Janice (not her real name) stopped to watch me paint. She was a trim and fit senior citizen with a bald head walking a small dog. She had been homeless, living under a bridge. She now was living in a shelter and had a camper to get around in. We had a wonderful conversation about The Lord. She asked that I pray for her before she continued on her way. I did.

The first outdoor painting (aka; en plein air) I remember doing was almost fifty years ago. However, it wasn’t until 2001 that I saw it as a way to share God’s love and the scriptures with people who stopped to watch me paint. God has since taken me across the U.S., to Brazil, Mexico, Germany and the U.K. with my paint kits.

However, two years ago, I stopped going. Why I stopped is a topic for another discussion. The important thing is, I went back. That’s good news for me and the people I meet on the streets, but bad news for my book, She Can See. Why? Because I typically get obsessive about painting to the neglect of writing. My mind and attention started to drift away to the open air about a month ago as I was considering my return to the streets. Nevertheless, I plowed through another 10,000 words. But the further along in the word count I went, the less satisfied I was with the story. Therefore, I’m putting the book on pause for a time.

Most of you know that you (we) are being tracked whenever we’re online. So it shouldn’t surprise you to hear that I’m aware that there are a handful of people reading She Can See regularly. You can rest assured that I don’t know who you are, where you are or any personal information about you. I simply see my Google Analytics Statistics pointing to a consistent trend in readership. I call you my ‘alpha readers’ since you are the first to see the unedited first draft. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story thus far and will be around when it continues.

“What the hell was she doing in Watts?” he shouted.

“Let me talk to her first. Just keep your voice down.”

“Then start talking or I’ll go up to her room and get some answers myself.”

Mom tapped lightly on Myla’s bedroom door. There was no answer, so she cracked the door. Myla was at her desk working on a model. She was wearing her astronaut suit.

Entering Myla’s room was a bit like walking into the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, except that hers had less air and more space. The walls were covered with posters of planets and galaxies. Scale models of communication satellites, rocket boosters, manned and unmanned spacecraft. Practically any flat surface in the room was a landing base for an assortment of space hardware. The ceiling had begun as a 50 centimeter black hole. In the two years since its birth, it had grown to a meter and a half, filled with stars and other heavenly bodies. “The universe is expanding,” explains Myla. She has carefully placed tiny iridescent dots on the black ceiling to represent nearby planets and had air brushed nebular clouds using colorful black light paint.

Mom had to admit that it was breathtaking at night, but was a bit overwhelming during the day.

Myla rose from her desk and greeted mom, proudly holding forth her newest model. She was wearing her astronaut suit.

Mom got a lump in her throat when she saw her baby girl wit a bandage on her forehead. She enjoyed nothing more to hear Myla tell of her newest creations, so she sat on the side of the bed and said, “Where did you find that one?” she asked as she lightly rubbed her back.

“I called all the model shops in Los Angeles, but no one had any Russian crafts. So, I decided to build my own. The boosters are cardboard tubes. I had to cut them down to make various diameters. The nose cone is a funnel.”

“I was wondering what happened to my kitchen funnel. Go on.”

“Oops,” said Myla smiling sheepishly. “So then, I turned it upside down and glued a knitting needle in it. Oops again. After that, I coated the whole thing with resin.”

“Did you use your mask?”

I returned to a site I’ve painted many times; the Rose Bowl. I was greeted by major construction in progress there. The press boxes and private suites were covered with iron and scaffolding. It appears that the Bowl is also being extended for additional audience seating.

The rain didn’t prevent me from working, nor did it stop the hard-hat workers. The joggers were out as well as the golfers. I was visited by one of the construction workers who talked about retiring so he could pursue his passion. Several motorists also asking directions for an event in the area.

This parking lot is west of the Rose Bowl. It gets very warm to work on in the hot summer sun, but there are trees scattered about that will provide shade. One warning though, this is a popular spot where people come to teach their family and friends to drive. Today, there was a lady learning how to drive a stick shift car. I kept a close eye on her and was amused by her jerky starts and sudden stops. I also was prepared to grab my easel and run if the car got away from her.

I discovered, as I’m sure you can imagine, that painting in the rain is the perfect way to get the wet look in watercolors.

“Come around to the back!” he hollered.

A short, stout man, fiftyish, came up to the gate. His complexion was so black as to be blue. “They say collard greens grown in LA dirt don’t taste nearly as good as greens grown in Misscipi.”

