Scuba diving Part 1: Dive Like You Train, Train Like You Dive

Unencumbered, young, daring, athletic, honeymooning, just plain stupid. What adjective do you use to describe a SCUBA diver? [SCUBA is the acronym for Self-contained, underwater, breathing, adventurer!]

90% of earth’s surface is covered with water, but humans were not designed to be aquatic.  Without packaged air living underwater is impossible for over a couple of minutes. Conversely, fish do not live well on dry land. Is this too complicated?

Diver certification is like learning to be an astronaut; strangely, what becomes second-nature your body, it is not designed to do. Wearing layers of protective equipment, strapping on a weight belt so you will actually sink, and continuously breathing underwater is a very presumptuous act, but it is as freeing an experience one can feel, an audacious activity completely legal.

Training begins in learning the basic standards of the atmosphere underwater and the proper use of all the equipment. After that, teamwork in a pool separates the swimming-Sams from the panicky-Pauls. Surprises and accidents that happen 100 feet below the surface turn into risky, often dangerous circumstances that must be identified, simulated, and practiced. “Best-practices” replaces thrill-seeking, and timid careful routines are learned and repeated so they become rote.

Exploratory diving’s purpose is to get safely to depth and let the ocean wonders float by, then safely ascending so that the diver lives to tell of the exciting sights he/she witnessed. There are no surprises in the procedures, only in the viewing. SCUBA diving is touring God’s oceans as a visitor, or alien; always looking at the clock to see when you have over-stayed your welcome in the fish’s living room.

Life at these depths requires balance. Buoyancy’s balance is achieved slowly and with proper weighting. Once the diver is comfortably gliding through the water breathing calmly; the weightless flight often transports the inner-consciousness to another universe. The unearthly quiet of a deep dive, peering into the abyss is transformative, but it is not without cost.

Early training must instill this search for inner calm and the quiet peace of marine exploration. Anything that encumbers that mission must be rooted out and conquered or the certification delayed. Diving is a grown-up sport one cannot undertake half-heartedly, or casually. Achieving other-worldly joys, floating through the ocean forests, a qualified diver must be disciplined, teachable, and resilient.

Panic kills. Panic is the enemy. It can cause the delay and mayhem that lead to bold mistakes. Panic takes away the enjoyment of the adventure, replacing it with fear, dread, fatigue, and stress. Obeying the standards of certified diving is like an insurance policy against panic. Dive trainers experiment with everything they know in practice to fluster, frighten, and rattle the diver so that in real time under salt water, an unexpected glitch doesn’t cause the diver to freak out. Pre-planning and training for each dive destination is essential; the buddy-system seeks survival because if one diver goes to pieces, the buddy calms her down and assists in recovery of whatever control was lost (like oxygen).

Fortunate to have the wise old divemaster Bill "Sandy" Hardy train me in 1998, I learned the basics for weeks in a pool before I was allowed to do a check-out dive and apply for SSI® certification. That September, he threw us into the harshest of environments on a cold spring day in dark Lake Whitney, Texas, with no underwater visibility. The conditions starkly contrasted the warm water Caribbean diving which dominates the rest of my log book. I am going to dig that thing out and swim through my underwater experiences over the next few installments, without having to travel anywhere, or make a safety stop. Let’s go diving! (Part I)

writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury
pictures are for personal use

See Part II of the Diving Series:
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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)

OTBN--Open That Bottle Night 2012

Faithful reader, did you see my blogger profile before you started to consume my writing? I list there oenology and viticulture as (amateur) passions. You will find out more from experts like Mark Lewis, Emile Peynaud, Denman Moody, Kyle Kelley, Hal Rose, George Schalles, David Maggard, Lowell Lebermann, Dorothy J. Gaiter, John Brecher, Charles Gordon, J.D. Hasenbank, Norma Hunt, and George Basu; but I know what I like. After learning nuances from the aforementioned wine mentors, in the end, exploration and enjoyment come from increasing knowledge, and sensory education comes best through personal experimentation. That is a gulp-full... Bottom line: it's only grape juice, friends.

So what wine do you like? Full-bodied, reds from an appropriate vintage and grape; earthy, fruity, spicy, woody; I am open to any region as long as it has good oomph to it! The dark purple color of a black currant, chocolaty oak Cabernet probably grabs my attention the most, but I realize two other factors play heavily into your wine experience: the price of what you paid for the wine and the people with whom you drink it. They don't list those on the UC Davis wine wheel!

Cellaring is what can get you in the OTBN dilema because you think you have to hold onto that particular bottle until the time is exactly right; or you are a slave to synergy of pairing the right wine with that dish you have been meaning to prepare. In an effort to worry less about the perfect moment to open the wine, and more about what was a good moment for us, we whipped out the corkscrew last night and took a chance! 

So much is discussed about wine today: terrior is not a dog, it's pronounced ter-Wah and it means the land from which the wine came. However, like the French wine I know nothing about, I don't know terrior (French) other than we all love their dear old vines. I think blending of wine and people is probably a good idea, but I'll never know the percentages. Blending is something left to the experts, and I wouldn't know how to compare vinography versus pornography; but I hear they are both popular on cable right now (I don't subscribe to cable TV).

