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Expressive, Inpatient, Stories

So Smart I Got Life Lessons Dripping Out My Asshole

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"I'm So Smart I Got Life Lessons Dripping Out My Asshole (Also: Charm) Pay Me (...?)" 2/16/13. Acrylics and resin sand on cardboard. 12x14".
“So Smart I Got Life Lessons Dripping Out My Asshole.” 2/16/13. Acrylics and resin sand on cardboard. 12×14″.

So smart I got life lessons dripping out my asshole (also: charm); pay me (…?)

Expressive art. Self-deprecating humor. The ninth painting of ten in my series, “The Weak End.” If you’re at all familiar with my work, you’ve already read everything that I could possibly say about this painting or the two days over which I worked on it.

I do, however, have a new (almost-finished) painting that will be featured here soon. In presenting it, there are three stories that I’ll want to share. Were I to include them all in a single entry, it’d be a little overwhelming. So…

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The true story of my afternoon on April 28, 2012.

We met in a treatment facility that we had both transferred to from others. It was from her previous rehab that she knew Bill. He wasn’t a patient of theirs, he was an employee. He had clean time. (Emphasis on had). He started using yesterday.

J had a habit of not counting his money until he was back in his car. We didn’t have any money, but if we could find someone to throw in a hundred, we could pad the twenties with small bills to make it look like as much as three. We called Bill and he met us with a hundred dollars cash.

We had shorted J before but only by twenty or thirty and we’d always eventually (sort of) paid in full. In any case, we bought from him everyday. We were junkies; he knew we weren’t going anywhere.

I made the call and with her by my side and Bill in the backseat, we met up with J. As soon as we made the hand-off,  I put the car in gear and drove off as quickly as I could without raising suspicion – but it’d only be a matter of time before he sat down and counted that money. He called within a minute. I had (I thought, slyly) taken a residential street so that he wouldn’t see us in traffic, but before I knew it, he was there. He slid around us, cut off our path, and was out of the car. I floored it in reverse, struggling to keep the car from backing into any of the others parked on the narrow street. He chased after us and almost grabbed hold of me through the window when I swung the car out into the intersection and into drive. His girlfriend had taken the wheel when he got out and she picked him up. They were right on us immediately and we proceeded to play bumper cars across the streets of Delray Beach, running every red light, driving on the wrong side of the roads. Our car was already beat up but his was really nice. Or had been earlier that day anyway.

As soon as J was back in the car, he was back on the phone. As we swerved around and into each other, I tried to reason with him. “It’s only two hundred dollars. Report the damage as a hit and run and turn it in to your insurance. This isn’t worth it.”

“This car isn’t insured or registered. It’s not even my plate. You owe me a lot of money – and the dope – and I’m beating the shit out of you.”

“I’ll get you money later in the week but I’m not giving the drugs back so you might as well give up now.”

I got us to the on ramp for I-95, but  our car was old and slow. We didn’t stand a chance at outrunning him. Smashing the fuck out of his car hadn’t deterred him so I had to get creative. I swerved around other cars, trying to lead J into an accident that might actually slow him down.

“I’m gonna flip your car and kill you,” he said.

“That’s the only way you’re getting the drugs back. Chalk it up as a loss and give up before it gets any worse.” I was pretty bold for someone shaking so badly.

I tried a new technique: slamming on the brakes to take us from 90 mph to a dead stop in the middle of the interstate – counting on the cars around us to prevent J from doing the same. After a couple stalemates, where he pulled onto the shoulder up ahead to wait, knowing we had no option but to start driving again, I started to lose hope. How had we not passed a cop yet? How many other drivers must have called this demolition derby in by now? It was only a matter of time before this all ended very badly – one way or another. And my fucking fuel light was on.

“My boys are getting on at Lantana and are gonna light you the fuck up. You and your girl are as good as dead.”

I guess he didn’t notice that we also had Bill in the back seat. (Quite an experience for someone so freshly off the wagon, huh?)

