Shane Patrick Nichols, 2004

Carl grasped his brush tightly; it was an extension of him. God was speaking and his voice was louder than the pink Santa Fe sunset beyond the window that cast rays of light upon the Canvas. “Orange, Blue, green and yellow!” he yelled “The color of Canyons, Oceans and Meadows!” Could Carl ever please him? He worked so hard but it was never enough. “What is the image you want, God?” An earthquake, a fire, an explosion and birth and death and life all at once! “That is the nature of the image I want!” God said in a voice louder than all the things he mentioned. Carl was weeping; he knew that photographs themselves could never capture the essence of these things. How could his hand a brush and paint ever come any closer? It was the events themselves and the eyes that saw them that owned the images everything else was a distorted reflection. He struck his fist against his head screaming, trying to drive God out. “Don’t fight me Carl,” God said now whispering,“ It is your duty. “Why me, God?” Why not someone better?” he asked. Carl doubted himself like any good artist. “Oh, you ask such silly questions, just like that Van Gogh fellow. I punished him for his questions; I made him shoot himself. Is that what you want Carl? “No, just peace, God, just peace,” he answered. Well, then let the heavens guide your strokes. Carl’s hand began with blue first; it was a river and it was the sky in so many shades. God was pleased, and Carl knew it because he heard nothing. He painted long, languid clouds inside the sky and soft ripples in the river. He painted a second river that met with the first one. Then came tan and brown shades of yellow; it was the sandy banks of the rivers. The phone rang and the answering machine came on. It was an art dealer hounding him. He paid no attention. God had told Carl that his paintings belonged in cathedrals, but that the holy men would never accept their importance. So he was to sell them anywhere he could, just as long as man saw them. Carl disliked art dealers; they had no idea of the pain the paintings caused him or what they really meant. He dealt with them simply so he could eat and pay the rent. Carl turned on the lights. The sun had gone down and a southwest chill came with the night He began to paint the trees that that grew along the banks, bright green palms and dates. The leaves of the palms hung like long giant arms. Carl could feel the subtle breeze that passed through them. His hand began to tremble beyond the peaceful banks. Horrid things were coming. First it was just dull shades of yellow that made up the vast unending desert. He heard things out in the desert, the clanking of machinery, the yelling of men, bangs, pops and explosions. Then his hand was a frenzy of orange, yellow and red. The smells came to him, the burning of oil, of diesel fuel, of metal, and the pungent scent of sulfur. There was fear hanging in the air, but he couldn’t capture it; there was no color. The red and orange spilled into the sky a little, mimicking the sun he then painted. There were tiny black and gray plumes of smoke here and there. Then he heard sounds beyond the horizon, the sounds of hungry children crying in ancient cities that that lay half in ruins and cars crawling over the debris-filled streets. He painted demons circling close to the ground in masses thriving in their element. Above the demons and fire was something redeeming and lovely, angels carrying souls away to heaven. The souls looked happy and innocent, free from the weight of their vessels. Then Carl began to hear a symphony. The sounds were not of earth; they were indescribably sweet. So wonderfully pretty, they could bring tears to the hardest man. Carl remembered what God had told him in the past: that he wasn’t a prophet. What he was painting was not the future. It was the past and the present, the visions of God, the things that happened on earth the way he saw them. It was Carl’s job simply to translate these visions to man. Carl wasn’t sure what the purpose was for God to need man to see things through his eyes, or why God chose him to paint them. He wished desperately that God had chosen someone else. The whole experience was terrorizing and it seemed to alienate him from others. He remembered sometimes the days before God had ever spoken to him, before his early twenties. He wanted to go back and knew he never could. God told Carl he was lucky because he spoke only to a few. Carl didn’t feel lucky; he felt it was a curse. He was always scared, feeling that way; scared it would anger God.

He began putting the final touches on the painting. It was morning now; the sun was illuminating a new day. The symphony was growing louder. His hands were becoming more and more unsteady. His heart rate quickened. His skin felt hot and cold at once. He was sweating and the room was spinning. The symphony was so loud, he couldn’t stand it. He felt as though he might die. Then he fainted. It was over now; there was respite from his madness. The music was gone when his eyes opened. His whole body hurt. He popped some aspirin and took a shower. He had to stretch his legs. He had been in the apartment too long, so he took a walk down to the plaza. The plaza was nearly empty. There was only a young Mohawked kid kicking around hacky sack, and an old man feeding the pigeons slowly and methodically, the way all old men do. It was cold, the trees were bare, and their branches reached toward the sky like skeletal fingers. Carl felt lonely; it seemed most of the worthwhile people in his life had gone away in one way or another. Suddenly his mood began to change. His mother walked up and sat down next to him on the bench. “How have you been, Carl?” She asked. “Oh, pretty good,” he said. He didn’t want to scare her with all the talk of the torment he had been enduring. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Mom. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you too, Carl. Have you been eating well? Yeah pretty good. I always worry that you are not eating the right things. Don’t worry, Mom; I’m fine. Well, I’ve got to go, Carl. I’m very busy I just wanted to come over and talk for a minute. OK, I’ll see you later, Mom. I love you. I love you too, and make sure you eat well. OK mom. Then she was gone, and loneliness began to move over him again. He sat on the bench for hours, listening to the passing sounds: the rhythmic clicking of elegant women’s high heels, many different voices and the panting of dogs on leashes. Even though he was lonely, he was happy, because God was letting him be. Soon he felt tired, so he went back to his apartment to sleep. As he drifted toward slumber, he began to hear sounds. They were from Gods next vision. It was a vision of another land far away from the one he had painted. He heard the sound of children crying, not from hunger though, just from being ignored. He heard the sounds of cash registers opening and closing frantically. He heard the sounds of men being trained to be murderous soldiers, and he heard the sounds of yelling in a chaotic stock market. Carl knew it wouldn’t be long till God would use his hand for the next vision. He knew the land; it was his own. It would stand next to the other vision, in contrast. The two lands had a connection. The phone began to ring; Carl ignored it. Then the answering machine came on; it was his therapist. Carl, I’ve been a little worried about you. We haven’t spoken in two weeks. I was wondering if the new medication was helping you with the voices. I’m also excited about your show coming up. I can’t wait to see what you have been working on. Give me a call when you get this message. A bottle of antipsychotic pills sat on Carl’s dresser untouched next to a creased and faded picture of his long-deceased mother.