squares, nor could I look closely at the pumpkins. The infinity effect draws your eyes to how many rows of gourds spread out from your vantage point, away from a closer inspection of each piece of plastic art, or the design of the room. Maybe that is the intention of the artist.

Kusama’s fame (and fortune) make each installment in her series an event. One visits the room in pairs, so I went at the invitation of an art student very close to me. 

The experience as a whole takes longer than 45-seconds, but even the ticketing, reading, waiting in line, and discussion afterward lasts no longer than 30-minutes. We both expressed appreciation for the event, but I didn’t connect with “speed art” the way many do; instead, my taste is more traditional. I enjoy slowly meandering through an exhibit looking at the artist’s nuances, even to the point of envisioning how the art is designed and constructed. I enjoy art like a nice meal, or a fine wine, noting all its flavor, bouquet, and body. Nevertheless, each artist’s intent must be appreciated even if it doesn’t appeal to my own preferences, as is the case with my short immersion into Kusama’s infinity room.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Art Musings: What’s the Best Kind of Art?

The universal language of jazz, with healing in every riff.

One listens, absorbs, worships; contemplating life’s what-ifs.

A globule of oil, smudged or smeared, shaped into a lily,

Subtle strokes, airy blue hues, I wonder at such reality.

Translucent watercolor bleeds slightly over a boundary of pencil,

Underpinning the delicate pigment, lines serve as stencil.

Gelatin-silver, contrasting black & white images reflect off of shiny puddles, dotted with raindrops,

The suit, jumping shadows, almost purple-black, at one moment the shutter stops.

Rusting iron soldered at incongruent joints, splayed upon St. Augustine fields, baking in the sun.

Industrial art coexists with the elements, size and shape imbalanced, abstract, gargantuan.

Splattered, sprayed, sprinkled paint, explodes over a gigantic canvas,

Pollock expressed his colors wildly, understood by few of us.

Cerise mud, spun, fired, glowing in the furnace, glazed, painted, and shaped, still copper-red like the earth, The potter’s hands held the clay for what seemed a generation, gently letting it whirl away like a child growing up.

Words can seem scrambled, but go higher and deeper than any of the art you see or I saw,

I’ve read twice the number for pleasure, than I ever studied at law.

They spark with creativity, discussing many forms of art,

These media mentioned move me, but don’t go as deep into my heart.

Words bless, or harm, inform, enlighten with a mysterious power; but they can’t be taken back,

Sharp as a cutlass, pointed as a sword, plunged into flesh whether launched from defense or attack.

Comprehension or translation are lost on a wispy breath of the wind:

“Certains l'aiment chaud” they say, or
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” 

Can you tell me that again?

Formed together in poetry, words escape the prison of definition;

Sometimes they flutter and sparkle in the dark, fireflies of cognition.

Do they bounce, echo, drift like shadow, lying through their teeth,

Poetry flows to the ocean of truth by the river of deceit.

Visual art as described above, takes the mavens to different places,

Fascination, imitation, contemplation; you can see it in their faces.

Reading a paragraph so skillfully crafted, its contention ringing true in my ears,

“Listen to this,” I’ll say, reading it aloud, truth’s reverberation bringing me to tears.

Pages layered into plot as rings inside a tree, hardened bark covers the story;

A book opens a thousand doorways, using myth, truth, and allegory.

“I am an invisible man, called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and it was the worst of times,”

These snippets remind me of some of literature’s best opening lines.

Active, alive, and useful as a lamp unto my feet, the Bible.

I smell it like warm bread, knowing there is nourishment when I eat.

That place in my heart where the stockings are hung.

Warm, encouraging words are there; reading it I feel accepted, some call it “home.”

Opening this ancient text is, “Sursum Corda” meaning to uplift,

Dr. Luke's words tell of Christmas, and the most important gift.

Expounding more is wasting time, the art speaks for itself;

I will always look to get mine, from the dusty book shelf.