Last night, after saving a luscious, 2006 Caymus® (Cabernet Sauvignon) from the Napa Valley [produced and bottled in Rutherford, California], we decided it was the right night to OTB. This was a perfect gift from dear friends who can afford this kind of artisan wine, and we opened it last night to celebrate a wonderful occasion at the end of a long week. It did not disappoint, although it was still a little "hot" even after de-canting and being "cellared" in our wine fridge for months. (14.8% alcohol by volume (ABV)). This was a memorable bottle and you would expect nothing less from a pro like Chuck Wagner and a vineyard that was founded 40 years ago in the middle of Napa Valley.

This wine was so hearty it was like eating meat. We could taste the oaky barrels and gravelly soil from which it came, as well as various berries and even some chemicals in the aroma. I don't know if it was the Srihachi  red pepper paste on my Pei-Wei® Thai chicken, or the Cabernet, but my dreams were haunted by all the villains I face in today's world. I tossed and turned all night, but it was worth it. [Maybe I should have paired the food with an innocent Sauvignon Blanc?]

My fortune cookie was appropriate: "A bird does not sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song!" A wine does not sit on the shelf as the "perfect" response to your evening; it is poured out as a drink offering to the love of the people surrounding it. All the expertise in the world will not add to the friendship of the gathering, nor does it improve the taste of the wine on the best of occasions. Once again OTBN celebrates people over wine, love over viticulture, taste over cost, and communion over expertise. We were blessed with the gift of 2006 Caymus and it came to our party like a song, over-flowing with love, beauty, and melody, as did my betrothed. It was a great night. Cheers!

Part IV: The Dreamer

No one has fully grasped what the dreaming mind is doing.

It doesn’t turn off during sleep: brain cells fire, the mind spins; current or past circumstances play out like a movie. Gerri never dreamed, usually knocked out by drugs and vodka; however, since the funeral, images, motifs, and drama haunted his sleeping hours.

Surely these apparitions inform Gerri in some way about his grief. He hoped to understand this condition, then healing could begin and balance restored to his waking life. But his latest dream, unlike any other, drove him deeper into depression.

In the dream Shelby walked up to Gerri in a crowded place, as if they happened upon each other by chance, along the boardwalk in Venice Beach. Stunning, alluring, and radiant in her youth; she seemed just as he remembered her twenty years ago when they fell in love.

As she stood there, the morning light beaming from behind, Gerri could almost see through her; but the colors weren’t faded, on the contrary, everything about this dream popped.

Gerri believed God allowed him to interact with Shelby to lighten the immense guilt burdening his daily life since her death. The relationship between the significant and the fortuitous existed in God’s realm; he did not question the dreams, they were in a reality over which he had no control, indeed he was grateful for the Shelby’s appearance.

“Baby, do you realize how much I miss you?” Gerri asked her. “If I could go back to 1992 and marry you again, I’d do it, but I’d act differently this time!” Unlike Gerri who was plaintive and serious in these conversations, Shelby acted ethereal and joyous.

“Stop, that G.” Shelby said with a wry smile. “We can’t be going back there anyway.” “Let’s talk about right now,” she insisted. Shelby looked around, with her head on a swivel, making sure no one bumped into her on the busy boulevard.

“My love, I can’t stay long!” Shelby urged Gerri when he got distracted. Shelby held a Bible in her hand which looked like the old one from her childhood that sat on their home bookshelf, untouched. No white robes or halos over Shelby Austin, just comfortable jeans and flats with a colorful top, her hair pulled back in a girlish ponytail. Desultory, he was self-conscious for being heavier and much older than Shelby in this dream.

“What do you see of us down here?” Gerri questioned. She grinned, knowing his curiosity, adding seriously, “I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you very much at all.”

As the conversation wound down, a strong breeze blew across the boardwalk and on the horizon a storm gathered with dark, foreboding clouds. The crowd thinned out, flags swirled and snapped in the breeze, and big fat raindrops smacked the pavement, reminding Gerri of tears he shed during the day. [Never did a drop hit Shelby, which appeared very strange to the dreamer].

“My expectations were wrong when we got married, sugar.”

“Marriage was on my checklist. I did not take it seriously; I should have tried to understand what you were going through, instead of helping you with your self-image issues, we medicated our pain away,” Gerri continued, “once we got on that stuff, you never really came back to reality.” So filled with regret, the tears literally oozed from his eyes as he spoke, spilling down his cheeks in streams.

Shelby reached out to him, just beyond their touch. She searched his eyes and lovingly assured him through her tone and pitch, once again using her angelic voice, “Gerri, listen to me baby; none of us do what’s right, most of the time we only think of ourselves, even in marriage.”

“God showed me mercy, taking me from this world,” she looked around the scene, “I was a bad influence on Bobbi Kristina!” Now Shelby seemed remorseful, “Can you believe that I exposed my only daughter to the things that took me down?” “What role model is that?”

“I behaved badly; there were natural consequences for that down here, although it was all forgiven when I got home,” Shelby looked off toward the roiling surf. “It was like the prodigal’s feast.”

“And I can sing clearly again where I am Gerri,” she beamed, looking him directly in the eyes, unashamed; “Heaven is a good place. Your job is to take care of her now, your second chance is with your daughter; I will know how grown-up you are by what you do with her, Gerri.” That was all for now, then she turned and walked north back up the avenue.

 Stunned, Gerri just stood there fixed to the concrete. In just a moment looking down, Shelby blended in with the crowds and disappeared. He jogged toward where she had walked but she vanished as if a ghost.

Would Gerri say this correctly describes the dream: A ghost story? Or a love story?

