Poetry: Pray for Nepal

Swirling, smoking plumes rise heavenward:  thousands of billowing pyres burn with bodies and straw;

People crushed, both alive and dead, carry on a tradition all over Nepal.

By the will of the gods, dark turmeric smoke is life’s breath to the wind,

As is its nature, the body returns to the sky, a gift that its family sends.

The heaving ground broke open their souls, leaving gaping holes deep and black,

Unnerved, unprepared, enveloped by chaos; this poor country was caught by surprise attack.

As history flows from the Bagmati into the Ganges; Nepal’s tragedy washes into Bengal’s yellow bay; life’s shraddha (inheritance) is more than what is evident today.

Blessed are the meek, the survivors of this disaster; their only hope is that relief arrives faster.

How can they inherit an earth that so quickly and violently destroyed their nation?

My thoughts put to poetry don’t help the situation; but what can I do for Kathmandu?

All I can do is #pray4Nepal

©Mark H. Pillsbury (Houston)

["A poem... begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words..." (Robert Frost, 1916)]

Award winning, Best selling Author, and one of my Heroes

Meeting a Legend Before He Leaves Us:

Author David McCullough has written on Presidents and history for 45 years; winning the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor. He received the Pulitzer Price twice and also the National Book Award. It was an honor this week to finally meet him and shake his hand. His wife of 60 years, Rosalee was delightful; she exhorted us to never stop reading out loud to our children.

His new book about the Wright Brothers comes out on May 5, 2015; a result of digging deeper into the story of these remarkable men and finding much that he did not expect: www.davidmccullough.com

In his book about Paris in the 1800s he chronicles the vast influence of the returning Americans who grew, learned, and flourished in Paris. It's unique to consider the massive early French influence on the initial formation of the USA.

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

One of the best interviews I have ever watched was conducted on the Charlie Rose Show where David McCullough spent 52 min. recounting his great life in the study of history. McCullough told us in person, he loves Charlie Rose and was delighted at how well that interview turned out!

http://www.hulu.com/watch/249382

He stresses how important reading, writing, and the liberal arts are to education, which [at 42:20] he claims it is the basis of who we are as a nation [centering the discussion on Education at 43:30].

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]. (Oh, how I agree!)

Mr. McCullough reminds listeners that the "Arab Spring" and other democratic uprisings 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 strength," he says. He adds that much of this civic development is provided by teachers, especially teachers of history (his son is a teacher).

 

He carried himself with dignity, grace, charm, and a sense of purpose. His work stands by itself but as a person, I found him sharp, engaging, and funny; although it doesn't appear this way in the picture above snapped of us at the meeting. In every way he was a humble human being who you'd love to have as a professor.

(Quote) "I think it's important to remember that these men are not perfect. If they were marble gods, what they did wouldn't be so admirable. The more we see the founders as humans the more we can understand them." by David McCullough

Blog post ©Mark H. Pillsbury

 

Up and Down the Radio Dial

My car’s SiriusXM® satellite radio musically illuminates my long commute to work and back home. 

Every day I’m amazed at its wide variety of music stations; I'm carried like a time-machine to realistic memories which make up the tapestry of my life through the decades. The main lanes are: #70sOn7, #80sOn8, #90sOn9, #OutlawCountry, and #DeepTracks.

Magical alchemy takes place mostly in my sub-conscious; but today it was so startling that I had to write about it. The particular song, and the back-story in memory are too long to tell; but even in the age of the iPod® digital device, a simple car radio still provides emotional feedback on timeless wavelengths, bearing a gift beyond price, almost free:

“All this machinery making modern music can still be open-hearted;
Not so coldly charted. It’s really just a question of your honesty?”    Lyrics by Lee ©UMPG

I’m allowed the privilege of  sliding up and down the radio dial; virtually placing the needle down on an imaginary spinning vinyl record of a prior age. In the first few seconds of listening, even hearing a few bars or words of the song; narrative prescience of memory recalls exactly where, when, and with whom I associate this tune.

Songwriters have very little time to move toward their chosen endings, structuring parts of the music to match the lyrics. In reality, this confinement means that every song is over before it begins. Wouldn't it be nice if our life stories had the kind of “up” ending that writers hope to bring to their songs? Often the story just doesn't allow the kind of ending we’d secretly hope for.

It is Aristotelian to describe a story (or a life) like this: “A beginning requires nothing to precede it, and an end is what requires nothing to follow it; however the middle requires something both before and after it.”

One of our strongest human desires is that Aristotle’s equation is not true; we want our “middle” to count for something and we know the significance of what came before us and what succeeds. Our lives play like the radio dial I mentioned before: our beginning comes from the histories, biases, character, education and family circumstances.

The big middle, the life we lead, is made of years of lined-up in particular points, like grooves on a record. Set us down in any one of those grooves and the rest of the story plays like music. No specific song is better or worse than any other one; in fact, maybe these musical notes compose all the riffs of one song: our life.

What follows the end? That’s another topic for another post.

“Sing me back home with a song I used to hear,
Make my old memories come alive.
Take me away and turn back the years,
Sing Me Back Home before I die.”
©Merle Haggard

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Prologue:

[Twenty-two years ago, on January 20, 1993; William Jefferson Clinton took the oath as 42nd President of the United States--first of his vaunted “baby-boomer” generation. This fictional account of a true story revolves around a charismatic candidate, unknown to a sexy single girl returning to Dallas on the final leg of her journey; occurring in November 1991, fifteen months before the inaugural]

More than any other airline, or business for that matter, Southwest Airlines® lives the bromide: “it’s all about relationships,” by ensuring both passengers and employees have fun during a flight. With no assigned seating, cheap drinks and plane tickets; they value the atmosphere created by happy employees, and the goodwill created in customers by always being on-time and treating them with respect. Focusing on people creates a competitive advantage in a difficult industry. So, this flight provided the perfect place for Tina and Bill to meet; both of them experts at building relationships: selling, communicating, networking, and having fun ran in their blood!

