Paint

“Page 1.

A Message to the Reader:

I am writing this in hopes that this book will land in the hands of a dreamer with goals of never giving up.

It’s my intention to help you to grow, (to your own benefit and for the benefit of others), in matters of creativity, intelligence, & opportunity if you —-“

I slammed the book shut in a hurry.

It’s as if the words were speaking to me audibly. I’d never felt anything like it.

Something about the handwritten, cryptic language in the black journal I opened made me feel as if the author were standing right in front of me staring through my soul with every word that I read.

Closing the book, coming out of my daze, I took a moment to try to back track the strange events of my day.

I looked at my watch. It was only 10 a.m. and already sunny outside.

I sat on the curb in front of a flower shop on the street, right next to a fire hydrant.

Maybe I need coffee, I thought. Yea, coffee. That’s it.

I stood up and headed to the coffee shop in the building next door. At least I’d be able to wake up a little, as I wrapped my mind around what had happened to me the moments before running into that weird lady this morning.

“Ah, let me tell you one thing I know for sure, son. When you come into the heart space, the meaning of it all will fill you deeper than any hug you could ever crave,” she’d said.

I looked up for a second and saw the little lady, who surprised me with her appearance.

She looked exactly like the 50’s actress, Eartha Kitt.

Black lady. Small frame. Green eyes that spoke volumes. They pierced me far beyond what her smile expressed.

She was sweeping her walkway and watering her plants, dressed like a genie, in a costume of some sort. She waved at me, and I noticed a mint green crystal ring on her hand, that sparkled just as bright as her eyes. She said her peace and smiled once more before she scurried back into her house.

Weird.

I’d removed the image of the lady from my mind as soon as I made it into the familiar street-noise of downtown. I’d taken a new route into the city that day — a left turn and then two blocks down — to end up at the coffee shop that I’d been visiting daily since starting my new job in the city.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I said out loud, shifting my focus out of my head.

I drank my coffee, grabbed my books, and left the venue. I had a long day of work ahead of me.

*

I woke up the next morning from another strange dream. I’d been having dreams all week, since running into that little lady that day, but they were so hard to remember as I woke up to begin my day.

This day was no different. I’d had a long day of painting houses in the city the day before.

I was so tired when I made it home, I passed out on my bed, still wearing my paint-stained clothes from the job.

I must have fallen asleep with plans to read before I passed out, because I woke up next to a few books that I’d borrowed from the neighborhood “little library” that I discovered on my new route to work.

The library, in reality, was a hand-built book sharing box in the neighborhood. It was there that I’d saw the old lady. I’d checked out a little black book that was tied with a bow to a book about Picasso, and another book about painting large canvases with graphs.

Remembering that I had a day off from painting houses that day, I jumped out of bed, and decided to explore the city for new inspiration. I’d only been able to see the new side of town I’d moved to while walking to work. Staying inside on my off-day just wasn’t an option for me.

I took a shower and got dressed. I grabbed my backpack and checked the time, and saw that I had 15 minutes to spare before the pancake spot named Carl’s in my neighborhood opened for breakfast.

I remembered my plan to dive into the black book that I’d picked up. I wondered why it was attached to the book about Picasso. Before I put it in my backpack, I opened it up to a random page.

“If you truly desire, with burning obsession, to have happiness as the center of your life, then a happiness-centered life will surely begin to show. But if you doubt that happiness is a source of nourishment that pours from your soul, like water to soil, don’t be surprised when green grass does not grow.”

The book slammed itself shut and landed on the ground in front of me at the same exact moment I heard a knock on my front door.

I heard a delivery driver yell “Package!” before I saw the truck that he arrived in drive off through my living room window.

Not sure if I’d dropped the book, or if it had jumped out of my hands, I was quickly distracted by the delivery. These odd “happenings” had been occurring around me, since running into that woman.

I was convinced that I needed to get some fresh air. I’d been working myself way too hard.

Ready to eat, I brought the package inside. I grabbed my bag and headed out for the day.

I clearly needed a day off from work. The city was calling my name.

*

It started to rain as I walked up the alleyway where the neighborhood pancake cafe had been established, inside of a colorful, rundown, plaza building. Approaching the side of the building, I looked up at the huge mural that I’d painted on the building a few years prior. A celebration of the Harlem Renaissance. It still looked bright and fresh, as if the paint had just dried the day before.

“Back when the paint was my passion,” I thought to myself.—-“Now I just paint living rooms and commercial properties with my brothers for work.”

My mural was a well-respected landmark in the city. It had only been tagged and vandalized by graffiti artists once. Since then, city locals and security officers in the area protected it from taggers and tourists who wanted to cause trouble. It reminded me of a great time in my life every time I walked past it. It was my dream to have my art all over the city. Since the job I’d started required much of my time, I had to sacrifice my passion to make ends meet.