©Mark H. Pillsbury

[fiction composed Feb. 19, 2012]

Part III: The Funeral of Shelby Austin

(Photo: AP Photo/Jason DeCrow)

“What the f*<k you mean I ain’t invited?!” Gerri shouted at the large man outfitted entirely in black, holding a walkie-talkie. “She was my wife, for Chr^st sake!”

Just inside the narthex of the huge New Hope Baptist church in Atlanta, Georgia, the scene played out with crowds surging inside the sanctuary.

The dark clouds over a noontime Atlanta sky heightened the somber mood of the congregants, even though Gerri Green’s passion was crackling like lightening inside the foyer of the church.

He leaned into the security guard but pointed toward the front of the building, where displayed upon a raised bier was a platinum casket with silver handles, adorned with hundreds of red roses, and covered by black velvet; appropriate for the saddest pop icon the world knew, Shelby Austin, otherwise known as the “Voice.”

Pleading and arguing at the same time, Gerri said, “This is not right, my man; Shelby was my life. I have to sit up front, I was her husband?!” The guard, unmoved, retorted dryly, “You were her husband, Gerri,” “You’re not family anymore, and only family are sitting upfront. Period.”

The big security guard was doing the pointing now, “no one gets up there without me escorting them.” 

But Gerri was gone...

He moved like a cat, avoiding the nine-lives bestowed upon a feline, swiftly pushing open the two swinging oak doors and walking right up to the center aisle of the church under the watchful eyes of mourners. Just like Gerri to demand the attention of the moment, he stopped right in front of the pewter colored box and dropped to one knee, doffing his black fedora. You could have heard a pin drop to the old slate floor.

All week Shelby struggled with her addictions and the impending 4^th trip to a very private rehab clinic near Sedona, Arizona. Jittery at rehearsals for the Grammys® and avoiding accountability from her handlers, Shelby was going to have one last “good” weekend in L.A. before trying to kick pills and booze once again, helped by professionals. Her mentor Clive Davis’ party at the Beverly Hills Hilton was the warm-up for Sunday’s awards ceremony at which she was scheduled to sing. The practice sessions were dreadful, but she kept assuring Clive that she was quitting cigarettes, getting healthy.

Gerri Green did not force the Voice to lace her marijuana cigarettes with base cocaine, but by the end of their tumultuous 15-year marriage they were buying kilos of the drug to blow together. The weight of his guilt and the reality of her passing drew him here today, even though he was not welcomed.

“I am so sorry for what I have done, God.” Gerri prayed at her coffin. “Keep her and protect her,” he was tearful yet defiant, he could feel the daggers in his back as thousands stared, seeing him as to blame somehow for her death. “She was your angel, Lord, take her back now; thank you for my time, for her love.” Gerri got up slowly, kissed the index and middle fingers of his right hand, and touched the sealed coffin, dropping his head and turning just as the security team reached him. “Good-bye, sugar,” he said, looking back toward Shelby.

He could barely walk down the aisle, the retinue almost carried him by the elbows. All agility and power were gone, seemingly left at the foot of the coffin with his prayers. Gerri Green was a broken, forlorn man retreating toward the rear of the chapel. The squawking walkie-talkies chirped over the silent stares of each row as he was escorted out ignominiously, like a criminal on a perp-walk, destination: an Atlanta police car.

She could not beat this devil, nor the others that haunted her; Gerri Green was the personification of the wrong turns her life took in the 1990s, from which Shelby Austin never recovered. Now she was free. Even though her body was tightly enclosed in front of the throngs of friends and admirers assembled here today, later to be laid to rest; her soul was in heaven. Shelby was singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among the angels, and making music to the Lord with a joyful heart.

Life is lived either moving toward God or away from Him. Shelby’s commitment to her Lord wavered over the journey through fame, which turned out to be a cortege. All our most lovely moments perhaps are timeless, and so it was as Gerri made his way out of the church and into a waiting cab; he heard the song playing on the Atlanta FM station, surely commemorating the somber ceremony about to start behind him. It was the song that always reminded him of her love, and he hated to share the damn thing with millions of fans. The warmth he felt of the “good old days” of which the song reminded him, was surely the illusion of timelessness, and yet he was sure Shelby would have wanted to say good-bye before he left.

As the song played on the car radio, he spoke to her again, ripping apart inside, but with a proud exterior, “dear Shelby, I will miss you so much, you were the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it all up!” “Please forgive me and watch over Bobbi Kristina. I will always love you.”

“Now drive!” he screamed to the cab-driver, and it was over; he could look toward the church no longer.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[this is a fictional account partly based on real life characters, not meant to be factual; it is a dramatization of Whitney Houston's funeral, any other similarities are coincidental]

Part II: Heartbreak Hotel: Snake-eyes (The Shelby Austin series)

Heartbreak Hotel:  Snake-Eyes

Shelby Austin series Part II

“Make sure the elevator is locked dude, this one has serious shock-value,” the Detective reminded his assistant, “there are 800 people down at Clive’s party that would fall out if they heard about this!”

“And check everyone’s smart phones as they leave, by the way; I don’t want anyone in here selling us out to TMZ.” LA paparazzi would give their first-born children for salacious pictures of the great Shelby Austin sprawled out naked in her bathroom, dead.

“There’s not much to photograph here Mike, no note, or blood, far as I can tell,” said the Detective.

