The Third I

Passing Through

I woke up still wandering through the heads with blurred bodies.  The curtains between this world and the dream world had lost their edge.  At night they moved in and out of focus passing by.  By day I froze them in paint.  I lost sight.  Were they dream images I was painting or vice versa?

            My Spiritualist grandmother had a suggestion.  “When they appear in movement – tell them to stop.  If they don’t – yell at them!  Then ask them to back up and stop fidgeting.  You can then – of you so choose – talk to them.”

            None of the above were actions I wished to take.

“Fine,” my grandmother said, “they have better things to do and places to go.”

Wiseguys

In the hallway outside my studio The Wise Guy from Queens lined up to get their picture taken.  The photographer down the hall had Mafia connections.

One afternoon my studio door heaved as a fist banged against it.  An eight year old stood outside with fists clenched at this side.

“I gotta pee!” he yelled, when I opened the door.

His father, a wise guy, was changing his jogging outfit into a double breasted pin-striped suit nearby.  Wearing boxer shorts and a muscle tee-shirt he scooped the boy up with one arm and apologized.  “Sorry,” he said, “the kid is a leaky faucet.”

Knowing the kid would explode before reaching the men’s room I gave him an empty paint can.  He filled it.  In appreciation his father gave me his private phone number saying “Anybody bothers you – just let me know.”

“Hey, buddy,” he said, “you gotta cigarette?”

Without thinking I heard myself say, “I dona know.  You gotta gun?”

Pulling a shoulder holster from his gym bag he strapped it on.

I gave him a cigarette. 

Bear

My African American friend had two personalities.  Like a metronome his emotions became a sliding weight on the pendulum.  Instead of maintaining a regular tempo in his daily life he was erratic, sometimes gentle, sometimes brutal.  Walking with him on the crowded streets of New York was often amusing or fucking scary.

            Against his wishes I dragged him to a psychic reading in hopes of getting some answers.

            “I don’t know what this means,” the psychic said, “but I am getting a strong connection between you and the Blackfoot Indians.  You have necklace of bear claws around your neck.”

            At her suggestion we went to the New York Public Library.

            My friend was on every page.

            Believing that the One above spoke to man through the animals, the Blackfoot christened the bear a saint.  The basis for this confirmation was the bear’s Zen-like approach to irrational thinking.

            One day he would enter the village as a clown, providing entertainment for the children and the next as a demon destroying everything in sight and eating the children.

            I have not heard from Paul in many years.  My guess is that he is dead, in prison or CEO of a large entertainment group.

Gallbladders

In the backstreets of Guanzhou, China I saw a street peddler, dressed in animal skins, selling tiger paws, rhino horns, gallbladders from bears and for the more adventurous seahorses that make you Aqua(wo)man.

            All would make me hard.  Viagra hard without the fear of a permanent hard-on.

            My translator friend convinced the peddler that I was not a cop, but rich American tired of trying to shove a wet noodle up a wild tiger’s ass.

            Laughing, the peddler displayed his goods on an oil-tarp.  Picking up the zip-lock bag with the dried gallbladder of a bear he stiffened his arm in a Nazi salute.

            “Made in America,” he said smiling. “Good for making you hard.”

            Each year thousands of American black bears are slaughtered to supply the Asian demand. 

Reborn

          No longer a recent arrival on this earth I am looking forward to being reborn in my next lifetime. The Dali Lama said I could choose to be reincarnated as an animal.  Leaving my options open, it is one possibility that appears on my wish list.

            I have crossed out cowboy, fireman, policeman, poker player, pimp, transvestite, serial killer and chef.

            My art has not change the world but there are aspects of it that I would like to continue.  Here is my plan.

            I want to be the man or woman, any race or color, that climbs up 180 feet to paint in the eye of the Buddha.  I envision the Buddha statue, carved into the mountainside, that was destroyed by the Taliban in Afghanistan march 2, 20001.

            Armed with a small mirror and paint kit I would reach the top of the ladder and stare into the face of the eyeless Buddha.  Turning, I would paint in his eyes by his reflection in the mirror.

            Painting Buddha’s eyes while directly looking at him can make you go blind.

