Coming out of summer 2017, I was in bad shape. The stories I could tell about overdosing, trying to kill myself, getting arrested, running from cops, hospitalizations, scamming money, getting robbed, stealing, and just all kinds of sad, desperate shit. If I told you how many roaches had infested my house and what I was doing to “deal” with them, you might not believe me. One day, I got across town to buy drugs and have no memory of how I even got there. After I copped—without a way back home—I just walked into a house that looked abandoned. I shut the front door behind me, sat on the floor of the living room, and shot up. When I woke hours later, my pockets were empty. Someone had come in and stolen my phone and whatever else I had on me. (Probably not much at that point). I mention this specific incident not because it was extraordinary but because it exemplifies a typical day back then. It was one of the less notable things to happen around that time.
I had warrants, and the police were banging on our door often enough that I couldn’t stay there anymore without risking arrest. Wallis and I took just a few things and went over to Steph’s for the next month or so. We were there for Hurricane Irma. My only memory of it is being dopesick, laying in Steph’s bathtub, waiting for what seemed like forever for a dealer to show up despite the storm.
I don’t remember the final straw, but I’d had enough. I got the money together for a four-hour Uber ride out of Jacksonville to Bradenton – to stay with my “adoptive family.” I had the driver meet us back at our house, where we frantically packed, hoping the cops wouldn’t show up before we could get what we needed and on the road. Most of our possessions were left to rot. This would begin the period I now call Round 2: Eight months of clean time – my first since the relapse that put my art career on an extended hiatus.
The detox wasn’t too bad and I was fairly happy just to be somewhere safe and not on drugs. Wallis had a harder time adjusting. She replaced shooting up with drinking and – IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT – started losing control. One night, especially drunk, we had one of our worst fights ever. She kept threatening to call the police to tell them where I was, get me picked up for one of my warrants. She did this as she was repeatedly punching me in the face. I picked her up, carried her to the front door, tossed her out, and locked the door. When she finally calmed down, I let her back in, but told her we were going to have to call it for a while. The next day, I put her back on a bus to Jacksonville to do whatever it was that she was gonna do.
I started painting again. It was tough starting from scratch after a couple years away from art, but I was enjoying it. The first painting I made was “Mental Health Services Available to Strippers, Junkies, Cutters, and Other SICK GIRLS.” It was, essentially, just about being lonely. Wondering if I wanted Wallis back or just someone. The title was a joke about the kind of girls that I attract. As it also says on that painting, “we are attracted (and attractive) to those with similar levels of mental health.”
“Chemicool” was painting #2. The text up top explains itself: “I HAVE ELEVEN WEEKS CLEAN OFF HEROIN AND NOTHING ELSE.”
But things were picking up. I’d sold some prints. I had a couple offers for new originals. (“Enjoy Me While You Can” and “Run Free, Spit Fire, Yell at Clouds” were both sold before I’d even started them). And “Chemicool,” once finished, was scheduled to be in a group exhibit at a local gallery.
I’d been talking to Wallis about bringing her back down once we’d both leveled out a bit. That would mean getting our own place though. It was too much for both of us (and Lukah) to be living with my fake family. And then, one night, as I journaled:
Oh great. And I just got word that she’s BACK on heroin and back on the street. I’m about to have art money again. Do I spend that to get her here and rent an apartment that I really don’t need? So much for waiting ’til we’re both stable. That day’s never coming. But hey - THESE COLORS LOOK NEAT.
(I do love me some bright, neon colors. It is some consolation when everything else is wrong).
I added sardonically, “I think I’ll kill myself now.” I didn’t mean it; it was just frustrating that Wallis was fucking up so badly.
“Chemicool” went into the group exhibit and sold on the opening night. And I did bring Wallis back to Sarasota. (And was able to get her clean again). But a few months later, just after signing the lease for the apartment we’d found, I got it into my head to use again. On my own. Didn’t even tell her. She’d found a job and I did it one day while she was working.
And everything, of course, fell apart again. And it would stay that way for more than a year before I finally called Brandon to ask him, “If I go to detox, can I stay with you for a while when I get out?” He said yes. I told Wallis he’d be picking me up in the morning. Our electricity had already been cut and the rent was overdue. We hadn’t even really been staying there the last month, but – with me out of the picture – it was clear that the power wasn’t coming back on and she’d need to find somewhere else to go. It was almost certainly the end of our five years together.
