Some days, I feel like I have such a grip on my emotional well-being, that it’s maybe a little disingenuous to still promote my artwork as I do – like it’s the product of mental illness. Earlier today though, after becoming upset, hitting myself in the head twice, committing an act of vandalism, undoing it before anyone would notice, running off, pulling off the road to get out of my bus and journal on the side of the road, and then starting to cry… well – it just might be possible that I CONTINUE TO EARN the right to market myself as a fucking basketcase. There’s a lot more I could say about all that but I think it’s better left ’til it’s not so fresh.

I finished my newest painting on Sunday but, for today’s blog entry, I’m reaching WAY BACK to finally tell the story of one that I finished a decade ago. It’s one of those classic feel-good stories of self-destructive behavior, self-harm, compulsive sex, substance abuse, and criminal charges. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.

There are two blocks of text in this painting. One written before Wallis and I split up, one after. The first reads:

When I finished writing and crawled into bed with her, the bad feelings melted away in an instant. I had to wake her to tell her how much I loved her. She was sweet and affectionate and cuddly – nothing like the girl that had fallen asleep in that bed an hour prior. In the morning, she’d remember none of it. Turns out she’d stolen more Seroquel than I’d found. (Which explains how fucked up she was). I found a second razor on the floor, mangled. “What’s the story here?,” I asked as I displayed it. “Oh – I must have chewed it up, trying to get the blade out.” I guess that explains the blood in her mouth.

Wallis was a cutter. The worst I’ve ever known. If she drank too much, she’d get depressed, find a razor blade, and fuck her shit up. And not that straight across shit; I’m talking up-and-down vertical cuts on the wrists and arms. After one of those incidents, she’d agreed to quit drinking.  Shortly thereafter, we were in Miami and I dropped her off to spend the day with her mom. I knew her mom liked to drink so I called ahead and told her: “Wallis isn’t drinking right now. It’s been causing her serious problems. Please don’t encourage her to drink with you.” When I picked her up that night, she was drunk, which frustrated me but – she seemed okay, so I didn’t make a big thing out of it. I drove, she sat in the passenger seat and told me about her day. And then (I forget why, but) I turned on the dome light for a moment. I looked over and found that as she’d been casually telling me about her (admittedly, not wonderful) visit with her mom, Wallis was sitting there, blade in hand, quietly cutting away and fucking COVERED in her own blood. It was fucking brutal. Like, over-the-top horror movies levels of blood.

Even years later, I’ve heard Wallis describe the time we spent on the road together as the best part of her life and the most fun she ever had. I’d helped her get off hard drugs so she was clean for the first time in her adult life and we were traveling the country, chasing my art dreams, doing whatever the fuck we wanted. In spite of what I’ve just told you, it really was great a lot of the time. Just not all the time. In addition to the on/off drinking, she’d sometimes steal my psych meds for an extra buzz. I think there were two main issues that contributed to our problems.

(1) Our everyday lives revolved entirely around what was happening with me.¹ It was all about where I had exhibits and opportunities and making my career happen. We had a lot of fun but – a lot of the time – I was working/painting and she was just left to read or play on her phone or whatever she could do to occupy her time. We were constantly on the move so she couldn’t exactly get a job and, any place that we went, if she had friends, they were my friends first. It wasn’t really possible for her to have her own life. I think she needed more. She needed something to give her her own sense of purpose and fulfillment. 

(2) We were wildly in love with one another but that didn’t solve my self-esteem issues. When I met her, I was in a pretty wild phase of promiscuity. I’d always gone from one long term relationship to the next, but I’d broken up with Heather when I decided to “take my show on the road.” When I met Wally, I was single, doing really well with art, and was meeting a lot of girls who (at the risk of sounding arrogant) really were throwing themselves at me. A few times, I had girls (that I’d never met before) walk up to me at an event and directly tell me that they wanted to fuck me. Like, right then if I’d be so kind. I’d always done alright with girls but this was new. It was not in line with my PREVIOUS EXPERIENCES. It went to my head. It fucked with my ego. I don’t think it was good for me.

I definitely grew up in a culture and a scene where my value was measured by how many girls I’d slept with and which girls I’d slept with. That’s been a hard thing to shake over the years. It took me a while to get to a high enough number that the number didn’t seem to matter anymore but, still, I had this feeling like, “If I sleep with this girl, then I’ll be good enough.” But that was, of course, not true. It didn’t matter if I’d slept with [insert hot girl here] if I wasn’t still regularly sleeping with other hot girls. And that’s SO FUCKING STUPID. It’s embarrassing. Wallis had been one of the girls that I saw that way. Before I fell in love with her, I was SUPER EXCITED TO FUCK HER. And I still really liked fucking her. The sex was great. AND I WAS IN LOVE WITH HER. Deeply in love with her. That should have been enough but it wasn’t. So I was still on Tinder, still flirting with other girls, and still sleeping with other girls. My philosophy had been, “So long as she doesn’t know, it doesn’t hurt her, so there’s no harm.”

