Rising Stars: Meet Nico Patino of Long Beach

Today we’d like to introduce you to Nico Patino.

Hi Nico, so excited to have you with us today. What can you tell us about your story?
My parents lived hard lives made beautiful. I was their four-year-old ring bearer when they married at the cabin-sized church down the hill from our home in New Hope, PA, an colonial-era colony of painters that by my time had become the hip yet secluded refuge for the aged-out New York and Philly artists of rambunctious decades-past. So I was born surrounded by these eccentrics and the stoned stories they’d tell as I sat in a diaper on my parents lap while they sat on the curb outside of my fathers Mexican folk art gallery “Milagros”.

The rest of my youth has been faithful to that arc, save for the brief stint when I did my BaChElOrS of mAnAgEmEnT InFoRmAtiOn sYsTeMs in Philly to complete the prophecy by being the first generation in my family to pull the college diploma from the stone. I was really gung-ho about getting rich and retiring everyone back then, but even then I had never had a ‘real’ job.

See, when I was thirteen I found this magical corner of YouTube where some ex-nasa aerospace engineer had invented an air-powered pogo stick for his son, who could jump on-top of vending machines and over cars. By sixteen I was 8-10’ in the air, and traveling the world to compete and perform on my very own air-powered pogo stick. Aside from a month or two here and there valeting, busing tables or working in a bakery, that was my (superb) source of income.

So when I graduated into the jaws of the pandemic and watched every entry-level job I’d applied for get nuked, I found myself rather jaded in terms of career paths AND suddenly ripped away from the cushy salary-life under hellish fluorescent office-lights. And as much as my soul demands good warm lighting, truth be told, I’ve never had it in me to deal with a boss either. Even team-sports coaches were too much for me. So ask me to flatten myself down onto a resume? I’d rather take my chances fighting the trash-compactor down at the junkyard than lose my soul enough to start using words like “bandwidth”, “stakeholder”, “deliverable” again. Four years was enough, so when my email inbox filled up with “we are no longer looking to hire for this role”, it was *satori.*

So you asked me how I got *here.*

I started meditating, reading, and writing. Then I started posting on the internet. Everyone was doing it when we were holed up and afraid of *the disease*. For about five years I peddled my knowledge selling courses, workshops and mentoring people seeking better. I guided a few hundred souls, and made great money, but then my inner tides shifted. Slowly at first, but then almost helplessly all-at-once, I let that momentum die as I realized that I care more about cultivating my own understanding of reality than trying to get other people to see it too. So while the poles flipped, I just coasted on my savings for about two years and spent that time traveling, shooting film, and journaling.

Then last year the money began to run out, so I started reading the job-boards again. Two weeks of that was about all it took to turn off the lights in that room, close the door behind me, and get to reflecting. Writing was pretty much the only hard-skill I had (and loved) that didn’t require me to risk breaking any bones. So one morning I thought “How can I get paid to be a writer, *today*?” and remembered an afternoon back in Philly during school, when I paid $5 for some eccentric guy in the park to write me a poem on his typewriter. I don’t have a great memory, but I remembered that moment. Next, I bought a typewriter.

We all face challenges, but looking back would you describe it as a relatively smooth road?
Aside from the motorcycle accident that took my Dad’s life just one month before my thirteenth birthday, it’s been pretty smooth sailing. Ever since he joined the ranks of my guardian angels (I’ve somehow never broken a bone), everything has been magical; almost choreographed to a perfect rhythm of drama and comedic relief. In a world which lacks any form of ritual-initiation for young men, which leaves them scrambling through the maze as boys in mens bodies, I’m grateful that I was initiated at all. I’m grateful that I got to asking the big questions so young. It’s given me time to face my shadows and get to know myself.

And of course, as a full-time *artiste*, there’s always that threatening cliff of failure. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, so here’s what cured me:

Imagine you’re doomed to be bad at everything you do. And I mean pitiful – can’t keep your shoes tide, can’t drive without crashing, can hardly finish a sentence in your native language.

Now imagine how your life would fall apart. Can’t get anything done quite right. Lose your job. Can’t get a new one etc. etc. Worst case scenario.

What next?

So I end up homeless. Whatever, the sun still rises and the sky is still blue.

Can’t keep my shoes tied, so I ditch them; I like being barefoot better anyway.

Can’t drive safely, so I walk until I find a beach town that will tolerate me. I’ll sleep to ocean sounds among the palms, and I’ll probably dream better than I did last night and wake late, feeling more rested than I do right now.

Can’t get a job? I’ll pluck flowers and sell them, or sell ugly little carvings out of wood, or if I can manage to repossess a scrappy grill, I’ll start selling (awful) tacos on the street and laughing to myself when people gag and spit them out politely.

Or I’ll write shitty poems for people on the sidewalk. There’s enough of us doing that already, and we’ve got apartments! Shoes! Cars!

So I figure that if you couldn’t cope with living like a wild animal, even in your own way, then maybe you’re not meant to take such risks as required to be a legitimate an artist. Regardless, I insist that everyone’s got that somewhere in the folds of their spirit, because despite the circumstances, I found it in mine.

Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?
I don’t charge a going-rate for my poems. Don’t believe in that at all. In fact, let me read this poem to you first, and then you decide how much to toss me. I don’t even count my earnings at the end of the day.

But once I made five people in a row cry, right there on the sidewalk in front of me. And with poems that to me barely pass as rough-drafts. That part will only get harder to deal with; sharing first-drafts when all I see when the poem is done is a dozen ways it could be stronger. So far I just keep working at it to get better at getting it right in the first 3-5 minutes. So far, so good.

I’ll probably do street poetry full-time ‘till the day I die, unless I fall into something fruitful enough to retreat from the sidewalks to Big Sur to start a family and write my own stuff all the time.

Are there any important lessons you’ve learned that you can share with us?
Writing doesn’t have to be a competition, but it’s more fun that way.

May the best man win. But wait – who’s judging?

Sometimes the best man is the only one who knows who won.

Pricing:

• Cupid of the Mess (my first poetry collection) – $33
• Custom Poems shipped worldwide on nicopatino.com

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.nicopatino.com
• Instagram: nicpatino

Image Credits
Ryan Gurchin
Kenny Gusino
Cameron Beirkan