Brandon did not pick me up the next morning. Because I was in jail. Arrested just a few hours after calling him. The cops didn’t seem to care that I had plans to go to detox in the morning. They, of course, brought me in. In my possession were enough drugs to warrant more than ninety felony charges. But that’s another story.
This painting was commissioned by a wonderfully supportive patron named Maura, as a tribute to her friend, Tommy, after his passing.
I knew Maura a little through emails but didn’t know Tommy at all. Honoring someone I didn’t know was a little intimidating. It felt like a big responsibility and I wanted to do a good job.
After looking over his social media, I was able to paint little allusions to his interests, but I knew the text was gonna have to carry most of the weight. I needed something that would pay tribute to Tommy and – hopefully – bring some comfort to Maura and anyone else Tommy left behind that would see my work.
A week or so in, I saw a feature column about suicides and empathy that triggered something. I started journaling about it in the silver quadrant of the painting, but it didn’t really go anywhere. If it weren’t for the bit where I name a few friends, cut myself off, and instead say “WHOEVER READS THIS AND WANTS ME TO BE SAD WHEN THEY DIE” – and the fact that that gave me a shitty little smile – I probably would’ve painted over it. I’d mildly succeeded in amusing myself but certainly wasn’t meeting the bar I’d set to honor Tommy. I took another shot at it in the green quadrant:
This painting was commissioned for Tommy, who’s not with us anymore. Maura told me about this poem he liked. Asked if I could incorporate it somehow. The last part was his favorite. “I was a dog on a short chain and now there’s no chain.” I (think) I get it. It’s about being free. Which I can appreciate. I mean, I am a STRAY DOG. (Even if I sometimes consider trading that freedom for the warmth of a home). Now - thinking of Tommy and the way his chain’s really been cut… Death is the ultimate freedom. It’s freedom from everything that fucks us up in life. AND it’s a home (of sorts) and…
That train of thought hit a wall. I was rambling again, lost, trying stumble into meaning.
What the fuck am I even talking about? I don’t know anything about anything. I wanna believe that Tommy and all the people we care about but aren’t here anymore - that they’re all free and okay and “singing loud” and safe and “warm” and… I don’t know. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s a nice thought at least.
Fuck it. You know what? (You know where my fucking name comes from?) “Thrash life! No death!” And I think that’s the same sentiment that Tommy appreciated in that poem. Forget all that shit that comes with “the ultimate chain” or the freedom that comes in death. Tommy wanted to break the chains here on earth and LIVE FREE. So that’s what we ought to do and that’s what I wanna focus on. I wanna RUN FREE, SPIT FIRE, YELL AT CLOUDS, sing dumb songs, and thrash life. This one’s for you, Tommy. I hope you’re out there, fucking shit up in the ether.
It’s been six years since I painted “Run Free” and wrote those passages. Looking back at it today as I finally write a statement to accompany the painting, I can’t help but think of my friend, Steph, who just died. I didn’t cry right when I found out she was gone, but I did cry when I woke up the next morning, thinking about how trapped and hopeless she must have felt. We’d not been in regular contact for a while but she was important enough to me that – had I known how close to the edge she was – I’d have told her, “If you don’t want to go back to Jacksonville – fuck it – come here. You can stay with me. Or just try something – anything – different from what you’re doing now.
Could I have fixed her? No. But we could’ve spent time together. We could’ve laughed. And maybe she’d have seen that things weren’t so bad outside of the shitty little world she’d constructed around herself back in New Orleans. Maybe she’d have found it in her to build something new.
Life is hard enough for anyone, but when you don’t believe in anything and you’re miserable, it’s pretty tough to justify not killing yourself via overdose (intentional or not) – or even arguing to a suicidal friend that they wouldn’t be better off dead. But life can also be pretty great every now and then. Being in love. Genuine, caught-off-guard laughter. Even just seeing something that reminds you of someone you care about. Mischief. PUNK ROCK. Setting a goal and meeting or exceeding it. Making something that’s meaningful to you and then OTHER PEOPLE TELLING YOU IT’S ALSO MEANINGFUL TO THEM. Shit – last night I posted my first TikTok video that actually seemed to get some attention from strangers who are now following me.
Some of these things (okay – mostly that last one) are pretty trivial. But they’re also ENERGIZING. They FEEL GOOD. Even with friends dying, and some girl breaking my stupid fucking heart, and feeling lonely (and like a 38 year-old fuck-up who’s starting from scratch again, barely able to support himself, AND (so far) NOT SELLING ANYWHERE NEAR AS MANY PRINTS FROM MY FRESHLY LAUNCHED WEBSTORE AS I’D HOPED).
