Massage Mat Pt. 02 Ch. 01

She decided to give Angie a call.

"Hi Mom!" Jason said, his voice full of surprise and delight. "We were just talking about you this morning." Beth wondered how she could have mistakenly dialed him.

"Good morning, darling. I hope I'm not interrupting anything, How are Leah and Junior?" she asked. It was good to hear his voice. She felt better already.

"They're great—and you're not interrupting anything right now. I'm on my way to the rink for a workout with some guys from the team. Mom, they say that I have a chance to make the big club this year," he told her excitedly.

"You mean to play for the Red Wings?" Beth asked.

"Yeah. I'm so excited," his voice became softer but more intense, and Beth recognized the determination. "Mom, I'm going to win that spot if I have to kill for it," he told her.

"Jason, you know that I believe in you 1000 percent," she told him.

"I know that. Leah is all fired up too. If you can believe it, she's more intense about this than I am. She's all in. You wouldn't believe it." Beth smiled, imagining how fired-up her daughter-in-law must be.

"Oh, yes I would," Beth replied with a chuckle. "How many times have you heard her favorite saying?"

"You mean today?" Jason asked. They both laughed, and there was a pause. "Mom, I have to run," he said abruptly. "I'll give you a call later, ok?"

"Ok, darling. I love you," Beth told him.

"I love you too. And don't forget: You can do anything if you put your mind to it," Jason said, recalling his wife's motto.

He hung up without suspecting that he had given his mother the courage and energy to continue her work.

"You can do anything if you put your mind to it," Beth thought. Was that really true? But how? This was like trying to grasp a cloud. She paused, thinking, and her gaze fell upon Marie-Ange's book. Suddenly, her phone vibrated. "Call from Angie" glowed brightly.

"Hey sweetie," she said brightly, answering on the second ring.

"Damn. I didn't want to interrupt you. I thought I'd be leaving a message," Angie said. "Anyway, it's good to hear your voice. How are things?"

"Good. Confusing, but good," Beth reported.

"Confusing is right. I just had a mystifying conversation with Myles. I was a little concerned about you so I gave him a call to get some news," Angie told her. "You know, I think he may be a little unbalanced," she confided. "He just kept saying that you couldn't see the wall. What the fuck."

"No, he's sane. I'm just a retarded student. But definitely a work in progress," Beth said. She had to smile in spite of herself.

"No blood today?" Angie asked.

"No blood. No orgasms. No gutting myself with my dead husband—as portrayed by a tractor..."

"Cultivator," Angie corrected.

"Whatever. Anyway it's been a pretty boring day, I guess," Beth said glumly. "Angie, I'm just trying to do some real work."

"Don't hurry yourself. Don't beat yourself up," Angie told her gently. "You've spent your whole life getting to that barn. Give yourself permission to enjoy the journey you're on."

There was silence for a long time. Finally, Beth said, "Speaking of my journey, I should probably try to get back on the road here."

"Then I won't keep you. Work hard. Don't forget that I love you," Angie told her.

"I love you too," Beth said and hung up. She picked up Marie-Ange's book and opened it, pretending that she could read the French.

Several hours later, she came back to the house. Finding no one home she sat in the kitchen and lit a cigarette. She was surprised to find how much companionship a cigarette could provide when a person was lonely.

As she was finishing, she heard a commotion and the door banged open. Myles appeared, his arms full of bags.

"Oh good," he said, seeing Beth. "No fresh wounds, I see." He set his bags down. "Did a little shopping for dinner and figured we should re-supply. With three of us eating here the larder empties faster than usual."

"Myles, Beth said, "of course, we'll pay for the food and stuff. You're way too nice to both of us."

"Don't be ridiculous," Myles said. "These couple of days have been wonderful for me. Besides, two paintings sold yesterday, so we should be good for groceries for a couple of more decades," he added with a smile.

"Please, we'd love to pay our way," Beth told him. "But anyway, I think today was about healing. I guess there's a time for everything."

Myles smiled, "That was always one of my favorite songs," he said. "Used to listen to it with Angie."

"What was?" asked Beth.

"Turn, turn, turn," he explained. "The Byrds. I'm sure you must have heard it, but it's not your generation. "Hang on." He fiddled with his phone and the song began playing.

Beth couldn't help smiling as the guitars began.

"To everything, turn, turn, turn. There is a season, turn, turn, turn..."