Granddad looked up from his collard greens patch. The man’s suit was probably due to come back in style any year now, but that didn’t stop him from sporting it like he was on this months cover of Jet magazine. The pants were shiny from being ironed too many times, but the peats were crisp. The back slit in his suit coat flared over his butt while the front did similarly over his two-keg tummy. A glint of light indicated that he was probably wearing a belt, but the buckle was almost horizontal to the ground and partly covered by the barely-tucked-in shirt. He also wore a stingy-brim hat and spit-shined shoes which he stepped lightly in up to the freshly hoed row of Oklahoma-orange dirt.

“They say a lot of crazy things. What do you say?” answered Granddad.

“Being that the only greens I taste nowadays are grown in a supermarket, I can’t say exactly if they are right until I get to taste some fresh grown greens from LA dirt,” said the little man, licking his lips.

“Well when you grow some in your LA dirt, you come back and let me know if they knew what they was talkin’ about.”

Granddad returned to his gardening.

“Are you related to Yendor Davis?

“Who’s asking?”

The man already had his business card out, so instead of a handshake, he offered Granddad his card. He studied it.

“I’m an attorney.”

“I can read,” answered Granddad.

“Of course you can.” He asked once again, “my name is J. William Brown the second, Esq. Are you a relative of Yendor…”

“I didn’t know attorneys made house calls on weekends.”

“I’m a full service attorney,” answered Attorney Brown, sounding a little testy.

Granddad knew why he was there. He had a rule that he would put pressure on anyone wanting to do business with him. It was beginning to look like Attorney Brown might fail the test. “What’s this about?”

“Is he here?”

Granddad looked back at the card. It was two color; something that might have come out of a high school print shop. In the upper left corner was an illustration of two cars. One had crashed into the other. Bolts of lightning shot out from the point of impact. In the center of the card in bold letters, ‘Accident Claims – Our Speciality’. Granddad flipped the card over, almost expecting to see ‘Medical Malpractice – Our Speciality’.

“Do you remember Dr. Jackson?” asked Mrs. Dorsey.

Myla looked over at him and gave him a big smile.

“He’s taken very good care of you,” she continued.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Jackson, surprised but pleased that she said something kind about him. He reached into his shirt pocket for his card. “If you and your husband want to talk, please call.”

Mrs. Dorsey put the card in her purse then followed the gurney down the corridor.

Yendor was stretched out on the examination table asleep when Dr. Jackson walked in.

“Well son, you don’t have any broken bones. It’s a shoulder separation,” said Dr. Jackson as he helped him sit up. He held Yendor’s x-ray film up and said, “It could have been much worse if you weren’t in such great physical condition. Do you play sports?”

“You say’n that every young black man in shape plays sports? If I say ‘no’, what’s your next question… You get buff doing pushups in a prison cell?”

“You’re absolutely right…” Dr. Jackson looked back at the x-ray film for a name, “Yendor. That was not a fair assumption.”

Yendor chuckled, “I’m a center linebacker.”

Dr. Jackson smiled then took a small light-box from beneath the table and sat it next to Yendor. He placed the film on the translucent glass. The light flickered on as Dr. Jackson slid the film under two clips.

Pointing to a spot on the x-ray, Dr. Jackson said, this is your…

“Clavicle,” said Yendor.

“What else do you see?” asked Dr. Jackson with a smile.

“Nothing,” said Yendor, clamming up, brow furled.

He continued the examination, then, “What college are you going to attend?”

“I don’t need the white man’s education to succeed.”

“No, you have choices. You can get one on the streets cheaper than going to college. If that’s where you plan to do business the rest of your life, on the streets, then go for it.”

Yendor had spent most of his life hustling on the streets. He knew that anything short of dangerous and/or illegal would not get him very far.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Yendor.

Have you ever heard of Maharry?”

“When she came back to the phone, I thought she was playing a joke on me. Later, I realized she thought I was playing a joke on her. She said, ‘Professor Sandovar, you don’t have to worry about getting credit for your discovery. You logged it in only a few minutes ago. We won’t be able to verify it until tomorrow evening at the earliest.”

“Why thank you,” I said.

“No, thank you,” said the lady at JPL. “Usually people report these findings of new planetary systems to the International Space Agency. We’re honored you gave us a first look. I bet you’re calling from your brand new La Silla Observatory in Chile, aren’t you?

“Si senorita.”

Dr. Wong chuckled.

“Build a telescope today, discover a planet tomorrow; very impressive. Are you a member of the SETI Institute?”

“Uh, not yet.”

“What is SETI?” asked Dr. Wong.