“She looks fine to me, no blunt force trauma or signs of foul-play.” He was talking through the scenario in his mind as much as lecturing his assistant Michael Donnelly. The Detective was a Beverly Hills Cop, but he knew the signs of nefarious acts as sure as any LAPD Detective from Sunset, or Van Nuys.

The pill bottles were ominous, he thought, and there was booze all around the expansive suite on the fourth floor of the Beverly Hilton, the host hotel of the largest pre-Grammy® party in Los Angeles.

The starlet hit her prime just as police officer Michael Donnelly was born in 1985, he had very little knowledge of the sheer wattage provided by Shelby Austin, the preeminent icon of 80s and 90s pop music.

“She dreamed of para, para, para-dise,” he hummed as he inventoried the room; Michael pondered how sad it was that another Hollywood pillar had broken and crumbled; his point of reference musically, the Coldplay song, “Paradise,” was about a similar young woman whose expectations were out of reach and so she flew away from her dreams.

“This Xanax® bottle needs to be tagged and tested by the ME,” the Detective pointed as he directed Michael his assistant, “remember the socialite who swallowed a bunch of these and chased them down with half a bottle of Skye last month?”

“That sh*t is smooth, Detective,” Donnelly replied enthusiastically,” other than the burn, it tastes like water; it’s carbon-filtered five times, I wish the LA water system was that good!”

Taking Xanax® and booze is like doubling down on the central nervous system, depressing the brain to the point where sometimes breathing stops. Combining alcohol with Alprazolam is never safe. The drinker never knows how much would prove fatal if mixed with the anti-anxiety drug. The alcohol takes away judgment, making one feel good but not thinking normally; tragically, 40 and 50 year olds are more likely to die from an accidental drug overdose than adolescents.

“Didn’t Mrs. Austin-Green sell like millions of records? Michael asked.

“Ms. Austin is divorced from that asshole, Michael, besides, she is known as “Shelby” in the business. He is probably downstairs right now chasing his next girlfriend,” referring to the bad-boy ex-husband Gerri Green who introduced Shelby to this destructive lifestyle.

“Remind me to check out her financial records and insurance, make sure no one was heavily “invested” in her passing.” The Detective added cynically, “street cred is that she is hurting big time, hadn’t had a good payday in a decade. Gerri Green nicked her good in the split.” He followed the tabloids like some cops read Sports Illustrated.

“If it ain’t suicide and murder looks improbable, do you think she died by accident? Michael asked the Detective.

“Time stands still on that junk Michael, it’s like people who believe that the most expensive thing has to be the best you can buy,” he said ruefully, “just one more pill and I will feel alright, one more drink will wash away the pain.”

As a ship off course a few degrees will ultimately go miles from its destination, Shelby Austin spent a decade drifting from her innocent roots and girlish fame. She was now a hardened Hollywood warrior, in and out of rehab, lost in a fog of forgotten fame. Probably sensing fear, regret, and nostalgia as she anticipated performing at the Grammy® awards tonight, she suffered heightened anxiety (Xanax®), and  clouded judgment (alcohol), self-medicating en route to the stage.

The Detective declared out loud, “She was way past the point of no return, been there for years.  Might be the dice came up snake-eyes this time?” Michael Donnelly was gazing upon the doorway to the suite’s massive bathroom, not hearing, but there was a light shining out of the darkness.

Fiction posted 02/15/2012

©Mark H. Pillsbury 

Didn't We Almost Have It All, by Whitney Houston

Didn't We Almost Have It All

“Every last one, Patrice!”

“I can’t have grey hair and sing on the Grammys®,” she said vainly.

The pungent scent of alcohol filled the air around the stylist chair, but Patrice worked on Shelby even though disgusted with her. Sometimes Shelby would rummage around in her over-sized drawstring hobo purse, extracting various bottles of potent medications such as Valium and Xanax, popping them like vitamins.

Watching the precipitous slide into destruction was sad, but how often does a hairdresser get to work on “The Voice?” It had been ten years now; she would call and come down with her dwindling entourage to this crumbling L.A. neighborhood which strangely reflected Shelby Austin; it too had seen better days.

“Girl, I don’t know how I am going to sing on Sunday night,” Shelby said. “I'm not the force I used to be, getting old is such a bitch!” “Do what you gotta do, Patrice; and so will I?!” Ironically, Patrice assumed what she meant was they both relied on chemicals to disguise the truth about this superstar.

Shelby followed fame’s path where it inevitably leads when you become what you worship. Worldly things she pursued were not to blame, not even her former husband Gerri Green, who turned her onto the lifestyle that had ravaged her talent and beauty. Shelby’s demise was her own fault. It was a heart issue, and Shelby had done it to herself. When you gaze in awe, admiration, and wonder at something, or someone, you begin to take on something of the character of the object of your worship. (N. T. Wright)

In her heart, the idols ultimately disappointed her, and far from being obedient to the God of her youth, she clung to youth itself, as Patrice knew firsthand.

Past glory could not hold the weight of Shelby’s expectations. Her pursuit of the way it used to be: the look, the voice, the man, the parties, the fame, all that went with selling 200 million records; she was sure that the outcome would have, should have, been different than it turned out to be.

She was a celebrity of the highest order with all the accoutrements, and an equal amount of delusion. Shelby made lifestyle choices, formed alliances with people, and exploited connections which did not work out best for her career. At the same time her production did not keep up with her expenses, and the harsh reality was that she was so broke she would have to save up to be poor. Patrice only took cash.

The facts were clear, she was “washed-up” and wrung out; Shelby Austin was a shell of her former self, which was one of the biggest pop icons that the 80s and 90s ever produced.