Beth listened, fascinated and moved at how the words applied to her. When she heard "...a time you may embrace—a time to refrain from embracing..." she felt her eyes fill with tears. She thought of Jason, far away now—in both distance and in their life's journeys.

She realized that she was not done grieving. She recalled the ghosts of her past: Dan, Jason, Leah. And then the ghosts of her present: Angie, Marie-Ange. And perhaps the ghosts of her future? Myles? She got a cold sweat as she added: Myself?

How many more greetings and partings? How much more grieving to do? She began to feel grief for the parts of her that were dying as she tried to become something more than who she was...

"...a time for peace. I swear it's not too late..."

Again, the dinner was excellent, but they ate almost in silence. When they had finished, they lit cigarettes and Myles asked her, "So, Beth, where did today take you?" She sensed that her first art lesson was about to happen.

"I don't know," Beth sighed, needing the comfort of her cigarette badly. "I keep feeling like I need to grieve—but I'm not sure what I'm grieving for."

Myles shook his head. "I don't know either," he told her, "but I do know that for you to grow as an artist, there are going to have to be parts of your old self that you have to kill off to allow the new to flourish."

Beth smoked, looking down at the table. She could not bring herself to look at Myles.

"It's not a bad thing. Really," he assured her. "Think of a garden. If you want the beautiful flowers to grow, you have to kill off the weeds. Just because you've had weeds in your garden for a long time doesn't mean they're beautiful or helpful. It just means that you're used to an ugly garden."

"Too used to it, I'm afraid," Beth sighed. She took another cigarette and lit it immediately.

"Well, something has happened to make you want to do some pruning," Myles told her, patting her hand.

"But I don't know what I'm trying to make room for," Beth sighed. "No idea at all."

Myles smiled. "You're making room for what you need to become an artist. You need space for that."

"But what the fuck is it?" Beth said harshly, banging her hand down on the table. Myles jumped.

"You're really frustrated, aren't you?" he asked gently. Beth nodded and began to cry. "Well, I'll give you a hint," Myles told her. "I think you're looking for passion."

"Passion?" Beth said incredulously. "I've found passion with about anything on two legs for a long time."

Myles shook his head. "That's lust. Not passion," he observed. "It's part of your dark side, and you probably get energy from it, but it's not passion."

He paused to light another cigarette for himself. Beth took advantage of the opportunity to get another, too.

"Think of it this way," Myles continued. "All of your knowledge. All of your technique. It's all like a big collection of zeroes." He took a deep drag and blew a series of smoke rings. Beth smiled as the O's hung in the air like an ephemeral PowerPoint.

"Birch trees. Nothing but a zero. Oaks. More zeroes. Every flower, every facial feature, every fold of cloth—a big pile of zeros. Line them up and what is there? Nothing. Nothing at all," he expounded. Beth listened, spellbound.

Myles leaned across the table, bringing his face closer to Beth's. She could see every line and wrinkle in it. He was so close that she could smell him, taste him.

"Then there is Passion," he said intensely. "That's like the numeral one. If you have that to put in front of the zeroes, you are rich. You have everything. Passion is what turns the zeros into riches." Beth's mouth fell open in astonishment.

"Oh my God," she said softly. "That makes so much sense. It's so simple."

"Keep in mind, too, that passion without technique is something, but it's not much," Myles cautioned. "You won't get anywhere with just a '1.' You have to bring the whole package. You have to put the time in. You have to do the work."

"Ok," Beth said, shaking her head as though to clear away cobwebs. "I see what I need. But—where does it come from? How do I find it?"

"You don't find it," Myles said simply. "It finds you."

Beth gaped.

"Do you mean, um, 'inspiration?'" she asked.

"No. Hell. No real artist could tell you what inspiration is—that's a term for amateurs. But every one could tell you about hard work." He shook his head emphatically.

"Beth, you have to be a pro. Do the work. Everyday. And just keep fighting. Don't give in to resistance. Think about how many brush strokes Van Gogh must have made before he made his first good painting."

"But I have been working every day!" she cried out, angry at the unfairness of this process.

"I know it's not fair," Myles said gently, answering her thought. "But on the other hand, you haven't been working on the right thing."

Beth scowled at him and crushed out her cigarette savagely. She hesitated for a moment, then snatched another from the pack and lit it. Myles let her smoke for a minute before continuing.