Eventually, somehow, I was able to lose him. After an exit, I tore across two lanes and into the grass back toward the off-ramp at the last possible second when I’d be able to do so and J wouldn’t without losing sight of us for long enough for us to turn and leave him guessing which way we had gone.

J didn’t follow and when I got to the first red light that I wouldn’t be running that afternoon, I eased into a stop with a police car right next to me. My headlight was dragging on the street in front of the car. The front bumper was partially detached and the back bumper was smashed in. The light turned green and the distance between us and the cop increased until I was able to exhale.

And then I laughed. We all laughed. A lot. It wasn’t funny but it was amazing in its way. As fucked up as all of it is in hindsight, in that moment we were triumphant and I was a hero. (Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but it felt that way). We had no right to be alive. It defied all logic that we were driving away, unscathed and with heroin. I dropped Bill off at his car and drove back to the trailer park where she and I were renting a windowless room with no door to the outside. I left the car at the opposite end of the park and we got out to walk. We lived at the entrance of the park and J’s house was only a mile down the road; I didn’t want to run the risk were he to go out looking for us.

We walked into the trailer, into our room, shut the door, and shot up. I don’t remember anything that happened after that, but the next day, we packed our shit to leave for Miami.

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“The Weak End” series:

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  • 11×13″ prints of this piece are for sale in my webstore.
Artist Statements, Expressive, Inpatient

Satellite Photography

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"Satellite Photography." 2/16/13. Acrylic paint on cardboard.
“Satellite Photography.” 2/16/13. Acrylic paint on cardboard.

I didn’t go to church as a kid, but I remember a friend once telling me about something he had heard at church that Sunday. “They said that a satellite took a picture from really far away of what they think might actually be heaven.”

I’m terrified of judgment when it comes to my spirituality or my ideas about God. I’ve had so much animosity built up around religion for so long that I get really nervous and defensive about it. (See: “Evil” / “Maybe I Don’t Believe in God”).

But I pray. Or – rather – I try to pray. Sometimes. I’m not praying to someone that can be photographed from outer space though. For me, prayer is an exercise that’s its own reward. When I pray, it’s never for myself. I only pray for other people because – in doing so – I think about them. (“Portraits of God, Nothing, and Fear”).

Most days, I isolate and tell myself that my activities through my website (and online generally) are enough sociality. Living in my little bubble of self, it’s really easy to get wrapped up in my own nonsense, problems, or [whatever]. Prayer is one way of forcing myself to remember other people in a way that affects me more than a “like” on a Facebook post. It feels good to break out of myself now and then. And it’ll usually motivate me to reach out and connect with a friend in a way that feels a little more meaningful than I might otherwise.

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“The Weak End” is a series of ten paintings.

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8½x12” prints are available in my webstore.

Artist Statements, Current Journal, Expressive, Inpatient, Photographs, Punk rock

Valuable Feedback

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It’s Tuesday – my one day of routine. I got home from my session and my meeting and found a package waiting for me.

Rumspringer's "Staying Afloat" LP and split 7-inch with Sister Kisser. Low Culture's "Screens" cassette.
Rumspringer’s “Staying Afloat” LP and split 7-inch with Sister Kisser. Low Culture’s “Screens” cassette.

I’m pretty sure that the colored vinyl has been sold out for a good while now, which would mean that Chris (of Dirt Cult Records) sent me one of the copies he had set aside – unprompted… because he’s a sweet, wonderful human being and probably figured that it’d make me smile.

Also, I know this is silly but (even though I’m sure it has nothing to do with me) it makes me happy that Rumspringer still use my handwriting on their records, inserts, and other stuff.

Low Culture is the new(ish) band from Chris and Joe of Shang-a-Lang. “Screens” is their debut full-length (CD/LP on Dirtnap; cassette on Dead Broke) and it was produced by Mark Ryan of The Marked Men, which is a really excellent pairing for them.

Here’s a stream of the Sister Kisser / Rumspringer split as well.

And here’s the only other piece to slip through the cracks early on (like “Dear Diary.”) It’s the fourth painting in “The Weak End” series and the text says, “WHAT YOU DO IS.”

