Snowflakes Anonymous


“Snowflakes Anonymous.” 11/22/13. Acrylic, watercolor, and spray paints, food coloring, markers, pen, resin sand, cardboard and EBT card – on 24×30″ stretched canvas.

This piece took me over a week to finish. That left a lot of time for different issues to pop up, play off each other, and rearrange my ideas. I started it one nigh while I was thinking about missing Tranquil Shores. Then I thought about how I might like to work at a place like that except… For starters, I don’t have enough clean time. I’d have to pretend like
I didn’t fuck up at any point. That made me sad. You know what I eventually realized though? Fuck that. Someone recently complimented my honesty / willingness to be vulnerable through my artwork – “especially for someone with so little clean time.” That threw me for a loop! There was nothing mean-spirited about the comment (it came from someone that’s been really positive and supportive) but still – the implication is that I’ve only recently started getting well. In reality, most of the pieces she had seen and read about were created before that – sometime after my previous clean date (the day I got to Tranquil Shores: August 17th, 2012). And I didn’t really start getting better ’til December 12th. The vast majority of honest text in my pieces was always scribbled out up until that point.

So – yeah – I may have fucked up over the summer, but that didn’t hit the reset button on my recovery; I didn’t fall down into a gutter with a needle in my arm, desperate and miserable as ever. I made a mistake, called myself on it, told the people I needed to tell, and carried the fuck on and moved forward with the things I know to be good for me and good for my mental health and emotional well-being. And you know what else? The dangerous position I allowed myself to be in (that led to my relapse): it was worth it. That month I spent working on that project – it had incredible highs, some (very obvious) lows, I learned a lot about myself, a lot about the world around me, and – overall – was a better stronger person when all was said and done.

And it still affects me today (both positively and negatively). I wouldn’t say I regret any of it. Life is for living and anyone that’s really living is gonna fuck up every now and then. That’s not a preemptive copout for future relapse, it’s just reality. You can count on my not repeating that mistake but I’m sure as shit gonna fuck up at one thing or another!

Back on point: on Tuesday, I was reading the NA literature and I realized that so much of it really has nothing to do with me. It’s totally undescriptive of my thinking and my behavior. Not all of it, but enough of it. Does that mean I’m gonna quit going to meetings? No. But it explains why I stopped going more than once a week back in February – and why my
counselors at Tranquil Shores didn’t throw a monumental fit about it the way they’d always done with everyone else. I may not be some beautiful fucking snowflake, thoroughly unlike all to come before me, but – you know what? I am different than a lotta people and meetings, meetings, meetings isn’t the fucking cure-all for everyone.

And if you wanna get technical – it’s got nothing to do with the twelve steps as they were originally written (and are still written in the AA text). Same with sponsorship – there’s nothing in the original text about going to meetings or finding a sponsor. It’s just about working with / helping other alcoholics [or addicts]. And I do that shit constantly. I hate a lot of the attitudes that dominate the rooms of AA and NA: “Do this or die” (especially when “this” isn’t even part of the program). You know why they think that the only people who succeed in recovery are the ones that continue going to meetings for the rest of their lives? Because the people that come back are the one that fucked up and needed to come back; they never hear the stories of the people that leave their group and succeed because they don’t have any reason to come back around and tell their tale. It’s right for some people – not everyone. And fuck the notion that “clean time” is the only measure of success. I do pretty okay. I like myself. I like my life. And it’s been that way for a while now. It didn’t start ’til I got clean (and then some) but it didn’t go away just ’cause I had a lapse in judgment. I still have that time. There are documents of it – all over my walls and all over this website.

SECOND (reason I can’t get a job at a treatment facility), I don’t think I’m cut out to work anywhere. I’m not some wild, outta control basket case but that’s ’cause I know what I need to do to keep my grip. When things get rough, I’ve got tools I can use to get ’em back on the right track. But mental health is a chore and I can’t schedule my emotions. Being on the clock, being on someone else’s time… it doesn’t work for me. I have too much to do – sick or well, fucked or not. So while I might like to do some volunteer kinda stuff now and then, I don’t think that “getting a job” is anything that’s ever gonna work out for me.