If we don’t know what the alternative is – and if it may well be simply ceasing to exist, why not try to make the most of the time we do have? What do we have to lose?
And what can we do to honor the people we’ve lost?
Not much. But we can live in ways that would make them smile if they could only see us. And maybe they can. (Probably they can’t). But LET’S JUST SAY THEY CAN and do it anyway. If nothing else, it’ll make it easier for us to keep going. And we might as well. Those little moments and good feelings are worth living for.
Being a commission, this painting is already sold, but 16×12-inch prints are available (and BEAUTIFUL) in my new webstore. And if you’d like to commission your very own original painting, I would (of course) love to hear from you.
Your support (sharing/reposting, buying, whatever) means everything to me. Thanks for reading.
“She’s Cut with Xylazine” 9/29/2024. Acrylic paint. 24×20″.
My next painting was “pre-purchased” before it was started. The only request was “could it please be one of the journal heavy paintings?” That was a bit of a problem. My journals from August are so boring. I was really happy and complacent. They are not interesting. Really just a collection of “here’s what I did today” entries. Because “she” and I were spending every day together. She’d signed a lease on a studio apartment just one block from mine. I’d held to the idea that we shouldn’t move in together right away. That we should take it a little more slowly and cautiously. But we were having such a great time together. Even when my grandpa was in the hospital, she came with me every single day and was so good and kind and supportive. Two days before she was set to move in, I asked, “how often are we gonna do overnights together?” “Every night,” she said. I still thought it was important that we have our own apartments, but why wouldn’t I want to go to sleep every night and wake up every morning next to her? That she wanted the same made me very happy.
She’d always been the partner in the relationship who loved more. She was more in love with me than I with her. But she was so insecure when we met that she never really let me fall all the way in love with her. And then I was on drugs. Our relationship dynamic was a natural consequence of those two things. But now, totally clean, I was excited to be equally in love with her and not take her for granted at all. It made me very happy to show someone that kind of love.
The day before her move she said she was scared. I’ll cut to the chase. She didn’t move. And then she changed her mind. And then she changed her mind about changing her mind. And that cycle went on until the apartment was gone and she’d burned through all the money that’d been set aside for her move. She was stuck and I was tired of being dicked around. I blocked her number. (This is the very short version. What she actually put me through after the first failure-to-move was both agonizing and agonizingly drawn out).
My painting would get PLENTY of journals now.
I know it makes me sound like a FUCKING PSYCHOPATH but it makes me ANGRY that we’re not together.
SO MANY lost experiences that should have been shared. [Every time I see something that makes me smile, I want her to be there with me – or I at least want to tell her about it. I want those to be her smiles too. But she’s out of the picture now. We don’t share anything].
A friend of mine died this week.
Her circumstances were remarkably similar to this person I’m writing about. Trapped in a bad situation. Paralyzed by fear. Using substances incredibly recklessly to cope. When she could have just walked away. But she didn’t want to admit defeat. She’d tried a new kind of relationship – if she broke up and moved out, it would be another failure. (SO WORRIED about how other people see us, ready to literally die first; talk about tragic and pointless).
I was talking to another friend after we learned of the death. She was having a hard time but said it was made easier by the fact that people in her life depend on her. “Gotta keep going for them. Simple as that.” It reminded me very much of where this next journal (written a couple weeks ago) goes.
I’m not trying to be all melo-fucking-dramatic but what’s the point? What good reason is there to not kill myself? [It’s so hard to even get my thoughts in the right order].
I know she loves me and yet we’re not together. I know I make her happy in a way no one else ever has or maybe ever could. And she makes me happy.
The thought of even trying to find someone else seems so fucking stupid. How could I ever love anyone else as much as I love her?
She will come back to me eventually but can I even take her back then? If I let her take me for granted, she will take me for granted. And it won’t
work out. She’ll never be happy in a relationship where she feels like she has all the power, or where her actions don’t have consequences. Is she too broken for it to even work out anyway?
I’m not sure there’s anything in the world that I love doing enough purely for its own sake that it’s enough to make me happy without her. Making art makes me happy but not enough that…
FUCK! I’m so lost.
If I’m with her, I have the drive to be more successful. If I’m not with her, I need the drive to be more successful or else I’ll never be happy.
If I have her, I’m willing to do what I need to do to make money off my art more aggressively. Because then it’s for something. But if it’s me alone, who cares about making any more than I need to live?