Now, an addict, a burden, bitter about her divorce, her descent, and subconsciously bitter about her dereliction of the greatest singing talent that God ever gave to a woman born in the 1960s, Shelby was suffering. However, real suffering is not the same as sadness over lost expectations. Shelby was a victim of many things, but most of all she was a victim of her own attempts to cure herself of lost youth.

“Those who worship money become, eventually, human calculating machines,” said N. T Wright, “Those who worship power become more ruthless.” Ultimately, starlets who worship their younger success become zombies walking through a drugged reenactment of yesteryear. Anna-Nicole Smith had none of the talent of Shelby Austin, Amy Winehouse was a good singer but not like Shelby was good, and Heath Ledger was a pretty-boy but not as beautiful. She had it all, and when her music came on, people got up to dance.

Patrice did the best she could.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[part I of a fictional series]

Dan Chaon, author of Await Your Reply, on Fictional Identity | Word Craft - WSJ.com

Dan Chaon, author of Await Your Reply, on Fictional Identity | Word Craft - WSJ.com:

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Fiction writers tell lies. They get inside the lives of others, whether real, nearly real, or imagined, taking the identity on a journey sometimes far different than what might have occurred in reality. People often ask writer Dan Chaon which character is the author in disguise? It depends. So much of what we write is part of our life experience, what we're comfortable with; however, the fun of fiction is that the author gets to steal the person's identity and convince the reader the new course is authentic.

As I discussed with my daughter/writer (Eliza) this morning as we observed a truck loaded down with the driver's ragged possessions: tied-down with very little twine, packed loosely, bouncing harshly with the road, and going nowhere fast, what was happening today? Did this chapter closing make it necessary to start the next chapter in another city, or was this person moving just across town? Are they upset, happy, or distracted by the traffic? We were creating fictional characters, depending on the commute, it could become a short story or a novel.

Mr. Chaon reports that researchers say this activity begins early in life. Infants imagine shapes resembling a face, nose, or mouth, and by 2-3 babies already have a complex entourage of fictional characters. By the time kids play with dolls, toys, and action characters, they often take up the voice of these personalities with incredible empathy. The question for professional fiction writers is how far outside their own experiences will they reach?

Authors like Pat Conroy, John Grisham, Stephen Hunter, Michael Lewis, Daniel Silva, and Emily Giffin, all seemed to have used significant portions of their life experiences to color their novels; however, Stephen King, Paulo Coelho, Cormac McCarthy, Don DeLillo, Larry McMurtry, and Charlotte Bronte bring material to their stories from utterly foreign places, from which they have no firsthand knowledge. [These names are quickly taken from my bookshelf, there are numerous other examples]. The point is that living inside the story can be rational and contemplative, at the same time it is an out-of-body experience. Always it is an attempt at empathy.

"How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for awhile? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it that no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?" Don DeLillo's White Noise (Viking Penguin 1985).

Abraham Lincoln frequently quoted a poem by William Knox called "Mortality" written by a Scottish descendant of John Knox the 16th-century Protestant reformer. The President recited the poem so much that some people assumed he had written it:

"For we are the same things that our fathers have been.

We see the same sights that our fathers have seen.

We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun.

And we run the same course that our fathers have run."

Writing is the authentic practice of empathy, making connections, sharing fears, following a story to its conclusion, even if that is one or two degrees off course. The secret to fiction writing is looking behind the disguise of the ordinary; what is obvious is boring. Fascination begins with the focus of the reader's attention, warding off distractions or over-writing, making the type connection with the reader that rings true but seems fresh and creative.

With fiction we might recycle some of the same courses of those around us, but the chance to reach up and out of our own existence, to expand one's mind to the point of going beyond anywhere we might know directly, is a powerful force rarely experienced. As Mr. Chaon writes, "Suddenly, you might get out of your own body, your own mind; it's a rare and powerful stimulant that makes it seem like writing true, utter fiction is totally worth it."

Twitter feeds:
@DanChaon
@markpills

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet?

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet? C.S. Lewis asks, “How is it that we don’t feel at home here (on earth)?” If fish did, would it not suggest that they had not always been or would not always be purely aquatic creatures? Maybe then, it can be argued that there is something in us that is not temporal? As it is we are perpetually surprised by Time (How time flies, I can’t believe how old Johnny has gotten, you mean Jenny is all grown up and married?).

Divine immanence means that God is here, wherever we are, God is here. There is nowhere, there can be no place, where He is not. However, even as I write this, I cannot be omniscient, only God is everywhere; He is nearer than my own soul, closer than my most secret thoughts. Nothing I could share in writing a blog can approach all that He knows about me. It depends on my spiritual receptivity, not time. The scientific man explains and examines; the spiritual man worships and adores.

Are we not like the fish uncomfortable in the sea? What we see, hear, and feel is the reality of living in this world; however, we intrinsically know and want the eternity of heaven which is our spiritual home. The inner restlessness of a thoughtful man is that nagging truth that there is something more than this!? The dark night of the soul, the doubts, fears, and anxiety when the world closes in on us, is a powerful reality. Although, is there not an eternal world that comes alive when we begin to reckon upon its reality?