"Resistance is sneaky. It will try to keep you from getting where you want to go—and it uses every trick in the book. Booze, drugs, sex—you name it. But it's the enemy. Implacable, deadly, insidious. In your case, it's been using your passion against you."

Beth took a long drag, considering Myles's words. "How?" she asked simply.

"The old pump-fake. You've been so focused on 'working' on your technique that you missed the real work that you've needed—working on your head," he told her. "Finally, you figured out that you've got to get your head right." He paused. "It's like a miracle, really. I can't image how the hell that happened, but it did—lucky for you."

"I know how it happened," Beth said, and tears flowed down her cheeks. "It was the most beautiful, wonderful, magical person I will ever know." She rested her head on her arms and sobbed, grieving for her lost love.

Myles smiled sadly. "And it wasn't Angie, I take it," he said softly. Beth shook her head, still sobbing.

"Marie-Ange is her name," she blubbered.

"Your French friend who likes Prévert," Myles said. "Of course." He tossed a fresh pack of cigarettes on the table and went to bed, leaving Beth alone with her grief.

He was up very early the next morning, but when he came down, Beth was already gone. He headed back to the barn and found Beth, sitting and smoking, staring at the whitewashed wall.

He entered, and began readying paint and brushes for her.

"I don't need paint right now," Beth explained, extracting a fresh cigarette and lighting it with newfound skill. She inhaled deeply and then sent a cloud of smoke billowing out into the room. She sighed with almost sexual gratification. "This is better than sex," she purred, taking another deep hit of her new best friend.

"Anyway," she continued, "Like I said. I don't need paint right now. I need a blank canvas. Up here," she paused and tapped her head. "There's too much going on in there for art to happen." She deftly flicked ash onto the floor and took another strong hit of her cigarette.

"I'll get a few things together for you anyway," Myles said with a smile. "Just in case."

Beth turned back to the wall. She sat motionlessly except for her smoking. After several hours, she turned and went back to the worktable. She saw that Myles had prepared some black paint and a brush. He had also left several packs of cigarettes and a spare lighter for her.

She picked up a brush, weighing it in her hand. She put some black paint in a small dish and went to the whitewashed wall. Standing there, she felt no urge to unleash primal screams.

Instead, she began to paint a sketch. It soon took on the form of a man, then it became Jason. Beth quickly sketched him a massive erection. Laying down the brush, she turned toward the cultivator, unbuttoning her shirt, ready to flay herself once again.

Then she stopped and knelt in front of her sketch, as though she were going to perform oral sex. She had a strong desire to suck a huge cock—to become Beth the Whore incarnate. Again, she stopped. Instead, she lit a cigarette, picked up her paintbrush and continued with her work.

Jason's hands wrapped around his erection. Semen flew out of his penis, scattering everywhere. The flying semen became a swarm of bees. They swarm multiplied, then the two swarms became wings.

Wings, for what? An angel appeared between them, complete with halo and harp. Was it Angie? No, it was Leah. The angel and Jason merged, becoming part of the hindquarters of a giraffe. A palm tree appeared. Now a lion, slinking through the grass, stalking the giraffe.

Beth needed another cigarette.

The lion became a female lying in the grass, nude. Her hand traveled between her thighs, and she transformed into a pool—a pond. A monkey came to drink from the pond.

Another cigarette.

Beth noted with amusement that the giraffe was similar to a building she once painted. Soon the giraffe became the building—a modern high-rise office complex. A city sprang up around the now-puzzled monkey, who suddenly found himself in a zoo.

Beth stopped, arrested by a fit of coughing. Ignoring the burning in her throat, she lit another cigarette. Set sat and pondered her work, smoking and reflecting. She imagined that this was what a good after-sex smoke must be like.

She observed that the only living thing in the picture, the monkey, was in a cage. She saw that as a metaphor for her—for her life. Beth the monkey. Beth in a cage. Beth in a zoo—on display for the world to see—playing her role. Never being...

She stubbed out her cigarette viciously. "No, goddammit," she shouted, "Not this time. Not this fucking time."

Jumping to her feet, she lit a fresh cigarette and seized her brush. Striding to the wall, she unleashed a vicious, primal scream and watched with savage satisfaction as beads of paint spattered across her work.

Getting fresh paint on her brush, she began to connect the dots.

Birds of all types soared over the city, darkening the sky as they flew free, soaring upward. She stopped to ponder. Where were they going? To heaven? South for the winter? To the zoo?

She smoked intensely as she thought, focusing all of her energy on deciding where they were going. Where? Where? She could sense this was important.

Then it came to her. "Fuck me," she whispered, tossing her cigarette onto the floor.

Of course. She should have known all along.

They weren't going anywhere. They were simply flying for the joy of flying.

Tears came to Beth's eyes as she remembered Marie-Ange's words, "I hope the book will give you wings like our bird."

Now, freed from the prison of a destination, the birds soared and fluttered. Beth giggled as she painted them, feeling as joyful and as playful as they were.

The monkey in the zoo became a rock with a wild-looking plant sprouting from it. Freed from the zoo, Mr. Monkey gained wings and soared with the birds, happily munching on a banana.

The angel reappeared, also soaring. Beth stopped, momentarily surprised by her own creation. She got a cigarette and sat, considering her work once again. She liked it better—it made her happy to look at it. But who was the angel?

Was it Leah? No, she decided. Angie? She decided that it wasn't Angie, either.

Beth jumped up with another flash of insight. Of course—it was Marie-Ange. Her soul-mate and angel. She took up her brush to add more detail.

And stopped. Her shoulders slumped. No, she thought, this isn't right for Marie-Ange. Not there. Not in this painting. She sat again and smoked, completely stumped. She couldn't get Marie-Ange out of her mind. She closed her eyes. She could remember everything about the moment when Marie-Ange had said, "I hope the book will give you wings..." She remembered her orgasm, bonded with Marie-Ange, soaring upward, toward...

Again. It was so obvious. How had she been so blind?

The angel, of course, was herself. She wiped tears away from her eyes as she thought back to that beautiful day in France with Marie-Ange. And to the beautiful lovemaking with Angie, who helped her to find her wings, too. She cried, but this time they were tears of joy and gratitude.

Beth finished her cigarette and went to get another. Two cigarettes left, she noted sadly. She lit one and sat, contemplating the next step in her work. She sat silently again, only moving to bring the blessed cigarette to her lips. She smoked slowly, savoring the sensation.

When she finished that cigarette she eagerly lit her last one. An even deeper sense of calm came to her as she smoked. Calm, but with a heightened awareness. She could feel the sensation on her skin as a slight breeze circulated in the barn. She could see the individual particles of dust and smoke mingling in the diffuse light.

She saw the tip of her cigarette glow as she inhaled the blessed smoke, then watched the cloud swirl and float as she exhaled.

She looked again at the picture she had made. It was an incoherent mess, but it was authentic. It was the chaos of her mind and soul. It was a lousy picture—but it was art. It was bad art, but at least something was there. And she smiled when she looked at it. That was a good sign.

She returned to the house, entering without knocking. She stopped short when she came through the kitchen and saw Myles in the living room. He was naked, and he was masturbating. His full, erect cock jutted out boldly as he jerked it hard. When he heard sounds behind, he jumped into the air, startled.

"Oh shit! I'm so sorry, Myles," Beth said, turning beet red.

"Um, damn," he said, also brilliantly scarlet, "I don't suppose I could say that I was just tidying up or something."

Beth snickered, then giggled, and then began laughing as though she would never stop. The stress of the past couple of days seemed to come bubbling out of her as she held her sides and laughed hysterically.

"I—I'm so sorry," she repeated in between gales of laughter. "And I wasn't laughing at you—um, you know—beating off—it was your joke. I thought that was really funny."

"I take it you didn't come back here for this, did you?" he answered, gesturing toward his penis and laughing too. "What can I help you with?"

"No I didn't," she replied, still chuckling, "I wanted more cigarettes. I think I'm onto something."

He led her to a drawer in the kitchen that was filled with cigarette packages.

"I keep them in here. Help yourself whenever you need more."

Beth opened a pack and greedily lit one. Myles stuffed a couple of packs in her pockets. She looked at him. His tanned chest was covered with dark hair, and muscles rippled under the skin. His swarthy face was softened by his large, kind eyes and his beautiful smile that reveled perfect teeth. He was very attractive. She understood why Angie had fallen for him.

"Thanks," she said exhaling a large plume of smoke. She looked at his penis and smiled. "You know," she said with a wink, "at one time I could give pretty good head. Are you sure you couldn't use a—ahem—'hand' with your little project."