Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 3.

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As the F train neared Gary’s stop, the commuters began to give way to students and tourists, the dullness replaced by anticipation and excitement. And as he did every morning regardless of conditions, Gary climbed the 57th Street steps and headed north to Central Park. The routine gave him the opportunity to experience the gradual progression of the seasons through the lens of the Park. And in early June, the young light green leaves of the Maples and Elms were now giving way to the darker deep green of summer. In fact, the whole park appeared to be full of life and contrasting color, not to mention artists, performers, and excited visitors. From a bench near the Dip Archway, Gary liked to watch tourist snap selfies and reenact various movies scenes shot in front of it. And now it was 7:30 am, and Gary need to head back down 7th Avenue to class. Happy with his choices and in the moment, he stood, stretched his legs a bit and hurried back down the sidewalk to art school.

The classroom was half-full when Gary walked through the door and quickly scanned to see if he knew any of the other students. And, other than some familiar faces, the class of devoid of anyone Gary would call a friend. Then he chose an easel on the right side of the room near the back and began to unpack. On the ledge of the easel he placed his paints, thinner, cleaner, and finally his brushes. And as he set them down he heard a distinct and clear “thank you!” Not believing what he perceived Gary looked up, then around him. The pink-haired woman to his left him was glued to her phone and no one was behind him.

The previous episodes in the bodega and on the train were easily dismissed, but now Gary was hearing full words. And it disturbed him. He began to sink into his anxiety and wondered if he was losing his mind. His mother was drug counselor and he knew about auditory hallucinations- one of the many reasons he avoided alcohol and drugs. (That, and the countless horror stories his mother told around the dinner table, and at parties, and every time she pleased.) The sharpe voice of the instructor pulled Gary out of his thoughts and back into the room. “Everyone, I’m Carol Townsend and this is Basic of Oil Painting,” boomed a tall yet wide woman with curly black hair. And instantly, Gary forgot his phobia.

Over the next hour, Ms Townsend took roll, reviewed her syllabus, and answered questions. Gary’s thoughts drifted and circled back to the voice that followed him from Brooklyn to class. Then Gary looked up to notice Ms. Townsend scribbling away on the whiteboard and he tuned into her voice, something about mixing paints and mediums and canvas prep. Of course we wouldn’t paint today he nearly said aloud. He’d been the only student to unpack his tools and paints. And he felt embarrassed at being too eager. After another hour, Gary packed up and shuffled out the of classroom to regroup and mentally prepare for his figure drawing class.

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Vol IV: #6 Quick, Simple, and Easy

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As a lover of cooking and recipes, YouTube is my go platform when I want more details on given cuisine or particular dish. Not all recipes are created equal and thus I’ve learned to watch several before decided on a path forward. For example, today I will make Japanese fried chicken called karaage for dinner. And while I’ve attempted to make it before, I want to improve my results. Accordingly, I’ve watched 5-6 videos from channels I trust. And even then, their is great variation.

A few cooks suggested using potato starch to coat the chicken, while some use a mix of AP flour and corn starch. 2-3 use an egg to help the flour stick and coat the chicken and nearly all called for the double fry technique to ensure a crunchy exterior. What I look for is the common ingredients and techniques in each recipe, what’s solid and true. In the case of karaage, I need grated garlic, minced ginger, soy sauce, mirin, and sake. And salt and pepper. The rest is up to me.

In all my years of YouTube watching (and blog reading), I learned to stay away from three words: quick, simple, and easy. And the more wisdom I accrue, the more I hate them. Cooking is a skill, to be learned and refined. The way I grill my steaks or bake bread today is done with little thought or wasted effort. And thought I can explain what I do to anyone willing to listen, they still need to dive into the process and learn it for themselves. They will need to put time and money and great effort into the endeavor. Nothing quick, or simple, or easy.

