Angelina and Men, A Heroine's Journey

By Shaktima Michele Brien

Executive by day, lover by night, Angelina hunts for men and business in hope of finding love and success. Convinced that she is more than a daughter, a lover or a corporate executive, she leaves the conventions behind to find new ways to live. Questioning everything, pope, prince charming, mad men and material girls, she travels from Canada, Europe and America to measure her worth. Monks, artists, musicians and magicians, all have something to teach her to be free and serene. Told with humor and sensuality, the story captures a girl-to-woman’s evolution from the eighties to the new millennium. Demystifying God, sex and commerce, when plastic cards, careers and lovers have come and go, she climbs the mountain and becomes one with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shaktima Michele Brien
• Release date: Jun 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311020161

Shaktima Michele Brien

Shaktima Michele Brien is a writer and an artist, who lives in the Mojave Desert in California and Montreal, Canada. Shaktima’s paintings have been exhibited in numerous galleries in Los Angeles, at The Palm Springs Art Museum, The Fowler Museum (UCLA), and The International Museum of Women.Shaktima's books are:- Angelina and Men, A Heroine’s Journey- Spiritual Enlightenment, Breakthroughs and Shortcuts- Paint Life- Goddess Journey, Conscious Awakening- Zen, Light, and Space

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What Others are Saying about Angelina and Men

A Woman's Journey to a New Life...- exciting and inspirational. — D. Gray

Angelina is equipped with brains as well as beauty... -free spirit with status, money and command over her liaisons." — Tony Brady

A conscious, sexy love story, wow! — Constance Walsh

"Angelina and Men ... captures an era of sexual evolution and global consciousness. With music, art and poetry, Brien explores relationships at home, work and after dark. -a female Kerouac!" —Regina Barton

Angelina and Men reminds me of... Colette, who wrote about taboos ... an awakening piece. — Kimberly Nichols

"A mix of Sex and the City, Bridget Jones' Diary and Thelma and Louise." - Ambroise

Angelina and Men

A Heroine's Journey

Shaktima Brien

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Shaktima Brien

Published by Road Yin Press

This book is also available in print at most online retailers.

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Isn't America a state of mind, an attitude, a spirit, a drive to push the limits, break the rules and be free?

Table of Contents

Part One - The Forties to the Eighties

Chapter 1 A Man's World - 40's to 70's

Chapter 2 Bill after Work - 70's

Chapter 3 Everyday Ray - 70's

Chapter 4 Henri at Thursday's - 70's

Chapter 5 Grandma - 40's

Chapter 6 First Communion - 40's

Chapter 7 Sex Awakening - 50's

Chapter 8 Advertising with Doyon - 70's

Chapter 9 James Overnight - 70's

Chapter 10 Marriage - 60's

Chapter 11 Forever Will - 70's

Chapter 12 Frankie and Scott - 70's

Part Two - The Eighties

Chapter 13 Big Sur

Chapter 14 Mirabai's Third Eye

Chapter 15 Crossing America

Chapter 16 Venice Beach

Chapter 17 French Riviera

Chapter 18 Santa Monica Goddesses

Chapter 19 Topanga Magic

Chapter 20 Hawaiian Tantra

Chapter 21 Buddha J

About the Author

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Part One - The Forties to the Eighties

Chapter 1 - A Man's World - 40's to 80's

I am a little girl

And everyone loves me so

I don't know much

But I am so gentle

Not everyday

Not everyday

Sometimes, I shout and I scream

I cannot be nice and quiet

Like an image

Every day

Mme Jean-Louis Audet, Les Monologues du Petit Monde

Mom liked to stand me up on the coffee table to recite in front of aunts and uncles. You were born through unbearable pain, she said. Wait till you grow up, you will see what it means to be a woman.

The doll image my mother projected on me was diminishing the idea I had of me. I felt ridiculous under hats that looked like flowerpots on my head. I hated the laces and frou-frous that chafed my skin. One day, when I grew up, I would free myself from superfluous harnesses and adornments.