Tina Dobbs was a tall Longview girl; a little country, not from Tyler—in her 30s but casually beautiful. Wearing comfortable Madonna-leggings and an oversized sweater on the flight, Clinton loved the view from the aisle as she stretched upward to shove a carry-on bag into the overhead bin.

“I think I can see through those tights, Carville,” he whispered to his bald friend. “Doesn’t she just want you to reach through the opening of that sweater,” Carville replied, “two scoops of sweet cream, Billy.” Carville’s cackle caused people think he was drunk; but he was just from Louisiana.

Tina was a cross between a young Diane Keaton of the Annie Hall era and an athletic Cameron Diaz from There’s something about Mary. A stunning beauty with long, sinewy legs, but ample bosom; the two young politicos admired her tantalizingly sheer black bra. Her retro, horn-rimmed glasses and stylishly cut, feathery blonde-hair gave a studious air to a fiery sex appeal. Carville thought she could pass for a LSU co-ed, but his saavy client knew better; hoping she was as experienced in bed as he was.

The 46-year old Clinton maneuvered gracefully so he sat across from Tina near the bulkhead in the open area on a Southwest® jet considered neither cattle-car nor pick-up bar. So adept at conversing; the forced “facetime” of a flight, buckled into opposite chairs gave him the tactical advantage. It didn’t take long before the sizzle between them passed across the small space like electric current, their animated dialogue covering multiple topics.

After partnering with his political wife Hilary Rodham 11 years in a backwater state; during the previous month, the obscure if colorful outsider announced as a presidential candidate on the capitol steps. Nonetheless, here was Bill the cad, always playing the fulcrum between risk and reward; flirting with an eligible woman not his wife. Hurtling toward Texas like fledgling lovers, their personalities ran a mile wide and an inch deep: some priorities intersected, but not in a serious way.

,

“I love that song,” said Clinton, referring to Madonna’s pop hit Material Girl coming from nearby Walkman® earphones, “I’m not going to get that out of my mind,” she demurred. It didn't take long for her to warm up to Clinton’s charm, but in a peculiar way she was playing with him like the material girl in the song. He pursued her subtly; serious about politics but relating to Tina intimately in a small space, intensely looking into her pale eyes as he meandered through his story.

“I’m not liberal or conservative: I’m both--it's different,” feebly explaining his politics, his upbringing, his passion; she was captivated by his eyes, close cropped hair, slightly graying, and the southern twang that made her comfortable: he sounded like he was from East Texas. Their opposite seating seemed like both a bridge and a wall; Tina felt both connected and protected.

Offering no real political insight to the conversation, she agreed amicably with the young candidate that the economy was tanking, and President Bush’s popularity was sliding, even in Texas. Entrepreneurial art dealers in Dallas rarely feel economic effects either way; because their clients come from wealth and sophistication--the exact demographic Clinton was coming to Dallas to tap. Since that dark November in '63, Dallas filled the chasm in its soul with the flickering light borne of a beacon; reflected off shiny buildings, cars, and people. That beacon guided this flight home.

Her politics mattered much less than her ability to sell rich people expensive pieces of art. Clinton relentlessly talked about himself like anyone running for office, but Tina pictured him more likely the president of his fraternity a few years ago; away now in Texas, trying to close a big real estate deal.

Even though he launched the campaign earlier in 1991, she previously knew nothing about his background whatsoever--except that he was cute. Hardly effusive, this divorced mother of two talked little about her personal life on planes; mostly they discussed popular culture and how the country needed to change course:

“My hero was John Kennedy. I want to finish what he started when he asked every American to take personal responsibility for the future of our country.” 

God, she thought; this inexperienced politician seemed a little mischievous to want to save America from the Republicans. He desired immense power, that she could tell; and yet he wanted to help—by force of his charm and the twinkle in his eye he slowly convinced her of his candidacy. She was unconsciously falling under the Clinton spell.

He confided in his wispy/raspy voice, “we’re hosting some liberal Jewish attorneys over at Fred Baron’s house, and then it’ll probably end up over at the Stoneleigh P.” This neighborhood contained art galleries and bars; she knew it well. "Say, do you know Truman Arnold? He's from East Texas;" Clinton pried, always networking or fundraising. The material girl scratched and clawed but never cracked the upper echelon of rich Democrats like the Barons or the Bransons; and in the age before smartphones or Google® how could she know that these two men ironically, also were married to overbearing, bitchy, attorneys?

“My gallery is up the street on Cedar Springs,” Tina confided, “I’ll be working late tonight for sure.”

Not uncoupling from the invisible line of electricity connecting them, and hoping they might run into each other again; she eagerly pondered the alpha-Male in her mind, fascinated, curious, and attracted to him even in the short time they had been together. President Clinton the micro-manager, obsessed over details of economic policy or healthcare; was able to discuss eloquently yet technically almost any subject in politics. As a regular observant guy on this flight, however; he noticed Tina’s Razorback-red toenails, the little dimples in her back that peeked out just above the hips, and her bleach blonde hair; a bit more natural than Gennifer Flowers.

Southwest Airlines® flights provided a casual workplace for the young powerbrokers of Texas; a small boardroom where they could loosen their ties and socialize while airborne. Its nutty, comedic advertising promoted the image of “love,” engendered the stock ticker symbol of LUV, and its home base was Love Field. “I’ve got so many of these tickets, let me get you a drink?” Clinton ordered a beer and Tina a very expensive brand of Vodka, again the contrast of Bubba and the fancy girl from Big D. The optimist politician was sure she’d meet them later if he pitched this right.

