Day Two: Adventures in Little Italy

One of the biggest advantages to walking around the huge city and packed streets. It is really stimulating for the brain. New comic and story ideas flowing in through the nonexistent ether all around. Maybe it is the mix of culture, maybe it is the smell; it does smell like the Dominican Republic; the smell that influenced so many of my past comic ideas. Who knows. Either way day two was more exciting than day one. And I have pictures to prove it.

We woke early and I shaved with one of the crappiest razors I have ever used in my life. Felt good. I got into my new suit, laced up my fancy shoes and headed out to get me some breakfast. I felt like a real New Yorker will nothing to lose and everything to gain. The mere fact that I was in a suit in New York made me feel invincible. And for a while, I was.

The first stop today was the Today Show, kinda, it was the ABC studio near Columbus St. It was amazing. We were there for their whole broadcast. Fun fact, it now takes about 5 people to make an hour long news broadcast. 3 talent, 1 floor manager, and 1 director; who is in a different building on a different floor. Isn't that fun! Amy Freeze is a really awesome person. It was inspiring to hear how she climbed, struggled, and succeeded to where she is now. She kept the gospel as the central focus of her and her family's life and it paid off. Love it.

Finally, we ate pizza. Legit, new york, made by italians, pizza. Woo dang. It was great!

We moseyed over to Central Park and strolled in the heat of the day before church. It was so hot. It was like being back in the Dominican Republic but packed into a suit and shoved into direct sunlight. It wasn't very nice but at the same time it was. I conversed with some designers at church, all interns. Literally, literally, almost literally, the whole ward is made up of interns, at least those in priesthood. Our priesthood teacher portrayed Joseph Smith a few times and also another significant prophet. Cool.

The latter hours of the day were spent as follows, calling my mother to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. Walking and subwaying over to Canal St. We walked through Chinatown dodging vendors and made our way into Little Italy. That whole section reminded me of being in the DR also. I was even able to do the finger wag to reject their offers. Love it.

Little Italy is a place I could find sanctuary in. The whole atmosphere gushes with love and appreciation. Everyone is there because they love good food and the people they get to share it with. We went to Sofia's. Portion sizes were too small, though paying almost 200 for one check was massively impressive and a memory that I will recount often. Gelato for dessert and off for some bizarre subway debacles. We got locked out, the subway has a security where you cannot go back onto a platform after charging your card and going through the bars. Thus, we were stuck outside of one, in desperate fear we would miss our train. We didn't we waited about an hour before making alternative plans. The whole idea for tonight was to take the Statin Island ferry to go past the Statue of Liberty. Well there was a schism in the ground and two ladies and myself took a train downtown. This took us across a massive bridge and right into Brooklyn. A kind stranger got us on track and we headed back to time square all safe.

Everything ends well. With this post coming to a close it means that I can return to my room and read comics until I fall asleep. I can barely keep my eyes open. There is so much stimulation in a day I can hardly keep myself together.

The real highpoint of the day, going to church on temple grounds. This may be considered cheating since we were under the temple, but hey, it was an amazing sabbath day. Hot, fun, adventurous, and full of friends and great food. I cannot complain. Now let these pictures increase your jealousy as you heat up water to make your Kraft Dinner.

 

Day One: NYC Trip Sat May 9th.

Since the packing restrictions of the trip made it impossible for me to bring a journal I decided to use these blog posts to be the daily journal entries I take here in the Big Apple and a legit blog entry about my experience in one of the biggest cities in the world.

My day started out extremely early, 5 am, with a trip to the IF airport. I was groggy and not personable with the other car guests and took to looking out the window. My actions for due to fifty percent lack of sleep and fifty percent anticipation for what is to come, when there is a big event about to happen I retreat into my shell.

The first flight went well. I pondered the words of Stephen King’s On Writing until the fatigue of the early morning took me to sleep. A quick race through the Denver airport saw me to the gate of my 4 hour flight to NYC. For this flight I again chose the words of Stephen King. Unfortunately, there was some hideous turbulence that did a number on my stomach. I sat there, beads of sweat forming on my brow. I thought, “I’m going to hurl. I’m going to hurl. What am I going to hurl I haven’t eaten anything.”

The flight smoothed and I was able to return to Mr. King for a short while. His words about my writing toolbox were engaging and enlightening. The only thing besides the obligatory tasks for college credit that I write prose for is this blog. Enjoy. I learned many things before shutting the book and returning to the grand masterpiece, East of West. A thorough read through of the entire published works made me think about plot and how slowly dosing out the helpings can be so satisfying while coming back to the table for around feast.

Finally, the sound of the land gear engaging called my attention to the open window for me to see the lovely industrial areas of North Queens. After waiting for 2 hours for transportation, we spent an hour in traffic getting to our hotel. What a magnificent hotel it is. I have never seen anything like it. In small circular groups, like the magazine of a revolver, the elevators wait to be called. One enters the floor into a keypad and the keypad responds with which elevator needs to be used to arrive at the desired floor. Brilliance.

After dumping luggage in the hotel room the next task was to find vitals to fill our stomachs. To the street! Now, I love food. I love any kind from any culture (I once are blood sausage in complete darkness during my time in the Dominican Republic, and it wasn’t half bad. Could have used ketchup. And it could have been hot. And maybe some salt. And it would have tasted better if it were my dad’s meatloaf. But I ate the dang thing and it increased my iron level so thus I am grateful. I have heard rants and ravings about the quality of the New York “Street Meat” and I must say, after tonight’s encounter with it, I must be in the wrong part of New York. I don’t agree with the idea of paying $4 for a hot dog. I could each seven and my dad’s taste 100 times better than this guy’s. Thus, the quest for good “Street Meat” continues.

The main lesson for the day was how to use the subway. Our guide, Brother Holt, took us on a full tour. We bought metrocards, got maps and rode around in a few to understand how they work. It was amazing!

Now, I love traveling. I don’t do it often because it is expensive, that is my main complaint. However, enjoying the cultures and customs of a foreign land is one of my favourite things. I do not understand why people travel to foreign places and expect these locations to be perfect. Yeah New York is dirty, because 8.4 MILLION people live there. Yeah the subway is hot and kinda stinky cause it is underground! People, enjoy what is around you. Maybe it is the fact I spent 8 months using a bucket to pour freezing water over my head to wash my body in Puerto Plata that I can walk through a subway and think it looks pretty good. I did was my hands quite thoroughly upon arriving home. I won’t let these people’s high attitude and regard for cleanliness ruin my trip.

Here are the amazing things I saw tonight:

Empire State Building

Rockafeller Center

Grand Central Station

Macy’s

Time Square

Madison Square Garden

Jake Gyllenhaal (not so amazing, but a celebrity nonetheless)

The adventure is just getting started and by golly and I excited to keep digging into this city. The fast pace and noise of it all reminds me of my glory days in the DR. Maybe I’ve been a big city person all my life and never realized that in the Podunk areas of Saskatchewan. NYC is a busier more congested Toronto or Ottawa, both of which I prefer thus far, but I have a sweet spot for my home and native land.

A Closed Door

Last night something familiar happened. I came home and the door to the apartment was locked. No one was home. I didn't have my keys. The night was cold and the wind was sharp. No shelter was found in the lounge, people were watching a movie, and another group was studying in the kitchen area. I walked one loop around the complex before resigning to my fate that I would have to sit on the cold stone by the fire. The brick was hard and chilly. The fire kept my feet warm but did not spread heat to the rest of my body. I was alone, I was cold, I was locked out.

As I peered behind me at every noise hoping it was a roommate with a key to let me in, a thought entered my head.

"This is how it would feel to be denied at the door to the Celestial Kingdom."

I sat stunned. The power of this realization pounded my heart and squeezed my stomach. What if I was rejected from entering back into Heavenly Father's presence? Since I was not going to be doing anything out in the cold, I took the time to reflect on how I felt and the emotion that was flowing through me.

The cold didn't just enter my body it entered my spirit. What a distressing, chilling, and agonizing feeling. To be blocked from returning to live with your family, how terrible! How truly, truly terrible. The sad thing, the thing that really sunk this all home, is that I didn't know when people would be home to let me in. Time inched by without any indication of when my suffering would end. I was literally left in the dark.

I was left in the cold, to ponder my error of not bringing my keys. Yet, as I pondered, other errors and short comings in my life started to come to mind, things I need to fix. Things that need to be corrected in order for me to enter the door to where Heavenly Father is.

This real experience illustrated something that I really needed to learn. A locked door like the virgins without oil. Am I lacking oil? Will I miss the Bridgegroom? Will I knock and knock only to be told that He does not know me?

Faith to overcome fear allows individuals to make necessary changes by trusting in the Lord and his atonement. Through that, human nature is altered and drawn closer to His example. We can make the changes necessary to hear, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

Don't let a locked door stand between you and the comfort and safety of where you really want to be. Whether is be a warm bed, or an eternity with your family in the Kingdom of God.

Success: The Middle Finger to Oppression

I was asked today, "How famous do you want to be?"

How does one answer that? Those of fame and fortune in the spotlight stumble and fall only to have the wolves crawl over their bodies picking their bones clean. That isn't fame. Perhaps fame, but not success. Fame is then what, the praise of man? Recognition on the street or in a mall? Fame is not to be desired, fame is the elevator that when entered, ascends to a certain height, to snap and plummet. Why would anyone want to be famous? Bono said once, "There must be something wrong if a person needs a stadium full of people yelling their name to feel loved and alive."

Hopes and dreams are fickle threads that catch fire. No matter how resolved, how determined a person is, the casting down, shredding, cynicism, jealousy, and plain old being a dick sets flame to dreams. Like those high school jocks destroying our dream to play music. The mere mentioning of something above working at a fast food chain brings ridicule and distain.

People hate to see others succeed. Why should someone climb out of the swamp when the rest of the snakes and toads are stuck in the mud. If we escape it is because we are stronger, more persistent, and thankfully have been able to develop a resolve when others have merely dissolved. A town is drenched in a aura of damnation for no one can ever rise above the prejudices and norms that have been established throughout the past decades. Generations of alcoholics, drug abuse, and selfish consumerism locked the gate and barred the escape.

The secret to life is not fame. Fame can be taken away, fame is squandered by the fickle and the weak.

Success. Success is the key to unlock any door, any gate, any obstacle that stands in the way of further achievements. Success does not mean a stuffed bank account or a garage full of Bugattis. No, success comes from within. Success in and of itself is what drives you to see the vivid visualization of your dreams become a tangible thing you can hold in your hands or behold with your eyes. As success expands, the very desire of pursuit will lead to action. Revolutions will not just be started from war rooms, but in high school English classes, the playground, a library, a college dorm room, the office cubicle of an accountant who doesn't want to balance numbers for someone else.

Examine your life. What are you doing? What do you want to do? Why aren't you doing it now?

The gate was locked to me for so long. People shut doors and locked me in. Unique ideas were not wanted. The standardization of school meant that we were trained and reprogrammed to be robots. Imagination. Remember that? I bet very few of us do. Creation, imagination, and expression were done away with. Everyone loves reading these stories about dystopia societies. Open your eyes, we are living in one.

So what do we do? How do we escape the grey and find a place to build?

Keep fighting. Don't give up on yourself. YOU have the power to create anything. Whatever vision or image you see in your head of what you want to be or what you want to exist, hold onto it, cling to it when those forces of oppression come knocking. Don't give up on your dreams. Let them be the fuel that burns within you, motivating you, guiding you, inspiring you, and encouraging you to do better.

The feeling of breaking water and taking the first breath after so long below the surface is so close. If you haven't enjoyed it yet, don't give up. Never give up. Keep chasing that horizon. Build, create, inspire, develop, design, write, paint, sculpt, let whatever inside of you become the reality you always wanted.

Don't ever settle for anything other than what you've always wanted.

TSR

MTC: Missionary Testing Center

In the center of Provo, Utah there is a cluster of buildings. Named after important figures in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, these buildings are homes and classrooms for thousands of young men and women. From anywhere between 1-9 weeks fresh newly called missionaries cram onto this piece of land to be taught how to teach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

My own adventure in this haven were mixed with high emotion and spiritual moments I will never forget.

A young, 19 year old from the Canadian prairies, I was ready to get out of the wheat fields and away from the hockey rinks for a stretch. A few months previous, I received my very own letter addressed from Prophet Thomas S. Monson. Excited and anxious, my fingers slid open the envelope and I carefully excavated the letter, using the envelope to cover the text, as to not ruin the surprise.

I read. It is something all LDS are familiar with, whether they have served or not. The diction is very specific. My voice cracked when my eyes reached my destination and my mind froze. The Dominican Republic. Spanish. Whoa.

But there I was, before I realized, sitting on a plane to Utah. Dressed in my suit, which was too big for me, I felt like a kid going to kindergarten, leaving Mom and Dad at home, not sure how to find my way back.

The most tender and loving people greeted me at the airport in Salt Lake City. When my luggage was retrieved we loaded into the vehicle and carried on. To this day I cannot explain what storm was happening inside. I had been waiting to be a missionary since I was five. I wanted to serve with everything that I could. I didn't speak Spanish. How was I to do this? My stomach dropped even further when I saw that Provo was only a few miles away. I blinked and the building was in front of me, we were parking, walking in. Photo ID, and that was it.

I turned to these marvelous human beings and smiled. They were the first tender mercy the Lord had in store for me during those two years. I hugged them, not wanting to let go, not wanting to face the unknown that my uninhibited imagination was having difficulty processing. I turned, scooped up my luggage handles and rolled off to begin the greatest adventure I have ever had.

Normally, LDS missionaries are always to have a companion. Because I arrived at almost midnight, everyone was already asleep so I carried on alone with the security guard. We stopped for a quick snack where I picked up a yogurt and a banana. My stomach cannot handle food when wound into knots of anxiety. My temporary room was bare. Two bunk beds, some desks, and drawers. Sleep didn't come to me for some time. Insomnia is also stress induced.

All the stories I heard about the MTC were these glamorized, picturesque, incidences that seemed too good to be true. Perhaps that is what the MTC really is, and I attended while it was under construction and that feature was put on hold. I am not sure. The main feeling I recall from my visit was that it was stressful and emotional.

The first time I logged onto myldsmail.net to check my missionary email I came up with a blank webpage. In a rage I complained to my family that this is hard, I am struggling, this isn't for me.

There is a saying at the MTC, "If you can make it to Sunday you will make it all the way through." That replayed and replayed in my head. Thursday night was excruciatingly long. Friday was more tolerable with our first batch of service. By Sunday, the clay that was me was almost ready to be molded. There was more pride and selfishness to be wrung out of me before the Lord could have his way.

What instituted that change was an interesting experience. A letter I received from home touched my heart above anything else I had experienced in those buildings. A tender, loving, and genuine plea for my wellbeing was typed and sent. Sitting in the hot, stuffy, crowded laundry room using the computers my eyes flooded and eyelids fought to keep the dam from overflowing.

The Lord knows what we need when we need it. That is something I didn't have a testimony of back then.

That email cracked what final bit of shell I was clinging to and had me stand there, vulnerable, innocent, and exposed. In that moment I was beginning to be what he needed of me.

Following weeks of classes, study, and service, not to mention gym and meals were different. While still difficult, I could understand how the Lord was pushing me to get to where He wanted me.

The MTC taught me nothing about missionary work, nothing about preaching the gospel, nothing about the scriptures. In the difficulty of the time I was there it was test after test, trial after trial. I am under the impression that the Lord has set up the MTC not for people to walk in as naive Mormons, and leave with a PhD in preaching. But to walk in naive, scared, insecure children of God and leave with a solid testimony, an understanding of prayer, a love for the scriptures, the confidence that they can do hard things, and a slight appreciation for what matters in life.

When it comes down to it, preaching the gospel isn't about flipping through the scriptures, reciting things in foreign languages, knowing the lesson word for word, nor even about tactics. Preaching the gospel is about me. And it is about you. You can't recommend a good restaurant if you haven't eaten there. You cannot suggest a good book if you haven't read it, nor compliment a song without listening to it. Such as the MTC provides the environment for young men and women to experience and live the gospel without distraction for a space of time before going into the streets of Chile, or Japan, or the Dominican Republic to share with strangers how the gospel blesses their life.

After the short time in Provo passed, I couldn't speak a word of Spanish, I didn't know where any powerful or relevant scriptures were found, and I didn't know how to approach strangers on the street or on their doorstep. I did know that I had a testimony. I did know that I could live up to the call the Lord chose for me. While still wrapped in fear of what was to come in the Dominican Republic, I was sure I was doing what the Lord needed of me.

The scariest times of life are when we leave the comfort and joy of the well lit reality, and walk into the dark of the unknown in faith. May we all have faith to do so as life and Heavenly Father so demand. Be not afraid, only believe.

Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father love us. The experiences we have, though difficult and seemingly unfair are all necessary for our progression. And don't think that your experiences are to be the same as everyone else's. That is not the design.

As only the first step in the staircase of my mission, the MTC was the proving ground to myself, that I could be a missionary. There will be more stories to illustrate how I continued to be molded and shaped through the Lord's hands.

TSR

Ce'Nedra

Remember a few days ago I posted about the pronunciation in fantasy novels being the biggest turn-off for breaking into the genre. I finished Queen of Sorcery last night and it happened... the first name with an apostrophe was introduced, Ce'Nedra. I saw it, I couldn't believe it, yet it happened. I guess it was only a matter of time. An interesting thing occurred, I wasn't upset. Maybe because the joke had already happened, maybe because the author had won my trust, maybe because out of all the names in fantasy encountered with an apostrophe this is actually pronounceable. Ce'Nedra, is a simple name, basic syllables, no harm no foul. I stand by my previous post, some fantasy authors are careless and egregious with their use of the apostrophe. Eddings delivered a high five with his simple and appropriate name choice for his character. Spot on my good fellow, spot on.

Celine Dion + Baking = Christmas

I grew up in the rank and file cluster of farming communities encircled by Indian reserves on the desolate Saskatchewan prairies. Many morning I walked to school, it wasn't a long stretch, it wasn't one of the up hill both ways kind of things your grandparents talked about from their childhood. The cold, however, was penetrating and a vile form of violation, no matter how many layers encompassed my frame, some poor appendage was grieved with the loss of feeling. Frequently, during these short treks, my eyelashes would freeze together preventing me from seeing where I was going. I would slip one hand out of its toasty glove to rip the lids apart and restore my site, not that was anything really to see, this was more a safety measure to avoid the moving trucks that obnoxiously backed up without any disregard for what poor ice-blinded child was behind them.

The days leading up to the holidays were filled with seasonal crafts, practices for the Christmas concert, and games. Specifically, my elementary school followed a tradition that roots back to the origin of the school. The last day of classes before the break we all file into the gymnasium, sit crossed-legged like good teacher abiding monkeys and belt carols from our tiny high pitched voices till our throats were ripped raw. My favourite was The Twelve Days of Christmas. We stood up and followed a ridiculous set of actions as the days counted up and back down. We shuffled back to our classrooms, the excitement causing us to be a little too giddy and jumpy. No one could sit still in their desks. I remember many kids just dancing around with anticipation of the break and what Santa would bring them. Teachers would open presents, I don't think I ever brought them anything. What could I possibly buy my teacher? "Here's a Lego pencil holder! Oh... you already have a gold one... Dang."

The real treat of the day was being released early at 2 rather than fight all the way to 3:30. I would run home back down the block and burst into the house...and every time I did the most amazing thing would be waiting for me. The porch was spotless, freshly mopped with a clean rug to absorb the melted snow, the whole house smelt like bread, cupcakes, peanut brittle, turtles, and vanilla candles. I jumped the three steps from the porch up the entry room and the smell hit me more powerfully. The kitchen was flooded with baked goods of varying levels of sweetness. The flood of baked goods would always escape the boundaries of the kitchen counters and overflow onto the kitchen table. And I survey the scene of gluten gloriousness a familiar and long lost sound fills my ears... from the living room comes the sound of Canada's jewel, no not Michael Buble, Celine Dion. Her voice at Christmas is the same as the angels who announced Christ's birth. She may have even been one, with the voice that she has I wouldn't doubt it in the slightest.

The combination of all these items, the cleaned house, the baked goods, and the musical selection equals, well it means my sister Tovah is home from university and sent my dad off to nap while she takes over the reins for a while, and it also means that it is Christmas. That is the equation for Christmas magic. I don't care how many presents I get, I don't really want physical things anyway. When my family was home and we packed around the table to fight over that last sausage, that is what I remember about Christmas. Grandma's caramel popcorn she brought in grocery bags, why were all her gifts signed from Grandma and Pup, did the dog have a say in what we got? That's why they were all shabby! The midnight snack spreads on Christmas Eve, Mother inhaling popcorn while Chevy Chase sleds to his death in Christmas Vacation, the fight to see who washes dishes after the Christmas Eve meal, hanging stockings, Dad reading Twas the Night Before Christmas, and most of all the magical and inexplicable feeling of walking into the living room Christmas morning and seeing what Santa left and the stamp of happiness and whimsy that marked our house.

After years and years, after spending two Christmases on a tropical island, after Christmas finally making sense that what the Grinch was saying all along is true, my search is no longer for the perfect gift, it is no longer about stacking my "Wish List" with as many expensive items as I can... It is to help others feel the love of their God, whichever religious paradigm they subscribe to, and to feel that humanity still has good in it.

If you are feeling alone, or unloved, or barren, or left behind, I offer you these words. May my memories of the happiest times of my childhood bring you a smile. May they motivate you to think outside yourself this season and reach out to others. As you strive to lift others and take away their worries, I promise you will find that same joy and happiness you feel vacant in your life.

Cheers!
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
TSR