From there I was thinking about something that’s occurred to me before: that I could almost certainly qualify to receive disability payments. Up ’til my “recovery” began, I’d have taken those without a second thought; I had (and still have) no moral objections to something like that (even if I were/am fully capable of working). But getting disability doesn’t really seem in line with what I’m about these days. My brain might be a little off but I’ve been creatively building a life out of that, through my artwork. I’m not sure I want a label like “disabled” on me.

But – also on Tuesday – I realized that I use food stamps and… is that really any different? It’s basically partial-disability with no questions asked. “Oh? You don’t make enough money? Okay, here you go. No – we don’t care why, just take it.” Strangely enough, the very next day, I met a girl who does receive disability payments (and for borderline personality disorder!) That had me actually considering it for the first time but it wasn’t ’til later that night I realized that – immediately after meeting her – I volunteered to pick up a shift at Sun-Ray over the weekend if they needed any extra help. AND THEN(!) I had to modify my offer to exclude Saturday because I’m going to some kind of seven hour “personal growth” / mental health thing tomorrow.

Just like that – I went from ruling out work because of my obligations to myself and my mental health but rejecting the prospect of disability payments on principle, meeting a girl on disability with the same issues I have and starting to reconsider,  to unthinkingly offering to work, and then realizing I couldn’t because of a (very concrete, specific) mental health obligation.

For now, I’m gonna keep on as I have been. I already have everything I need. Well, maybe not a sense of security but what fun would that be?

—–

Hey – speaking of “clean time,” “clean dates,” and what a beautiful fucking snowflake I am… When someone completes their treatment plan at Tranquil Shores, they have their coin-out ceremony and they get a little keychain with their clean date on it. Here’s the one they gave me back in February.

Clean date key tag

Yes, that is an “X” in place of a clean date. No, I had no idea that mine was going to be different and – no – of all the people that have been through the program, no one else has ever gotten anything other than their actual clean date.

—–

Something I wrote in this entry reminded me of a lyric from a song I haven’t heard in a few years. “She asked me if I want to die / I said of course I do sometimes / Anyone who never wants to die / must not really be alive.” And now that I’m listening to it, I’m realizing that it’s right for this entry in more ways than one.

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I got the Like Bats cassettes in the mail today. They’ll be the first new Traffic Street release in more than two years and will go on sale tomorrow! (This is a one-off sorta thing though; I’m not picking back up with Traffic Street for real – not anytime soon anyway).

I've had that box of inserts and covers for three years now!
I’ve had that box of inserts and covers for three years now!

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Fun fact: Did you notice my (expired) EBT/foodstamp card glued to the top-right corner of the canvas? Did you notice that it says “ASK FOR VD” on the signature line? Just below that, it says “ARTS SUBSIDY” which I added after the card was on the canvas). I wrote “ASK FOR VD” on it back when it was still valid though – back when I first got it in March. I am a ridiculous human being.

This piece is available for purchase as a 12×15″ print. The original sold in December 2013.

The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks

"The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks." 1/11/13. Tempera, oil pastel, and pen. 12" (diameter).
“The Fruits of Being a Contemptuous Bag of Dicks.” 1/11/13. Tempera, oil pastel, and pen. 12″ (diameter).

This is from the same day as This Might Be Bullshit  – the day of my first “emotional relapse.” Looking for something else yesterday, I pulled out an old composition notebook and found [what I guess I’d call] a poem. It’s also from this same week in January.

—–

Tomorrow I’ll wake up and spill my guts into the toilet and maybe clean myself up.

Tomorrow I’ll sit in group therapy and pass the time by drawing the needles I haven’t seen in 4½  months.

Tomorrow I’ll meet with my counselor and tell her how well I’m doing. I’ll probably go to an AA meeting, bring my book, write in the margins, and not pay attention.