##

 Poetry 2016©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part II: Tribute to the lost firefighters of 9/11, continued... second installment:

[Author's note: the first installment of my fictional 9/11 series was written 18-months ago, but listening to Brene Brown, and a trip to New York prompted more writing about the family O'Keafe. Although the tragic events of September 11th are painfully true, everything written below is fiction]

[any connection to deceased is coincidental and not meant as a truthful reference]

Escape

Out on the lake, in this pristine state park, Michael cleared his head. Fishing pulled his dad out of his comfort zone, onto a battlefield without sure footing. Whether the quiet nature of the sport, or the serene isolation of this oasis, Michael’s excursion into the suburbs today reminded him of Tim McGraw’s song: Live like he was dyin’ “All of a sudden goin’ fishin’ wasn’t such an imposition.” Michael could see things as they are (or were) meant to be seen on this clear September morning. (see previous post, September 10, 2011; a bad day fishing...) http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-9-11-tribute-in-fiction.html

Unfortunately today he confronted the rawness and ugliness his father showed him over the years. A constant, intimidating flow of his upbringing’s lifeblood, gave course to fear and spread the worst contagion a parent bestows upon his children, that which is called shame. Today Mike felt strong enough to “feel,” down to the core, being open to joy and pain; most importantly owning all the shame poured over him through the years.

Shame wasn't exactly overt in his home, but it represented a strong O’Keafe family value. It wreaks more damage than a viral outbreak, because shame says to an immature child that you are not loved or lovable unless you meet often sensible, yet arbitrary expectations of the parent. Shame makes a kid feel small. Its potent sting paralyzes creativity and its anguishing power overcomes even the strongest-willed child.

Shame stunts in a child the ability to learn self-compassion because it is graceless, watchful, and critical; outweighing any compliment with a deluge of correction. Michael realized that Jim O’Keafe’s standards were held up, idolized, and projected upon his children; and to those who could not reach them; well, they were de-valued and unfit. As Michael engaged in this session alone with his thoughts on the lake, the engine off and no wind to drift the boat; his mind wandered off while watching the end of his line for tugs:

“Why didn't I study art in college?" he thought, "At least, then dropping-out would've been for the honor of art and not because I skipped too many classes, failed too many tests?” The pursuit of art slipped away from Michael once enrolled in the Fireman Academy, even though his dream of painting with oil and watercolor lived vividly in his subconscious. During unhurried, deliberate days filled with slow creativity, not rushed by pursuit of disaster; Michael expressed himself carefully, with great fulfillment. Did he become a fireman for the same reason his brother did, because their father willed them into the inferno?

Grieving his dreams became more important than catching fish today.

Existing in warm California, not New York; his fantasy artist life reflected a contemplative environment reduced to the priority of communicating the struggle and strength of life on canvas or paper. He taught art at a Junior College to make a living, but spent most of his hours pensive, smocked, and painting. Despite his love for impressionists his painting conveyed a sharp realism. He visualized and illustrated “real things” with an eye for natural beauty.

“I love to include enough detail so that the inquisitive mind must take apart the pieces of the scene like a puzzle,” Michael told his brother Patrick sometimes when they would talk during one of his exhibits, “The natural world is so complex, even without humans in my paintings; sometimes it’s beyond the viewer’s skill to unravel it?” Michael continued passionately, “I relish that difficulty, that tension; it is a big part of my fascination with art’s mystery.”

Jung said, “Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children than the unlived life of the parent;” as I sit here today, I believe my family denied me the freedom to describe, analyze, and interpret art, or life, for that matter. I did what I was told, mostly; even to the point of enrolling in the Fireman Academy; however, art, or the pursuit of art, saved me.

Michael believes his art is a creek or stream off of a mighty tributary called vulnerability. Art’s headwaters are from an energetic source which generates creative channels of light and life, but vulnerability is the courage to engage in all of life, whether good or bad, fortunate or dreadful. Today, on this lake, he is dealing with his upbringing, relationships with father and brother, and even the unfulfilled dreams of a thirty-something fireman from New York City. He sits serenely, the water laps against the boat.

