Vol IV: #10 Beneath Or Best

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I love living in the 21st Century. I really do. I love toilets and the internet and airplanes and access to all types of people and cuisines. We’ve never- as humans- had more wealth and opportunity than we do today. And I love it. What I don’t love is the endless string of excuses we make for ourselves- to be bitter, to avoid living our best lives, and to generally f*ck around. And, I am guilty of all these things. 100%.

I’ve held the pain of break-ups and rejections, stored it in my chest. When the wrong opportunities came, I pursued them over what the Lord put in my heart. And naturally, the more common justification were in my quiver as well:

• My parents didn’t x, y, z.

• I was abused.

• My teachers didn’t like me.

• Every leader I had took advantage of me.

• Exposure to porn at a young age messed with my mind.

• No one taught how to properly use credit cards.

• My siblings don’t understand me the way I want to be understood.

• I’m too old.

• E T C…

Crazy truth is all the offenses and (in some cases) trauma is real. Yet none of them will empower me; rather, they are the shittiest type of baggage to cary from one day to the next. And the choice I see now is become more obvious by the day. We can either lean into our pain to justify living beneath our calling, or we can leave it behind and run after the Lord’s best for our lives. With the technology and access to super cheap or free resources, we have no excuses. I don’t have an excuse and I give myself none.

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Abstract: My Siren

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She whispers, “You can take the day off, yesterday went well. No need to push yourself.”

And when I trudge onward, I hear the strain in her voice when she asks, “Don’t your legs feel strained and heavy?”

For good measure she adds, “It might rain.”

And as I work from task to task, all in support of the goal,

She never relents and never tires as she prods for weakness,

for she is my greatest enemy and my worst friend,

a siren, the obnoxious hater in my head.

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Vol IV: #9 Straight Truth

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I’m forcing it today.

I feel like I need to write something good and readable, and I hear ten competing voices in my head. They are judging my words and telling me how my intentions are bad. And I admit, I sensor myself a bit, because I know who reads my blog. And sometimes I want to write about a moment or subject but I pull back. I edit my words to the point that what I’m saying is barely worthy of writing. I’m afraid I’ll offend or reveal too much.

And these are my problems, not my readers’. It’s up to me to be honest and vulnerable, to believe the best of anyone who stumbles by rather than the worst. And I’m thankful for this hurdle now at my feet. It is high and I don’t know how to jump over it, but I must.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 6.

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Gary hadn’t considered Mary’s perspective on all this, but thought proper to do so. Mary warmed as Gary worked his way through his new reality.

“You said you know your purpose, what is that?” Gary finally asked.

“My purpose?” she answered with a smile. “To create. I’m a brush and I need to get my bristles into some paint. Soon I hope.”

Gary loved the simplicity of the answer. How wonderful to be so sure and confident, he concluded.

Then Mary continued, “Gary, I believe I need you, that we are meant to work together. I need you and you need me.”

And suddenly, the mood collapsed. The words ‘you need me’ pricked Gary’s mind. He didn’t need anyone, he thought. The shift alarmed Mary as she saw the twist growing in his mind. And, she hurried to undo it.

“Your creative process brought me to life, this morning in Brooklyn. The wonder in your thoughts called to me, as you watched the hurry and madness of the train station and wanted to capture it. ”

Gary leaned back into his chair and stared at the floor. He never considered an artistic partner before and wasn’t sure he needed one, and his heart became cold toward Mary. She saw a sadness deep in him, and lonely thoughts rose from his depths. And now plans began to take shape, awful plans. Then he looked at her with a clenched jaw and stone cold eyes. Mary was frightened and silently began to ask for help.

“If you’re going to throw me away or toss me in the river,” she began. “Why not give us a chance? One painting, then you may do as you like.”

The question caught Gary pulled him from the slop. He’d spent the last minutes contemplating how to get rid of Mary, but a speck of curiosity changed everything.

“Ok, Mary. One painting.”

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Abstract: A Prayer To Prepare

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If I am an arrow,

Lord make me straight and sharp,

and ready for the hunt.

If I am a stone,

Lord make me strong and smooth,

and prepared for the load.

If I am land,

Lord make me fertile,

that I might feed your people.

My Father in heaven,

Whatever I am and the person you made me to be,

grant me the tools and opportunities to be my best,

and train me to sustain til the end.

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Abstract: Work On Monday

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There’s a canyon between those who sustain life and those who make it worth living.

The world needs doctors and accountants and teachers and salesmen,

And it needs painters and directors, guitar players, and rappers,

Chefs and dancers.

In truth, the engineer and the lawyer must stick to what works,

the boring formula that produces safety and wealth and enough money to retire in comfort.

The farmer and the train conductor may doodle in the their spare time, or keep a journal jammed with poems,

but they’re lives are on rails, predictable and safe.