Tomorrow I’ll stare out my window for no reason and maybe write some words I’ll never put to music. Tomorrow I won’t even notice my guitar sitting in the corner.

Tomorrow I’ll paint a painting on top of another painting and then wish that I hadn’t.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you I love you and you’ll pretend not to hear me.

Tomorrow I’ll post pictures of my art on Facebook so my friends can scroll past them. Tomorrow I won’t care enough to even see what they’re posting.

Tomorrow I’ll call my sponsor and explain things in terms he can understand. Tomorrow he’ll tell me I’m doing a great job and he’ll be just as wrong as he was today.

I won’t call my friends tomorrow and my friends won’t call me.

Tomorrow I’ll drown out the world with punk rock in my headphones instead of heroin in a syringe.

Tomorrow I’ll pace parking lots and side streets and sing along in a whisper.

Tomorrow I’ll notice another person too late and feel embarrassed.

Tomorrow I’ll think about you all day and pretend that I’m over it.

Tomorrow you’ll tell me you can’t stop thinking about shooting up but haven’t. Tomorrow you’ll be just as dishonest as you were today.

Tomorrow I’ll feel empty and insignificant and write a list of things I’m grateful for. Tomorrow I’ll recite lines like “There’s nothing wrong with my face, teeth, or body,” “I am worth time and energy,” “my art is positive, productive, and appreciated,” and “I am enough.” Tomorrow I’ll be just as dishonest as I was today.

Tomorrow I’ll sit at a bus stop waiting for something that’ll take even longer than the bus I’m not waiting on.

Tomorrow I’ll draw a self-portrait in crayon and hang it on my wall.

Tomorrow I’ll jerk off for the better part of an hour. Tomorrow I’ll meditate for three to five minutes, and feel a swell of pride.

Tomorrow I’ll dye my hair again and then wear a hat. I’ll sew something onto a shirt, rip up another, and still wear the same one I put on this morning.

Tomorrow I’ll pray because I’m supposed to. Tomorrow I’ll end my prayer with “I love you” and not know why.

Tomorrow I’ll smoke cigarettes in my room and feel bad about it, but I won’t get caught. Not tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll think of girls I don’t love and think of ways to make them love me.

Tomorrow I won’t have any idea what I’m doing.

Tomorrow I’ll wake up in rehab, eat a frozen waffle with nothing on it, drink half as much coffee as I pour, and smoke twice as many cigarettes as I can afford.

Tomorrow I’ll do a pretty good job of pushing my hate down into the pit of my gut. Tomorrow I won’t express the contempt I love but don’t feel. Tomorrow I’ll lack awareness.

Tomorrow I’ll have a positive attitude and a negative self-image. Tomorrow I’ll talk about how I have nothing to be upset about, criticize my own negativity, and someone will disagree with me on both points. Tomorrow I’ll shrug.

Tomorrow I’ll smile and feel peace as a song flows through me. I’ll feel evil and energized by another and smile even wider.

Tomorrow is my 143rd day here.

On Day 144, I’ll know what it means to be happy. And I will be. Just two more days.

—–

So that was about 300 days ago now. I think its significance is in how miserable it is despite the fact that I had been doing extremely well in the month leading up to it (possibly better than I ever had in my life). It’s a great example of how badly one little snag can fucking annihilate me (at least in a moment). I was already well on my way toward “know what it means to be happy” at that point and – while I may not always have it perfectly nailed down – I’d like to think that, day to day, I do a pretty okay job; I am happy.

I’ve been working on it (somewhat on and off) for the last week, but I put in a lot of time yesterday and today, and I’m confident (and happy to report) that my newest painting is this close to being finished, so I’m looking forward to sharing that tomorrow. And on Saturday I’m going to post something that really is a “fruit of being a contemptuous bag of dicks!”

I have fun; good from bad; so on and so forth. I’m gonna go eat pizza now.

——

Here’s a song I really love by a band I really love:“Monsoon” by Snuggle, off their 2005 7-inch, Tag, You’re It!