“Hey kid, the usual?”

The young waitress seated me immediately once inside. She knew me by face and by frequent order by now. As many times as I’d come to sit in the same booth next to the jazz band that serenaded the guests during her shift, we’d naturally become good acquaintances.

Instead of waiting for a response, she placed a steaming stack of pancakes in front of me.

She grabbed napkins from her apron, set a pitcher of syrup next to them on the table, along with strawberries, and a small plate with squares of butter.

Perfect. As though she were expecting me.

“Enjoy!” She grinned as she walked away.

As I finished the last bite of my second stack of cakes, I dug in my backpack for my wallet. I found it next to a few notepads I’d been scratching plans on.

I figured that, since I had a whole day to explore, I’d put on my headphones, shut the world out and read and write for awhile. It was my favorite creative getaway.

Digging deeper into my bag for the book about Picasso, I skimmed through it as I waited for my waitress friend to return to my table with the check. Almost forgetting about the incident earlier, I noticed that I’d brought the black book too. I was starting to wonder why I’d chosen to take it with me in the first place. It really seemed to creep me out.

“Maybe I should return it,” I thought to myself. “It looks like a journal, not a book for public book trading.”

I opened the book to the back flap to read the description and nearly knocked over the water pitcher that was next to my arm.

There was a photograph of the little genie lady, in her younger years, adorned with those undeniable green eyes. She was standing in front of a paint canvas and easel in the photo in a silver sequin gown. It’s apparent that she loved to dress up.

In cursive, written in the same cryptic handwriting as I’d read before, the page said:

You’ve probably skipped through many pages in order to see how this book ends. Well, I cannot tell you how the story ends, only you can do that, after you write the interpretation of your dream. Go to sleep tonight then write your dream. Only you determine how the story ends. You’ll discover the meaning of it all.

*

I found myself in the deepest sleep that night, surrounded by colorful images and lucid characters.

When I woke up, I grabbed the pen and pad that I’d placed by my pillow and wrote out my dream as if I were viewing it all happen in front of me again:

“In the dream, there's a silhouette of a young man sitting on a curb in front of a restaurant and storefront in Harlem, NY. He seems to be wandering, contemplative, distracted in thought. From his poise, he seems a little down in spirit. Actually, he kind of looked like a ghost.

“Maybe that’s it,” I think out loud before continuing to write. “The character isn’t real. Maybe he’s a ghost, and that’s why he’s appearing as the silhouette of a man in the dream.”

I continue to write feverishly, remembering more of what I saw in the dream. I try to interpret the dream.

“In the dream, he’s surrounded by "reality". There’s city traffic, and bricked buildings, with lots of colors around. Lots of graffiti and movement surround him. It’s clearly a summer evening in Harlem, because I recognize the scene. People are outside laughing, blasting music, and kids are out playing with jump ropes. Some of the boys are riding bikes on the block.

I notice that the young man is the only gray ghost-like figure in the dream. He seems invisible in the busy world that surrounds him.

He stands up off the curb and begins walking down the festive street. Harlem culture is felt in the city sound. As he passes a neighborhood grocery store, an older lady stops him on the sidewalk near the entrance. She smiles at him and gives him a hug.

Only slightly surprised by the random gesture from the woman, he welcomes the embrace. He didn’t know he needed a hug that day. It was the first time he’d looked up or interacted with anyone all day.

The woman leaves, he looks down and sees that there's paint on his shirt. Bright pink paint. Maybe it was her lipstick.

Although she had gifted him a moment of escape from his thoughts, he was now suddenly wearing a shirt with a paint stain on it.

Then suddenly, almost magically, the paint rolls off of his shirt, like it were sprayed on water resistant material. It landed on his socks & shoes.

He keeps walking, still a grey silhouette in the dream, apparently unfazed and unconcerned with his footwear. He laughs to himself and sees no point in getting upset.

“Count on a little old lady at the grocery store to give me a hug and put a little color on my “sole”, he jokes to himself.

He approaches a street corner where lots of kids were outside. They were riding bikes, chasing each other, and some kids were playing in the water spewing from a busted water hydrant, much like he’d done not too many years earlier as a young kid.

A little girl playing double-dutch with her friends, walks up to him shyly, tilts her head and smiles. She gives him a purple tulip that she’d been holding. Her friends watch her and giggle. Saying nothing, she runs off to continue to play. Classic childhood fun in the city.

He puts the flower behind his ear and sits on the curb across the street.

It's hot outside, he thinks out loud.

He wipes the sweat off of his forehead, and realizes that there is bright purple paint on his hands.