But to the poet and the play write, it’s a waste.

And a hobby will never replace a calling,

never satisfy their longing to create and touch that part of God few dare to touch.

I understand the view on both sides of this canyon, and why each see the other with a hint of disdain,

but it doesn’t have to be that way.

We need each other.

Artist and chefs and musicians need patrons and customers and music lovers.

And in turn, the artists, chefs, and musicians need the engineers, truck drivers, and nurses to go to work on Monday.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 5.

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He set Mary on the table in front of him and waited. If not for the giggles emanating from his hand, he’d assume it was an ordinary two inch oil brush- hog’s hair bristles, metal ferrule, and wooden handle.

“Oh thank you so very much,” she said in a soothing way that calmed the aspiring painter to his core.

“Will you set me up? I’d like to see your face.”

The request confused Gary as he saw no noticeable face, no eyes or mouth, or ears, but he acted without hestiation.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

And as Mary spoke, Gary noticed the tiniest moving lines across the face of the ferrule, and a pair of eyes where the ferrule was fastened to the handle.

"You’re welcome,” Gary managed to choke out as he stared at Mary’s metallic face.

“Yes. This is my face. I suppose it’s odd to you.”

“This whole situation is not normal, Mary.”

And as the words left his tongue, Gary remembered where he was. And he quickly glanced over to where the other artists were seated. The black man was gone, but the hefty lady was still face deep in a drawing. What ever was happening, was only happening between Gary and Mary. Again, he collected himself.

“Where are your ears?” he whispered.

“I don’t quite know, but I can obviously hear you. I think. Or maybe I can only perceive your thoughts.”

“Oh no. That’s not good.”

“How come?'“

“I think a lot of things and some of them are not meant for anyone but me.”

“May I assume all people are like this?”

“Yes, Mary. All humans like me think thoughts they don’t want anyone to know or perceive.”

“Well, then. That’s something to consider.”

The reality of Mary as Mindreader weighed on Gary. And Mary knew it. As a few moments of silence filled the room, she decided it best to continue to answer his questions. “What else would you like to know?” she prodded.

The mere question caused Gary to burst into laughter. Did a paint brush really just say that? And he laughed again. Mary did not to answer Gary’s thoughts, though she wanted to. Gary needed his mind to be a safe place, and so she decided let him be.

After a pause to collect himself, Gary asked, “How…I mean, what are you? Are you alive? Am I going insane? Why?”

Mary could see how her presence caused Gary great confusion, yet she also sensed his curiosity, a more noble human trait than fear.

“Gary, all I know is I heard your thoughts earlier today on the train. It was like I was awakened from a deep sleep. And I knew what I was, who I was, and what my purpose is. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. So, I decided to talk to you if I could. I believe you thought I was prank or mental trick.”

“Indeed, I thought someone was messing with me,” Gary offered.

Again, Mary waited for Gary to speak rather than answer his thoughts which were complex and weighed with emotion. And, she decided on a different tact.

“You know Gary, I’m new here too.”

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Vol IV: #8 Motivation Rather Than Offense

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Motivation is a tricky muse. Similar to Inspiration, it is fleeting. The artist is happy to have them over, even begs them to stay. But when they’ve left the building, he must get back to work.

This week, I was given a slice of unexpected motivation. What was communicated does not matter, but I will admit I was disheartened at first. Someone challenged me and I immediately felt defensive. And, I don’t like feeling defensive. It’s a waste, and the behavior of slaves trying to appease a master. The challenge thrown at my feet was a truth I needed to hear. (Sorry for being vague, but I prefer to protect the innocent.) And as I thought about what I’m doing and where I want to be, I knew I could use the challenge to propel me forward like a ship sailing with the wind.

And this is new for me. Previously, I was defeated by a few well placed words or opinions. Whoever expressed them was clueless to the turmoil they set in motion, and they are not to blame for my self-sabotage. Any time I am defeated by a few words it is because of the unaddressed fear in my heart. The trick I used this week was to use words said in love, yet received as a challenge, as motivation to level-up my work and my approach to it. Maybe you’ve noticed an uptick in the number of posts this week? I’m on track to post 10-12 posts this week, and even more next week. (I’m hoping to finish my current short story by the end of next week too.)

I’m on a path to well over 500 posts over the coming year. That’s an insane but necessary amount of writing. To get to where I want to be- a working author, living off my work- I need to write and work and publish my stories. For now, it’s this blog. And soon, I’ll start submitting my work to writing competitions and (hopefully) editors for feedback. The next step is to produce a short story a week instead of over three weeks. Nothing wrong with my previous approach, but I’m moving up a level. I’m treating my work as a job, with hours, tasks, and deadlines.

And, I can thank a friend for a swift kick to rear for the motivation to go harder than ever before.