It hurts to love someone so much and not be able to have them. I made it too easy for her. Maybe disconnecting is what I needed to do to get through to her. That feels like a “game” but maybe that’s what it takes with her.
What I need to do is just be patient, let whatever happens happen, not stress about her or about not being in a relationship, and just do my best whether it’s for her, someone I don’t know yet, or [duh] myself. It’s just so hard to be totally self-motivated AND – let’s face it – I’m just always starved for love, attention, and validation.
The next section of text in the painting is the “untitled prose poem” that I shared last month. It’s heavy on the kind of SALACIOUS stuff that generates clicks. It’s also really honest because it wasn’t written with a mind of it ever having an audience. It was maybe a letter that I was going to send, maybe just for myself. Click this link and it’ll open in a new window. Then you can come back here.
My dreamgirl versus THE LIE SPIDER…
“My dreamgirl” is a phrase I used in a letter I wrote to her. I’m not going to share it here (because it was private and) because I don’t want to romanticize this relationship right now. And – at the risk of TOOTING MY OWN HORN – the letter is VERY romantic) “I read it everyday,” she once told me.
BUT… (next journal from the painting):
Maybe I’m not in love with you. Maybe I’m just in love with the idealized version I have of you in my head. Maybe I shouldn’t have to make so many excuses for you. Maybe the fact that all of this is so “complicated” and requires so many explanations to make sense – maybe that tells me everything I need to know. Maybe I should believe you when you show me who you are. Maybe actions speak louder than words. I like to pride myself on my ability to see through your lies and get the truth out of you, but maybe I’m still not getting the whole truth. Maybe you’re just as dishonest with me as you are with him and I’m a bigger sucker than I realize. I don’t really think that’s true but it’s probably more true than I want to believe. You didn’t earn your nickname for nothing. You are the LIE SPIDER.
And she really is. The nickname goes way back. It wasn’t even really derogatory, just matter-of-fact. Because she will lie about anything. She will lie when the truth is fine. And then she has to tell another lie to cover the first lie. And then another. And eventually there’s a whole complicated web of lies to keep track of. “You are a lie SPIDER,” I’d once told her in a moment of (good-natured but nevertheless) exasperation. The name stuck because it would earn its relevance again and again with every new web of lies.
I was thinking about how much clean time I have now,
how little I’m tempted by drugs (not at all), and how this situation with her (everything before, plus now having her blocked from contacting me) was so much like a withdrawal. And how I was having such a hard time with it. How “relapse” was so tempting to me. I could easily have her back in the same way I’d had her before. She still wanted me. She just wasn’t willing to do what I needed her to do for her own sake – for her own well-being and happiness. But if I was okay with a sick girl, that was still on the table. But I don’t want a sick girl. I want a healthy, happy life with a healthy, happy partner. I started to journal about it when I hit on something.
She’s the drug I can’t stay away from.
I need to think of her like I’d think of heroin. I can’t afford to relapse. Just one time runs the risk of pulling me back in and starting the cycle all over again.
It’s easier staying clean now that heroin doesn’t exist anymore and all the fentanyl is cut with xylazine. Shooting up isn’t comforting in the way it used to be. It’s not the easy, stressless escape that she still is. I still love the way she makes me feel. Ooooo – shit. But that’s the thing. I love the way she used to make me feel – or could make me feel IN THEORY. But the reality of the situation is that she’s so broken right now that she just makes a mess of everything and leaves me feeling worse. Just like the drugs would. It’s like SHE’S CUT WITH XYLAZINE. She’s THE GIRL CUT WITH XYLAZINE. She’s necrotic.
God damn – that’s a PERFECT metaphor. “Until they get the xylazine out” (of her), she’s too overloaded with poison to serve any purpose. She should be avoided at all costs. No good can come from her.
[Very quickly, xylazine is an inexpensive veterinary tranquilizer mixed (or cut) into opiates to increase volume and, consequently, profit. It doesn’t provide a euphoric high; it simply knocks the user out. The real issue though is that it rots the skin off your fucking body. Xylazine has completely infected America’s illicit opiate supply].
That really crystallized it for me.
For the next week, I was able to focus entirely on my work, get a ton done, and just generally be in a better mood. The drugs I was addicted to don’t exist in the same way anymore. And the girl I was in love with doesn’t exist in the same way anymore.
That said, I’m not gonna pretend that I’ve totally gotten her off my mind (in the way I have with drugs) or that I don’t still secretly hope that something will change and she’ll become “xylazine-free,” but – at least until that happens – it’s made it much easier to not be consumed by her or to get pulled back in to her shitty cycles of destruction.