Save Yourself

"Save Yourself." 11/19/13. Pens and markers. 5x6½".
“Save Yourself.” 11/19/13. Pens and markers. 5×6½”.

After missing five in a row, I’m getting back into the swing of my Tuesday morning NA meeting. Save for an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting that I went to once (somewhat unintentionally), it’s the only one I’ve ever been to in Jacksonville. I go because I figure it’s good for me or – at the very least – it’s not bad for me. When the time rolls around each week, I don’t usually want to go but that’s sort of why I do. It’s so rare these days that I have to do anything that I don’t want to; I feel like an NA meeting each week is a good way to stay in practice for the times when something I’m even more averse to comes up. It’s self-discipline of sorts.

Which isn’t to say that I don’t draw while I’m sitting there, but I do it pretty discreetly (on the pages of my text) and I don’t draw anything that requires the kind of concentration that’d prevent me from paying attention to everything being said. Yesterday, I drew this on page 390 of my Narcotics Anonymous book and then added the color later on at home. The title/sentiment is part repetition of “Selfish Program” and part preemptive “fuck off”/”take your own inventory” to anyone who might get it in their head that they’re my unsolicited new sponsor.

The meeting was on the eleventh tradition, which “deals with our relationship to those outside the Fellowship [of Narcotics Anonymous].” Specifically, “we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, and film” and “advertisements, circulars, and any literature that may reach the public’s hand.” That was written decades ago and some people think it should be updated to explicitly include the internet; I don’t see how anyone could interpret it as not already including the internet but – either way – I don’t maintain personal anonymity. The first sentence of my Bio has my real name because I think the power of a lot of my disclosure / honesty would be lost if I were using a pseudonym as a mask (and not just ’cause I’m a ridiculous human being). In any case, no one’s supposed to present themselves publicly as a member of Narcotics Anonymous and no one should ever purport to represent Narcotics Anonymous. [By the way, these guidelines are virtually identical in every twelve-step program (those I’m familiar with anyway)].

So I was thinking about that: Do I violate the Eleventh Tradition with (just about) every thing I do?

My answer: Nah. If I were to ask anyone at my regular meeting if I’m a member of NA, they’d say,”Of course!,” and pat me on the back to assuage my doubt. But do I consider myself a member of NA? Not really.

Yeah, I’ve worked the steps, I go to meetings (sometimes), and the way I live is pretty thoroughly in line with the principles and recommendations of the program – but that’s not because they’re the principles and recommendations of the program; we just happen to line up more often than not. And I certainly don’t purport to be a representative of any group/program. Shit – I’m not sure I’ve ever brought up AA or NA [in my writing] without making some kind of distinction between their program and mine.

While I’d recommend a twelve-step program to anyone struggling with anything, none of those programs were the magic bullet for me. The words in their books don’t resonate with me the way they do with others “in the rooms.” A lot of people say, “AA/NA saved my life.” I am not one of those people.

My counselor, Tracy, saved my life. Julie and expressive art therapy saved my life. It was everyone at Tranquil Shores (and everyone that supported me from outside) that saved my life.

And punk rock? Well, if I’m being honest, it didn’t really do SHIT in the life saving department but – without it – who would even wanna live?

“Icepick” by Tenement

Matt

"Matt." 2/1/13. Colored pencil. 8x10".
“Matt.” 2/1/13. Colored pencil. 8×10″.

Rather than pay attention in group one morning, I decided to try and sketch my friend sitting across from me.

I’m pretty sure that this was my first (and only) attempt at an honest portrait. My technical ability as an artist is so limited that I rarely ever risk even trying to draw caricatures. I can think of seven exceptions but the only ones online so far are Rational AnthemHeather, and Servo & Megan.

Matt and I were sitting outside smoking cigarettes one day and he had some paperwork to fill out. We both thought it was pretty silly that the form asked for his race and ethnicity and, while he was initially hesitant, I was eventually able to convince him to have a little fun with it.