“Valuable Feedback.” 2/16/13. Acrylics, resin sand, and fabric dye on cardboard. 16½x18”.
“Valuable Feedback.” 2/16/13. Acrylics, resin sand, and fabric dye on cardboard. 16½x18”.

When I threw this online before, I just noted the title and the text in relation to lyrics from “48 Doublestack” by Rivethead (We’ve rejected what you’ve got to show for the trade-off: a life spent just waiting for orders and taking the shit from the parents, the bullies, and bosses. The fault’s no one’s but your own ’cause you couldn’t stand up and say no). Which makes me feel a little… um… redundant, in light of “Stand Up and Say No,” “Mowgli,” “Whatevermind,” and (probably) a few others that escape me at the moment.

Anyway, this was an expressive process. I played with colors and shapes, then looked to them to lead me forward. I saw this slug-type character, reclined, which brought to mind someone who (so far as I could tell) did little but recline. And criticize. And had been offering a lot of advice lately. Which has always struck me as funny: the way that thoroughly unhappy people tend to give advice.

I won’t say whom I had in mind when I made this. Only because I think the negativity that’d come with the disclosure outweighs the value of the honesty and release that I’d get from it. And I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. This is, after all, a mean painting. And I was feeling mean when I made it. Because my feelings were hurt.

That’s the way it goes. Someone’s hurt. They respond with anger, to hurt the other person. Who then responds in the exact same way. It’s a sad, ridiculous cycle.

I can honestly say that I could make the disclosure (without ill will) at this point, but I can’t control whether this person would recognize that. And I’d rather not fan a flame / keep the cycle going.

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“The Weak End” series includes:

Artist Statements, Cartoons, Commissioned, Inpatient, Intentional, Punk rock

We’re Not Hiring

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"Five Star Enterprise." 8/28/13. White-out, marker, and pen on cardboard. 11x14".
“We’re Not Hiring (or: A Like Bats Fan Walks Into an Office).” 8/28/13. White-out, marker, and pen on cardboard. 11×14″.

“You’ve got a five star enterprise here, and it sounds like a great opportunity, but – what, with huffing gasoline in mom’s basement and wearing out my Like Bats cassette, my schedule just can’t accommodate anything new right now. Thanks for letting me use your bathroom though.”

I thought of this cartoon back in March when I was planning on reissuing Like Bats demo as a cassette. Anyway, the Like Bats cassette hasn’t happened yet for a couple of reasons, but I requested a new quote on it today and decided that it was TIME TO DRAW THIS CARTOON! (The plan was to get it printed up on a poster that’d come free with the cassette). Maybe we’ll still do that. I don’t know! (I haven’t talked to the kids yet). In fact, they’re hearing about/seeing this cartoon for the first time just like everybody else.

I put off smoking cigarettes (and eating/drinking) all afternoon just so I could get it done. I think it came out well. I like it!

Here’s a new song by one of my favorite bands.

Artist Statements, Expressive, Inpatient

Portraits of God, Nothing, and Fear

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“Portraits of God, Nothing, and Fear.” February 16th, 2013. Acrylics and gold ink on cardboard. 15x19”.
“Portraits of God, Nothing, and Fear.” February 16th, 2013. Acrylics and gold ink on cardboard. 15×19”.

The third painting of ten in my series, “The Weak End,” created in the last few days of my seven months living in Tranquil Shores’ inpatient facility.

The text in this piece (though barely legible) says, “I’ve basically stopped praying. I do (maybe) three real meetings each week. I don’t EVER think of you. And ‘you’ isn’t even you.”

By early February, I wasn’t technically inpatient anymore. Though I lived on property and was subject to a lot of the same rules as before, I had some special privileges. For example, I was still required to go to at least five meetings a week, but I no longer had to go with everyone else. If I could transport myself, I could go to whatever meetings I wanted, so long as I signed in and out, came back on time, had it approved by my counselor, etc.