Life is similar. What I value and trust I earned over years of failure and struggle and learning to endure. I no longer want easy or quick, rather I want to endure. And I no longer pray for lumps of money or success, but the strength to do my work. My hope is to support myself and a family. Praying for bags of money to fall from the sky isn’t a business plan and it doesn’t satisfy my soul. I was made to work and toil and find meaning in the effort.

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Vol IV: #5 Grateful For Time

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In the words of Cher… If I could turn back time, if I could find a way. I wouldn’t waste all the time saying boo-hoo.

Throughout my twenties and most of my thirties, I bemoaned my life. I worked and waited for a life-changing experience, a big break, or for someone to recognize then reward my greatness. And that moment never came. By my mid-thirties, I was mired in self-pity and believed I was a loser. All of the data said as much. I had no career or savings or wife. My stomach hung over my belt and I had more bad habits than a puppy.

I’d been to counseling and read three Brene Brown books. All worth while pursuits. But I was still stuck.

And now, at 42, I’m very happy to be where I am. My stats haven’t changed much- my bank account is still small and my belly is my truest friend. But…I am rich in time, in seconds, minutes, and hours. And thanks to another career move, I’m going to use every strip of my time to write and learn and be the me I always wanted to be. As the Lord willed it, I am the person I was looking for. I am the one who recognized my greatness and decided to reward it. And I can’t help but believe it’s all part of a master plan. That the Lord has allowed me to fail and kept me from marriage for a purpose far beyond my vision.

Thank you, Jesus. For keeping me stuck, held by the scruff, and gluing my feet to this path.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 2.

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Of course, Gary didn’t know his life would change on a warm June morning. How could he? No one knows when fate will step into our lives- the last time we play in street with our childhood friends, the last ‘I love you’ to a parent, or meet a being who will say and do what we can’t. All any of us can do is what Gary did: put ourselves in the best position to receive what fate has has to offer. And, when Gary grabbed his navy blue backpack and loaded it with clean paint brushes and tubes of red, blue, and yellow oil paint, he thrust himself squarely into the path of his destiny.

To Gary, the morning was as normal as he came to expect of south Brooklyn. The sidewalk was mad as commuters dashed up and down 7th Avenue and Gary weaved his way through the mass to his favorite bodega for an egg and bacon sandwich. After paying for his sandwich, he ate his breakfast inside the shop while staring at passersby. Nothing in south Georgia compared to the pace and hustle of the City in the morning and every morning Gary took a moment to observe the movement and chaos as though it was his first encounter with it. This city is hectic and mesmerizing he thought and wondered how to capture such feelings on canvas. Just then Gary heard a faint muffled voice behind him and when he turned to see who was there, he saw no one other than the usual cooks and customers going about there predictable transactions, then he looked at his phone. Time to go he thought.

A beat later Gary climbed the steps to the F Train headed to Manhattan and slipped his headphones over his ears. He smiled as he took out his phone and pretended to pick a playlist. Gary loved what his headphones said to the world, that he wanted to be left alone and he used this to his advantage on his ride to school. The headphones gave him the ability to observe his fellow commuters without being disturbed or questioned. When the train arrived, Gary worked his way through the passengers already on board to spot in the corner at the back of the compartment, then he scanned the car for anything worth watching.

At the East Broadway stop, a mother and two young girls stepped onto the train and they caught Gary’s attention. Most of the other commuters were glued to their phones or trying to catch a few bits of rest before work, but now as the train entered Manhattan life was at work on the train. The two girls laughed and giggled though Gary could only speculate as to why. All he knew was their world was small and uncomplicated, and he hoped it would stay that way as long as possible. And then Gary went into his own world where he was safe and uncomplicated. And he thought about the world of a child and he glanced up to notice the contrast of the two spark plugs opposite everyone else on the train.

How do I capture childlike wonder with paint he asked himself. And then, for a second time that morning, he heard a muffled voice behind him. Startled, Gary spun around, bumping his backpack into the curly haired man to his right. The quick movement drew a hard look from the confused gentleman, and Gary lowered his head in retreat. Of course, Gary saw no one. And had he thought for a second, he knew their was nothing behind him but the bland walls of the train. He was in the corner for Pete’s sake. Bewildered, Gary found humor in the confusion and laughed quietly to himself. The mother and children exited the train a few stops later and the car returned to a state of quiet commuting.