Part of me still feels like I need to be there for her. I really do worry that she may die. But I did everything I could to try to help her. And she wasted my efforts and thenI did it again. And again. And again. If something happens, I’ll be fucking furious (and devastated) but not at myself. For me to continue trying right now would be insane. She’s got to want to get better herself. She’s got to take at least one step on her own. And I’m not saying what would or wouldn’t happen at that point or what I would or wouldn’t do, but that doesn’t matter anyway. I. can’t waste my energy trying to predict or plan for something that’s totally out of my control (and may never happen). I can’t help someone who refuses to be helped. It’s not selfish to worry about, to prioritize me. To take care of me. (SOMEONE HAS TO). And the other people in my life that I care about. I’ve got enough on my plate without taking on XYLAZINE PROBLEMS.
Hey! I finally set up a webstore to sell prints! You can buy your very own 14×11-inch “She’s Cut with Xylazine” print today! Not only will you get a beautiful, provocative piece of art for your home, but I’ll get to continue sleeping indoors!
Thanks so much to everyone who supports my work. Whether you buy, share on social media, drop a comment, or even just take the time to read this stuff, I can’t express how much it means to me. I couldn’t do this in a vacuum. You all are what keep me going.
And speaking of “keep me going,” I now have FIVE MONTHS CLEAN off any/everything again! Time flies when you’re an emotional basket case!
The painting, “Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” is about two friends throwing caution to the wind and making the most of life by focusing on what really matters to them. The story of the painting – as a physical object – takes a darker turn, rife with petty, interpersonal drama. If you’re not interested in that and just want the good stuff, I’ve rigged this page to let you skip past the behind-the-scenes hurt feelings and just get to the painting and its positive message.
Origin
One of my (oldest and very best) friend’s girlfriend hit me up to commission a painting. The two of them were moving in together and she wanted to give it to him as a surprise housewarming gift. She paid for it, I set to work, and – before I finished – he dumped her because he’s afraid of commitment. I asked her what I should do with the painting once finished. She said to just go ahead and give it to him anyway.
Before that would happen, he tried to get her to take him back (even though this was the second time he’d dumped her for no good reason). This time she said no. He was devastated even though – again – HE WAS THE ONE WHO DUMPED HER.
His ex had chosen this gift because of how much he loved my art. Seeing as it no longer needed to be a surprise, I figured I could cheer him up a little by telling him about it.
And he said that he was too heartbroken to want to hang it on his wall because it would remind him of her and upset him.
That hurt my feelings pretty badly. He’d bought some of my prints before and some of my less expensive drawings, but now he was finally going to have his own original Sammy thrashLife PAINTING (for free!) and he… didn’t want it?
Abandonment
“Dude – how about instead of thinking of her when you look at it, you think of ME, YOUR BEST FRIEND. WHO PAINTED THIS ESPECIALLY FOR YOU.”
“No” he told me. “It’s too painful; it’ll just remind me of her.”
I tried to talk sense to him. Reminded him that, in a few months, he wouldn’t give a shit about this girl anymore – that there’d be another girl for him to take for granted – BUT THAT THIS PAINTING WOULD BE HIS FOREVER. Not only as something to enjoy on the wall (simply because he likes my artwork) but as a reminder of our decades-long friendship.
Nope. Unconvinced. He didn’t want it. And, again, I can’t stress how much this hurt my feelings. But I stopped arguing and just accepted it. And then was in no rush to finish it because… well, why would I be now? And then I relapsed and stopped painting for a long time anyway.
Time passes
A year or so later, I got clean for a minute and finally finished. He was still living on the other side of the country (as he had been for many years) but was in town visiting so I brought it up with him again and – yes – now he did want it. But he was moving back here soon so – rather than take it back across the country with him, only to have to move it down with the rest of his stuff in a month, he’d just get it from me once he returned.
In the years since he’d moved away, every time he came to visit, we’d met up as soon as his plane landed and only split back up when he was on his way back to the airport.
But when he moved back, I barely heard from him. We kept sort of making plans but it just kept not happening. Considering how much time we’d spent together and how well we’d gotten along every time he’d visited (most recently, just a month prior) it was pretty strange.
A few years have passed now and I could probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve hung out since then. Even though we live five minutes away from each other.
Two sides to every story (this is my side)
I don’t wanna talk shit but the simple truth is we’re not really friends anymore and he’s not really the same person any more. His priorities have changed, his taste in music has changed, his politics have changed, his whole worldview and ideology have changed. We don’t really have anything in common anymore. Just one example: those “stupid dreams” of ours that this painting is about? He gave up on his. Which – as I acknowledge in the text on the canvas – is fine in/of itself. It’s the reasons he gave up on it – which are also pretty emblematic of why we don’t get along anymore.
Initially, I thought maybe he’d come around some day. After all, we went through something similar twenty years ago when he had an identity crisis at the end of our teenage years and decided that he no longer liked everything he’d loved and identified with (and shared in common with me). But a couple years later, his crisis ended and he was himself again. I thought maybe this was just “round 2” of that – a mid-life crisis of sorts. But it’s been four years and it’s starting to seem like less of an identity crisis than maybe just that he never really had an identity to begin with.
Rant
Call me crazy but I feel like there are core elements of who each of us is as a person that shouldn’t really change. Or maybe I’m just a “stupid kid” who never grew up. I’m pretty sure that’s how he would describe me at this point. But you know what? I’d rather be a stupid kid with a stupid dream, scrappin’ my way through life, doing what I love than [allow me to role play for a moment] an “adult” working a shit job and making monthly payments on my status symbol car – that I only have so I can condescend to people about “work ethic,” “growing up,” and how anyone living in poverty “just isn’t trying hard enough” (while seemingly overlooking the fact that even I’m selling coke on the side just to afford my performativelifestyle – totally oblivious to what would happen if I got arrested and how much that would complicate everything – and how that’s exactly what’s happened to thousands before me – people with far fewer options than my privileged ass had (and how maybe poverty isn’t just a question of effort)).
I’m getting a little bogged down in the minutiae of what I don’t love about this guy’s transformation… What I’m saying is he’s not someone I relate to anymore. I don’t understand him anymore. I miss my friend. The one who teared up when he finally did see this painting for the first time because it expressed a sentiment he still understood then.
The actual text in the painting
Trying to make it in/as a pop punk band in 2019, as an artist at any time, or even just trying to forge a REAL, EMOTIONAL CONNECTION WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING (okay, I’m only half-joking about that last one) – it wouldn’t be unfair to say that you’d have to be pretty dumb to (1) believe that any of these were even potentially worthwhile endeavors or (2) to shape your life toward the achievement of such a goal. After all…
Q: What’re the odds that any of these things could possibly pan out at all, let alone in any lasting, long-term sense?
A: NOT GOOD.
But here we are, at it all the same. IT’S PROBABLY NOT GOING TO WORK OUT. There may well come a day when we’re forced to accept that it’s just not gonna happen for us. A day when we have to give up, scrap the dream, and just move on. And you know what? That’s okay. ‘Cause – in the meantime – here we are: taking aim, firing shots, and doing the shit we love. We deal with rejection, frustration, doubt, and more. But we also have fun. We get the highs and the lows. We’ve had more wild experiences and adventures than most people will ever even read about. And our shit’s real and it’s ours. We did it. Whatever happens, we’ve ALREADY WON. You can put that shit on my tombstone ‘cause, even if I die tonight, I’ll know I made it count.
“Stupid Kids With Stupid Dreams” 6/27/20. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.
Reflecting
I don’t feel great about the blog entry for this (one of my more positive paintings) being so focused on something negative – especially considering that quite a bit of my recent work has at least partly been in a similar vein. But life can’t always be rainbows and puppy dogs. Still,I know that I need to watch myself because it’s not a great sign for my mental health that I’ve been uncharacteristically preoccupied with interpersonal strife. Anger, spite, resentment – these things aren’t good for me. And (if I can be psychologically vain for a moment) they don’t look good on me either. This turmoil and drama isn’t reflective of the person I see myself as or want to be seen as.
Which isn’t to say that anything I’ve written isn’t true. But the fact that I’m focusing my energy on those things instead of something more positive – that’s the problem. Everyone has bad experiences; everyone has friendships that fall apart. Writing about those things isn’t bad in itself; I just know that if I were happier, I would be less inclined to write about them and – even when I did – I’d filter them through a more constructive lens and finish with a more uplifting conclusion. But even that awareness is a good sign. I’m grateful that I’m still well enough to at least recognize what’s going on. And these kinds of acknowledgments are good first steps in a better direction.
Anyway – about the painting (WHICH IS ITSELF VERY POSITIVE AND UPLIFTING AND FULL OF LIGHT), unclaimed as it is – I’ve got it on my wall until I find a buyer that’ll appreciate it. LET ME KNOW IF THAT’S YOU! I’ve also got 12×12-inch prints of it (as always, hand-numbered and signed by yours truly). Pick one up if you wanna support a stupid kid with a stupid dream.
“Common Denominator.” 8/12/24. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 8×10″.
We all know people who refuse to take responsibility for their problems. Anything wrong is always someone else’s fault. I don’t think I’m guilty of this, but a recent set of incidents gave me cause to reflect.
Two spats with friends but, in both cases, I was confident I’d done nothing wrong. When CONFLICT #3 happened though, I knew I needed to examine my part in it. After all, I’m the COMMON DENOMINATOR. It must be my fault, right?
And, generally speaking – usually – I think that’s true. If a person is repeatedly having the same issue with different people, it’d be pretty unbelievable if they weren’t responsible for those issues. So I set my hurt feelings and anger aside for a moment and went back over everything that had happened. But I couldn’t get there. I genuinely didn’t believe that my actions were the root cause of the problem. “Y’know what the real common denominator is here?” I thought to myself, “It’s that these people are immature, insecure fucking diaper babies, incapable of having a conversation about their feelings and actually working through (something that shouldn’t even be) a problem.”
That felt pretty shallow though (TRUE AS IT MAY BE) – to be placing the blame in that way. It also wasn’t lost on me that if my friends suck, that definitely says something about me as much as it does them.
It’s long been a point of pride that I have so many, decades-long friendships. I felt it spoke to my character that I maintained so many relationships for so long. But there’s a reason that’s uncommon. Human beings aren’t really capable of maintaining deep, meaningful relationships with too many people. We’re lucky if we can manage as much with our family, a partner, and maybe a friend or two. No matter whatFacebook tells you, no one has hundreds or even a dozen friends. What we actually have is friendly acquaintances. People we have affection for but aren’t consistently, intimately involved with. We might be there for one another when needed, but until those moments happen, we’re just hanging out. It’s not very deep.
My problem was that I’d confused acquaintances for friends. We’ve been on good terms for decades but we don’t really know each other. We’re not committed to one another’s well-being in any serious way. I’d presumed an understanding of one another, thought we had shared values, and expected them to behave consistently with those values. I treated these people as I would treat actual friends and made the mistake of expecting that they would do the same. That’s on me.
Real friendships aren’t unlike marriages; they’re tested by conflict and are only as meaningful as their commitmentto finding solutions. If someone doesn’t care enough to resolve a problem (or doesn’t have the emotional maturity to) that makes for a weak relationship and not much of a friendship.
Friendly acquaintances can be fun, rewarding, and even ultimately become real friendships. But unless one does, I need to keep it in the proper perspective and not be emotionally invested in something shallow. I’m grateful for the meaningful relationships I do have – which are more than enough to occupy my attention and energy.
Hey, YOU! I count on your support! The original “Common Denominator” painting has already been sold but limited-edition 8×10” prints are available for purchase. As always, each one is beautifully-packaged, hand-numbered, and personally signed by YOURS TRULY. Buy one and help KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE.
If you haven’t yet read my SALACIOUS prose poem from a week or so ago (OR EVEN IF YOU HAVE), because it wasn’t already embarrassing enough, I made it into a video. And because THAT’s not embarrassing enough, I specifically made it into a TIK TOK video. Go watch it. And follow me on there. My understanding is that that’s where all the KIDS AND MONEY are these days, so I need to build a FOLLOWING.
Have you been following me for YEARS and long for the days when even my old, terrible work was easily accessible?! Have you discovered me recently and want to see just how embarrassing my early stuff is?!
WELL HAVE I GOT NEWS FOR YOU!
The sole purpose of this post is to link to a special, unlisted page that I set up to feature all of my [let’s call them] B-SIDES.
I wrote a stream-of-consciousness prose poem. It doesn’t have a title. It may or may not find its way into the painting I’m working on right now. It’s about the girl who says she can’t live without me – and the guy that she rebounded with when we broke up – who she’s still living with because she’s too piss-scared of change to crawl out of her rut.
If you’re going to cling to a safety net Could you at least choose one that’s less pathetic? A chronic masturbator, jerking off in his car Into socks that he lets pile up in the back seat…
I know you like having someone you know will never leave you Or hold you accountable for anything But how about a chronic masturbator who jerks off into tissues that he throws away?
