An exercise in the extemperaneous

I have my own pool cue. Its the screw together kind with its own case and its made from titanium. I won it off a pool shark. I was kicking back in a bar with a few buddies. Everyone was drinking including the shark and this guy had been routing us all night. Right about the 3am when I noticed his speech pass slurred on its way to gibberish, I got tired of watching my buddies get whipped by this guy for booze, so I took up a cue and laid down some money.

" I got a round that says I beat you next game."

I'm not normally so confident in my billiard abilities. That night however, I was the designated driver so I had only had a few shots of Jameson. I felt my sobriety would serve to my advantage. Worst case scenario I would lose ten bucks and I'd contribute some more entertainment to the evening.

" Rackem up then, tiger. See wutcha got. You break."

So I did. The break was impressive. I sent balls scurrying all over the table. Unfortunately none of them wound up in a hole. His turn.

So he lines up a shot and knocks in a solid. Then another. And another. In the matter of five minutes, he had me down two balls to seven when he scratches it.

I carefully line up my shot. I guestimated the distance and the angle. I took a few back and forth motions to gauge my delineation and the appropriate point of contact with the ball. All is silent, but I can see him growing impatient. I reach back and take my shot... My cue skiffs off the cueball sending it directly into the side pocket.

He laughs.

Two shots later he had run the table on me and was cuing up to drop the eight ball in the corner pocket. It wasn't an easy shot with all of my balls still on the table. The eight was kissing the 13 from behind and in order to sink it he'd have to negotiate a difficult bankshot around the my 13. In my case, thirteen proved to be a very lucky number. By some miracle of fate or circumstance, his shot was off and he scratched on the eight ball. Technically speaking, I won, or at least he had lost.

It was my turn to laugh. He was infuriated and insisted that the exact terms of the bet were that I had to beat him and I had clearly not won through any merit of my own. He might've been right, but he still seemed liked a sore loser and no one likes a sore loser. Especially my buddy's who had been losing all night to this guy. Besides, none of us were really sober enough to remember the exact terms anyway. Faced with the possibility of a fight on my hands and the possibility that someone would call the cops and discover I wasn't old enough to be in there. Both were sobering propositions for me and the shark. I made another deal.

" Look, hey, you could be right, but I won fair and square according to the rules. Let's call that one a practice match and we'll just play another one, this time explicitly stating that you have to lose in order for me to win the bet."   

"Double or nothing and you're on."

"I'll rack 'em."

So he breaks with force and authority. In the beginning he was playing. This was war. He sinks another solid and runs the table down to three. I sink two more stripes. He sinks two more before barely missing his last solid.

Its a funny thing about my personality. I'm usually a very laid back guy, but when I am in direct competition and I'm not overthinking it, I become my own personal four-leaf-clover. Through one of the more incredibly lucky streaks I've had on a pool table, I run my five stripes off the table and I have a chance to win.

At first the shark was amused, but when I dropped that last strip into the side pocket, he looked irritated again, and a bit worried. I was loving every minute of it. But cockiness is anti-thetical to my type of luck. As I was lined up to sink the eight ball, it bounced off the backing and rolled back onto the table.

His despair replaced with a renewed venegeance he hit the cueball so hard it stopped dead on contact and all we saw was a solid blur going into the pocket. I was a sitting duck. He lined up the eight, called his pocket and let loose on the cueball once more. This time too hard. It made the eight fly off the table and hit one of my buddies. The fight almost erupted right there. The bar manager came over to see what was the commotion and asked if there was a problem. Everyone demured.

"C'mon guys, it's my shot."

I placed the eight ball on the table and the rules we were playing by say that I had to hit the opposite wall before I made contact with the eight. I have no bank shot to begin with, but further complicating matters, the cueball was resting at such an awkward angle that I was going to have to shoot behind the back.  I resolved not to think about it, lightly tapped the cue ball and hoped for benificence.

I barely knocked the eight.

My buddies emitted a collective sigh of disapointment. The shark just cackled. He took another swig of his drink and lined up his last shot, still difficult because the cueball came to rest against the eight and in order to avoid scratching he'd had to put on the slow hand and hit it at just the right angle. He reared his stick back and let fly. The corner bank denied it entry to the pocket, and the cue ball came to rest across the table.

This was my best shot.

Almost without pausing I reared back and let fly, the cue ball knocking it into the corner.

My guys and I erupted in jubilation. The shark let out a howl. He owed us all a round, and he owed me twenty bucks. We were soon to find out that he only had a twenty on him and was using the guys for his drinks. There was no way he was leaving without buying them a round, so the only thing left to give me was his pool cue.