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Vol IV: #4 Thoughts And Observations of Colombia

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As I wrote yesterday, Colombia was wonderful. It’s far from a perfect country, but I believe in its future. And, I want to write one more post about my trip as a way of documenting my experience and processing what I encountered.

1) The Colombians I met were generous and kind. In my view, I can offer no higher compliment of a people or nation.

2) The women of Colombia are a different type of women*. For starters, they work. I saw lady cops and armed military guards. They deliver food and hock coffee in the street. And they hustle tourists for a few pesos at a time. What I found to be common, was the women of Colombia didn’t appear to be furthering the feminist cause. Rather, they simple stepped up when needed. War tends to drain a country of its young men(not to mention displaced people and destruction), and these women have played a huge role in rebuilding Colombia.

3) I don’t know how to say what I’m about to say, but here it goes: The produce in Colombia is just better. I nearly cried when I bit into a small peach, not because it was delicious but because it’s rare to find anything peach as yummy in the America. You name the fruit or veggie and I guarantee it tasted better in Colombia. And I hate admitting it. I don’t want to be that douche bag^, but I’d be lying otherwise. We’ve got to do something about our food system in the US. We’ve been boiled like frogs, and you only taste it when you go outside our borders.

4) Number four isn’t so much about Colombia as it is about a benefit of travel: I love being shut off from US news and the endless parade of fear/woke ideology. It’s as though all the conflict is gone for a few days and I can breath easier. I know it’s a fake bubble, but I enjoy it all the same.

5) Getting back to food…the variety of food, mainly fruits, is outstanding. They say Colombia is land of eternal spring due to the weather, and I believe them. I believe I could eat my way from one side of Colombia to the other, trying new foods every single day.

6) Colombia looks like a developing country but acts like a a developed country. Yes, wages are low in comparison the US or Canada. And yes, you’ll see people in the mountains hauling lumber and rocks by mule, but these people are connected and dialed in. And they are ready for the future.

*Yes, Colombian women are very beautiful. They also appear to put effort into how they look.

#In regards to better tasting produce, it’s possible in the US. Just this week I’ve eaten cucumbers and tomatoes from a local garden. They are fantastic. The cucumbers are slightly sweet and earthy while the tomatoes remind me of what a tomato ought to be- rich, acidic, slightly floral, sweet yet savory. Very dynamic. I’ve not lost hope, but my faith in my local grocery options is now at an all time low.

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Vol IV: #3 Colombia And My Sister

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One of the benefits of attending BSSM is the opportunity to meet men and women from all over the Earth. My small group had Germans, Brazilians, Mexicans, an Austrian, several people from Singapore, a few Brits, and a half dozen Canadians. And then we had Omar who hails from Colombia, the land of gangsters, violence, and cocaine.

I befriended Omar the first day of class. He was quiet and sat by himself a few rows in front of me. During a break, I introduced myself and he seemed unimpressed. Later, I’d learn he was overwhelmed and lonely in Redding. He’d left his family and friends and culture to come to BSSM. It’s a sacrifice I don’t think many domestics properly understand.

Omar is of a medium build, clean shaven with a broad face, and deep smile lines on either cheek. He always wears colorful button-down shirts, and clean blue jeans and hiking boots. (On my visit to Colombia, I’d find this to be of the common fashion.) He’s thoughtful even in his own language and eternally polite. Living in America was hard on his sense of time and bank account, but he persevered. And most admirably, he never complained. Not even once.

Over the last two years, Omar and I have wondered through the Redwoods and hiked local trails in Shasta County, discussed geo politics, and encouraged each other in the area of romantic interests. Naturally, we built a supportive friendship and enjoy spending time together. I’d wanted to visit Colombia but knew I needed to wait for an invite. And in May, before he left for the summer, Omar asked,”why not come to Colombia?” And I happily said yes.

