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

Escaping the Storm (2013)

commercial airline escaping a super-cell over Montana

Looking into the future is always a dangerous practice, but the 2013 economic outlook is “stormy.” 

By the end of this year the US should know if it escaped the clouds or not. 

Here is a general forecast for a perfect global storm which may occur in 2013 (Roubini):

Factors that might contribute to a massive global recession:

1. disorderly breakup of the Eurozone b/c of monetary instability.
2. another recession in the U.S. (2013) b/c of gov't instability.
3. slow growth in China, hard landing.
4. emerging markets stumble (Brazil, India, Russia, Africa, where growth is stalling).
5. Middle Eastern risk of military confrontation re: nuclear proliferation.

There is still time to fend off these threats or even escape by heading the other direction like the airplane in the picture above; however, reading these predictions this morning gave me pause about prospects for 2013.

Fasten your seatbelts, and place seats & tray-tables in the fully upright position. There could be some turbulence up ahead!

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part VII: The Journey

The Journey (from the storm chaser saga...) ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Image: Augusta Jones dress/Hilary

Jessica beamed walking down the aisle toward her eager groom, beautiful in an off-the-shoulder dress she bought for a steal in Dallas. Rick’s eyes moistened, not fully comprehending the significance of this day, they had come through so much to arrive at these nuptials. His storm chaser groomsmen grinned and poked at each other agreeing how hot she looked, genuinely happy for this couple they had known for so long, with whom they hunted the terrible twisters of Tornado Alley.

Hazy thoughts merged into one of their house together on a quiet Norman street: dogs yelping, mowers humming, children playing; steady suburban bliss for spouses beginning life together. Rick teaching at the University and Jessica working at KOKH on the weekends, the Tahoe traded for a Honda sedan and a babyseat; their journey ending up in the peaceful outskirts of a college town they knew well, with a conclusion this couple only dreamed of.

After years of dangerous, adrenaline-pumping pursuit of natural weather phenomena, Rick and Jessica settled down into domesticity and routine, eschewing a volatile, reckless lifestyle for one of patterns and predictability, consistency and certainty. They were happy together, comfortable with sameness rather than the adventure of life on the road in the face of death. This was a switch voluntarily made, trading wild mercurial love for marital oneness. Rick pictured himself holding his wife early in the morning, lovingly brushing her hair back over her ear, misty about lost opportunity even as the CRACKLE of the blaze snapped him out of his daydream.

Image: North Carolina

Clay yelled from the fire break, he saw an opening out of the closing circle of flames. Motionless, Rick was quickly rolling through might-have-beens in his mind as he and Jessica stood by the truck. Clay scouted the scene around their dead-end cul-de-sac: no roads, no turns, no water, no helicopter, no GPS, no cell phones, no laptop, no 9-1-1 calls, no fire/rescue teams, no knights riding glistening white steeds would show up where they were trapped whisking them away from peril.

They would have to run to higher ground, some refuge from all this dark, suffocating smoke and burning, oppressive heat.

Rick moved with resignation, sadly, toward Clay, pulling Jessica by the arm, wondering if his soft suburban fantasy would ever come true; gripped by fear that their escape route seemed to be through the a dark tunnel of trees, leading to an unknown destination of indefinite peril. Like devil’s throat off Cozumel, each team member follows the next, linked hand-in-hand, or hand-in-fin, restricted all around, unable to see, or stretch wide, pushing slowly through the passage.

The bed of straw, pine needles, dried leaves, and branches tamped down with each step, crunching and shuffling as they hurried down the trail. With dryness in the air and underfoot, it was understandable why wildfires consumed acre after acre of fuel-rich woodland. Clay led them through a winding journey seemingly going nowhere but at least they were leaving the fire.

photo credit: AP/ J.C. Hong

Rick’s instincts to path-through-plan nagged him as he dragged Jessica bouncily down the path like a rag doll lagging slowly behind, hitting saplings and trunks as if a pinball. While they hurried, Rick wondered if this maze was a question with no answer, a puzzle with a missing piece. His bias toward action included favoritism of maps and planned escape routes via radar tracking, so he was as frustrated as he was frightened!

Were they going downward in elevation, or did it just appear to Jessica that the plunge down devil’s throat this time happened in a dry hot land descending into a dark, smoky grave?

(to be continued in Part 8...)

©Mark H. Pillsbury (this work of fiction was composed on 19 July 2011)

Texas wildfires: the escape (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Part 3: The Escape

Ironically, Gregg Allman’s sad dirge, “Midnight Rider” played on Sirius/XM® radio as Rick cranked the Tahoe’s ignition. “Outlaw Country,” Station 332 suited him fine as they wove their way through east Texas to find the ranch.

The lyrics, “I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me no/not gonna let ‘em catch the Midnight Rider,” inspired no confidence as both the weather wunderkinds focused on the red tail-lights of Clay’s truck which sped out the front gate kicking up a blinding dust cloud all the way onto the road, away from the wall of fire.

Nature’s fury has myriad forms, whether 100-feet below the ocean as a rushing current or approaching a massive tornado; Rick and Jessica knew intimately the harm that can come from the physical world in a matter of seconds. Even recognizing how fragile one holds to human life, like everyone they rarely feared imminent death; although frequently exposed to it. Nevertheless, today on a rural road in Texas, they finally took a right-turn which turned out to be a dead-end.

“C’mon Rick; catch up!” cried Jessica.

“Babe, look at the computer, and let me drive,” replied Rick, intently. “See if there is something to tell us where these fires are!” They fled at high-speed but their bandwidth for internet was dial-up slow.

image: Clint Harrington

After zooming down hilly back roads straining the capacity of the Tahoe, clinging to the contrails of Clay’s truck; they swooshed up-and-over a rise in the road finding him pulled over on the shoulder, brake lights glowing devilishly red through a cloud, like evil eyes. Rick didn’t know how far they'd travelled, only that they sped generally in a southeast direction. Both jumped out, approaching the driver’s side of the pickup.

“Can you see down toward the bottom of that next clearing?” Clay said as he looked forward through the windshield, not exactly asking a question, “I see flames and smoke rising above those trees?! Izat what you see?!”

photo credit: Idaho

“Could there be another T-intersection down there before we hit the wall?” Rick responded with panic in his voice, almost a shout; squinting a look down the path, silently agreeing with Clay’s observation.

“Can we at least try 9-1-1?” Jessica pleaded, “Maybe they could bear down on our GPS; tell us which way to turn?”

This turning point hinges on the decisions they make in the next two minutes; however each of the drivers eagerly wanted to get back behind the wheel, with itchy pedal-feet like a gunfighter fingering a holster. The traditional Chinese character for crisis (wēijī), widely abused by western motivational speakers, allegedly means the intersection of danger + opportunity. Danger is there alright, but the secondary word is more of “crucial point,” than opportunity. Crisis visits these young people through dark, hot, encircling flames, and no real exit strategy. As hard as it was to fathom, they are lost on an obscure back road in rural Texas without a credible opportunity for escape. This is the most crucial point in their young lives.

To be continued in Part 4....

©Mark H. Pillsbury (6 July 2011):
This is a work of fiction, and similarities to real individuals or other copyrighted material on cable TV or satellite radio is merely a coincidence