            Climbing back down the ladder I would go have a beer.  That is my plan for the moment. 

Homework

 

            Confirmed by the authority of his teachers and not an academic degree the Indian Yoga instructor came to see me.

            “I am confused with rules for teaching college,” he said getting in the locus position.  “I see that all classes have credits assigned to them, but not credit assigned to mine.  May I ask why?”

            “Your class is an elective, for no credit,” I said.  Credits are determined by how much homework is required for each class.”

            Closing his eyes he pondered my answer.

            “The homework for my Yoga class is life itself,” he said.

Bad JuJu

            Smoking two packs of Pall Mall’s a day during pregnancy is bad juju.

            Born with short legs I was fearful of becoming General Tom Thumb, the nineteenth century circus performer and midget. It has been suggested that Tom’s short stature was the result of his mother’s bad juju when she saw the family puppy die during pregnancy.

            My fear was that my mother’s smoking had sentenced me to a lifetime of being called Shorty.

            Cigarette dangling from her lips, she said, “Don’t smoke – it will stunt your growth.”

            The warning came too late.

            By age thirteen I was smoking corn silk that I gathered from our garden.  By age fifteen I had graduated to Kool cigarettes.  Be Kool, was the password shared with my black friends.

            At age nineteen I stood 5’9” tall not the 6’ I had hoped for.  Now, at age seventy-four, after a lifetime of smoking, I am beginning to shrink.

            Bad juju, my friend, bad juju. 

The Beggar

        Using his cane as a devining rod he pointed at me in the street.  Feeling chosen I approached him.  Scratching the dome of his bald head he reached into his saffron robe and produced a small embossed, gold card.

            Leaning against the traffic pole for balance he offered me his card with both hands.

            I thanked him.

            “Donation,” he said.

            I gave him a dollar.

            “Donation,” he said.

            I took back the dollar and gave him five.

            “Donation,” he said.

            “The five dollars is my donation, “I said impatiently.

            Blocking my exit with his cane he said, “me monk…and you?”

            “Artist,” I said.

            Handing me a small pad and pencil he said, “Draw monster.”

            I did.

            “Better to have monster on paper and not in your head,” he said.

            I agreed.

            “Donation,” he said.

            I gave him twenty dollars. 

The Sommelier

 

           Along the path to the middle weight title Joe experienced a miracle.  Coming to the aid of a victim of a common street crime Joe was shot three times.  The bullets never hit a bone.

            My friend, the victim, a wealthy connoisseur of fine wine, thinking Joe was ready for sainthood, hired him as his bodyguard.

            The wine steward at Bouley’s approached our table asking Joe to remove his pork-pie hat.  Joe refused.

            Both African American they sized each other up.

            Ignoring Joe, the sommelier presented the leather-bound wine list to my friend who in turn, passed it on to Joe.

            Joe said “Gotta tell you man, your wine list is disappointing.”  Joe rattled off at least ten wines, with the year, not on the list.

            The owner appeared, full of apologies.

            Shaking Joe’s hand he asked for Joe’s list in writing.  Dinner was on the house.  Joe tipped his hat to the wine steward when we left. 

            On Joe’s path to Divine Grace he had won another battle. 

The Metalman

         

          The Civil War was fought without bullet proof vests or body armor.  The mini-balls of iron passed through the uniforms like a bowling ball striking a pin.  Bones splintered and fragments exploded.

            Page after page illustrated the nightmare.  Borrowing a page from the Surgeon General’s Civil War report, I began introducing metal into my work.

            By the 80’s I was known as Metalman.  A voice from the Pentagon said, “Are you the guy who paints metal?  We would like to commission you to do an oil painting of the Army’s new fighter plane.  Top secret.  You would have to sign a confidentiality agreement and speak to no one, not even your wife, about this project.”

            The fighter plane arrived in a briefcase that was chained to the wrist of a marine in a black suite.  Breaking the seal I took out the blurred photograph.  The fighter plane was a speck in the sky.  Emerging from a large cloud the tail section had been erased. 

            “This photograph is useless to me,” I said on the phone.  “I can’t really see what the fighter plan looks like.”

            “That’s the point,” the General said hanging up the phone.