But she fucking knew. She knew everything. She was regularly reading EVERYTHING ON MY PHONE. And it deeply hurt her. 

To my credit, when she finally told me that she’d known all along – and I finally understood just how much it was hurting her – I did stop. I stopped cheating. And I haven’t cheated on anyone else since. (And to her discredit, she fucked one of my best friends while I was working one day. But (1) that’s a whole other story, (2) I didn’t find out ’til years later, and (3) can I really blame her when she knew that (often enough) when I was out “working,” I was also sometimes out fucking? No, I don’t think I can).

In any event, we eventually decided to split up, at least temporarily. She’d go back to Jacksonville, I’d continue on as I had been and the tentative plan was that we’d give our relationship a second shot down the line (ideally, once I was established/successful enough that I wasn’t living on the road, traveling the country and scouting new galleries to show my work).

Switching gears/elsewhere in my life, ever since I’d started my whole touring-the-country to build my art career plan, it’d become really tough to get my Adderall prescription every month. At the time, monthly in-person visits were required for an Adderall ‘scrip, so – in every new city, I had to find a new doctor. I’d call every doctor I could find and it was a regular issue that the soonest anyone could book an appointment for a new patient was weeks away – often further away in time that I even planned to stay in that city.

On one of my stops back in Sarasota, I’d filed a Marchman Act in an effort to get Chris Spillane off drugs. Afterward, my friend Abby asked if I’d do the same for her, which I did. When I dropped her off at the treatment facility, she handed me a bottle of Adderall. “Do you want these? I know you take it too and it’s not like they’re going to let me bring it with me.” Yeah, sure – of course. It’d help cover any gaps between getting my own prescriptions refilled each month. 

A few months later, Spillane (who I’d brought on the road with me in my effort to keep him clean) and I were in Chicago. Mike and Dave (of Like Bats) invited us to form a new band with them. We called it Shitty Children and were soon invited to play Awesome Fest in San Diego. After the fest, on the 20+ hour drive back to Chicago, we got pulled over just outside of Normal, Illinois. Mike had been drinking beers. He wasn’t driving but there were empty cans on the floor by his feet. The police separated and questioned all of us. Spillane (GOD BLESS HIM) apparently consented to a search. I wasn’t worried though. I was off drugs and living a good, clean life. I was a positive anti-drug role model. I didn’t have anything to hide. 

And then they found that bottle of Adderall in my backpack and arrested me because I didn’t have proof of my own prescription with me. Despite the longstanding prescription, despite all the positive press I was able to produce to demonstrate that I was a literal poster child for recovery from drug addiction, the prosecutor was determined to charge and convict me. My public defender was useless and, in hindsight, I think if I’d hired my own attorney, I could have gotten it tossed out. But that’s not what happened. I was convinced that, according to the strict letter-of-the-law, I was technically guilty of illicit possession of a controlled substance which meant, if I went to trial, my only hope was a jury ignoring the technical facts of the case and bucking the law to, sympathetically, find me “not guilty.” If that didn’t happen, a conviction carried the risk of a serious sentence. So I wound up accepting a terrible plea deal, wherein I’d be branded a felon for the rest of my life and either serve 30 days in jail or else 2 years of probation.

But it’d be a while before that happened. Even though the arrest was months before I even met Wallis, the case was still dragging out at the time we split.

The second block of text in the painting begins with a vast oversimplification (if not an outright misrepresentation) of why I bought Wallis a ticket back to Jacksonville:

Is it because I gave up on my girlfriend and put her on a plane back to Florida? (A trade-off for new/casual sex). Is it because I’ve felt discouraged and unable to do anything productive or profitable? Is it because I feel crippled by my ongoing legal battle and the likelihood that I’ll be getting a jail sentence this week (or delaying that and continuing on in uncertainty)? This last week, I’ve acted less like I’m self-employed and more like I’m unemployed. I have the evidence to prove I’m successful but I don’t feel that way. I’ve been resting on my laurels (and my bank account) so hard that they both seem to be wearing out. I don’t like this painting but I can’t figure out why. I think it’s because the thought of the immediate future makes me sad. And maybe because I wish I had someone to tell me “it’s gonna be okay.”

When am I gonna win?