As they drank more, Clinton got sanguine and Carville got loud; men focused like assassins on the issues of the upcoming election in 1992. Tina’s initial assessment fell far short of the election results just one year later; in fact, as impressed as she was that afternoon, she didn’t think of him again until after the Democratic nomination. He appeared on the Arsenio Hall late-night TV show, playing that damned saxophone on her TV screen! By then, the Clinton contagion was going viral, and Tina couldn't believe her eyes. She had brushed so close to a high-voltage power line, smoldering and exciting; even without regret, the memory burned deeply into her psyche as much as any historical fact of her life.

The dating Gods protected her from the maelstrom and sexual mayhem of the Clinton presidency. Like a ghost of a gathering storm; in reality the relationship never had a chance. When they met, his candidacy and future wealth wasn’t apparent; and frankly the material girl was mainly impressed by free-flowing cash men of Dallas. Maybe she was ahead of her time, because looking back on Bill's exploits today, he seems creepy. Despite the physical spark, he just didn’t show enough immediate financial attractiveness at the time, even with the allure of a wildly charming nature. But Tina’s dalliance sure made a good story for the rest of the Nineties.##

Music video:  http://youtu.be/DNSUOFgj97M

 "Some boys try, and some boys lie but

That's alright with me;

If they can't raise my int-rest, then-I

Have to let them be-ee.” (Madonna) ©Warner Bros. 1985

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein is not an infringement of copyright law, see 17 USC §107) 

Dallas Cowboys: My tribute to all the sports journalists of my youth ["Scattershooting"]

Scattershooting....... while wondering how the stagecoach ran through December so rapidly? 

As I sit here on this brisk January Sunday morning in tribute to Blackie Sherrod, Skip Bayless, Paul Crume, Dan Jenkins, Randy Galloway, and all others who pecked out their sports columns I read so religiously in my youth; I’m not writing in the Dallas Morning News, but I’m gonna drop a hot sports opinion nonetheless. 

Forty-days and forty-nights have passed since that terrible Thanksgiving Day when we all sat down for a feast of football. So decimated mentally and physically by the Eagles, the Cowboys rebounded and revived into a real contender for the Super Bowl everyone thought belonged to the home team, Arizona Cardinals.

Neither Matthew Stafford’s homecoming nor the feckless home-field advantage of Jerry’s Cowboys will dissuade me from prognosticating wild card success, this afternoon in Dallas. Finally, after wandering in the wilderness of mediocrity and the futility of .500, my precise predictive prowess tells my faithful readers that the Cowboys will win only its second playoff victory in 19 years. 

If kale is the new super-food, the Cowboys are the new Super Bowl contender! Their road may run through the frozen tundra, but a championship game in the wild Seattle northwest, with the despicable denizens a/k/a The 12^th Man is not as daunting in light of the solid win over the Seahawks on October 12.

Am I a home-field hallucinator? A crazy Cowboy, delusional in Dallas? No, I think a dominating offense and an inspired, friendly crowd push the Pokes past the unlucky Lions. Defense is the unanswered question for those who wade into the scary waters of calling a Cowboy victory today; and if Dallas tries to single-cover Calvin Johnson again, Stafford will make the home squad pay as if he was Bobby Layne’s ghost. Ball control will win the day: Murray running-game plus zero takeaways by the Lions, equals another chance at greatness for the Metroplex’s most storied franchise. 

If Jerry-world resembles Disney-land more than Lambeau, the smash-mouth reality of the road to Glendale could mean a better path for the Cowboys, after this game; considering they’re the best road team in football? Like a great book, the story of this season changed drastically after November 27, and it must take another surreal turn this afternoon.

So if Super Bowl XLIX (whatever that number really means) in four weeks, pits Dallas versus Denver, like the big game 35-years ago at the Superdome; I’ll be the smartest man in journalism, and if I’m Arizona dreamin’ on this winter’s day, you’ll forget me like yesterday’s headlines. And so it goes…

©2015 – Mark H. Pillsbury (Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein is not an infringement of copyright law, 17 USC 107)

Thanksgiving Thoughts: Friend not Acquaintance -- Leader not a Boss

Friend not Acquaintance – Leader not a Boss

A friend is the kind of person you can know for a short time or a long time, but the relationship lasts forever; partly because you can pick up right where you left off. Connections like this bond us together whether by affinity, or common values, or even enduring trauma together. An acquaintance is just a weaker version without the loyalty, love, or forgiveness. A friend puts up with your foibles, short-comings, and vanity. They like you because of the failures.

Acquaintances use you for networking; a friend covers your back when you aren’t looking. To me, a friend equals integrity; an acquaintance is temporary. I’ve experienced this deeply over the past year in various “reunion” scenarios and have written about it here at the New Rostra, previously (08/05/2013):

http://rostranovum.blogspot.com/2013/08/open-letter-to-class-of-1983.html

but it’s a theme that cuts deep and red. Many complicated endeavors come down to relationships, because humans require trust and intimacy to interact as we do our eyes, ears, and tongues; it’s just how we’re wired.

A team works well together because it realizes each person works to complete an important part of the objective; and without each person it is likely the goal cannot be reached. Football is the ultimate team game; when the television replay shows the choreography of an offensive touchdown, each player’s performance works out in super-slow motion. Teams have fun together easily, but when meetings are serious, or the tasks ahead seemingly insurmountable; together they know there’s at least a fighting chance for victory.

A team may not all be friends, as I’ve described above; however, through their common bond of cooperation they can develop relationships much like a brotherhood-in-arms. Teams must have well-defined roles, strong leadership to steward the group through adversity, and a spirit of joy in the process that says, “I’d rather be here with you now, doing this job, than anywhere else along the line. Let’s do it!”