Colombia isn’t what you think it is. It’s beautiful with tall green mountains, vibrant flowers in bloom, and warm, welcoming people. Food is plentiful and affordable and I felt safe- with the exceptions of a few neighborhoods in Bogota. I wasn’t shocked. Omar represents his country well, and I read. I knew the narco days were in the past- for the most part. And that Presidents Uribe and Santos had propelled the country into the 21st Century. Colombia is a bit behind on infrastructure because of the wars, but they are making up for lost time with construction projects every ten feet.

During my time there, the overwhelming beauty refreshed my soul. I thought about it a lot, how the enemy tries to destroy the most beautiful places and people, but the Lord is good. And I also thought about my sister, and how in some way I felt like I understood her more. She speaks fluent Spanish and has visited a number of South American countries. And given the person I know her to be, she fits right in to place like Colombia. Her sense of community, lack of planning or time*, her expressive nature, all of it. Be if the best parts of a country like Colombia or the not so best parts, my sister would thrive in a place like Colombia.

All of these thoughts also gave me feelings of empathy for her. And I wonder if learning Spanish changed the way she thinks and looks at life. Scientists say it does. Our very white family could not have known how her Spanish proficiency affected her life. (Clink this link if you want to learn more: Learning a language changes your brain.) And so, for this and few other reasons, I’m glad I visited Omar in his home country. Colombia is wonderful and so is my sister.

*For real though, the lack of time management drove my Germanic-Anglo ass up the wall. Ten minutes means 600 seconds, not “some mysterious time in the future after the aforementioned ten minutes.”

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 1.

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The squeal of the 5:33 F train finally peeled Gary out of bed after many previous attempts. Before answering the call of nature, he stopped to gaze out his apartment window at the purple sky then checked digital clock on the lamp stand beside his bed. Typical, he thought. 5:38 AM. Always late. And as he did his business in the toilet, Gary thought about that clock, how it was a thoughtful gift from his mother but somewhat useless now that he lived next to a line that never stops. Neither the apartment ad or property manager mentioned the constant, timely screeches or enduring fumes or the shouts and car horns meant for people dashing through traffic to catch the train. Then Gary thought better of his clock. I won’t live here forever, he concluded. Indeed, he was and intended to be a part-time resident of the city that never sleeps. It was a promise he’d made to his thoughtful worried mother.

Gary Mellmack moved to Brooklyn to pursue his life long dream of becoming a painter. Better said, he moved to New York City to pursue becoming an artist. He chose to live in Brooklyn because is was affordable, if one may call it so, and the F train has a stop one block from the The Art Students League campus just south of Central Park. After years of meaningless sales jobs and severe lack of dating success, he decided to do the one thing he really wanted to do. His mother was not surprised or amused, but she didn’t stand in his way. If Gary wanted to live in a cramped apartment and draw apples for a year or two, so be it. Though she preferred he remain in south Georgia and fill a house with grandkids.

A few close friends had questioned why Gary wanted to leave, wasn’t he being cliche or couldn’t he do the same via online courses. No need to blow his savings living in the most expensive city in America, right? In the end, as all good friends do, they stopped objecting Gary’s choice and began to plan visits, as all good friends do, when they have a buddy living in New York.

Today was the first day of the summer session and Gary was excited. He’d spent the fall and spring sketching fruit and nude models and learning color theory. But today, he’d move on toward his ultimate goal of being a painter, a serious painter. And as he laced up his grimy yet comfortable red walking shoes, Gary let a hope rise in his heart. Little did he know that today would be more than he could ever hoped or imagined. How could he? No one is prepared for fate, for a blessing beyond comprehension, all any one can do is go to work and give destiny a chance to find us. And that’s what Gary did by moving to Brooklyn for today he’d meet her.