His sweat had turned into the brightest purple paint he’d ever seen. He wiped his hands on his shirt and leaves another stain on his shirt, this time in bright green and bright yellow, like the colors on the flower he’d been given.

Truly confused, and embarrassed that the people around him would see paint all over his clothes, he stands up and starts walking again. He couldn’t explain to himself how he’d gotten paint everywhere.

In the dream, no one seems to notice his dilemma.

He looks up, just in time, to see a lady watering some plants on her porch. She looks up from her work, smiles at him, and goes back to watering.

“There is no talking in this dream-world that he's living in,” I observe as I continue to write.

Although he’s a silhouette in the dream, it feels like the people on the block are familiar with him and there’s something familiar about them to him as well.

At this point, the young man realizes it’s a strange day, but he just keeps walking. He sits on a bench not too far from the plant-lady's porch. Some biker boys ride past. They wave at him.

Suddenly it starts to rain.

He walks into a nearby coffee shop to stay dry until the cloud passes.

As soon as he sits down at a table, a waitress brings him coffee and walks away. She doesn't say anything. She just brings him coffee and walks away. He takes a sip and waits for the rain to go away.

A man in a business suit with a briefcase in one hand, and a phone to his ear in the other, hurries past the table. He bumps against the table and knocks the coffee over. It spills all over the young man’s shorts. He looks down horrified, and sees that the coffee had turned into bright red paint. At this point, he can’t explain what’s going on. Frantically, he grabs napkins but nothing can get it off.

He looks down and he has paint on his hands, shirt, shorts, and shoes. The guy in the business suit hadn't even noticed he knocked the coffee over and was long gone by now.

Paint everywhere, with no one seeming to notice, the young man gets up and runs out of the coffee shop.

This is the weirdest day ever.

*

Once outside, the paint-stained silhouette, in the dream now appears very “real”. Young, tall, with dread-loc’d hair, clearly a city local, he’s dressed in a paint splattered white tee and cargo shorts. Suddenly conscious of his surroundings, he hears live jazz music playing. Triggered by his love for horn instruments from his favorite era of the Harlem culture that shaped him, it’s as if he forgets he’s covered in paint.

He looks across the street and sees a band playing. The rain had stopped as quickly as it began. The street was getting busy again. The lead saxophonist with a huge top hat in front of him, performed for a small crowd, collecting money as the band played. The boy watched the band play for a while, enjoying the show with the people gathering around to applaud the performance until the sun started to go down.

Realizing he had no cash on him, the young man takes the tulip the little girl had given him into the hat and starts heading home.

What a day in the city, he thinks, his spirits a bit lifted by the music.

He makes a left turn and walks closer to the slums of the city. A small group of people are standing in front of an old TV repair shop with a huge glass window in front. There were old TVs stacked on top of each other all tuned into different television stations.

He catches up on a few sports highlights where a couple of people join him, then they leave after a while.

A young Hispanic girl, (who I notice looked a lot like the young waitress from the pancake spot) stands next to him in the dream.

He sees tears welling in her eyes as she looks at the television displaying the world news station. She wipes her eyes as tears finally begin to drop down. She looks over at him and puts her arms around him in a short embrace.

Her tears leave a blue stain on his shirt.”

That’s when I woke up.

After I wrote the dream out, I understood the message. I went back and interpreted it in a million ways to my own life. I decided that I’d return that black journal to its owner the next day. I chose not to open it again.

*

As I walked to the lady’s house, not really sure of what to say or expect, I found her smiling, with those green eyes greeting me before her words. She was dressed in another costume gown, with a long train that resembled a peacock. She was singing in her garden watering more of her flowers, with a tiara in place on her head, like it was the normal thing to do.

Almost as if she were expecting me, she brightened up immediately upon my arrival.

“Oh, you found my book manuscript! I’ve been looking for that pesky thing everywhere!”

“I didn’t read it. I promise — just a few pages until I realized it was personal.”

I was suddenly embarrassed, and not really sure why.

“Well it would’ve been fine if you had read it, friend! Whenever I ask someone in my family to proofread it for publication, they say it gives them chills.”

She carried on around her garden, dragging her dress behind her.

“It’s supposed to be a book about never giving up on your dreams. No one ever really finishes the book...” she rambled on.

“It’s like the idea of realizing your destiny is fun but not the actual part of realizing it. They get distracted and usually just start flipping through. Maybe they lose interest, or were never really interested at all.”

She sounded a bit disappointed. She frowned, then smiled again when looking at me.

“Well on the last page,” I admit, “I, um, did read the last page— you have a photo and paragraph about dreams. Are you a painter? And what about the dream—- ”

I was suddenly intrigued by this character of a woman. She was eccentric to say the least, but very well put together. Definitely nothing like anyone I’d ever met at her age before.

Her house looked like a museum as I peeked inside from her from the garden. I learned very quickly not to judge a book by its cover.

She invited me inside, as she pulled off her garden gloves, dragging the train of her dress in behind her through the front door.

“I paint many things. I consider myself a dreamer first. I had a husband who was a painter as well before he died. I was an actress and writer in my day. A fabulous one, might I add.

Anyway, sad thing about my husband was that he died a millionaire from his passion, but his only real friend, besides me, was his work. He’d worked so hard that he left a great legacy but had more admirers than real friends, God bless his soul. I’d always tell him, “You put so much effort into creating for others that you never take time to be present with the art that’s all around you.”

She looked away, a bit distant, as if she were thinking about her late husband.

“You know, you never really know what love is, until someone lets you know they see your unique light in the moments that you feel most invisible. I think that’s why he loved me. I saw him, deeply. He was a quiet man. I encouraged his passion. I saw his light through his art.

“Wow, that’s amazing.” I tell her, not really knowing what else to say.

She grabbed a few crystal glasses out of her cabinets and filled two of them with tea before handing one of the glasses to me.

“Many people are so consumed in their own worlds, they don’t realize that we all add color to life’s greater masterpiece in every moment. Even the smallest interactions are art. We add paint to each other’s experience every day. It’s the reason I observe people the way that I do.”

She paused to tap her glass to mine.

“I’ve watched you walk past my yard and look at that library ever since I put it there. I recognized you from your mural down by the pancake spot. I remember you from the local-artist segment that you were featured on for the local news a few years ago. What a lovely work of art.”

She smiled again. I noticed that she smiled very often.

“Every time I drive into the city, it’s there. Your creation gives the city so much life. It reminds me of my husband’s love to create and the heart of Harlem itself. It’s nice to meet the artist behind the art, and to see that you have a heart too. I mean, you were kind enough to bring my book back to me.” She winked and took another sip of tea.

Amazed by the mysterious nature of this small elderly woman, I didn’t know what to say. So she continued to speak.

“You know sometimes we lose passion, get disappointed by life’s many twists and turns, and sometimes our purpose gets lost in translation. We never really know how our presence alone brightens up the lives of other people, even on rough days. Often times the right people see you when you don’t even see yourself. I think that may the greatest art of life.”

She smiled as if she knew she’d interpreted my dream.

*

I left the house of that magical little woman inspired to look at life from a different perspective, happy that I’d made a new friend.

Still dressed as if she were ready to give a Broadway performance, she told me that I could keep the Picasso book as a gift as I was leaving. It was her late husband’s and she felt it would inspire my next project. I left the little black book next to the empty glass of tea.

Before I left she handed me an envelope & asked me to open it in front of her.

I opened it and there was a nomination letter with my name on it.

“Everyone in the neighborhood signed this for you. We think you’d be a great candidate as an artist and contestant in this art expo. Your mural brings so much joy to the city. We think you’d be perfect for it. You know, it seems like a great opportunity. Maybe it will expand your horizons a bit. Oh, and I can’t forget this —-.”

She retrieved a sheet from a stack of paper on her elephant-shaped glass living room table.

On it was a picture of a huge building from downtown that I recognized immediately. I passed it every day on my way to work on the houses that I painted everyday downtown. It was about two minutes away from where I painted everyday. Before I could ask, she handed another envelope to me.

“This is an old property that my husband left me when he passed. We had dreams of turning it into a theatre and youth center, and I finally have the time and space to continue working on our dream. I’ll make a deal with you. From one dreamer to another. I’ll purchase all the supplies that you need if you paint another of your beautiful murals on the side of my building.

I put all the details for the job here in this package. If you say yes, the job is yours. It pays about 20 grand.”

*

I went home that night, feeling like I was a dream myself. When I got home and read the job details, I knew that it was very real.

I found myself full of gratitude, with a newfound appreciation for my community and neighborhood friends, when I remembered the package that was delivered the day before.

I opened it, holding back tears after thinking about the day's events.

It was a gift that I’d bought for myself. A box full of brushes, paint, and art supplies.

It took a few weeks but I’d save enough money for it from the money I made at my job. It was a big purchase, and an act of faith, so that I’d begin painting for the love of it again.

Funny enough, I’d written in my own little black journal the week before.

I flipped to the first page where I’d written in a single line to myself, that “it was time to re-awaken my dream of being an artist with my work seen throughout the city.”

I turned to the next blank page and wrote my favorite quote from The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo:

“And when you truly desire something, the entire Universe conspires to help you achieve it.”

Paint

A Story by BeetheGoat