She’s Cut with Xylazine

October 4, 2024

“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 then I 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.

all images on the site are fairly low-res but click/tap for a larger image with somewhat clearer details. for a truly high-resolution image, BUY THE PRINT 😜


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!

Toxic grey dope and spraying morphine up the butts of loved ones

August 19, 2017

I’m not even getting high. Either my tolerance is too high or the dope in this town is too shitty. For a while there, I was getting shit ten times better than anything else I’ve found in Jacksonville but that shit hit me less and less as my tolerance went up and, once the package ran out, the dealers behind it re-upped with this dark grey garbage. Not only do I have to do a shit ton to feel anything but it doesn’t even feel like a heroin high. It’s closer to a Dilaudid high but not as pleasant. There’s absolutely no euphoria, just a strange tight sensation in my skull and my jaw, coupled with light-headedness and – yeah – its one positive attribute is that I can fall asleep after I shoot enough of it. But that’s leaving out the worst part. Anytime I’ve done a shot that was strong enough to feel – before those slightly positive effects kick in – there’s another set of sensations that storms across my body. As the blood flows up my arm back to my heart and is pumped out to the rest of my body, I start to itch. Not an acceptable heroin itch but what morphs into an intense burning sensation. It hurts. Badly. It starts in my head and my chest and spreads to my hands and sometimes my feet. It is, to say the least, unpleasant. The only thing I can compare it to is liquid non-injectable morphine, intended for oral consumption. Like many drugs that are NOT formulated for injection, it fucking hurts if you inject it. (And – to those of you that found this page because you’re Googling, “Can I inject liquid morphine?” The answer is “Yes, but it will hurt and there’s no fucking way you’re going to find a syringe big enough to inject enough in a single hit to stand any chance of actually getting high. So don’t do it. Drink it or have a loved one fill their mouth and spray it up your butthole with a straw; it’s not strong stuff and the bioavailability is highest when absorbed – um – you know… through the butt).

And here I was thinking that I’m of no use to anyone ever since I fell off, started using again, stopped producing anything of any value, and went from aspirational figure to cautionary tale. But here I am, educating the masses on anal morphine.

So where was I? The grey dope. It was awful. It hurt to inject it. And no one seemed to be able to find anything that was any better.

Fuck this. I can’t fucking take it anymore. I quit. I’m not playing this game. I’m not going to struggle to scrape up hundreds of dollars everyday just to feel sort of okay and keep myself from going into withdrawal.

Hey, withdrawal! Come on, let’s go. Bring it on. I’m ready for you.

I didn’t shoot any more dope that day. I felt fine. The dope was still in my system. It’s not unusual for me to be able to go 24 hours before the withdrawal symptoms start.

I didn’t shoot any more dope the next day. I still felt… mostly fine. It was strange that I hadn’t started withdrawal but…

I didn’t shoot any dope the next day. And still I was fine! If you’ve got a dope habit, you’re going to start experiencing withdrawal within 48 hours of quitting. It’s the same with virtually ever opiate and opioid. Three days off dope without consequences didn’t make any sense.

Day Four: STILL NO WITHDRAWAL. Alright, so it’s clear what’s happening, I said to myself. I thought I wasn’t getting high because my tolerance was through the roof. In reality, I must have been getting dope of gradually decreasing strength/quality. Wow. I had weened myself off of heroin already without even realizing it. I had been shooting fucking dust for who knows how long. After all, if there was any dope in the shit I had been shooting up, I’d have quite a tolerance and dependence and be SICK AS FUCK right now.

On the fifth day, I finally got out of bed, fully confident that I could face the day without getting sick. I showered, dressed, and walked outside. It was hot and it was miserable but I was really doing it. I was facing the world again. It had been quite a fucking while. I felt good about myself. As I walked to nowhere in particular, I thought about the things I needed to do to get my life straight. I’d need to hire a lawyer to get my current legal situation sorted out (did you guys know I’m currently wanted by the police? Hooray!), I’d need to start making art again or else find a real fucking job…. two prospects that were equally disheartening given my fears about my sparkling internet reputation these days. No one is ever gonna hire me, I thought. No one is ever gonna wanna host an exhibition of my art at their gallery. I’m fucked no matter what I do. I’m fucking hopeless. I suddenly remembered why I’ve spent the last year and a half in a dark room with a needle, and I was defeated. I broke down into tears. Getting clean was the easy part (especially this time). But what the fuck am I gonna do even if I am clean? What’s the point of getting clean? I have nothing to live for. Half of the world wants me dead because they think I’m a fucking rapist and while they’re wrong about why I should kill myself, I still agree that their final conclusion is ultimately correct.