I’d rather have a leader than a boss. Someone who can keep vision and values intact, yet who has the grace and wisdom to let each team member exercise their God-given talents to the best of their ability; matching them to the tasks that need to be accomplished. Leaders inspire, bosses retire. Any leader will have to do the dirty “carrot-or-the-stick” work of being a boss; but they don’t have to slash & burn through the troops without understanding each teammate’s personal situation. To a Boss, you are a “direct-report” to be managed and manipulated. To a Leader, you are a person, a friend even; someone important enough to develop along the way in reaching goals because of the long-term perspective: leaders know there will be many more battles. Bosses look for the weekend, the vacation, or retirement, as their ultimate destination.

Valuing teamwork is easier said than done, and it’s one of the S.P.I.R.I.T. values my company takes seriously. My supervisor was a great example of a leader not a boss…

I’m thankful today for knowing someone in these ways every day for almost two years. He was more than a boss; someone I liked immensely as a person and respected inherently as a leader. I’ve survived some horrible bosses during other times in my career, many of whom were talented tacticians but challenging to work with. I considered this one a friend with the appropriate boundaries; the best of both worlds.

My current supervisor was special: capable, confident, affable, approachable, loving, funny, sincere, and most of all successful at leadership of our team; he was the rare talented professional who lived out corporate values in a real way, thinking of the team before himself and leading us into battle with all our respect. He will be acutely missed but we understand that he made this life decision with his family first, and the future of his career second; which meant he felt it best to move to another city. Commitment is really only permanent when it comes to family, I get that. Thankfully, the energy economy is so robust that such a move is possible; but it leaves a gaping hole in our leadership, turning a buoyant team-boat upside down.

I could write another post about the preeminence of change; how when you get comfortable doing something, watch out!? Change is coming; it’s the only constant in the corporate world today.  This broken-bone is going to take some time to heal; but I'm looking forward to the challenge 2015 poses. The best way to honor the memory of this two-year run is to imitate, replicate, encourage, and perform in the way that would make him proud; he would expect nothing more and ask for nothing less.

"God gave us a spirit not to fear others, but to be wise, bold, loving and sensible; enjoying our time with the people around us." 2 Timothy 1:7

“New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.”

~Laozi (5th century B.C.)

copyright(2014)©Mark H. Pillsbury

Birthday Week Thoughts: Bicycling my way into the Fifties

Blogging: Birthday Week
Bicycling my way into the Fifties

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Leaving the past decade feels momentous. Was it a mountain-top experience; or in reality, a “mole-hill?” It depends on the perspective—the viewpoint. I’ve never carried the heft of “age” so physically, the wear and mileage shows at every doctors visit. Skin, teeth, eyes, muscles, feet… Could they all decline at once, right around this milestone birthday? I’m serious. This isn’t the obligatory midlife melodrama blog post. I won’t berate generic marketing campaigns aimed at driving me to false comparisons. You know the ones.

Still, I’m wondering whether this decade taught me more than the others. Happy where I am, better in so many phases of life, it is the surviving that gives my reflection meaning. As I’ve often written  here on the New Rostra blog about resiliency, recovery, recalibration as a result of our brokenness; this post is also a good point at which to bisect my story. My birthday month isn’t a midlife crisis; but instead, a vista from which to look both forward and past.

Last Saturday night I viewed a couplet star, grouped too far away to see with the naked eye. My lifespan’s brevity compared to the time it took for the light to reach that telescope, warped my sense of time; forcing me to admit my few decades don’t amount to more than a blip on a nanometer. And what am I to make of my accomplishments? How do I set goals this late in life, with reality setting in? It’s a mental tug-of-war between what-might-be and what-might-have-been; a battle against cynicism that thinks, “I’ve seen it all by now.” As I think about this age, I’m aware that the knowledge that makes me cherish innocence, makes innocence unattainable; nonetheless, I’m reminded by Solzhenitsyn that I must still “cherish innocence,” not losing the wonder of discovery, even by riding a bike around the neighborhood. (Psalm 51:12)

Stepping off the busy-bus for a few moments to reflect on this midpoint; I’m happier in being, more than doing, in thinking more than talking, in giving rather than taking, resting instead of rushing. I’m even comfortable with renouncing the vanished naivety and utter futility of the “Illusion of Control.” For the past 18 years, my family and my church has helped me the most to grow and expand my definitions of love, joy, peace, centeredness, humor, inter-dependence, humility, and purpose.

In this beautiful October, always one of the best months of the year; my mind focuses on this life, my loves, dreams, and the purpose for being. By sweet grace, the tempests have stalled for the briefest of moments; the Ferris-wheel of life slowly turning to the top of the circle, giving me time to breathe. Smiling at what came before, future storms at bay; I wonder over what flows out of my heart: thinking, learning, reading, working, loving, laughing, teaching, cooking, walking, bicycling… even singing!

Songs are like photographs from my childhood: listening to the AM Radio during the summer, teenage driving with the sound turned up, or the long commute between Austin and Dallas. From the Bangles to Rush, Soul Train, Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, Starplex Amphitheatre, the ACL Guadalupe studio recordings attended; these are just some of the ways song burned into my psyche. I’ve gone from 8-tracks to Pandora® hearing songs like “Walking on a Thin Line,” Huey Lewis & the News, the one-shot album of Bad English, sneaking out to a Tom Petty concert, Shalomar’s “Dancing in the Sheets,” and maybe a slow dance to Lionel Ritchie’s “My Love?” Strangely, somewhere in the night (or the 1980s); I became a big fan of Frank Sinatra (thanks Mary!). As an example: “It was a very good year” lyrics are shown below (1965).

The bell’s about to ring. I have to cram 50 years of memories back into my memory locker and run to class. I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me during this break. Humbly working in life’s Second Act not to waste the wisdom gained from the first; I’m not going to risk my time and energy on some of the activities and things I did before. I want to live my life true to my conscience, my family, and the calling of God’s word (sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel); not what I think others expect of me. I’m planning on being more appreciative of the small things in life that can’t be bought. Can I rest more than work, listen more than speak, love more, worry less; will I feel dumber the smarter I get? Maybe it’s true that 50 is the new 30.

(October 2014)

“When you hit your fifties life starts comin’ up on ya fast,” Gordo Tallman said to me on the occasion of my forty-ninth birthday. “Before that time life is pretty much a straight climb. Wife looks up to you and the young kids are small enough, and the older kids smart enough, not to weigh you down. But then, just when you start puttin’ on the pounds an’ losin’ your wind, the kids are expectin’ you to fulfill your promises and the wife all of a sudden sees every single one of your flaws. Your parents, if you still got any, are gettin’ old and turnin’ back into kids themselves. For the first time you realize that the sky does have a limit. You comin’ to a rise, but when you hit the top there’s another life up ahead of you and here you are—just about spent.” (By Walter Mosley ©2010, Penguin Group Publishing, New York)

"I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs;

 From the brim to the dregs, and it poured sweet and clear.

 It was a very good year.” –Frank Sinatra (1965)

"Sixty feels exactly like 50, with aching feet and more forgetfulness. (AAA had to come unlock my car this morning, as God is my witness). But your inside person doesn't age. Your inside person is soul, is heart, in the eternal now, the ageless, the old, the young; all the ages you've ever been." --Anne Lamott (2014)

Psalter's prayer: "Clean my heart God,

Cast me not away from your presence
Restore to me, the joy of my salvation."

##

Fly-in Fiction: "Where's Hampton?" (Part 1)

Any biplane shrinks in comparison to the massive blue Corsair

Fly-in #Fiction: Where's Hampton?

The dull, marigold painted canvas fuselage contrasted nicely with the drab, lichen-green accent stripes; even matching in a way the Mesa Desert Military Base in Arizona, the airplane’s original home. The P-12 was a basic looking aircraft, relatable to a young boy, almost like one of the toys he played with in his younger days.

"Look at this one, Dad! I could fit into this one..." (He was captivated by the biplane)

WW1 biplanes trained Air Corp pilots in the late 20’s by using simple controls like a leather-handled stick, and two small pedals to handle the plane’s rear vertical rudder. Basic instruments such as the altimeter, airspeed indicator, tachometer, oil & water pressure gauge, and the am-meter (electrical gauge) surrounded the pilot in a simple open-cockpit.

By looking outside, the pilot could see whether or not the horizon was level; eliminating the need for today’s instrument casually known as the gyro-level ball, or altitude indicator. Raw, outdoor flying often required goggles and maybe even a silk scarf for flair, like snoopy in the famous Peanuts® comic strip.

His father gently reminded the Hamp, "be careful walking around buddy, these planes aren't toys."

An automatic ignition eliminated the brave assistant in front, spinning the rotating blades; electronically sparking the P-12 to start: four-cylinders of the Continental engine firing-over twice. An ancient wood-laminate Sensenich propeller spun suddenly into action.

It was one of the oldest "trainers" still flying, and compared to Boeing jetliners today this was a dinosaur. "But, the pedals are the same as they've always been," he said, knowing the basics of flight from his simulator at home.

Humming like a super-powered ceiling fan, the P-12 rolled gently over the grass, slightly bouncing toward the north runway. No one in particular paid attention during the crowded “Fly-in,” as planes of all types landed and departed over the course of the sweltering summer afternoon.

“Where’s Hampton?!” His father wondered.

Eyes instinctively surveying the small airfield grounds caught a glimpse of a tiny boy’s head sticking out of the open cockpit of the biplane. The young pilot’s tiny ball cap barely crept above the leather-cushioned cockpit sides.

He gasped, “You've got to be kidding;” quickly considered hailing a volunteer flagman, using their radio, or jumping onto a nearby fire truck, actually stored in a hangar at the other end of the field. The helpless father stood petrified, watching his young son pilot an historic biplane. This was like a bad dream.

Squinting in the bright sunshine, he thought, "did hours on a X-box flight simulator give his son the soaring fantasy that he could actually pilot this biplane?" It had to be him idling at the end of the runway; power surging against the breaks of the 1929 Army trainer, ready for take-off.

Astounded, he thought, "what in the heck is he doing?!"

Hearing the engine rev, while the propeller’s off-white mirage reflected the sun’s rays; Dad hoped that his kid could keep the plane level enough to establish cruising speed down the runway. He was doing the cold analysis of EMS personnel coming up to a car wreck, "how many people could survive this collision?"

What about the moment of truth, professionally measured in “V-speed;” when the plane can no longer abort the takeoff safely? Would his son achieve V-speed, and thereby, maximum vertical lift? Would he remember to use flaps to direct air underneath the wings, pulling back hard on the stick?

Frozen-still in shock, breath and lips unable to form word, gut wrenching, stomach turning, the brain tried to make him scream; all he could do was wave his hands above his head like someone signaling a runaway train.

His waving was the only way he could talk to his son; though he was sure Hampton was not thinking about him...

Emotion surging, suddenly believing, “He’s pulling the stick back perfectly! Hampton’s flying that biplane like a goddamn Ace!” Running along the airstrip, putting one-foot in front of the other; finally screaming out his son’s name like a maniac; or a cheerleader—a bone-chilling wave went down every spectator’s spine. The airshow crowd unwittingly heard the horrific reaction; even as the little biplane blithely floated upward into the cloudy cobalt sky, now but a spec on the horizon.