God and the spiritual realms are real, just as much a part of the world as the physical; the trouble is that I have established bad habits, sin clouds my lenses, ignoring the spiritual. There must be a shift from the seen to the unseen, from physical to other-worldly. God dwells in the world, but there is a gulf between this and the other side of it which is impassable; and for now while I am stuck here. The essence of being a christian requires I listen, see, and believe God’s redemptive revelation in Scripture, just as much as what I get from the "real" world.

No one should fear the voice of God. Even though modern "church life" seems filled with noise, activity, bluster; when caught in a tempest as I was last night, the best advice seems to me: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Ps 46:10) Doesn’t this mean that our strength and safety lie not in noise but silence?

Last night lying in bed, I carried an inner burden. A.W. Tozer calls it “the burden of pride.” Don’t we all carry the burden, continually, challenging every word spoken against us, cringing under every criticism, smarting under each fancied slight, tossing and turning if someone else is rising above us on the corporate ladder?

The meek man is not a weak mouse afflicted with his own inferiority, instead he knows he is as mortal and helpless as God declared us to be; at the same time, he knows that God’s power is alive in him, content with God’s values in place of the worlds. Emptying myself of prideful anxiety and filling myself with the confidence of God’s work is not an easy task. All I could do last night was pray for help! It is a helpless place to be, wringing out worry like a dish towel. Doubt and fear crept around like late-night ghosts.

Wanting to appear as better than we really are is the pretense upon which so much advertising is based. Many bright people are insecure, fearing they might assessed as “common,” be out of fashion, or say something stupid. Even Christians live artificial lives often as unnatural and sad as anything in popular pagan culture. But Jesus tells us to become like little children, truly worshipping God on our knees. This surrender pleases him, it's a necessary meekness in a narcissistic world.

Because of my restlessness last night I come to him today seeking rest, praying for the blessed relief which comes when we accept ourselves for what we are, and stop the pretense of being what we are not. I look at the beautiful blue sky of this winter day and give praise and thanksgiving, all to God’s glory, in faith. Faith is not a one time act, but a continuous dependence and gaze upon the heart of God. Passing through the darkness, redirecting my vision into God’s focus, this is a purifying faith. I hope you can find it also today.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

It's all about the Brand

My take on the Brand

Branding is ubiquitous but important. Talking to my friend Stan Voelkel today at lunch made me think,

What brands “impact” you?

Starbucks is all about “your order,” funky jargon, even personalizing the cup. It isn’t just an ordinary Styrofoam cup, it has style.

Doesn’t the local Starbucks remind you of the TV show “Cheers” in some way? That is part of the brand. It's about more than coffee, it's about community.

Some others:

Target

Honda

Barak Obama 2012

Apple

Twitter

Stan Voelkel

Each one carries more meaning than the product, person, or service. It is dynamic.

The Houston Texans N.F.L.® brand is all about fan fun! The organization wants the fan experience imbued with passion. The noise, the smoke, the bulls, the spirit, the music. Texans brand is strong. It built momentum this year. Winning will do that (ahem, Houston Astros?! They might just re-brand).

If you are thinking about your own brand, or what you do as a service/product, here are some questions you must consider: 

• Perceived need:   what do your customers need?
• Brand awareness:   what information is your customer gathering about you; is the message cohesive?
• Points of comparison & clarity:   how does your customer evaluate the value proposition of you or your brand when compared to alternatives?
• Brand equity:    does the value of the brand make it worthwhile to purchase or choose? 
• Brand measurement:   after all this, what is the assessment of the purchase decision?  Do you have metrics attached to the brand?

 Simple questions, complicated answers. But don’t ignore the importance of your brand...

©Mark H. Pillsbury

The last will be first, and the first will be last

RE: Parables in the Bible (Matthew 20):

It has been said a parable is “an extended simile or a metaphor that explains aspects of spiritual truth in everyday terms.” The word parable describes the act of placing two objects or ideas side by side for comparison. They allow us to see ourselves in contrast to other people.

Christ’s use of parables is often commended to preachers and teachers today as an alternate way to reveal a truth; however, Jesus used parables primarily to conceal or hide His message from casual, indifferent, or unbelieving hearers. “It is given unto you to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it is not given,” Christ declared (Matt. 13:11 KJV).

The Parable of the Generous Landowner and the Laborers in the Vineyard:

The parable is part of Jesus’ reply to Peter, which begins in Matthew chapter 19, verse 28. The message of the parable can be summarized in this statement: The operative principle in the kingdom of heaven is not merit but grace. 

The Apostle Paul’s words reiterate: “For by grace you have been saved through faith. …not as a result of works, so that no one may boast” (Eph. 2:8–9); however, many assume that we earn God’s blessings by our works — apart from God’s grace.

The parable of the laborers in the vineyard teaches that not only our salvation, but also our entire Christian lives are to be lived on the basis of God’s grace. Also the parable teaches about two amazing qualities of grace: the abundant generosity of God’s grace, and His sovereignty in dispensing it. But its that tricky verse, what does it mean?

“The last will be first, and the first will be last”

What does that verse mean to you?

Examples:

Modern Advertising: tells us that it’s all about me and that attitude is everything.

Could it imply that some people connect right away with new information that may take others longer, depending on their relative experience? No, the slow are not to become first. The last are to become first.

Does it enforce the concept that God is the one before whom all accounts will be settled?

The workers who came later were not hired because they were lazy. They were ready to work but none would hire them. These workers were economically and socially disadvantaged. Is this parable a lesson on social/political status?

Mary said, “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones but lifted up the lowly.” (Luke 1). Many see the socio-economic ramifications of the parable. Those with low rank in the present, rise to the top in heaven.