Origin and Nomenclature

CYRANO:  Look you, it was my life  To be the prompter every one forgets!(To Roxane):  That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke  --Under your balcony, you remember?  Well!  There was the allegory of my whole life:  I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot,  While others lightly mount to Love and Fame!  Just! Very just!  Here on the threshold drear  Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest,  To Moliere's genius,--Christian's fair face!(The chapel-bell chimes.  The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office):  Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings!
 
ROXANE (rising and calling):  Sister!  Sister!
 
CYRANO (holding her fast):  Call no one.  Leave me not;  When you come back, I should be gone for aye.(The nuns have all entered the chapel.  The organ sounds):  I was somewhat fain for music--hark! 'tis come.
 
ROXANE:  Live, for I love you!
 
CYRANO:  No, In fairy tales  When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says  'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast--  But I remain the same, up to the last!
 
ROXANE:  I have marred your life--I, I!
 
CYRANO:  You blessed my life!  Never on me had rested woman's love.  My mother even could not find me fair:  I had no sister; and, when grown a man,  I feared the mistress who would mock at me.  But I have had your friendship--grace to you  A woman's charm has passed across my path.
 
LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees):  Your other lady-love is come.
 
CYRANO (smiling):  I see.
 
ROXANE:  I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love!
 
CYRANO:  Hark you, Le Bret!  I soon shall reach the moon.  To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . .
 
LE BRET:  What are you saying?
 
CYRANO:  I tell you, it is there,  There, that they send me for my Paradise,  There I shall find at last the souls I love,  In exile,--Galileo--Socrates!
 
LE BRET (rebelliously):  No, no!  It is too clumsy, too unjust!  So great a heart!  So great a poet!  Die  Like this? what, die. . .?
 
CYRANO:  Hark to Le Bret, who scolds!
 
LE BRET (weeping):  Dear friend. . .
 
CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild):  What ho!  Cadets of Gascony!  The elemental mass--ah yes!  The hic. . .
 
LE BRET:  His science still--he raves!
 
CYRANO:  Copernicus  Said. . .
 
ROXANE:  Oh!
 
CYRANO:  Mais que diable allait-il faire,  Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . .  Philosopher, metaphysician,  Rhymer, brawler, and musician,  Famed for his lunar expedition,  And the unnumbered duels he fought,--  And lover also,--by interposition!--  Here lies Hercule Savinien  De Cyrano de Bergerac,  Who was everything, yet was naught.  I cry you pardon, but I may not stay;  See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence!(He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; helooks long at her, and, touching her veil):  I would not bid you mourn less faithfully  That good, brave Christian:  I would only ask  That when my body shall be cold in clay  You wear those sable mourning weeds for two,  And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him.
 
ROXANE:  I swear it you!. . .
 
CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising):  Not there! what, seated?--no!(They spring toward him):  Let no one hold me up--(He props himself against the tree):  Only the tree!(Silence):  It comes.  E'en now my feet have turned to stone,  My hands are gloved with lead!(He stands erect):  But since Death comes,  I meet him still afoot,(He draws his sword):  And sword in hand!
 
LE BRET:  Cyrano!
 
ROXANE (half fainting):  Cyrano!(All shrink back in terror.)
 
CYRANO:  Why, I well believe  He dares to mock my nose?  Ho! insolent!(He raises his sword):  What say you?  It is useless?  Ay, I know  But who fights ever hoping for success?  I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest!  You there, who are you!--You are thousands!  Ah!  I know you now, old enemies of mine!  Falsehood!(He strikes in air with his sword):  Have at you!  Ha! and Compromise!  Prejudice, Treachery!. . .(He strikes):  Surrender, I?  Parley?  No, never!  You too, Folly,--you?  I know that you will lay me low at last;  Let be!  Yet I fall fighting, fighting still!(He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless):  You strip from me the laurel and the rose!  Take all!  Despite you there is yet one thing  I hold against you all, and when, to-night,  I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed,  Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue,  One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch,  I bear away despite you.(He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers,falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.)
 
ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead):  'Tis?. . .
 
CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling):  MY PANACHE.

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I offer this as an explanation.

I borrow the preceding passage from Scene 5.VI. of the Play 'Cyrano De Bergerac' with all due deference to Edmond Rostand. It is at once the triumphal exigency of our hero, Monsieur De Bergerac, and the recounting of the spirit with which he lived his life as he then passed on to death.

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Cyrano De Bergerac was a real man, a famed duelist and satirist born in 1619. He met his end along much the same lines as in the play, but it's not sure whether or not it was an accident or an assassination, and the play makes no bones about it being the latter.

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Growing up I was enthralled with the character of Cyrano, and character is precisely the right word for it. I admired him and felt empathy for him. I was also a born romantic (born a few centuries too late I'm afraid) with a temper and a flare for the dramatic. Also like him, I had little self-esteem or self-regard, being all to aware of my own failings. In the end what I think I admired most about and would emulate the most is summed up perfectly in his exit. His entire life he was the embodiment of unwavering principles of honor, loyalty, passion, love, wit, and romance. Every undertaking he engagued in was imbued with these same qualities.

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I've read several analyses of this ending scene and most scholars see it as the realization of failure in Cyrano's life and a broken soliloquy serving as a last-ditch attempt to justify his existence. They see it as the panicked last musings of a man undone by his self-consciousness, unsatisfied with his life, and going out in a huff of righteous indignation.

They are so wrong.

Cyrano was a proud man. Even if it was a compensatory measure as most people claim, and I wouldn't argue that point, it merely provided his driving force. His nobility was his bulwark. Armed with such drive and fortitude he mastered every other field of endeavor in his life and had much to be proud of as a result. In the end, he didn't let Roxanne know of his involvement on behalf of the young lieutenant because he was upholding the ideal that Roxanne should have the perfect romantic love and he had spent his life ensuring that she did. 

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My dad once told me that every man is inevitably concerned with how he with be remembered after he is gone. Some men spend their whole lives trying to make something of their lives, only to be unsatisfied at the end. Others switch courses at the very end in a rush to overpower their many failings with their good deeds before they die. But Cyrano knew what he was doing. It is not enough to spend your life searching for advancement or to rectify yourself at the end. You must hold to truth throughout or else it is all for naught. If fame, glory or riches befall you as a result, then so much the better. However, these petty embelishments are not what makes a man great.

The name of this Blog is taken from the last line in the play. The first time I read it I was moved to tears, and every time I've read it after that it has been the same story.

'Panache' literally means a feather in your cap. In Cyrano's day it was that extra something you wore high upon your head for all to see. It was something to be proud of, a distinguishing characteristic of your personage.  Cyrano's Panache was a white Plume, long and flowing. The color symbolized unblemished virtue, the length and quality represented the extent to which he possessed it.

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In his final words he is summing up the pursuit of romantic ideals which characterized his life. I never wanted to make a blog. It was just never something I particularly cared to do. I'm technically illiterate besides, so all the more reason for me not to venture into such an undertaking.

Over this summer however, I had a friend who out of sheer boredom or curiosity (I'll never know)  produced a writing contest. I didn't win, but that is no indictment considering the high calibre of writing I was up against. In the midst of it my insomnia came back with a frenzy and I was going three days on as many hours of sleep. I found inspiration and some marginal degree of talent I didn't even know I had.

Its been about two weeks since I've not had that outlet and it seems I'm teeming with ideas with no impetus to write. Reflecting on this recent experience and my Nom de Plum I realize that it is not enough to just believe in honor, love, and integrity. I must define them by my action. In attempting this Blog, I am hoping to crystalize this in a way I just haven't seemed able to do on my own. Lest I be overtaken by sloth or depression I must hold them at bay with the furied slashes of my pen. I must write, if only for cathartic purposes.

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Questions, comments, suggestions, criticisms and witticisms are welcomed and encouraged. I'm sure I'd love to here anything pertinent you might have to say. A caution before you post, though...I won't guarantee not to exercise my prerogative to ignore or attack what you have to say if you're trolling or generally being an idiot. Other than that, I hope you enjoy what humble table scraps of my life I can offer you.

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With that said, I want to end this post with Cyrano's final words and the quality I wish to emboss upon my life's undertakings...

What say you?  It is useless?  Ay, I know  But who fights ever hoping for success?  I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest!  You there, who are you!--You are thousands!  Ah!  I know you now, old enemies of mine!  Falsehood!(He strikes in air with his sword):  Have at you!  Ha! and Compromise!  Prejudice, Treachery!. . .(He strikes):  Surrender, I?  Parley?  No, never!  You too, Folly,--you?  I know that you will lay me low at last;  Let be!  Yet I fall fighting, fighting still!(He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless):  You strip from me the laurel and the rose!  Take all!  Despite you there is yet one thing  I hold against you all, and when, to-night,  I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed,  Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue,  One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch,  I bear away despite you.

MY PANACHE.