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Vol IV: #7 Get That Sleep

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I looked at my watch as I laid on the couch and it showed 10 PM. In the moment, I knew it was bed time for Nik but I made a poor decision and pressed “Play Next Episode” for one more round of Alone. An our later, I lugged upstairs and fell asleep. Just before nodding off I told myself to sleep in, to get my rest. Yet, when 5 AM came, I rolled out of bed and began my day. And I have fought my thoughts and attitude all day as a result of my poor choice.

If someone where to ask “What are the most three important needs in life?” I’d have a quick answer: love(God), water, and sleep. That’s my experience, anyway. And the difference I feel when I am rested instead of groggy is stark. Like right now, I want to fight everyone- which I’ve already done in my head. My roommate and ex-girlfriend didn’t stand a chance. Poor bastards.

The encouraging bit is I still hit most of my goals for the day. Most. And that’s ok. In the past, I would’ve done some truly self-destructive stuff when I’m this miserable. And I know what you’re thinking, Wait till you’re married and have kids, you’ll never sleep again. Yeah, I get it. Truly. That thought and reality is part of why I feel like such an angry twat. I know I’m single. I know it everyday. And as we all know, single people just need to shut the f*ck up and be thankful their lives are so simple, right? Again, I am aware.

Now, all I want to do is go to sleep, take a 16 hour nap. Instead, I’m happy to be typing rather whine or play games or do anything to satisfy my spoiled flesh. What is good and holy is always good and holy regardless of how I feel about it being good and holy. And today is a day where I see the dividends of pushing through bad feelings and thoughts…to do what is good and holy in my life.

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Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 4.

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Gary was not himself the rest of the morning. He entered the wrong classroom for figure drawing and promptly hurried out when the instructor said,”welcome to advanced watercolor, bodies of water and skyscapes.” Then Gary’s embarrassment doubled when the figure drawing instructor- a well groomed and slender white man in black jeans, a navy blue pullover, and penny loafers- eyed him for being late. And unlike oil painting, this class got down to business within minutes. Unprepared, Gary scrambled to find his sketch pad and pencils as a large, balding still very hairy, middle-aged man disrobed in the middle of the room.

After lunch, Gary spent his free period in a studio meant for students working on projects. As it was the first day of class, only two industrious students were at work when he slipped into the room, one small black man about Gary’s age and a large latino lady sporting orange and green running shoes and hot pink leggings. Headphoned and focused, both artists focused on their work. The quiet suited Gary and he slumped into a red chair in the far corner of the room.

And then, for the third time that day, Gary heard the mumbles. And they clearly came from his backpack.

Ok, let’s do this, he thought. At first he didn’t know what to do. Then Gary unzipped the smallest pocket first. He reached in and pulled out a few scraps of newsprint- used for drawing practice- and his pencil sharpener. Next, he rummaged through the next pocket, larger than the first and mostly empty. Gary sat back in his chair for a moment before he heard it again.

“Muh, meh, meah,” responded the mumbler.

Instantly, Gary felt his heart in the throat and was more aware of his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. He hesitated before opening the last and largest compartment of his backpack. Part of Gary wanted the mumbler to speak again and part of him wanted the prank to resolve itself. After a beat, he turned his ahead as though what lay inside might attack him and slowly pulled the zipper up one side of the pack across the top and down the other side. He did not reach inside but sat afraid of what was to come.

“I won’t bite, Gary. I’m in here.” said a distinctly female voice.

This is crazy, Gary admitted. My backpack is talking to me.

“Not your backpack. I’m a paint brush. My name’s Mary,” the voice responded.

Gary didn’t know if he should cry or run, but he remained frozen to his seat.

“You’re not crazy Gary,” the voice continued from inside the backpack. “I assume you don’t know many talking paint brushes, do you?”

“N-no,” He finally stuttered.

“Ah. Well that makes sense. May I make a request?”

Gary slowly began to find humor in the moment, relieved the by the gentle voice. This will make one hell of a story for a therapist, he mused.

“A therapist? Why a therapist?” she responded as though reading his thoughts.

Giving into the situation, Gary finally found his courage and answered,”First, what’s your request? And two, either I’m losing my shit, or…I’m losing my shit.”

“I can assure you Gary, I’m real. And you are not losing your wits or sanity.”

“Solid,” Gary quipped sarcastically. “Good to know.”

“As for my request, can you take me out of your backpack? It’s dark in here and I much prefer the light like I experienced earlier today.”

“Right, that was you who said ‘thank you’ earlier today.”

“Yes. I am quite polite.”

Then Gary reached into the darkness and fumbled around until he heard laughter and giggling.

“That’s me Gary. You have me.”

And with that, Gary Mellmack met his paint brush, face to face.

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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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