As daring and vibrant as the eight-year-old boys, jumping over the fences to explore other worlds, I have always loved treasure hunts because they invariably led me to unexpected and fantastic discoveries, but what I liked most was to hang out with older and cooler guys in the back alley. I envied their straight talk, crew cuts, and the way they peed, standing up.

Men fascinated me.

In family parties, sitting on a footstool, riveted by arguments, I would listen to my father and uncles discuss business and politics, trying to figure out who was the smartest of them all. It stimulated my imagination and awakened my curiosity. When their conversations became too complicated, I would just be content to observe their passion, in the mist of smoke pipes, cigars and cigarettes.

On the other hand, women preparing meals, washing dishes and changing diapers in the kitchen scared me to death with their complaints and malaises. And when they would mix with men, there was always an uncle to shout a shut up, you don't know what you're talking about. And all I could think was that it was true. How could she know? She stayed home, while he ran around town all day.

To me, it was clear that men led, while the other half followed. Didn't women have any pride? Were they only worthy to the degree they served or attracted men?

This is how life is, my father said. Each sex has its role. Those who make the money have the power.

***

The heroine has learned how to perform well, so when she feels a sense of discomfort she tackles the next hurdle: a new degree, a more prestigious position, a geographical move, a sexual liaison, another child. She soothes her feeling of emptiness by massaging her ego with further acts of heroism and achievement. She becomes enamored with the accolades winning brings. There is a great adrenaline rush associated with the achievement of a goal, and this high masks the deep-seated pain associated with not being enough. She hardly notices the letdown after her goal has been won; she is onto the next one.

The obsessive need to stay busy and productive keeps her from having her growing sense of loss. But what is this loss? Surely she has achieved everything she has set out to do, but it has come at great sacrifice to her soul. Her relationship with her inner world is estranged.

Maureen Murdoch, The Heroine Journey

In a high-rise tower overlooking Montreal's St. Lawrence River, plush furniture and a gold pen reflect my seemingly perfect corporate life. Despondent, I peek into the adjoining studio.

Five minutes to go! I shout to the director, who is shooting a cereal commercial in the studio. And to the young athlete, sitting on my desk, flirting with me, I give a last piece of advice.

When the public sees you, it sees us, America. You have to look like a god!

Yesss! he says, inflating his chest.

After seeing this commercial, people have to run and buy the sweet pellets, you understand? I coach, wanting to bite at something or someone.

I dismiss him, take a deep breath, light a cigar, and for a moment savor my position at the top of my game, even though I'm sick of it. This sixty-second commercial is eating the last threads of my nerves. I should have passed on the project, but I needed these twenty-thousand dollars. This is the thought I entertain each day.

The marketing guys are waiting for me in the conference room. I dread hearing their new-old-samo-samo beer campaign, whose humor flies low. I enter the room frowning, avoiding their stares.

Do you want to add something to the script? asks Michael, walking on eggshells, as he senses my short fuse.

I flip through the script.

Nice! Great! More men sitting on their butts, growing bellies.

Don't think too much, Paul quips.

Ms Gagnon, Pierre Gatineau has just arrived, the receptionist announces on the intercom.

I'll be right there!

I scribble my initials of approval on the script, like Pontius Pilate, washing my hands of adding another meaningless vignette to my creative ambitions.

***

In my office, a functionary of Industry and Commerce rehearses his lines, twirling his mustache.

Angelina, ma belle, he sings with pomp when I enter.

Have you rehearsed your speech? I ask, ignoring his syrupy smile.

Did you edit as I asked? he retorts, anxious.

I've changed a few things, I answer stone faced, watching the seagulls soaring outside the window.

Which ones?

The slippery ones, the rond-de-jambes, the pontifications, the lies, I say, flying with the birds into the unknown.

Lies?

You must appear to have some integrity, I say, putting honey in the bitter cup I am serving.

Appear?

Yes. The general impression is good, but your heart, your soul, where are they?

And?

I don't want to help you to deceive people.

There, I said them; the words that may derail my career forever.

Scruples?

He raises his eyebrows.