Matt's Paperwork

The Second Day of My Life

"The Second Day of My Life." 12/4/12. Pen. 8x10".
“The Second Day of My Life.” 12/4/12. Pen. 6×7½”.

I drew this cartoon of an astronaut boxing a pirate, while sitting in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. It was the same meeting the 12/13/14 thing started. It was also the day I finished reading my life story to my peers and counselor. It has no real significance, I was just trying to draw something a little bit unlike everything else that I draw.

  • The last time I was struck by that urge, I drew this.
  • The day that I started reading my life story, I drew this.
  • I chose the word “promise” for the same reason that, a week or so later, I drew this.

This is a really shitty, lazy update. I’ll make up for it later!

Life is cool though.

This Might Be Bullshit

"This Might Be Bullshit." 1/11/13. Pen. 8½x11".
“This Might Be Bullshit.” 1/11/13. Pen. 8½x11″.

I was still inpatient when I made this. It was the product of the my first episode after “No Accident.” A full month had passed since then, which was longer than I could remember having gone without an emotional breakdown of one kind or another but I was still pretty disappointed with myself. If December 12th (the day I made “No Accident”) was my “emotional sobriety date,” this was most definitely my emotional relapse. I picked right back up with the kind of negative self-talk that had ruled my brain for most of my life. The body of the text reads:

I thought I found a place where I belonged. I wasn’t wrong. At the time. But time has passed and I don’t fit in here anymore. I can’t stall. I can’t adapt. I have to move on. Ready or not.

I’m already dead.

I don’t measure up. It’s who I am. It’s not sad. It just is. Nothing lasts forever and we can’t all be astronauts.

I’m not exactly sure what I meant with that last word. I’m sure it was an allusion to something I had heard (or something that had happened) recently. The rest of the text in the piece appears in bits and pieces, scattered throughout.

  • Outsider art.
  • THIS MIGHT BE BULLSHIT.
  • It’s time for me to go home. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
  • Please break my hands and kick my fucking teeth in.
  • [I’m] tired of me taking up space and time.
  • Fuck my stupid fucking life.
  • No amount of any anything from me could ever be enough.

—–

Tonight was the opening reception for my first art show. My emotional reaction to it was very much in tune with the painting I’m working on right now, so I’ll probably work it into that and share more about it once the painting is done.

In a few words though, the response tonight was such that it could very easily be interpreted as having implications that are either wildly positive and encouraging or terribly crushing and depressing. I’m working to get to a place of strictly gratitude though (and I’m almost there). To the people that did come out, I can’t thank you enough. Not just for showing up, but for really showing up. It means a lot to me. It’s keeping me going.

I Only Fuck to Black Metal

Granted – I’m out of mind but, for an emotional basket case, I’m a pretty nice kid. I’m friendly. And because I isolate and know that I shouldn’t, chances are – that if you ask me – I’ll probably hang out with you. I have enough of an interest in people (and interact with them so rarely) that I’ll sit and talk with just about anyone for an hour.

I’m trying to eke out a living as an artist. That’s not the easiest thing to do and I’m not above charity. Last week, I saw some guy with his hands full and I offered to help him. It took me all of thirty seconds and I certainly didn’t expect to be compensated, but he pulled out a five dollar bill. I paused – unsure whether or not I should accept it. But I did and I thanked him. If he felt that my little bit of help was worth five dollars, I’m not gonna tell him he’s wrong. Five dollars makes a difference in my life and I was grateful for it.

I was organizing my prints at Sun Ray and some guy asked me if the art on the walls was mine. I talked to him for a while, he was friendly enough, said he collects art, said he couldn’t make it to the opening tomorrow but that he wanted to get in touch later and asked for my phone number [which isn’t something I’m protective of; I even have it listed, here, on the internet]. I wrote it on one of my cards and gave it to him. “I really wanna keep in touch,” he said. ” I can really help you out. What I’m really interested in is hearing more about your background, maybe over a meal.”

