chapter x

There was something about the man sitting beside me that gave the the warm fuzzy Hollywood flashback I really didn't feel like filming, but was going to happen anyway, or as much as the budget would allow so I might as well make it fabulous.

CUT

A grainy afternoon where the sun's heat beats through the large living room window of the old Victorian plantation home sitting aatop the wide plains of Texas.  Jeb sits on the chaise lounge in a pretty yellow sun dress waving an accordion fan at his face, sweating profusely without let-up.

JEBBORAH

My dear lawd, Jamesy. I do declare this heat is something of a burden.  I fear my presoiration might be compromising the integrity of my freshly set curls.

James is sitting at the piano playing a very basic musak type melody with not real structure. Dressed like an over-inflated oil tycoon and large mustache, James shoots the arrogance around the room in pride.

JAMES

Stop your complaining, woman!  This home has given you the fine stature to afford those curls, that pretty dress you're wearing, and the vaginal reconstructive surgery that saved our marriage. 

JEBBORAH

But the humidity is simply impossible to deal with while still trying to achieve some of the more lofty levels of proper society, like you promised. 

JAMES

Oh Jebborah.  That was something I just said so you wouldn't worry. No body would accept a white Tiwanese whore and a raging crystal meth addict into proper society.  No Ma'am.  Best we can to is turn an addition into a profitable business, run through your whorehouse. 

JEBBORAH

Now we can afford everything they have! 

JAMES

And more. Dammit babe, no other woman, real or fake could afford that body you have.  Your tits and vag are as tight as an 8 year old boy. 

JEBBORAH

Sir, I do declare yourself out of place (giggle). 

JAMES

Well let me put myself IN place.

James pulls out his hands with his fingers set in the 'gun' position and starts firing into the air.  Jebborah laughs with delight as...


"That is the stupidest thing you've created since that musical you wrote about being ripped from the love of your life while working at the world headquarters of Jehovah's Witnesses."

"I was traumatized."

"You were hopeful."

"Hope is just self-traumatization which has yet to be realized."

"At some point, you will have to break free from the 'tortured artist' persona. If for no other reason but to gain the perspective from the rest of us."

"Jeb, you are the king of self torture."

"...Rest of THEM.  Sorry."

"And stop getting into my head."

"You're in mine all the time!"

"That's to keep an eye on you."

"The ultimate in tortured artistry."

I smiled a bit at the reality of the cycle. "Poetic.  Isn't it?"

"I always found you the most talented at the asylum."

"Thank you. I appreciate every single one of my fans.  Especially those that put me in the asylum."

"And why am I the woman?"

"You look much better in a pretty yellow sundress than I do.  I'm lumpy.  I need layers."

"You're not lumpy.  And I have nothing going on.  I'm just... flat."

"And the clothes will hang on you like a custom fit hanger, just like the designer's vision."

"You're calling me an anorexic model?"

"I'm saying you're a canvas on which to paint while I am more of a... mural.  A mural on a multi-curved surface."

"You're terrible, mural."

We both giggle a little as the plane unexpectedly dropped altitude.  I close my eyes for a bit not knowing I am gripping my notepad a bit harder than usual as my streaming ticker in my head repeats in constant flow "stabilize, please stabilize" over and over.  The recycled air being blown into my face offers little comfort to my slowly flushing face.  I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes to a darkened cabin of people in various poses of suspension who seem to be oblivious to the unsettling event which just occurred.  For a moment they all seem as if they were dead.  I look over at what seems to be a rather amused Jeb.

I smile.  No further conversation is needed.  My creativity has taken a melancholic melodramatic dive to malevolent default of cheese and fluff.  I close my notebook in frustration, but the honesty in me realizes that art in any form is a free-form energy with is either guided with precision or left raw and unadulterated.  Different people with this energy handle it different ways, but the end of many years of dependency on our successful flow of this energy culminates in the passive allowance resting at the bottom of the line chart most commonly referred to as 'the path of least resistance'.  We then cease being 'artist' and begin being 'coma'. Awake. Eyes open and blinking repeatedly telling stories and conflict of a timely and purposeful nature, but coma nonetheless.  Coma in a white, stable, sterile box from which the mind can wonder... but not too far.

I don't know if I am at that stage or not.  This trip has taken over my life and for a person who loves travel I find myself in a floating space between honor and duty - between the joy of serving and the weight of providing.  It's a rather common cycle in the human existence.  It is just one I had never really faced before.

"And so the tortured artist continues his quest... sword in hand, dagger in chest."

"Jeb!  I said stay out of my head!"

"I can't.  I have to keep an eye on you."

I smile at his green to silver changing eyes and drop my head in appreciation.  It was neither honor or duty.  In fact, I'm not taking a journey at all.  I'm just simply stepping out of my box.  The fact is I was following.  And, well... I'm not going to pass up a good adventure, am I?

The plane begins to shake with mild turbulence.  I don't really notice as a warm blanket covers my outer soul confining it to a pen long enough for me to relax and drift off to sleep.

I like sleep.  I like smiling.  Together, contentment becomes personified.

Contentment.  There's the point...