Because of my NINE YEAR relapse, it’s taken me a long time to finally get around to writing the statement/story of this piece, so I can only guess at what was on my mind back then that sparked the sentiment behind the title (“The world revolves around me. My world. The only world that matters (to me).” The biggest hint though is the figure with a confederate flag for an eye and rainbow-colored teeth. Confederate flags and monuments were BIG in the news when I was painting this – whether they should still be up at state capitols or whatever. (Which, of course, no – fuck off – they shouldn’t). But I couldn’t help but watch some of the reactions on both sides and just shake my head. YOU ARE GETTING WAY TOO EMOTIONAL ABOUT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T WARRANT THAT LEVEL OF EMOTION. As much as I think anything confederacy-related is stupid as fuck, I’m not gonna pretend that the little shit-eater in me didn’t also like the idea of super sensitive white people² being bothered by its presence in my painting. I also just like the contrast of the red and blue with the white stars. (When they’re outlined in black anyway; without the outline (like it is on the actual flag) it’s not even aesthetically cool). But I juxtaposed it with rainbow teeth because (1) I really like rainbow-colored anything and (2) I wanted to balance the conservative thing with a progressive thing. If that bothered anyone on the political-right – well – even better.

More to the point, what I’m saying with this piece is that (without religion) life has no objective meaning. Nothing matters. Or everything matters. Or, more accurately, each thing matters only to the extent that each of us decides. And that value doesn’t transfer between people. I decide what matters to me; you decide what matters to you. The world 100% revolves around me. That’s a fact. But only for me. For you, the world does not revolve around Sam. I hope it revolves around you.  You’re the main character in your story. It’s your world to conquer or surrender to.

I don’t ultimately care about confederate flags and monuments because they’re almost certainly totally out of my control unless i decide to become an anti-confederacy activist, which is not something I’m particularly interested in. I’ve got my opinions on the matter but they’re not important enough to me for me to invest that much of my time or  emotional energy. The Sammy thrashLife News Network IN MY HEAD has 24/7 coverage on the real issues. Issues like my friends, Chris and Abby, falling hopelessly back into addiction and darkness. My efforts to help them get clean.³ Meeting a beautiful, wonderful, funny, fun girl named Wallis and helping her get clean, falling in love with her, and traveling the country. Playing music with my friends in Shitty Children and performing on stage again for the first time in years – a stage that I shared with some of my favorite bands in the world, at one of my favorite fests in the history of punk rock. Making art that I’m FUCKING STOKED on, that helps me work through my issues, makes me happy (USUALLY), frees me from having to work a regular JOB, and gives me a sense of fulfillment and the only kind of genuine self-esteem and confidence that I’ve probably ever known. And then all the other shit – whether monumental or petty, positive or devastating that is worth investing my emotional energy into. AT LEAST ACCORDING TO ME.

That’s my world. Everything else – that shit’s happening in another universe. As much as I’d like to SOLVE WORLD HUNGER or BRING PEACE TO THE MIDDLE EAST, I’ve got one life to live and it takes a lot for me to not fuck it up. I don’t lack empathy, I’m not self-absorbed (okay, that second part might not be ENTIRELY true), but if I’m gonna do any good in this world, I’ve gotta PRIORITIZE, keep focus, and do it where I can have the most impact. A big part of that is this kinda thing right here – what you just read.

I’m gonna have to take that “no more than 12 emails per month” thing off of my mailing list sign-up sheet. It was true when I made it but, AS I GET MORE PRODUCTIVE, these updates become more frequent. It’s totally possible I’ll have another one within a week for that new painting I mentioned (it’s called “The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way”). I’m excited to share it with you guys, so keep an eye out.

In the meantime, prints of “The World Revolves Around Me” are now for sale in the webstore. This is also one of the few originals I’ve got that’s not yet sold, so shoot me a message if you’re interested. Or go see it in person. I’m happy to report it’s been accepted for a gallery exhibition that opens next month.

Footnotes:

1. This is totally unrelated to the actual, intended message of this painting. I didn’t even pick up on the coincidence until writing this statement. [go back]
2. In my experience, it’s only those who like to be offended on behalf of others, that ever seem to take offense at my art. Anyone who would actually have cause to be personally offended tends to be thoughtful enough to recognize my intent – or at least ask about my intent before they let something bother them. [go back]
3. Those plans succeeded by the way. Chris is still clean, happy, and healthy to this day. Abby got clean too. Until last year, when she died. The story I’ve been told is that she was still clean but, one night, slipped up and allowed herself to do a line of cocaine at a party. Cocaine allegedly cut with fentanyl. And then she went home, went to sleep, and never woke up. That doesn’t quite make sense to me but I suppose it’s not terribly important. The world’s a little darker without her, regardless of how or why it happened. [go back]