I went back home to Wallis who suggested that I take a Suboxone. It’s primarily used to treat the physical symptoms of opioid withdrawal but it certainly helps with the mental/emotional symptoms as well.

Now, here’s the thing: When taken orally as intended, the only active ingredient in Suboxone is buprenorphine – a “partial opioid agonist.” The “agonist” part means is that it interacts with the same receptors in your brain as heroin and other opiates. “Partial” means that it’s not going to interact to the same extent as heroin (a “full agonist”) so it’ll keep you from going into withdrawal if you’re heroin-dependent, but it won’t get you high. Here’s the problem with Suboxone: the buprenorphine doesn’t just crowd around the receptors of your brain alongside the other opiates that are already hanging out there; it kicks the rest of them out of the fucking party. For this reason, an addict needs to wait 24-48 hours after their last hit of heroin, when the withdrawal is already starting, before Suboxone can be safely taken. If taken before the heroin has begun to abandon your body’s opiate receptors, rather than gently transitioning your body off of heroin and onto buprenorphine (and thus relieving most symptoms of opiate withdrawal) the Suboxone kicks the other opiates to the curb and – by itself, at this early stage in the game – is insufficient to keep withdrawal symptoms at bay. Worse still, it doesn’t just fail to alleviate withdrawal, it actually kicks your body into a state known as “precipitated withdrawal,” which for all intents and purposes, could more accurately be described as “SUPER KICK YOUR ASS MAKE YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE THIS IS THE WORST PAIN I’VE EVER FELT WITHDRAWAL.”

But this wasn’t an issue for me, you see. I was already five days clean off dope. 24-48 hours? I scoff at your 48 hours, I’ve got over a HUNDRED. At this point, not only is it safe to take Suboxone but I might even be able to catch just the slightest buzz off of it. If nothing else, it’s going to trigger the same chemicals in my brain (most notably dopamine) as the heroin was and it’s going to help me to stop fucking crying. It’s gonna make me feel better.

I put the strip of Suboxone under my tongue and crawled back into bed to let it dissolve and comfort me. Only… I wasn’t starting to feel any better. Shit, I actually feel a little worse. And wait… what’s that familiar creeping sensation… that mentholated feeling coming over my body that I’ve only felt twice before in my life….

Oh fuck… my body is falling into precipitated withdrawal. FUCK.

Buckets of sweat began flowing from my body. I was freezing cold and simultaneously burning up. My stomach is in knots. I can’t fucking move. Everything hurts.

Now, I’m not gonna play this shit up worse than it was. Of my three episodes of precipitated withdrawal, this one was the least severe. The worst of the symptoms – when your body evacuates every last particle of waste from your dilated asshole – only to then continue with buckets of water until you’re absolutely emergency-room-level dehydrated – and for the coup de grace, some kind of bilious liquid that burns as it squirts and drops incessantly from your asshole over the course of the next two hours – I didn’t experience that this time. I felt like it was coming all along but I clenched as tight as I could and was able to keep it at bay. The same went for vomiting. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to throw up but I kept my throat clenched, knowing that if I started throwing up, I’d likely be unable to stop for some time. Even still, I was not well and it wasn’t long before I had Wallis dial up a familiar number for me so that I could politely request that someone bring me some of that awful dark grey garbage that I had so recently decided was as benign and impotent as sand.

After enough time had passed and I had injected enough of that dark grey poison, I started to feel better and began considering just exactly what the fuck had just happened to me.

And here’s the conclusion I’ve reached, boys and girls: There are all kinds of opiates, both natural and synthetic (opioids), under the sun. Virtually all of them share one thing in common though: the speed at which they depart they body. It’s true that some may take a little longer than heroin (and some take a little less time) but they’re all pretty close, with one exception: methadone. Methadone doesn’t begin to take off until 5 to 7 days after an addict’s last dose. However, in this glorious digital age, we’re no longer limited to the opioids of our parents’ generation. On the other side of the Pacific Ocean, kids are playing with chemicals and – essentially – inventing new opioids, to sell on the streets as a cheaper alternative to heroin. Some of these could theoretically be more analogous to methadone than they are to heroin. So, it seems that my dark grey garbage powder either contains methadone or else some other new toxic fucking opioid. I’ve taken methadone plenty of times but never had it in a concentrated powder formulation so I’m not sure if that’s absolutely what it is that I’ve been using. If anyone out there can tell me, does methadone BURN LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER when injected in high doses? If so, then it seems I’ve been injecting methadone. If it doesn’t, then I’m shooting up something else with a super long half-life. Something with some toxic non-injectable ingredient or cutting agent that makes my fucking blood hurt.

You know, from a capitalist point-of-view, this really is quite brilliant. A withdrawal that takes longer to start is also going to take longer to end. If you were a drug dealer, would you rather sell someone something that – if they stop taking it – it’s going to cause them pain for a week before they feel relatively okay? Or something that ensures it’ll be closer to two weeks (or possibly longer) before they’re in the clear? After all, the fact that one can go longer between shots on this stuff is of little consequence. Anyone that’s actively addicted and shooting up is always going to struggle to shoot up any less than “as often as possible.” It’s only when an addict tries to quit that the long half-life is of any benefit or consequence – but even then, it’s just delaying the inevitable and then stretching it out over a longer period of time.

So that’s where I’m at now. I’m back on my shitty dark grey dope, working up the courage to quit again, knowing that it’s going to be the most protracted detox of my life. I’ve got my reasons for holding off for now and not getting started just yet (and they’re nothing fucking positive) but I’m also starting to get ideas for how I might actually be able to have a life that I can stand one day (soon, I hope). I’ve got just a little bit of hope for the first time in a long time. And I’m writing honestly on my blog again, which is never a bad thing. It’s a good sign that I’m at least starting to feel a little bit like me again.

Anybody that’s got anything shitty to say about any of that can fuck right off. I know who I am, I know what I’m not, and if I’m gonna hate myself, it’s gonna be for the right fucking reasons. But I feel okay today. (Right now anyway). Oh – and for what it’s worth, I do have a pocket full of dope and I’ve been awake since 7AM, but I haven’t shot up since last night. Whether you think so or not, that’s pretty fucking good. I had things I wanted to do before I shot up and I’ve been doing them all day. I don’t care how petty or little it is, I’m proud knowing that it’s 3PM and I haven’t put a needle in my arm.

(Yet).

Give Up, Sniff Glue

December 16, 2013

It was my first expressive art therapy group after Tranquil Shores readmitted me. The theme was grief / loss… and I chose to paint a giant glue bottle, chasing down some kids, trying to get them to sniff him… (I had my reasons – and I’ll get to them, I promise). It was a scene I remembered from a cartoon we watched in fifth grade. It’s stuck with me not because it was effective but because it was so incredibly stupid and condescending – even to eleven year olds! We laughed through the whole thing. It was a big dumb joke.

"Give Up, Sniff Glue." 10/24/12. Watercolor, pencil, and pen. 12x18".
“Give Up, Sniff Glue.” 10/24/12. Watercolor, pencil, and pen. 12×18″.

Regarding anti-drug messages – in the short span between my discharge and return, I received some that were just slightly more powerful. I called a friend that had been my regular dealer whenever I was in Sarasota. She said she was in the hospital.  Chris and I picked up some things for her and went to visit. After a particularly strong shot of heroin, she had nodded out at the wheel and flipped/rolled her car. Her scalp was torn off, her teeth were knocked out, her neck was broken, and her body was filled with broken glass. She survived but it definitely didn’t seem to be a “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger situation.” What didn’t kill her left her a fragile mess, now forever at risk of paralysis or death.

Later that night, I saw something cryptic on Facebook that seemed to imply the death of my friend, Mitch. That familiar flood of panic and dread rose up through my body and swelled into my head. I called a mutual friend in Delray…

“Taylor?”
“Hi, Sam.”
I struggled to get the words out. “Is… um – is… is Mitch… ?”
“Yeah. He is.”

PHWOOSH.

(You know the feeling…)

I had only met Mitch nine months prior; he wasn’t my best or oldest friend. But we had been in the same “small group” at Wellness Resource Center and had gotten to know each other really well. I liked him a lot.  And there was another reason his death affected me as it did – a reason that didn’t really have anything to do with Mitch or my relationship with him, but that hit me on a really deep, personal level. I’ll save that for another time.

Drug addicts (particularly heroin addicts) die. And those that don’t – by virtue of their association with other addicts – get to witness a lot of death. But death isn’t the only kind of loss (it’s just the most permanent). I lost a lot in the midst of my addiction. A relationship with the girl I was about to propose to, my record label (which was sort of my whole fucking world), my integrity, and plenty of friends – to death and otherwise. So why was I sitting in expressive art therapy group (during grief/loss week), painting this stupid cartoon bottle of glue? I had my reasons, but I still felt pathetic.

I grew up as a snarky, cocky, little fuck. I had all the answers, I knew all the tricks, and I was always ready with the cynical, witty little quip. But now… now I had to be… something else. Desperation forced me into a corner where the only choices were to change everything or die. I was gonna have to look at the world with a new set of eyes and address it with a new tongue. If everything isn’t shit – and I’m not the shitty little kid – then what is it? And who am I?

The loss I was grappling with at that moment – and I mean really grappling with – was a loss of identity. Or a perceived loss of identity in any case. I was extremely grateful to have had the epiphany consequent to my discharge; I was really grateful to have been readmitted to Tranquil Shores. I was feeling upbeat, optimistic about the future, and sort of (dare I say) happy. And that was really fucking my shit up. I was friendly, and positive, and I felt like the biggest impostor on the planet. I wasn’t pretending, I wasn’t faking — but I felt like I must have been and I just didn’t know it.

At some point in that first week back, I actually asked everyone in group: “Be honest with me. Please. The way that I’ve been since I got back – positive, smiling, all that – does anyone think I’m full of shit? Like – does anyone suspect even a little bit that this is an act? You can tell me. I’m not gonna be upset.”

“Sam, there is one person who doesn’t believe you,” Tracy said.

I knew it! There was no way at least one of my peers hadn’t gone to a counselor to complain about the way I was acting. After all, this “transformation” was unbelievable! How could anyone buy into it? But was Tracy going to actually out this person? Unlikely but maybe this would goad them into coming forward themselves.

I nodded: “It’s okay, I understand absolutely.”

“It’s you, Sam. You’re the only one that doesn’t believe you.”

How did I not see that coming? I just kinda shook my head. “Okay. I guess if… I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Seriously though? Nobody else?”

Everyone assured me that they believed it and they were happy about it. Which was nice but didn’t totally squelch my skepticism. It was another couple months before I’d be able to really set it aside (and I still have little questions with myself every now and then) but I think that was the point when I was able to stop grieving the loss of my identity or (maybe) started to recognize that I hadn’t really lost anything after all. Nothing of value anyway.

I still get to play that snarky little character sometimes – he’s just less of an asshole than he used to be. (His jokes aren’t mean anymore). And I also get to play another character now: the kind, loving friend that actually gives a shit. I think I’ve struck a pretty good balance.

—–

One of the albums I released through Traffic Street Records was the first full-length by The Credentials. The first song in particulalar has meant (and continues to mean) a lot to me.

“Nice Girl / Coffee Shop” by The Credentials
Rolled down the footbridge, waited for the light
Like giving up on all my dreams or finding out a friend had died
It seems like anywhere I go from here won’t really take me anywhere.
Our fingertips are numbing from the cold and how we make it go away
The deafening silence, alone in our heads, won’t leave us alone
So we hope that our friends can relate to that feeling
That weight on your chest, walking back home across the turnpike again

I saw her standing there behind a counter across the street
I crumpled up a flier in disgust and in defeat
You see, I’m sick of knowing what it is I want out of this life – and fucking up While all these assholes mill around and can’t decide
Same old story, drunk and bored
We trudge on through the slush and stormy weather
Wishing superstitious fears would go follow someone else.