Suddenly, Michael snapped out of his dream when a silver American Airlines jumbo-jet roared overhead flying low along the Hudson River, very close to Harriman Park. So close to the ground he saw the red glow of the turbo-jet engines; this airliner seemed to be racing too fast for a typical coast-to-coast journey of a jumbo-jet coming out of JFK. It pointed southward toward the city, rather than rising ascendant to a normal cruising altitude. His gut wrenched while his mind puzzled; Michael immediately thought of his brother Patrick J. O’Keafe, strangely absent from this fishing trip and now at the center of Michael’s consciousness watching the silver bullet speed toward Manhattan. (to be continued...)

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Let The Wave Say

"If the surface of the ocean is this time that we’re alive;

Then this rising wave in motion, is this moment that we ride.

If you don’t move when it’s moving, then your life leaves you behind.

If you can’t see what it’s doing; trust the wave more than your mind.

When the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

I just balance through the changes, and let the wave say who I am.

From a thousand miles of water, from the wind beyond belief

Every wave roars out its power, as it rises on the reef

And the high blue wall can break you; you can never fight the sea…

You just learn to let it take you, to the place you want to be

Now the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

Keep my balance through the changes, let the wave say who I am."
--David Wilcox

Watching Dave again Saturday night brought back sweet memories of 18 years ago in Dallas, when I first got the nerve to talk, one-on-one with a beautiful brunette with blue eyes who a couple years later would become my wife! He once again gave wonderful comments, poetic lyrics, and amazing guitar riffs to a small audience of faithful followers who needed the advice as much as ever. Going to a David Wilcox concert is cheaper than therapy.

One of America's premiere songwriter/singer/songwriters, the poetry in the song above (featured on his album: Reverie ©2010), “Let the Wave Say,” led-off the concert. As usual, this winsome show included a few oldies I remember from the past shows we’ve been lucky enough to see; nevertheless, Saturday the same quality instrumentation and wisdom shined through to all in the audience, even if it was their first show.

His voice and pace were vibrant, clear, and robust and this new gaggle of tunes just as appealing as others from the 1990s we know and love. Sharing the journey with his fans, never too proud to admit he doesn’t have it all figured out, Dave muses on things changing in his life, helping sort out the confusing parts from the ridiculous. The self-parody, “Capt.Wanker” was a delightful admission that Super Dave is just a human like we are. No one likes to give money to a “perfect” person or cause; even a young Adele resonates with all ditched lovers, and David Wilcox has grown up with these groupies; indeed 80% of the enthusiasts at the concert this weekend were the over-40 crowd. David Wilcox is a sober, simpler, erudite version of the post-James Taylor singer-songwriter era.

In this song, “Let the Wave Say,” the words spoke to me in a special way as I try to grapple with the rising tide of change. Our 5 world oceans cover 139.5 million square miles of the world's surface area of 197 million square miles; and excluding insects, 4 fifths (80%) of all species live in the oceans. Even though I am a land-lubber, the metaphor of the ocean is powerful; and if you have ever been crushed under a salty wave it is humbling. One cannot fight the sea. It is one of the reasons I love the novel: Life of Pi, by Yann Martel (Random House/Canada 2001).

As I tweeted last week (Twitter@markpills), art is the free-flow of creativity from deep within; expressing truth often without out words; it can be a song, a painting, sculpture, clay pottery, or photography, just to name some of my favorite. Music says things that other communication does not. Dave's guitar plucks the heart-strings.

Poetry like this resonates over days, crowding-out other thoughts. My mind goes back to the wave today; I don’t see what is going on right now, in fact, I don’t really have a very good plan. The song inspires me to jump on the wave because the worst thing I can do now is let this moment pass me by, missing the opportunity for adventure. The art shows that the song is talking to me directly, in the very first song of the show; so you can imagine that Dave got my attention. Good art is a teacher.

As I focus on the next few months, out into the black unknown; I concentrate on quiet reflection, mindfulness, and waiting on God. Trying hard not to control the wave (I would be foolish to think that), I am learning to let the force of time, future, uncertainty, anxiety, all swirling about me, take me with it, to the place I want to be.

Previously I blogged (Mar. 12, 2012) about underwater panic being deadly to a Scuba diver; however it is also detrimental to a human being caught in a vortex of doubt. All I can do is be obedient, show up, work hard, and keep my balance: in golf the swing is like a metronome; in fishing, you can’t stand-up in the canoe and fall in the water. It's all about balance.

Instead of worrying about what people think about me this time, I am going to let the wave say who I am. Thanks Dave.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Poll Shows Popularity Of Pro Football Continues Growing While Baseball Slides - SportsBusiness Daily | SportsBusiness Journal

Poll Shows Popularity Of Pro Football Continues Growing While Baseball Slides - SportsBusiness Daily | SportsBusiness Journal:

'via Blog this'

Much has been written about baseball, the national pastime, although it almost defies description. Resembling chess with finely shaded details and subtle strategies; it is as common as many things in our history, each player standing around in familiar positions. Its languid pace, long season, saturation of coverage through the large network of minor leagues, huge field of play, and history dating back to the late 1800s make it a unique part of American culture.

Some like baseball for its cleanliness, the stark white home uniforms and exact chalk baselines. It is a game in which numbers tell a story: baseball fans recall vital statistics better than football fans. Author George F. Will believes overall its fans are smarter than their gridiron counterparts. Nevertheless, as Sports Business Daily reported (see link above) Jan. 26, 2011, Harris-interactive poll shows those adults surveyed favored professional football over baseball by a wide margin. As an example, television ratings for any big NFL game amount to a 20 share compared to a 10 share for baseball. Football involves careful pacing, repetition, and the short attention span of the male observer; men huddle, agree to a plan, line up, hit each other, run around like crazy, call time, rest, regroup, and then try again. Over and over this goes up and down like the returns on a stock. It is violent, yet stylized warfare, where combatants can get a bonus for damaging another man's body. Baseball is intricate, comfortable, and convivial, like a picnic game only with occasional crowd noise.

Like our country’s history, baseball’s place in my own story is significant. I played the game every year from grade school on, although not well; attending games through high school, college, and law school. I’ve been to Wrigley, Fenway, Comiskey, and Yankee Stadium; Fulton County for a World Series and Omaha for a College World Series. My first summer of college, UT won the NCAA national championship, and at the old Arlington Stadium I saw Nolan Ryan’s seventh no-hitter. It weaves in and out of my life like a tapestry, its timelessness sealed within memories. I courted my wife at the Ballpark and watched the strangest World Series (game 6) ever last October with my parents. Many of baseball’s great moments are “mano-a-mano” showdowns similar to a duel in the streets, lived out in slow motion; one punch at a time. It seems more like art than sport, a reflection of culture, as well as an integral part of it.

Maybe because of its history, baseball is a frequent canvass on which is depicted modern culture: George Will’s Men at Work, Movie: The Natural, Jim Bouton’s Ball Four, John Feinstein’s Play Ball, Movie: A League of Their Own, Roger Kahn’s The Boys of Summer, Movies: Moneyball, Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, the road trip saga by David Lamb, called A Stolen Season, Don DeLillo’s Underworld about the shot heard round the world, or Chad Harbach's debut novel, The Art of Fielding, is as much about literary fiction as it is about baseball. These few examples come to mind, but it is a sport which for decades has been discussed voluminously in all kinds of media. Authors love to write about this sport.

During the 2009 season, despite the nation’s worst economic downturn in 80 years, 30 Major League Baseball clubs drew 73,418,479 fans during the season, producing the fifth largest total attendance in MLB history. New stadiums, often financed by public funds, have been built in place of almost all the monolithic old concrete wonders of the 1970s. Youth leagues produce local product woven into the fabric of small-town America, culminating each year with the Little League World Series, a spectacle not unlike the World Cup in its international coverage. Baseball is still popular even though the research shows that football is the preferred national sport in the new century.

Popularity over Preference

Football is more technological, with slow-motion TV replay an integral part of officiating. It is like the modern mechanized corporate world in which we live, often called the ultimate team sport. When cultures change so do their games; baseball harkens back to more serene, agricultural economy which works with no deadlines, only outcomes. Until you get 27 outs the game is uncertain. Football has a time clock, used almost like a factory laborer punches out, ending the work day.