“That’s what I wondered. I didn’t want Professor Sandovar to sound like a dummy so I said, “I’ve been intending to get in touch with SETI. Do you have their contact information handy? She said she would give it to me if I didn’t tell anyone who it came from.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that a lot of scientists around here think we… I mean…they are a bunch of quacks because we… I mean they are searching for ET.” Then she whispered, “Between you and me, I think there’s someone else out there looking at us. You might want to look into SETI. Remember, this is just between the two of us.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “‘Just the two of us.’ I learned that SETI is the acronym for Search for Extra Terrestrial Life.”

However, I have been missing my watercolors. Several days ago, I stepped outside and did the same scene.

I’m curious. Which do you prefer?

“This is Dr. Jackson calling from MLK Hospital. Is Dr. Wong on duty tonight? Ok, thank you. I’ll call his home.”

“Hello,” said the sleepy voice.

“Hello Lee, this is Hank. I’m sorry to wake you, but I need your help.”

Dr. Wong, like Dr. Jackson and other on-call emergency physicians was accustomed to getting calls in the middle of night, so he was awake almost immediately.

“Yes, what is it friend?”

“A patient is being transported to your hospital tonight. I’m asking that you be there to receive her.”

“Dr. Hayden is on duty tonight. He’s one of the best. I know he’ll take good care of your patient. I’ll call him and give him a heads-up.”

“The patient is a 15-year-old girl by the name of Myla Dorsey. She can see.”

After a long silence, Dr. Jackson asked, “Are you still there?”

“I’m listening.”

“Her parents will probably have some questions about what it means ‘to see’.

“I recall several years ago you mentioning a young boy, was it in Colombia?…no, Brazil, who you said had some unique abilities. You said he ‘could see’. But to me, it sounded like intuition on steroids. A few days later, you acted as though you knew nothing about that conversation. And as you know, I’ve broached the subject a few times only to hit a stone wall. On a one occasion, the stone wall hit back. So, I gave up asking about it. If you want to open this door, you’ll have to let me come in and look around.” said Dr. Wong.

“I don’t suppose I have any choice now do I?”

“You’ll always have a choice. You can keep silent on what you claim to know and let me answer the Dorsey’s questions as I see fit, or you can fill me in on what it means ‘to see’.

“Of course, Myla’s parents will want to know about the injuries she suffered from the car accident. After you examine her, I believe you’ll agree that she should suffer no lasting injury from that. They are also likely to ask you about a blood test I ran on their daughter. It did reveal that she is a bit anemic. For now, I’m hoping you can use that and be discrete in your answer my statement that ‘she can see’. Just tell the Dorsey’s that Dr. Jackson is working on an unproven theory, or you can tell them that he is a quack. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble convincing Mr. Jackson of that. Tell them that they can just dismiss that everything I said to them regarding ‘she can see’ as the ramblings of a delusional man.”

Think like an artist. Certainly creative writing is an art form, but for now, let’s define artist as the visual medium; i.e., painter.

I’ve been writing most of my life, but only recently have included ‘author’ on my profile pages. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an artist (painter). I’ve discovered that a technique I’ve used successfully to complete paintings quickly has come in handy in my writing. Before I explain it, here are two examples from my book, “She Can See‘ that uses this technique. See if you can tell what it is.

1st Draft:

Her eyes popped open. They saw right through me. She announced in a voice much different than what I would expect to hear from a teenage girl, “You’re from the Carina Nebula,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here. NCG 3372.” Then her eyes closed again.

2nd Draft:

They popped open. Her eyes were the color of an Arkansas doe. They saw right through me, but seemed to stop inside for a moment before moving on. Her eyes were soft, moist, like swimming in liquid velour. I thought certainly they would spill some tears onto her cheeks, but the levy didn’t break. She announced in a voice much different than what I would expect to hear from a teenage girl, “You’re from the Carina Nebula,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be here. NCG 3372.” Her eyes then gently closed.

Begin With a Sketch

If you guessed ‘sketching’, you’re right. In my visual artist life, I’m primarily a plein air painter. Before I begin painting in watercolors, I do a quick pen & ink sketch. I use ink instead of pencil because it forces me to be deliberate with every stroke, knowing that every stroke will be permanent. I know I’ll usually put a line where I didn’t intend to put one, but the challange (which I enjoy) is understanding how to blend it into the final artwork where it appears to be a deliberate stroke. Of course, when writing, you have more freedom to edit without leaving a trace of your previous strokes, but that can be as much of a hinderence as a blessing. If someone would invent indelible software, writers might get more lines on the screen.

Nothing like giving

’till you’ve got to pray to get it.

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