With less than an hour of daylight left on the clock, in the glow of a beautiful amber sunset; there was serious doubt whether his son knew enough to navigate back to the field and land this plane in the dark.

(Part 1)

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©Mark H. Pillsbury

9-11 Tribute After 13 years: R is for Resiliency

R is for: Resiliency

“The good folks mostly win, courage usually triumphs over fear, the family dog hardly ever contracts rabies; these are the things I knew at twenty-five, and things I still know now, at the age of 25 X 2. But I know something else as well: there’s a place in most of us where the rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters. It is good to have a voice in which the terrors of such a place can be articulated and its geography partially described, without denying the sunshine and clarity that fill so much of our ordinary lives.” –Stephen King (April 16, 1996)

 

If I’ve learned anything through trials and travails, it’s that even though life seems short, ephemeral, and progress only seen dimly as through a dark opaque window; there is always the power to rise to the moment, and summon the courage to change. This is my voice articulating a vision of the geography of the dark places we face; and after so many years--maybe even some of those affected by 9/11 have navigated out of the dark forest.

Freedom Tower, Manhattan

 

Even when one seems too old, tired, or uncomprehending of how to alter their course; by taking deliberate steps down another path, I’ve seen durable people transform themselves and their situations remarkably. "In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning," said F. Scott Fitzgerald; however, let me assure you, there is always a way out, the morning after.

Sometimes it means realistically dropping one dream, now cumbersome baggage; developing another set of goals. Other than developing a love to read and learn; this might be one of the keys to unlocking life’s complexities, and is certainly something I want to bestow upon my children: resiliency.

Those fortunate to have their wits and health, living in this great land of opportunity, and with God’s sovereign blessing, can get up one morning and resolve to change; indeed, one’s path is never set in granite. Killing inertia is itself an early skirmish in this brutal, continual, wearisome war.

Standing with your feet firmly planted allows one to gaze out and ponder a new course; even though the road looks twisted and crooked through the brambles and brush of rural forest. Sometimes it seems too overgrown and dark to find your way. Don’t give up! Keep looking for the light, and if necessary, hack your own way out till you find the dirt road for which you yearn.

Once the new path is found and begun by faith; the energy to meet the new challenges will appear; although, this river of energy fueling a fresh endeavor is not always apparent. Sometimes you tap into its power like a hydro-electric plant, or otherwise jump in, just riding with the flow. This process isn't instantaneous. It requires patience, strength, and resiliency founded in a higher power, or should I say “outside yourself?”

Others may call the new path: too risky, or pronounce early failure. Valuable are those friends who support and encourage: every single, solitary one is an angel sent from above. Thank them when you get back on your feet. And don’t be too sure who the angels are; some of those closest to you will disappear at the moment you need them most.

All your days have prepared you for the battle now raging; take the step forward in faith and fire the first shot.

“Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next, to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish. We don’t play the major role. If we did, we’d probably go around bragging that we’d done the whole thing! No, we neither make nor save ourselves. God does both the making and saving. He creates each of us by Christ Jesus to join him in the work he does, the good work he has gotten ready for us to do, work we had better be doing.” Ephesians 2 (The Message--Copyright © Eugene H. Peterson)

“There dwells upon this earth a mysterious Being, whose office is to renew the fallen and restore the wandering… His chosen residence is a broken heart and a contrite heart.” –Charles Spurgeon

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©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)

 

Leaving New York: True Love

Track Four #TrueLove

He loved Central Park. It gave him a feeling of liberation from confined space; oozing out of the pores of the freest city in the world--of possibilities outside its verdant borders. Staring out at the Park, the reality of his abrupt exit from FormCorp nearly suffocated him this evening on the way to the airport; slowly making his way north on Fifth Avenue, a sad soundtrack playing in the dark limousine.

The four years spent in Manhattan exceeded every dream he’d had of life in the City that Never Sleeps. It breathed life into him every morning as he walked the concrete canyons to work, even trudging through grey, slushy snow. As CEO of a wholly-owned subsidiary, he spent four years immersed in FormCorp and the culture of the financial district. Large corporations have diverse networks and traditions so ingrained they live like old families, oblivious to their dysfunction and set in their ways. With many of his ideas ignored or marginalized by the parent company and on the verge of a leadership shift; he’d decided to leave without much fanfare. It was time to go, but the city's twinkle faded before his eyes, refracted by tears. The city was moving on without him.

As an outsider from New York, coming into lead a major division was a difficult challenge; the ethos of this culture was an elitist brand of excellence, and every team was a team of type-A leaders. As hard as it was to gain the high ground in his group within the larger corporation, the years had flown by in “New York time,” making this evening’s final ride even more shocking. This was it. He was leaving her. The end of a short, torrid love affair, doomed from the beginning. How appropriate that the driver, Mike; like a friend by now, slipped Coldplay’s latest reflective album "Ghost Stories" into the stereo system; a musical representation of his crushed, defeated torpor. He lifelessly leaned against the door staring out at the city bustling by, seemingly like a lover fading down and away on a busy street, lost in the crowds.

He would miss the wild changes in seasons, fashionistas, the art, and the word-on-the street. Dining in Manhattan always presented challenges, but he enjoyed the “hunt” of finding just the right place to eat. Often you didn’t brag about some local discovery because you wanted to keep it to yourself, keep it from being overrun. Here, everything moved with such a velocity; from public opinion, to speeding cabs, the rise and fall of the markets, even the lithe Central Park “joggers” had a running pace he always envied. This was the City of the World; nothing like it.

["Most other American municipalities are segregated by class and culture, education and personal choice. But in New York everybody is jumbled up together and bounced around until you have African princes walking side by side with Appalachian Daughters of the American Revolution, and aspiring starlets making room for hopeful housewives past their prime. Even with real estate costs climbing above the reach of almost everyone, you can still find all the elements of humanity riding #1 train down under the West Side of Manhattan."

--Walter Mosley (The Long Fall 2009)]

His company spent a lot of time helping its leaders learn what to do, say, how write email, or drive production and profits; however, not enough time was spent helping those same leaders learn what to stop doing. His early mistake was not in governance of his team, but failing to ask the right questions about the company which owned FormCorp. Before he even took the job in New York, he could have delved deeply into its leadership structure and how its centralized nature diluted the power of the divisional CEOs. Like why did the Executive VP working closely with the President & Chairman have the right meddle in his operation? She wasn’t above him on the org chart, but he couldn’t get her out of his business: "that's just not how we do it at FormCorp," was the mantra; but he believed that without freedom and creativity, collaboration looks like conformity.

His ability to change or even accommodate the executive leadership team of FormCorp’s parent company was slight in the first year of his tenure; and yet business practices they couldn’t stop doing would be the harbinger of his end, even though three years later. This may seem as minutiae out of a MBA class; but power struggles are as old as time; and it came down to that.

Taking a risky leap exposes one to all sorts of danger and timing is everything.

He’d heard those bromides forever, but their truth hung on every word of the songs Chris Martin sang this lonely evening. His family had moved back to California already, giving him time to close up his tenure at FormCorp and exit the city. All the “what-ifs” had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks, as the end approached; he’d even considered taking some time off to consider resurgence--staying in the position but taking a different approach. Ultimately, it was the permanent finality of this trip out of town making him feel so broken, ancient, and sad--and gone.

 “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.” ― Joan Didion, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem  

Stuck in traffic on Fifth Avenue, listening to Coldplay’s transparent, very personal CD, “Ghost Stories,” he recognized that his sorrow was different than Chris Martin; but they both carried bruised and tattered hearts. The melancholy of the fourth song, “True Love” played as a soundtrack to his grieving; lament reflecting back off the tall glass towers peering over the Park. Going to the airport on his last trip out of town lifted the burden of his corporate battle against dysfunction; even though physically, he slumped down, hidden in the dark leather seat like it was a cave. His sentiment was mournful, even weeping, like Jonny Buckland's ethereal guitar solo toward the end of the track. She couldn't look him in the eye as she left, that was the worst of it.

Darkness engulfed like none before. A long, successful run in this business made him to this point unaware of the pain of rejection or the agony of defeat. He saw his underlings and some friends endure disaster before, and subconsciously, he probably knew that renewed growth would come out of this day; yet on this drive none of that coalesced in his mind. For a while he was in control, but he lost it. He sobbed. Unbelieving, agonizing with regret. The song was about a pain too great to face:

"Tell me you love me, New York; if you don't, then lie. It can’t be over. Lie to me."

(end)

#Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)
©Coldplay 6th album "Ghost Stories" rel. by Atlantic Records in N Am. on 05/19/2014

Part VI: Code Yellow Series (Aircraft Carrier Fiction, Ripped from the Headlines)

The Trashy Side of Life on Aircraft Carriers

(Persian Gulf) A wide array of vessels, called a Strike Group, sail with one nuclear powered aircraft carrier like CVN-74; indeed, much of the writing in the “Code Yellow” series involves the actions of this Strike Group’s fictional air-wing; featuring a squadron led its dynamic leader, Lieutenant Harrington. (See previous posts)

Part One:  http://goo.gl/YOCE0V

Part Two:  http://goo.gl/fetXVg

Part Three:  http://goo.gl/Tv7Z2o

Part Four:  http://goo.gl/rv1IFK 

Part Five: http://goo.gl/7z1757 

Other ships include three destroyers carrying Aegis weapons, some even equipped with tactical, “Tomahawk” cruise missiles. As if this Posse rode out to battle feeling unprepared, lurking underneath the roiling sea is a pair of attack submarines also armed with vertical launch systems and protected from above by ten “angels,” known as antisub warfare-helicopters.

Zipping in and around the group like a concierge with ADD, is a handy, multipurpose, fast, combat support ship; coordinating operations so that all of the necessary supplies and parts are available to this large peace-keeping force.

Called a peace-keeping force because an aircraft carrier is the most powerful forward deployed tool of United States foreign policy ever devised, CVN-74 floats as if a city, housing close to 5,500 people. Few countries have even one carrier, the United States has 10; and yet most of the US Navy sailors want to peacefully circumnavigate the globe for six months, see the world, have some fun, and return to port without any provocation. How carriers are used is up to politicians; how carriers function is up to unrecognized hundreds of resourceful young sailors.

Non-combatant support ships straddle alongside others in the group, about 150 yards apart; passing even bulky supplies via heavy, long ropes in a fashion ships employed hundreds of years ago. This replenishment allows the group to remain at sea for prolonged periods. Barrels of fuel (both for the aircraft and for the ships), other petroleum products, ammunition, provisions, and various vital supplies transverse through this crude system of exchange, sometimes done in vaulting seas.

Returning to these nimble non-combatant support ships is often the unpleasant remnants of thousands of citizens of these large sea-faring cities; separated, segmented by type, and compressed into large round “pucks” ready to be submitted for re-cycling. Bio-degradable waste is either burned, or dumped into the sea, like greywater; while blackwater is stored and later treated.

This story skates around these pucks like a hockey team playing in the Stanley Cup© finals; they are the work product of an unsung group of enlisted Seamen, mostly the lowest ranking workers on the ship, E-3 and below, who receive this assignment in a 90-day rotation.

 

They are officially FSAs (food-service attendants), exiled to the fourth deck below, deep in the innards of the hull, near the stern. With almost half of the ship’s inhabitants in the air-wing; 3,000 support staff, called the “company,” operate below the main flight deck, the stage which dominates movies and shows depicting life onboard.