Quoting George Carlin, “football the object is for the quarterback, also known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault, riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz, even if he has to use shotgun. With short bullet passes and long bombs, he marches his troops into enemy territory, balancing this aerial assault with a sustained ground attack that punches holes in the forward wall of the enemy's defensive line.” Carlin concludes, “Baseball’s object is to go home! And to be safe! - I hope I'll be safe at home!”

Demographics is Destiny

Another relevant question is whether baseball has been eclipsed by other sports within the growing minority cultures of African-Americans and Hispanic-Americans?

In traditional Hispanic markets the World Cup draws much higher interest than baseball and in poor African-American high schools, the chances of earning college scholarships are much better in football than baseball. "A Division 1 football program can give out 85 scholarships, and baseball teams only 11.7," said Jimmie Lee Solomon, and EVP of MLB. "If you're an African American kid and you need help to go to school, do the math."

A regular fan of the sporting life enjoys many different games, the balls and rules representing all the facets of the athletic pop-culture. Baseball will have to live with a smaller market share and aging fan base, as it plays with a smaller ball; like the paradigm shift brought on my Billy Beane in Moneyball, focusing on base-runners getting across home plate. Baseball continues to drive fans to big stadiums, reaching mostly the 40+ age group with family friendly daytime experiences in beautiful pastoral settings. Conversely, live professional football and basketball venues resemble a gentlemen’s club, or worse a strip joint. Super Bowl halftime shows don't fit within the confines of the modern ballpark.

Baseball is still an innocent game, despite the recent PED scandals, and congressional hearings. Since the Black Sox threw the World Series in 1919, scandal revisits periodically and baseball proves resilient. Symmetrical stitches endlessly wrap around the baseball, just as hope renews with training camp every year in warm destinations as the first bright days of spring burst into blue skies. The season ends in the cold chill of approaching winter. Cyclical like the laces of the ball itself, there is never a greater hope for fans as there is in spring training, the whole season in the future. As fans do every year in the dry Arizona heat, or looking at prospects in the Florida sun, let us join in the wonder: could this be their season?

©Mark H. Pillsbury
(composed 03/07/2012, pictures for personal use and historical reference)

Charlie Rose - An hour with David McCullough

Charlie Rose - An hour with David McCullough

Author David McCullough spent a career writing on Presidents and history for 45 years, winning the Presidential Medal of Freedom (see image above), the nation's highest civilian honor.

In his new book about Paris in the 1830-1900 he chronicles the vast influence of the returning Americans who grew, learned, and flourished in Paris. The unique, massive, early French influence on the young USA, such as support during our revolutionary war, cities, monuments (SOL), land (LA purchase), nomenclature, as well as society, arts, sciences, writing, etc. all have great French influence, he notes.

McCullough and CR discuss the cause/effect, action/reaction, give/take of human nature that is studied in the field of History. He stated Truman, John Adams, Washington, Lincoln, FDR, and Theodore Roosevelt are the greatest presidents, but that all the "great" presidents were readers of history.

He states at 12:34 the essential nature of the study of history to any position of leadership, and that a liberal arts education is the under-pinning of any further profession because of the depth it adds to the student in later years (11:48)

Later in the program he again stresses how important reading, writing, and the liberal arts are to education, which at 42:20 he claims is the basis of who we are as a nation (centering the discussion on Education at 43:30). This is an inspiration for any educator!

Mr. McCullough reminds listeners that the "Arab Spring" and other democratic uprisings in recent months show that the peoples of the world want what we take for granted here: the opportunity to live under a Bill of Rights, individual freedoms guaranteed by laws, and not men, and the ability to learn and develop our own strengths. This is the country's great exceptional trait. He adds that much of this is provided by Teachers' noble work (his son is a teacher 49:28).

Remarkable is the story of one of his life's inspirations: John Hubbard, a California history teacher who taught David to remember what happened, to whom and why, not so much dates and facts as was taught traditionally in high school. This was a breath of educational fresh air to McCullough's young mind. (see 48:17)

One of the best interviews I have ever watched; conducted by Charlie Rose Show on June 9, 2011. David McCullough spent 52 min. recounting his great life in the study of history, he is a dear jewel of our country worthy of great respect.

tiny url for interview:
http://tiny.cc/oqeyw