The "day" in the parable can be seen as a typical “lifetime” of the person, if we read it chronologically. Each can be called to work for the Kingdom at any time. God is in charge of the timing of our Kingdom work.

Many believe the vineyard was an analogy for the people of Israel (see Isaiah 5 or Psalm 80). The vineyard was a symbol of Israel and its promised prosperity.  With this knowledge the message of the parable seems clearer.  The workers who come late still get to take part in the reward of the vineyard and its owner. Is Jesus communicating a radical message to the leaders and the people of Israel that says, “The Kingdom of God has been opened up to the Gentiles (called) too.”  Further, “the nation of Israel may have been first (chosen), but that doesn’t mean that others cannot receive the blessing.” Does Jesus suggest that the ones who show up later, the Gentiles, have just as prominent a place in the kingdom of God as the Jews? That would have been culturally outrageous to the Jews at the time! Jews thought dirty dogs were better than Gentiles.

Argued another way, the context implies the 12 disciples correspond to the workers hired at the beginning of the day, akin to the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. Those hired later correspond to other people who became Jesus’ disciples later in His ministry. The timing there is in question for the earliest and heartiest of the disciples.

What a great reversal was what Christ did on the cross:

Have among yourselves the same attitude that is also yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross. (Paul quoted in Philippians). Jesus was the god-man who had to become last, so that we would be first. That is why it is called a great reversal.

Some questions for my readers:

1. Where do you see yourself in this parable of the laborers in the vineyard? What does it mean, “the last will be first, and the first will be last.” 

2. Isn’t it like an egotistical human to question who serves best? who serves most? who then gets the greatest reward?

3. What is your attitude toward the owner of the vineyard? Do you expect the Lord to do what’s right? Is this a story that makes you uncomfortable?

What two attitudes are shown here?:

Generosity—by the landowner in how he pays the laborers, and 

Jealousy—people who worked there all day and got paid the same; there is no room in the kingdom of heaven for those with either "a mercenary spirit" or "an envious spirit."

The system of law is easy to figure out: you get what you deserve!

The system of grace is foreign to us: God deals with us according to who He is, not according to who we are.

Isn’t this parable about servants. And how a servant/leader views the “day’s wage” we get for our service? Could it be all about who gets the credit?

• All our service is already due to God; it belongs to Him anyway.
• The ability to serve God is the gift of His grace.
• The call to serve God is the gift of His grace.
• Every opportunity to serve is a gift of His grace.
• Being in the right state of mind to do the Lord’s work is a gift of grace.
• Success in serving God is the gift of His grace.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

bono and chris martin - what's going on - YouTube

bono and chris martin - what's going on - YouTube:

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U2 and Coldplay have a sibling rivalry going on...

I know from growing up in a family of brothers, things are said about each other often that one wishes one could take back. As Coldplay rises to the top of the charts, Bono has said derogatory things about musical brother Chris Martin. Both groups keep a keen eye on each other and even use the same producer, Brian Eno. As it sounds confusing talking on the phone to some brothers, each band sounds like the other on some of their recent songs. Listen to "No Line on the Horizon" [U2] and "Mylo Xyloto" [Coldplay] on separate nights and the similarities are obvious.

I've seen both groups live, one in the Rose Bowl and one at the Woodlands' pavilion. Listening to the recent albums side-by-side, there is no clear winner. Neither group conquerors the other; indeed, their kinship is almost endearing, their talent cut out of the same clothe. U2 and Coldplay work on the same side of the street. Their DNA is so close, their audience so similar; the differences are infinitesimal.

Coming from a family of brothers makes me happy to see these British rock-n-roll brothers sync up so flawlessly. Any differences are humorous, tensions illusory. Musically the space between the two super-groups is minor, the talent immense. May they long live in harmony and unison despite the huge egos inherent in this business. Following these groups is like knowing that eccentric band of brothers that everyone wants to party with, but no one wants to choose between. It comes down to taste or mood. I love them both.

Twitter:

@_U2_

@coldplay
@markpills

(c) Mark H. Pillsbury

[dear YouTube: the use of the link or any other copyrighted material from U2 or Coldplay is legal under the "fair use doctrine" and is not an infringement of copyright laws, per 17 U.S.C. 107]

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever:

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After ten years in this city, the Texan franchise has finally reached the high plateau of the NFL meritocracy, The Playoffs.

Like a contagious disease, Houston's citizens caught fan fever this week, and across the 4th largest city in the US, today they suffer from Texanitis.

As the sun broke over clear blue skies this morning and Houstonians got out to youth games, the grocery store, or the local coffee shop, all the talk was about the game this afternoon at Reliant Stadium, in the shadow of the old AstroDome. Fittingly, the new breed of professional football players see the shrine to the Oilers right next door, the 8th wonder of the world: the AstroDome. The creepy, dark, out-dated, concrete monolith to the past; where the last Houston playoff victory took place over 20 years ago.

There is nothing like the football euphoria of the playoffs. In a town that prides itself in entrepreneurial grit, civic pride, teamwork, courage, and success--which has largely eluded the city on the gridiron since the Texans started ten years ago; this football team overcame years of under-achieving and the hardship of a roller-coaster season to land its first NFL party since Super Bowl XXXVIII was played in Reliant Stadium in February of 2004.