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Vol IV: #2 A New Short Coming Soon

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Yesterday, for the first time in many months, I let my mind run and stumble as it pleased. The opportunity presented itself as I began to write a new short story about Gary Mellmack, my main character and new resident of south Brooklyn. For the sake of authenticity, I spent 30 minutes researching elevated subway lines and cheap walk-on apartments. All I knew when I began to write was I wanted Gary to be wake up to the sound of a screeching subway train. And that this spine shivering sound was his new de facto alarm clock. The ultimate questions were still yet to be answered either on the page or in my mind. Why was Gary in New York? Where was he from? What’s the conflict?

And then, without reason or explanation, the story landed in my lap. I skipped to the bottom of the page and began writing a plot summary and story notes as quickly as my finger allowed. Yes, of course, Gary was a fish out of water, trying to make it in the big city. Not an original plot, but a start nonetheless. And after a few more notes I stopped and implored myself for more. Come on Nik. What makes this story worth reading? I wiggled in my seat and took a deep breath. On the exhale I began to envision something altogether new to me.

And tomorrow, God willing, I’ll share it with you. Friday at the latest.

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Vol IV: #1 The Beginning of Year Four

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Since the beginning of the month, I’ve spent considerable time contemplating my next step as a writer. The goal was to answer the the basic questions regarding goals, subject matter, and purpose. I thought about including book reviews of the books I read. At my current reading pace, I’d have 2-3 reviews a month. But, I decided against the idea because the world doesn’t need more reviewers. No. What the world needs- in my view- is more storytellers and poets.

So, accordingly, I’ve decided to write more with the intent of learning how to tell a story. And I need to distinguish the difference between writing and publishing. In my first year of writing, I published 330+ blogs which was insane. The goal in Year Four is to dedicate at least one hour every single week day and two hours each Saturday and Sunday to honing my craft. How many blog posts and poems that will produce is yet to be determined. If I spend multiple days on a post, so be it. Similarly, I may pump out multiple posts per Saturday. Who knows?

This approach has me excited about the next 365 days. By my calculations, if I stick to my new target I will write on average nine hours per week. Factoring in sick days, travel, and a few holidays, I figure I’ll write for nearly 458 hours over the coming year. That’s a lot when you think about it…kinda like a part time job? Hobbies don’t become jobs by fluffing around or being a weekend warrior. Right?

What’s got me jazzed the most though is deepening my experience as a storyteller- the learning to wrestle with words and characters, of setting a story, building characters, and leading my readers to new places. At times, it feels like a waste. What do I have to say that hasn’t been said? How are my stories any different or worth reading than the last? This where I lean back on my culinary past for a glimpse of what I know is possible, because I’ve created dishes no one else has or thought to: seared scallops with compressed watermelon and tequila, smoked short ribs with roasted rice cakes, kimchee, and soy/red wine reduction. My personal favorite was the broiled cured pork belly, topped it with fresh salmon and black soy caviar. And these dishes weren’t given to me by God in dreams, but were the product of time spent learning how to cook. I mean, I spent hours and hours pouring over cookbooks, watching and rewatching YouTube videos, shopping for speciality ingredients from all over, and making mistake after mistake. I’ve over-salted clams and undercooked chicken, and I still haven’t nailed down truly great fried chicken. But, damnit, I can cook. And the food business wanted me, up to the very end. I still had offers to run a kitchen, cook what I wanted. Now I’m here, toiling away in my dingy little tent of internet. And If I become the same creative author I was as a chef, I’m gonna be happy. Very happy.

Here’s to the year to come. May the Lord bless me with patience and grace and the wisdom to find help when needed.

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Vol III: #90 A Bit Stuck

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Three years ago, I burned up the internet with my words. I’d suffered two broken relationships- one romantic and the other professional. And as any country music star will tell ya, break ups are a gold mine of emotion and creative fuel. But now I feel like a dry creek, my flow gone. Or, at the least, that’s how I feel. My thoughts run into walls like who cares and you don’t know anything. I know that’s not true, but all feels mechanical and repetitive.