18,000 meals a day produced garbage in all varieties: a few mess-attendants gather, divide, classify, and dispose of piles of waste in a process called, “mess-cranking,” comparable to the digestive system of a gigantic beast. It’s not the material of movies like Top Gun; you wouldn’t want this job if you were in prison.

“Another fine Navy day, sir!” He saluted the Chief Petty Officer.

“Right, right;” “we’re all thrilled to be here, Seaman Pellegrino, but your sunny attitude is not going to get those canisters cranked up!”

During the first extended cruise of his Navy career, the slight, Detroit 19-year old lands on every shit-list on the boat; one of the lowest ranking enlisted men in his section.

“I’m grateful my rotation is early in the cruise,” he said to his friend.

Sean was thinking, “If I knew about mess-cranking when I signed-up; it would have caused me to think twice about the big ol’ U. S. Navy?”

Drawing closer, glued to an ashen-gray conveyor-belt 3-yards wide, little clumps of trash separated crudely above in the cafeteria quarters; wheeled along a squeaky, slimy, stinky delivery belt. Sean cleaned off any residue from recyclables and flung them into Kelly-green receptacles resembling the trash containers of any suburban street. They’re called, “puck trucks.”

Across from Sean on belt-duty worked a stout, young Seaman named Vincente Vasquez from Texas. He was obscured by a plastic mask, the face shield worn by riot-police, or dental hygienists; but his was smarmy and cloudy from hours battling against the droning, descendant highway of refuse.

“Vince, did you see the movie last night?” With long arms, Vince craned and plucked dexterously; as discriminating as a jewel dealer, but as dazed as a sleepwalker.

“You know I don’t like Hockey—I like Los Spurs; and I was born 15 years after that damn game, man;” referring dismissively to the 2004 inspirational movie about the 1980 USA Hockey team.

“Like we say down here, drop the puck dude—drop. the. puck.” Sean shouted over the wonky belt, “ours are probably 100 times bigger, Vince; we could let Jaegers play Hockey with the pucks we make, you know-what-I-mean, Vince?”

Sean loved movies and sometimes the carrier movie-house showed older, corny, sports movies like “Miracle,” but the most popular are the modern Sci-fi flicks like “Pacific Rim.”

Vincente would rather workout on his free nights, but since mess-cranking ruined his appetite; he couldn’t keep his weight up to the standard training required.

Sean envisioned to himself what it would be like to be compressed into a large “puck” 36-inches in diameter and 12-inches thick; similar to the ones they stored in the ship’s walk-in cooler. Refrigerating the pucks, the Navy astutely discovered, reduced their more malodorous qualities.

Boilers constantly hissed, their steam drowning out other sounds like mechanical tinnitus; yet, the slow, wobbly creak of the constantly turning conveyor belt prompted him to look down.

Gleaming and proud, above deck in crisp blue Navy garb, washed and cleaned of the grease and grime of his tedious job; Sean Pellegrino looked and even felt of himself, that he was actually part of the modern #Navy, hashtags and all?

“How did I end up below the waterline of a ship over 1,000 feet long, plowing my way through the Persian Gulf’s dark waters,” he pondered. “I’m sorting trash for God’s sake, like a robot in some post-apocalyptic movie I saw while in port; just a gear in the bowels of a massive mechanism.”

Sean thought, “we dump out plastic pellets like 21^st century industrial poop; later sold on the global market, as if roasted Arabica beans. How cheaply commoditized I’ve become?” If there was still a city like his father’s Detroit; this negative motion, end-process, conveyor-belt, would be a vast assembly-line for upwardly-mobile American drivers; supplying the market with shiny, sleek automotive boats painted colorfully, accented with chrome?

Vince worked quickly, “Sean, c’mon—can you come to the party?” He sorted for both of them while Sean drifted off.

Struggling to interpret the ship’s detritus, staring at the conveyor belt; Sean subconsciously searched for ominous signs. “I was on dry land for awhile; sorry,” as he got back to work, apologizing; using a common synonym of the ship’s slang for day-dreaming.

When the steam operated catapult coiled tight, violently tense (enough to throw a 32,000-pound FA-18 Super Hornet hurling into artificial flight), the explosive release of raw, physical, propulsive power four decks above, shook them in their filthy, fouled, rolling office chairs; converted for cranking by removing the armrests and backs.

Rolling slightly backward, and looking skyward Sean screamed, “Before we get back, I’d like to work on the flight deck, just once!” Either jealousy, fantasy, or both fueled this imagining; life in the dim, excretory dungeon of the carrier stimulated such thoughts as an antidote for futility, misery, and boredom, which bordered on depression, until just about the 85^th day of “crank” duty.

Compressed like garbage, yet stretched to the breaking point by dreary, tedious, unpleasant shifts deep in the ship; these crankers felt entombed; which often turned into simmering rage, nothing like heroes.

“Copy that, Tomcat,” replied Vince, muttering under his breath, “aye, baboso.”

The entire shift they bandied back-and-forth like a married couple; keeping desperation at bay, forbidding it to get a word in edgewise. Unlike the aviators, who endured long periods of boredom, punctuated by flights of sheer terror; E-3 mess grunts acted in slow motion, anesthetized by sound, smell, and sadness. They were the Navy’s coal miners—trapped beneath earthen piles of garbage; trying hopelessly to breathe, making sense of the rubbish by gathering and grouping, grabbing and dumping… as if one could make freshwater out of the sea.

Part 6 of Carrier Fiction copyright©2014 by Mark H. Pillsbury

*fair use of any copyrighted material shown above such as pictures, is not an infringement of federal copyright laws, per 17 U.S.C. 107*