—–

—–

Get in touch if you’re interested in purchasing this painting (or a 9×12″ print).

Calvin’s Alprazolam

October 3, 2013

"Calvin's Alprazolam." 7/3/13. Graphic design. 4x2".
“Calvin’s Alprazolam.” 7/3/13. Graphic design. 4×2″.

I played Calvin Mather in the short film “No Real Than You Are.” During the four weeks I was in town to work on the movie, I tried to pitch in with whatever I could to be helpful. This is some of my “prop work”: a perfect replica of a Walgreens prescription label. Every detail is exactly as it would be if Calvin were… you know… not a character in a movie. That’s the address and phone number for the Walgreens closest to the address I chose for him (my last address before going to rehab in December 2011). It was a shitty little box of a studio apartment that had mushrooms growing out of the carpet. I pulled ’em out, sprayed fungicide and other assorted chemicals, but they’d always grow back. Eventually I relented and just accepted them as part of my home. I kinda liked ’em.

So while this isn’t anything like my usual “art,” I think it counts. I didn’t have a scanner so I had to create it from scratch – and everything is 100% dead on. (Go ahead! Pull out a prescription bottle from Walgreens and see how it measures up!)

Another project I did for the movie… The night before the filming of the first scene in which a character would be sniffing oxycodone, I found out that the powder the crew had been planning to use (instead of real drugs) wasn’t going to work. So Chris Spillane and I went to Walmart at 2am and bought vitamins, food dye, hose clamps, bowls, a lamp, and a lightbulb and cooked up a pile of “oxycodone” that looked extraordinarily like the real thing. Walmart probably gets its share of sketchy characters during the third shift, but I think Chris and I won the contest that night. We both had a pretty good time with the whole thing. I remember laughing a lot that night, especially while we were still in the store. Back at the apartment, I was reminded of being a seventeen year old drug dealer, cutting cocaine with vitamins and acetone.

A couple days later, when we ran out of the stuff and needed more, I had Chris – plus Tola and Alex (the production designer and leadman) – sitting on the floor in my apartment, grinding away at vitamins as I mixed, colored, and cooked them. It felt like I was actually running a fake drug manufacture scam!

I would have loved to have been the cashier that rang us up that night.
I would have loved to have been the cashier that rang us up.

I had to sleep with this light on all night so that it'd be ready to go in time for the shoot in the morning.
I had to sleep with the light on so our “drugs” would be ready for the shoot in the morning.

In case you’re wondering… while this is what went up the noses of the actors that sniffed “drugs,” it is not what my character was injecting whenever he did a shot. For that, I used blue Gatorade. While there were some concerns that injecting Gatorade might be dangerous… Back when I was shooting heroin everyday, I was pretty shiftless; if there was no water within reach but a bottle of Gatorade sitting next to me, I’d just put that in my spoon instead. Electrolytes are good for you, you guys.

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  • “No Real Than You Are” is currently raising money to help with the costs of post-production. If you’d like to contribute (or just watch the trailer), check out their Kickstarter page.

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Bent Outta Shape fans will probably enjoy that the RX# on Calvin’s prescription is telephone spelling for “IYDKMRNIGE.”

Still Sick (The Illest)

September 14, 2013

"Still Sick (The Illest)." 9/13/13. Marker and pen. 24x26".
“Still Sick (The Illest).” 9/13/13. Marker and pen. 24×36″.

Heroin is my drug of choice. While I’ve got a couple secondary DOCs, I’ve definitely never considered myself a “garbage can” addict (someone who will take anything at all to get any kind of fucked up). While I have a weird sort of pride about being a heroin addict, it’s only with some hesitancy that I’ll admit to ever having had any kinds of issues with alcohol or cocaine. I used to tease my friend Robin that – “while I’m glad to see you’re doing well, you probably need to go back out, hit bottom, and then come back if you actually wanna get better.” Because Robin’s DOC was crack – “not a real drug” (according to half-joking Sam).