‘Cause it’s embarrassing having to try to explain Why we’re not together Even though you’re in love with me That this is a tough choice for you DOES NOT REFLECT WELL ON ME
I think you’re afraid to be in a healthy relationship Which is why you never leave the bad ones I know you’ll try to come back to me (Because you’re still trying) But I know you’ll try harder You will eventually make a real effort But even if I took you back for real And we made a real go of it I don’t think you’d stick around Because you wouldn’t be comfortable With someone who makes you happy With someone you like fucking With someone who loves you And dotes on you You’re too used to neglect And alienation And watching TV on separate couches And sleeping in the same bed Without ever making physical contact
It breaks my fucking heart How scared you are How broken you are How much fun we have How much love we have Until you self-sabotage So I pull back And you go back To living alone In a house with someone else Where you drink And cry And are always sick And never happy Until we reconnect again And you start to heal And start to love And start to smile And laugh And everyone can see how happy you are And how in love we are Until you fuck it up all over again And the cycle goes on
I’m too old now To be wasting time repeating the same mistakes I’m ready to be happy It breaks my heart That it won’t be with you
Because you’re everything I want You’re my dream girl I can’t imagine Being more attracted to Having more fun with Having better sex with Sharing more love with Anyone else You’re perfect Except for that one little thing Inside of your brain That nullifies everything else That makes it all worthless Because it’ll never work Because you’re too afraid to just let yourself be happy
And you hate yourself so much You can’t believe anyone could really love you Unless there’s something wrong with them So you stay stuck in your rut With someone that you know you at least have control over Because he’s the personification of a wet paper bag Except that wet paper bags Don’t get drunk and watch Andrew Tate videos Or have a dozen jizz-crusted socks in the backseat of their car You can cheat on him (And show him videos of you cheating on him) Show him what it looks like when you’re with someone else Who you actually love And actually fuck And enjoy it You can scream at him You can say awful things to cut him down To make him feel totally worthless You can be cruel Because you resent him Because he doesn’t make you happy And he’ll just take it And resent you But never leave Just sulk And get drunk And text you Andrew Tate videos
That’s the life you’re choosing That’s what you’re afraid to let go It’s a tragedy A genuine fucking tragedy Because unlike the movies This won’t have a happy ending Unless you make it happen And I don’t think you can
Update from two days later (Tue, Sep 10): The same day that I wrote this (but before I’d posted it) I got a phone call from someone on this girl’s behalf. I was told that she’d been looking at keepsakes of her father (who died a little over a year ago) and had come to the realization that she didn’t want to waste one more single day of her life living without me. I was asked to please call her and hear her out. I was skeptical when she gave me all the usual lines. She was going to officially break it off with that guy and let him know that she was moving out at the end of the month. She also told me she’d already found a couple of prospective apartments. She begged me to believe her and give her another shot. I told that, frankly, I didn’t believe her but that she could come over. So that night, she asked me to pick her up. When I told her I was outside, she told her sockboy (actually, we usually call him “Lumpy” but his real name is Brett) that she was going to the kitchen for a glass of water, but instead came out and got in the car. She stayed the night and – when I dropped her back off the next day – she said she was gonna tell Lumpy the truth about everything when he got home from work and that she’d call me the next morning to come pick her up so we could spend the day together.
Instead, she texted me just to say, “I’m an idiot.” I called to ask what that meant (as if I didn’t already know) and she said that she’d only gotten as far into the conversation with Lumpy to say that things weren’t working out, but hadn’t been able to muster the courage to tell him the full truth about her and I, or that she was planning on moving out. I asked if she was still planning on moving out and – oh so predictably – she said she didn’t know. Said she needed “time” to figure it out. Even though I had already been giving her all the time and space in the world and she reached out to me (as always) to once more say she was certain now.
So I’m cutting off communication again. And hoping that’s the last time I get dragged through that same cycle. I could make excuses for why I keep letting it happen or explain what I think needs to happen for me to stop but I’ll just leave it at that for now.
Oh, wait – one more thing. Remember the part where I mentioned that she sent Lumpy a video of me fucking her in order to hurt his feelings? While drunk, he told her that he had kept the video. Because he jerks off to it. Probably while sitting in his car. Into a sock. That’s probably still lying in his back seat. What a champ. Cheers, Brett Riddick. Or Reddick. Or whatever the fuck your name is. If anyone ever has cause to Google your name one day, I hope they find this page.
SECOND UPDATE!: This poem is now also a TikTok video because 🤪.