I look at his necktie, and wonder how a man, once a free boy, could choose to spend a lifetime with a knot around his neck.

You can't go on abusing people like this, I say, digging a deeper hole under my feet to see how it feels to free fall, no safety net.

Why not?

Because these people are my family, my neighbors, my friends and your children too!

I exhale, fearing to lose everything. It scares me so much that I turn around, and flash a bright Pepsodent smile.

Just kidding, I say. Let's write the most lecherous lines!

And the trickster pokes my ribs with a seal of approval.

That's my girl!

Chapter 2 - Bill after Work - 70's

Well, you don't know what we can find

Why don't you come with me little girl

On a magic carpet ride

You don't know what we can see

Why don't you tell your dreams to me

Fantasy will set you free

Close your eyes girl

Look inside girl

Let the sound take you away

Steppenwolf, Magic Carpet Ride

Zigzagging through Montreal's traffic, in my black Buick Regal and my dark Armani suit, I drive into the underground parking lot of the Olympic Stadium.

Checking myself in the mirror, I see a shadow in my pupil. I dread to meet Bill again, though all my being wants to run into his arms and melt in his aura.

Taking my briefcase from the passenger seat, I lock my doors, and walk briskly through the under-belly structure I know like a second home. My office used to be here, long before young, brilliant engineer Bill was appointed to supervise the installation of one of the most complicated, retractable roof over a stadium in the world.

Four years after the Olympics, tonight, is the inauguration of the highest inclined tower over a ball field, the latest promotional efforts by the city to gain international recognition.

Stepping inside the elevator to get to the top floor, I check myself in the steel panels, and put on the bright façade of a Marketing-Communication Consultant over a bruised heart and career cut short by Bill's Samurai swords.

In the corridor, I mentally prepare for the noise that sports celebrities, CEOs and media make when they meet and get drunk. In my killer high-heel shoes that hurt, I have no ground and balance. I feel weak, and I want to be strong.

Bill takes me off-guard. He is good at seducing his audience. He excels at skating on thin ice with words. The tiger hides under the friendly camouflage of a bear. Beware! From the first time I laid eyes on him, I wanted to absorb some of his power.

To postpone the moment of bumping into him, I walk along the panoramic windows, and watch the sunset over the city. On the left, the St. Lawrence River ribbons around the downtown skyscrapers, where my firm is currently located.

On my right, the Mount Royal stands tall to protect the French culture of its East Side inhabitants. And in between, neons and billboards advertise a world of possibilities I want to discover. Mon pays, c'est l'hiver, famous Quebecois Gilles Vigneault sings in my head. I shiver.

Harvey, a partner I am testing on a new venture, waves at me. I wave back not ready to mingle, warming up to the atmosphere of a Jazz band that gives a colorful performance. I want to enjoy the scene without disturbance. It gives me time to put myself together.

Plates of Alaska King crabs, Maine lobsters and Caspian caviar on the buffet tables are winking at me. How lucky I am to be here, sipping Champagne with the elite, considering where I come from.

How are you? Harvey trumpets on my heels.

Not now, I mutter under my breath, but he is too hyper to pay attention. He catches Bill's elbow two feet away.

Bill! Bill! he calls.

Harvey, you're history, I think, while casually shaking Bill's hand.

Harvey told me you're working on a campaign together. Congratulations, Bill says.

Thank you!

An uncomfortable moment sinks between us, one expecting the other to say something, so we freeze. Understanding he is not welcomed, Harvey vanishes, while Bill moves closer.

You smell like a wild mare! I had these dreams about you.

I step back, fevered and troubled.

We had so much fun.

We -?

Bill squirms as his wife shows up, taking me in from head to toe.

Enough of that, I mumble walking away, leaving them blank.

***

Last February, Bill had stopped in my office, without reason.

It's seven-thirty! You're still here, he said, faking surprise.

I saw lust in his eyes. Fleetingly looking at my breasts, he had appeared vulnerable, so I had implicitly signified that it was okay to size me. I was already, subliminally caressing his beard.

Bill looked lost that night, as if he needed company, and I was ready