So it’s really sort of embarrassing that I was as excited as I was yesterday when I bought OTC medicine for my cold symptoms. If there’s ever been any doubt in my mind about whether or not I’m really a drug addict, my excitement as I bought generic Nyquil yesterday ought to be all the indication I need to know that I am not like most people.

 

In so many ways, I feel like I’m just starting out – just starting to figure everything out. Myself, my life, what I want to do, how I want to do it. I feel like I’ve just recently started being me. This is my first large drawing (it’s two feet by three feet). Creating it was an interesting process and at so many different points, I felt myself being pulled in two different directions as to how I should proceed. Sometimes I want to push myself to try something new, sometimes I think I ought to stick with what makes my art look like my art.

The last thing I did was write in a sentence from the NA text that’s been in my head recently. “Although all addicts are basically the same in kind, we do, as individuals, differ in degree of sickness and rate of recovery.” I crossed it out. I wrote the word, “sick.” I crossed that out. I thought about what I wanted to do with the black bars where the words had been. I decided not to do anything with them.

 

Writing a statement about a piece, right when it’s done, is tricky sometimes. There are some other little things going on here, but I don’t know quite what to make of them yet. Thoughts about friendships, school, identity, and where I fit in.

The piece sold but limited edition hand-numbered and signed 12×18″ prints are still available. Hit me up if you’d like to purchase one.

Blow Bubbles! For Fun! (Not Strangers For Drug Money)

September 4, 2013

"Blow Bubbles!" 3//13/13. Crayon and digital. 8x10".
“Blow Bubbles!” 3//13/13. Crayon and digital. 8×10″.

In the last year, I learned to use art as a tool for emotional health. Since I’ve been out of treatment, I’ve been doing very well in that area. One area in which my counselor insists I need improvement is my social health.

One day, I accidentally went out to lunch with a group of people. I crept around until I found the restaurant’s stock of crayons and paper. I didn’t have anything in mind when I started (other than removing myself from the world around me so I wouldn’t have to interact awkwardly with other human beings) so I just chose a color that appealed to me and drew some shapes that I liked. At some point, I decided what the shapes were, added to them to form the image of a kid blowing a bubble, and then captioned it with the first thing that came to mind.

This little cartoon has no unique significance to me, but – like a lot of what I do – it’s evidence of how far I’ve come. Granted, one could suggest that – ideally – I wouldn’t feel the need to escape reality at all, but I think that drawing is a big step up from shooting heroin. And – while I can see some validity to the opposing point of view – I don’t think that social interaction is all that much more important than doing something that helps me feel productive and (in a very real sense) valuable.

For years, I’d wake up with a sigh, as I contemplated another day of being alive and – even worse – being me. Sometimes I create things that have deep meaning to me. Other times, I just draw little cartoons that I think are cute or clever and are little more than they appear. Both of these kinds of art are important because both are pieces of what makes me happy to be living and breathing as Sam North. A lot of people could do what I do, but a lot of people don’t. For whatever reason, I do – and that’s something I’ve been rewarded for in innumerable ways every day. What I once considered a terrible fate, I’m now incredibly grateful for. I’m pretty excited about being me. [written 5/29/13]

 8×10″ prints of this cartoon are available in my webstore.

 

Today, I went to Art Walk, a monthly event in downtown Jacksonville. People set up tables and sell art and other stuff they’ve made. Within minutes of arriving, a kid asked if he could give me a flier for a record store. I told him I’d trade him and handed him one of mine. And then we realized who we were. It was Josh from Dead Tank, one of the two kids in the area that I (met ten million years ago and) decided to email last month to find out about DIY shows/spaces in the area. Pretty excellent chance encounter.

From there, I just kind of poked around, scoping things out. (I sent in an application to be a participant, but it wasn’t in time for this month’s Art Walk). I met and talked to a few people though, awkwardly handed some strangers cartoons/fliers, and… then I rode home.

We’re Not Hiring

August 28, 2013

"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.

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