“Yeah, okay, cool…” I said somewhat warily, trying to be polite, trying to not be socially awkward. (I have a hard time knowing when it’s me that’s being weird). If I take him at his word, after all, all of that would be cool. I mean, I (CLEARLY) don’t have a problem talking about myself, I eat food, and I’m stoked as fuck to sell my artwork. So… sounds like a win? Even if his choice of words is a little strange…

And then I realized that I was falling for the same shit I’ve fallen for before. And I remembered something else he had said in our conversation that now made a lot more sense to me. How he was disappointed the last time he bought a painting because, as he put it, “I was hoping the artist would have been a lot more appreciative.”

Being put in this position sucks because it makes me feel like a prostitute. I don’t want to come right out and say, “Hey, I’d be happy to eat lunch and talk to you, and more than happy to sell you a painting, but I’m not going to have sex with you.” Because no one’s actually said anything about sex and it makes ME feel like an asshole for jumping to that conclusion. But I fucking know that’s what it’s about. And I also (unfortunately) know from experience that even if I do state all that explicitly, an attempt is going to be made to coax me into meeting up under the pretense of selling art and having a meal and then I’m still gonna get propositioned. And even if I’m not, I’m still gonna feel like a prostitute because it’s not really my art that the guy is trying to buy, it’s me (or my time or my attention or [whatever]). That doesn’t sound so bad, but I just can’t do it. Even without the bullshit art pretense. I know because I tried once.

The offer was a hundred bucks (paid up front) to meet at a Starbuck’s for a cup of coffee and sit and talk for an hour. I thought about it and – like I said – if there wasn’t money involved, I’d meet up with somebody and talk for an hour, so why not? If somebody I don’t know is asking me to sit and talk, they’re probably pretty lonely. It seems like a kind thing to do and maybe I’ll learn something. And in a case like this – where money is offered – well, I wouldn’t have asked for it, but if someone wants to give it to me, I’ll accept. It might not be as altruistic, but that doesn’t make it unkind.

So it seemed like the rational choice was to go. The only “why not” I could think of was that it made me feel uncomfortable. And when I reflected on that, it struck me as being somehow homophobic and I didn’t like what that said about me. So I went. I walked into the coffee shop and…  turned around just as quickly, went right out the door, got on my scooter, and sped the fuck away. It was too fucking weird. I felt uneasy. It felt wrong or, at the very least, it definitely didn’t feel right. No one should wanna pay me just to hang out with them. I’M COOL BUT I’M NOT THAT COOL. Besides, this asshole didn’t even know whether or not I was cool. He didn’t know me at all.

I thought about it afterward and couldn’t quite figure it out – my reaction, I mean. Was it homophobic? My gay friends don’t make me uncomfortable. Being hit on by a guy doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Somehow, I’ve only just now arrived at a satisfying conclusion. It has nothing to do with sexuality; it’s about respect. I might be a self-promoting little fuckshit but it’s not really me that I’m selling. It was Traffic Street Records, now it’s my art, and (in a sense) it’s sometimes even my personality. (There’s a component of myself in all of it). But it’s not me. No one can actually buy me. I’m not for fucking sale.

Obviously, this stuff makes me a little angry but I’m still sympathetic. After all, I don’t think anyone out there is acting with the intent of fucking with me; we’re all just trying to get by and find some kind of happiness and we all act selfishly (to whatever degree) sometimes. But I’ve decided that I’m not interested in playing this sort of game or walking this balance beam. If you wanna buy my art because you like my artthat’s fucking awesome. But if you wanna buy it ’cause you want something else from me – with all due respect – fuck off. I might be broke but I’m not that desperate. I’d rather wait ’til I find a buyer that actually appreciates it.

—–

"I Only Fuck to Black Metal." 3/12/13. Needle, thread, fabric dye, ink, and acrylic paint. Shorts.
“I Only Fuck to Black Metal.” 3/12/13. Needle, thread, fabric dye, ink, and acrylic paint. Shorts.

If I didn’t make and wear shit like this, I probably wouldn’t have these problems but… fuck that. It’s my RIGHT to be fucking hilarious.

[Joke!]

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