And to clarify, I’m referring specifically to blogging. In my physical journal I write 4-5 poems per week, and perhaps this is were I need to focus for the moment. Creeks always overflow in the spring then run dry during the summer (in California.) But rivers run strong, from the headwaters near a mountain all the way to an ocean. The level may rise and fall, but the water keeps moving. Accordingly, at least at the start, year four is going to be poems. Lots of poems.

I still have another week on Volume III and I hope to add another blog entry or two. Then, on or about July 11th, I’ll post about what I want year four to be. 90ish blogs is well short of the goal I set for myself last year. But, on the bright side, I did author almost 80 poems over the last year. Combined, I wrote almost 170 blogs, short stories, and poems. That’s not so bad.

The big goal for 2023-24 is going to be to finish my first novel. I believe I’m halfway to a completed rough draft, but I haven’t worked on it in months. Normally, I’d just be done with it- the project. My tendency is start a project and either finished it or let it be forever unfinished. It’s hard for me to come back to a project once I lay off it for a while. So…the opportunity I have is to reverse years of leaving things undone.

I don’t need more projects, I just need to believe in the ones I want- like my writing. I believe in it even when I feel a bit stuck.

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Vol III: #89 Graduations

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I recently said to a friend,”We’ve entered that stage of life where the people we love start graduating from life and I’m not ready for it.” And honestly, I find tragedy easier to handle than the inevitable. Because we all die. Every single one of us. The tragedies- the car accidents and overdoses and terminal cancer before age 30- are easy to rationalize as random or fate. But I’m not ready to say goodbye to my parents or yours. You know? The people who die mostly because of lifestyle and being old.

And, to be fair to these boomers marching toward the stage, they’ve lived full lives. Kids, grandkids, pets and more pets. They’ve loved the poor and preached the Gospel. And I’m proud of them. Truly. I’m just not ready to say goodbye.

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Vol III: #88 He Is With Us

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A few weeks ago, I received an ominous text from my long time friend Simeon: Did you hear about Chuck? Call me. I didn’t know, but I knew. Chuck was a conspiracy theorist, an addict, and God-miracle all in one body. He’d been part of a cult, a top salesman at the tech firm where I met him, and liked to smoke weed at lunch. And, before he returned to Charlotte to give rehab another go, he lived in his Ford Explorer, preferring to park over night near Whiskeytown Lake or the dam.

When Simeon told me Chuck overdosed on heroin, I felt nothing and spent the rest of the conversation trying to comfort Simeon. After the call, I reached out to Josh. He was a good and loyal friend to Chuck and I knew he’d take it hard. And, he did. I suppose he thought he could save Chuck or something. My best guess is Josh spent the last three years praying for Chuck, to see him set free of addiction and his marriage restored. Josh has been through all this before, mind you. He’s got a past and a deadly overdose isn’t knew. What’s eating him is the hope he held for his friend. And now…he feels like he failed or did something wrong. And this is a reality for all praying Christians. Sometimes we fail. For whatever reason, our prayers seem to be ignored. And in these moments we are faced with the hardest of all challenges and a choice. Do we press onward or become bitter and jaded, searching for answers in another god?

I hate that I was numb to the news of Chuck’s passing, and I’ll admit I was even cynical about it. Everything about Chuck’s recent life choices made him a prime candidate for an overdose. But, that’s not cool. More so, something I noticed today was I stopped praying for miracles. And I hate that too. To pray, genuinely believing, is to have hope. And hope can be a two edged sword. If fulfilled, hope is one of the greatest gifts in the universe. Yet, when left unfilled, or as the Bible calls it “hope deferred”…that’s the stuff that makes your gut rot from the inside out. And not even Jesus told us how to handle failure and grief.

But, He did make a promise to love us, to be with us, and to never leave us. He’s with us in the lowest moments, when anxiety hits and we are left dazed and afraid of what’s next, He is with us.

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