On the night that I painted this, I left for a meeting. It was only my sixth one on my own. And I ran out of gas on the way there. For the third time. There were no gas stations in that area, but I was still really close to Tranquil Shores. I was too embarrassed to go back and admit that I had fucked up again though, and in such a basic/stupid way. I decided to hide out in a parking lot until the time when I was scheduled to return from the meeting. But then I got anxious and snuck back onto property early so I could go back to painting. Later, I pretended that I had just forgotten to sign back in.

I didn’t write a statement on this piece back in February and I don’t think I journaled that night either. I wish I had because I don’t even know who the “you” that I “wasn’t thinking about” is. If I had to guess, it was a girl, but it could have been any one of three girls that I would have been having thoughts like this about at the time.

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This was my favorite song that week. I was listening to it at least five or ten times a day.

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“The Weak End” series includes:

Artist Statements, Current Journal, Expressive

Fuzzles

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“Fuzzles.” 2/16/13. Acrylics on cardboard. 9¾x10½”.

“Fuzzles” is the second painting in “The Weak End” series. It was a response to something that happened in the “rehab talent show” the previous day. The last performance was by the counselors, who put on a skit, in which one of the characters was me. Part of the costume was a shredded, sleeveless shirt with the words, “I Hate the Easter Bunny” painted on the front (that, as I was told, was their tamer/safer equivalent to something I might wear). So when it came time to caption this painting, I thought, “If I were actually going to make some kind of a joke about a bunny, what would it be?” And the caption on this piece is what spilled out of my brain.

I don’t usually try to be funny when I make artwork. I make jokes through/with art sometimes, but it’s never my main purpose. And when I do make jokes, they tend to be at my expense, poking fun at my real mental and emotional defects. This is somewhere on the line though between honest and silly. At the specific moment when I captioned this, I wasn’t feeling particularly happy or sane, so while I have never had a rabbit named Fuzzles that I put in a freezer, this is definitely a reflection of where I was at emotionally on the morning of February 16th. It was raining outside. I remember looking out the window as I painted and feeling lonely, unappreciated, unloved, and – kind of angry about it.

But when I looked down at my cardboard canvas and saw what I had painted and what I had written, I smiled. Art (even art that’s kind of silly) makes me feel better – about myself and about the world I live in. Life is funny. Life is fun. Sometimes it’s tough to keep that at the forefront of my mind. Fuzzles helps.

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I get to go on tour with Rational Anthem soon. It’s only for a week, but I’m really excited. Especially since it’s around Dave Strait Fest in Minneapolis, where something like twenty of my favorite bands are going to be playing. And, the night that we leave, there’s no show, but we needed to stay somewhere between Sarasota and St. Louis. I hit up Stewart at No Breaks Records to see if we could stay with him in Atlanta. Stewart and I never hung out that much (’cause we’ve never lived in the same state) but back when I was running Traffic Street we’d talk all the time. I talked to Stewart as much as any of my friends back then. The last time I saw him in person though was Awesome Fest 5. Which was a disaster for me. Actually, like two of my last three posts, I’m realizing that there’s a story here that I didn’t anticipate. I’ll have to come back to that. The point is (aside from everyone else I already knew I’d be seeing) I’m excited that I’ll get to see him too. And not be a trainwreck of a human being, alternately high or sick, this time. And it struck me as really rad that even though we’ve barely talked in the last two years, I was still able to message him and see if he’d put us up, and he responded just as quickly that – yeah – of course. There needs to be more to friendship than a common interest in punk rock, but friendships that begin with that, that are built around those ideals… it’s a pretty great place to start. I’m grateful for punk rock, for community, and for friends like Stewart (and Rational Anthem)!

Here’s a song from the record Stewart and I split-released back in the day.


Which reminds me, I’m also gonna get to see Troy  (ex-Creases) for the first time in two years. And I’ll get to see his new band, Tight Bros, for the first time ever. Twice!  – And I just realized this is only four days away. I have no concept of time… ever. But I’m excited.

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“The Weak End” series includes: