Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Thirteen years later, as he walked across a different cold, wind blown parking lot towards a different car, Paul remembered that Father Watteau never had explained.
The rain stopped and it was really cold. Not as cold as Dundeen could be, but as cold as South Florida ever got. Paul's breath hung in the frigid air. He climbed into his powder blue '87 Camaro .
An hour to go. He was jittery and anxious. The plan was to meet Magdalena at the Rat for a quick bite before the Group. But he hated that place. Too noisy.
The car was hard to start. It wasn’t used to the cold either.
It finally caught. The soothing sounds of David Lanz & Paul Speer's "Natural States" disk filled the chilly air. Paul smiled. The music had a clear simple depth and a suspenseful, "edgy" quality. He didn't remember leaving the player on, but it was too perfect to be just a coincidence. It was the Life Force again, guiding and guarding him.
A little miracle!
The fear and self doubt melted away.
It was always there, but you couldn't force it. Like the music.
The second cut was like a tune of his own, one he'd been meaning to write down but hadn't gotten 'round to.
It comes when it’s ready, not when you call. The usual discipline was useless. He was learning a new kind of control.
Just in time, too, because things couldn’t go on as they were. Even the big, beautifully warm, disarming smile that had earned him the nick name "Sunshine" from the older women at the graduate school library was controlled. Not in a manipulative premeditated way but in a basic, fundamental way. It was "hard wired”, sincere, yet mechanical. It gave others light but barely provided him warmth.
The little miracles overcame some of that control. Just as the music overcame it, momentarily transforming the discipline and force into flowing pleasure.
Not all the time. But every once in awhile, more and more lately, the music used him instead of him using it. Those were the times he cried. He could play the guitar and the piano. Had been in a Group in high school.
But psychology was more important and safer, too. Psychology would never use him the way the music did. Psychology was a discipline that perfectly suited his need to benevolently control himself and others. It emphasized discipline, control, authority and a friendly, outgoing exterior. Flowing pleasure was not allowed.
Psychology provided a natural cover for the dream work. And the dream work was necessary to save his life. He at least had a handle on the music. But the dreams were going beyond his ability to control and were probably taking him someplace he shouldn't be going.
The dream work was killing two birds with one stone -- one of his favorite things to do. He could do the right thing with his career and deal with the strong, sexual passions mirrored in and unleashed by his dreams. Soon the dreams would cease using him and he'd be using them. The Lanz/Speer CD ended just as Paul pulled into the parking lot behind the Rat. That and finding a parking space were additional small miracles he took to be good omens for his debut. Locking the car, he ran to meet Magda, his warm breath lingering behind him in the icy air.
Magda was happy to see him. Pleasure shown in the crinkles around her eyes and the glistening curve of her full lips. She too, was dressed for the cool weather. The white of her bulky cable knit sweater highlighted the dark abundance of long hair cascading across her shoulders. She glowed with a crisp clean radiance.
Paul bent, nuzzled her cheek then kissed her fully on the mouth. A soapy shower fragrance floated up to him on the warmth of her body.
Her lips clung to his.
"Hi," she said, all arch innocence after they finally broke. "Ready for the Group?"
"One more kiss like that and I'll be ready for my oral exams!"
"Your Orals are at least six months away. The Group meets in less than 45 minutes."
The earlier self-doubt knifed through Paul’s stomach, but quickly lost itself in Magdalena's radiance.
""Beautiful and practical. God, you make me feel good! Looking forward to Group? I am."
She tilted her head to catch his eyes. "Not really. Just watch out for Angela Saunders and the Herrings,” she warned.
Paul laughed. "Sounds like an old time rock Group. 'Angela Saunders and the Herrings.’”
"Yeah, doesn't it?” Magda laughed, too. “But seriously. Haven’t you noticed how Angela looks at you?"
"She's old enough to be my mother!"
"Not quite. But we have talked about her before. Long before Josh asked you to take over the Group."
"And I think the conclusion we came to was that Angela wasn't so bad for a 44 year old real estate agent."
"Right! You're always attracted to exotic beauties, Amor. It's her cafe au lait complexion you like."
"And don't forget that tall, voluptuous body and those high, African princess cheekbones."
Magdalena stared at him. There was more to his admiration of Angela than he knew. Too easily manipulated and quickly fascinated, once enthralled, Paul's decency and loyalty would keep him that way. Afterall, that's how she’d gotten him.
"O.K., so much for Angela Saunders. What worries you about the Herrings?" he asked.
"Oh, come now, darling. You know we can't stand them and they can't stand us!"
"But now the situation will be different. I've never attacked them."
Her tone was sarcastic. "No. I guess stage whispers, groans and facial grimaces can't be considered 'open attacks'."
"Yes. O.K. But my role is different now, more professional. They're professionals, too. They ought to appreciate that."
"Professional what, sharks?"
"Come on, Magdelena, give it a rest. I know the Herrings are phonies. So does everybody else in the Group. Those Masters degrees they're always talking about from that diploma mill in the Rockies don't impress anybody. But they are licensed family therapists and I do have to treat them with a little respect.
“Maybe we can get them to learn something, Magdelena. Think about it. They might learn something that might actually help them with their clients. How about that? It's not for them, it's for their clients."
She loved his idealism and optimism, but felt the need to balance it with a little reality.
"O.K. Amor. But the Herrings are still ass holes.”
"Right, but they're our ass holes. And maybe they're in the Group for a reason."
"Are we heading into mysticism here, Paul?"
Ever since that Sunday morning in Cali, mysticism and intuition frightened her. She knew the fear was irrational. Especially in light of what she was learning in the Group. But she still didn't want to deal with it.
She'd come to that first Dream Group meeting for a look see, and ultimately stayed because of Paul. Behavioral psychology, not cognitive psychology was her thing.
Paul leaned closer.
"Things don't just happen, Magda. Everything has meaning and purpose. Dreams are always about the dreamer. There's something for us to learn from Rita and Phil Herring, too. Maybe that's why we're together, to learn from each other."
"Obviously. But learning can be painful, Paul."
"Yeah," he shot back, "but for who? You or me?"
He'd gotten her with that one.
Her face tightened. Her eyes hardened and she seemed unable to speak.
He was immediately sorry. But knew he was right. She did need to face herself and learn from her dreams. As long as she was in the Group, she might as well get something from it. That she might be there just for him, never crossed his mind. He was able to see that he'd cut more deeply than intended. Leaning closer, he put his arm around her.
She pulled away.
"Magdelena?" He pleaded.
She stared at him, wounded, trying to compose her face, achieving the beginnings of a smile.
"Please. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to think about what I'm saying. You can learn, too. Right . . .?"
Instead of answering, she leaned closer and let him put his arm around her. Paul took this as agreement, breathed in her warm soapy scent and allowed himself to be comforted. A moment later, he withdrew his arm, leaned back and continued, blind and relentless.
"You're right about Angela Saunders and the Herrings. But I'm right, too."
She tensed again.
A phrase flashed through Paul’s mind: Do you want to be right, or happy? It hadn't seemed very profound when he'd read it; why couldn’t one be both right and happy? Now, looking at Magda he knew he had to choose.
It was so clear! No choice at all, really. Her happiness was his happiness. How simple. How. . . .
He was in the temple with the Goddess.
Aloof and magnificent, She sat on Her velvet draped, black onyx throne, staring into the torch-lit gloom. He was on his knees gazing up, adoring Her.
As he chose happiness, She turned, looked down and smiled.
A great wave of pleasure swept through him. Then his body seemed to disappear.
Magdalena saw the sensations flashing across his face. He'd stopped speaking in mid sentence. When he began talking again, she felt the difference.
"Magdelena!" He was ecstatic, overflowing but still controlled. "I know. I've seen it! Nothing is worth hurting you. The dream. I had a feeling from my dream just now! I know everything’s O.K.! Forgive me. Help me. I'm sorry. . . ."
She knew what he wanted for her was right; yearned to let go, open herself and express the energy in dreams and words as he did. But it scared her. Each time she tried, the energy possessed her. There was no middle ground. His way was not yet her way. Dreams and words could not mediate the raw power. She just lived it out for five days on the Calle de las Putas.
Thank God he didn't go into these altered states too often.
"It's fine," she said. "We're both right. Let's get going. We've only got ten minutes to get to the conference room."
She could see he desperately wanted to tell her more. Could even dimly perceive that if she didn't take the time to listen now, he'd probably lose what he'd found. But she just couldn't handle it.

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