Predictions are bold. Chips and salsa are flying off the shelves. Only the lucky and the patient are actually going to the game. Traffic around my neighborhood will be terrible this afternoon. But the city is buoyant with excitement. Being a life-long Dallas Cowboy fan spoiled me, but not anymore! The Cowboys are no shoe-in, having one playoff win in the last 15 years. Since I arrived in Houston the fall the Texans started, I have followed them closely every year and could not be any happier to see them succeed. Like any of the millions of Houston transplants who want our team to do well, I'm riding high today, waiting for kickoff.

used with permission: ©K. Woolet 

It should be a low-scoring affair, and with our 3rd QB starting the game, the Texans will have to rely on the Defense (led by the last Cowboy coach Wade Phillips). Turnovers usually change momentum, so look for that to be the pivot-point.

The buzz in the city today is red-hot (Battle Red), the fever is true-blue (Liberty Blue), and for one bright shiny day in Houston, we are all Texans!

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Justice: why don't we talk about justice in church?

Why don’t we talk about justice in church?

Gary A. Haugen, Attorney, and president/founder of International Justice Mission, suggests (3) three reasons why the church is reluctant to preach justice:

  

1.   Pastors are reluctant to preach justice because it’s perceived to bring politics into the pulpit. Partisan politics has no place in the pulpit.

The central focus of preaching should be the gospel not the voting booth. There are many churches that get involved with electoral politics, pursuing candidates from their neighborhood to make changes in oppressive, unjust political systems. However, the purpose of a sermon is to exposit the biblical truth of Jesus and his resurrection, not that Justice and Jesus are exclusive of each other. It takes a pastor who can weave into biblical exegesis Jesus’ desire that humans would be free from the guilt, sadness, anger, confusion, and harm resulting from their sin; instead turning from things like injustice and following him to the cross. 

Jesus had to take for form of a sacrificial lamb in order for true justice to be wrought on humanity through him. Jesus embodies justice and mercy together; his blood paid the ransom for our sin, and makes peace with everyone possible, including God. This amazing mercy was the antithesis to justice although it does not lessen the severity of the justice required to conquer sin. Pastors who talk about social justice in the present day sometimes miss this point about biblical justice in the person of Jesus Christ. The trouble with bringing politics into a sermon is that Christians of both political parties are trying to do the right thing. Maybe the first thing we should do with any candidate is ask them to define their vision of “justice,” and to see that they act wisely in practical matters.

2.   Justice is not always connected to the felt needs of those in the pew. For largely middle-class congregations of North America, injustice is a subject read about in the news, not lived daily.

Big churches like one I can think of in Houston, deal with self-improvement from the pulpit as much as they do anything like “justice.” The pastor I’m thinking of acts as encourager-in-chief not the head of missions. Focusing on the outside world takes commitment, organization, passionate volunteers, and a network of global organizations. Thinking about justice, and acting upon it even in the smallest neighborhood way is more gritty and granular than discussing self-worth, and positive mental attitude. Supporting just causes requires a level of interaction that some churches abhor. They would rather do things within their own congregation than actually have to fellowship with Christians or non-Christians that don’t believe how they do. It gets messy!

Comfortable, middle-class Americans don’t spend much time thinking about justice until it affects them! The idolatry of “comfort” is pervasive in the modern church, so this disconnect is not surprising. For the conversation to turn to justice, our hearts must change. Christians must be so struck with the injustice in their own hearts and what Jesus did to change them that they want to help those who are the victims of injustice, or to right those maladies in the world that are unjust. Progress will come from the inside out, beginning with an awareness of severe problems in the world on more than a conceptual level.

"Here is one choice that our Father wants us to understand as Christians – and I believe it is the choice of our age:  Do we want to be brave or safe? Gently, lovingly – our heavenly Father wants us to know that we simply can’t be both."  — Gary A. Haugen

  

3.   Talking about justice opens the door to despair in our world. The overwhelming quantity and depth of world problems leaves us feeling fatigue and/or paralyzed.

I tend to bounce off that perspective, not because it is incorrect but the larger view is that there is injustice because of the nature of the fall (Genesis). Even though I think Mr. Haugen is accurate, I would argue from a larger idea that injustice is rooted at the foundation of brokenness between each human and God. It is spiritual poverty that causes the relationships in our lives not to work. This is something the North American church is not comfortable admitting! One of the biggest problems in the promotion of justice is that the people who don’t think about justice are actually working through a God-complex. These poor souls are perfectly fine with the concept of justice as long as they are not mistreated themselves; and further that any contribution to injustice begins with looking outside their own hearts for the culprit.

Many Christians tend to think that justice is a problem for someone else, that alleviating injustice (or poverty for that matter) is not an exclusive task of the church. That begs the question, however; who will take up the cause? The government?

If God’s two greatest commandments are to love God with all our hearts, souls, and minds; in other words, our whole being. And secondly, we are to love our neighbor as ourselves (see, Matthew 23 for this restatement of Old Testament commandments). Surely the great commission flows out of this kind of revolutionary love: demonstrated through acts of kindness, compassion, and justice. The mission of God to love his people through us certainly requires that we seek justice in all facets of our life.

The spread of the kingdom of God is to be carried out on earth by His Church, as they have been commanded in the Bible. Through the power of the Holy Spirit within us, having sincere hearts dedicated to justice; Jesus’ followers are to take up the task. Even though it takes work, we are not to sit by idly and give up. The people of God are to reclaim and redeem the world for Christ. “As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” (Jesus’ command in John 20:21)

©Mark H. Pillsbury