The World Revolves Around Me

April 30, 2025

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.

“The World Revolves Around Me.” 8/21/15. Acrylic paint. 4×4′.

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]

Buy This Painting or They’ll Put Me in Jail Where I Belong

July 3, 2024

“Buy This Painting or They’ll Put Me in Jail Where I Belong.” 2/7/18. Acrylic paint. 24×30″.

I’ve got a new organizational system in my head…

The period of time when I was at Tranquil Shores (beginning in 2012), all the way through to my relapse at the very end of 2015: that’s what I’m calling “ROUND ONE.”

In the fall of 2017, I left Jacksonville and got clean. I think it lasted about eight months before I relapsed. That period is ROUND TWO.

In October of 2018, Wallis and I broke up for good and I got clean again. This stretch also lasted about eight months and is ROUND THREE.

In March of 2024, Juliana and I broke up, I started sublocade for the first time, and I began making art in earnest again for the first time in five years. This is Round 4. We’re IN IT NOW.

I imagine this’ll come up fairly often in my writing from here on, so I want readers to have some idea what I’m talking about.

“Buy This Painting or They’ll Put Me in Jail WHERE I BELONG” is a Round 2 painting. It’s been on the website for a while but I’d never published the statement until now. I thought about giving some extra background but I’ll just let it speak for itself. The statement is exactly what appears in the big white “STORY TIME” block on the painting.

Okay –  STORY TIME: about three years after I started making art and quit shooting heroin, 2015 was turning into 2016 and I stopped fucking with paintbrushes and went back to needles. It wasn’t long before I regretted the trade-off but that didn’t help me undo it any. By October 16th though, I was trying pretty desperately to get clean. I made a plan with my friend, Jen, who lived outside Jacksonville in Nocatee. I would go to her house to detox so that – in a weaker moment – I couldn’t just call one of my dealers to get more dope to ease the pain of withdrawal. Since I could always just get in my car and drive [to Jacksonville] though, we’d also block my car into her driveway with one of hers. (She had THREE).

I think it was my second day of detox. I was NOT FEELING WELL. Jen gave me some xanax to help sleep it off. I took one (2mg) but didn’t really feel any better. Some time later,  I took another and fell asleep. When I woke up though, I still felt pretty terrible. I decided to take two more [for a total now of 8 mg]. I got in bed and fell asleep again.

When I woke up, I was NAKED IN A JAIL CELL. So… what happened? Apparently my car wasn’t blocked in when I woke up blacked-out and (presumably) got in my car and drove off.

After I got into some clothes and in front of a judge, they said I was charged with three DUIs (for allegedly hitting three cars) AND assault on a law enforcement officer. 

But… but… but… I was trying to do good!! I was trying to get OFF drugs! I didn’t have any intention of driving anywhere! I even took steps to ensure that I couldn’t drive even if I wanted to! (Not because of anything like this; I never even imagined such a possibility. I’m a JUNKIE! Not a xanax addict. I don’t know how this shit works!) However, yeah – I get it. Knowingly or not, whatever the circumstances, I was guilty of driving under the influence and people could have been hurt as a consequence of my actions. (Unless – y’know – I was abducted from the bed and framed (WHICH IS ALSO SUPER POSSIBLE). 

I pled the charges down to one count of DUI and got six months of probation. In the first two months, I took one of the two classes they said I had to take and paid all $2,000+ of my court costs and fines or whatever. And then – with three months left on my sentence – my probation officer told me a new rule had been implemented requiring all terms of probation to be completed 45 days before the termination date. And that the other class [that I still needed to take] had no open seats until after that 45 day date. Which meant that violating my probation was now an inevitability over which I had no control. So she filed my violation right then and there and told me to watch the mailbox for “what’s next.”

A letter came. It said to come to the courthouse within 48 hours so the judge could decide what to do with me. I called a lawyer to make sure they weren’t going to arrest me on the spot. (I didn’t wanna detox in jail again). (Because – OBVIOUSLY – I’d gone back to heroin right after the initial arrest and ultra fun jail cell withdrawal). “Seems they issued the warrant yesterday,” he said. “But I just got this today!” “Sorry.”

I DON’T LIKE JAIL; I DON’T WANT TO GO TO JAIL. So for the last nine months, I’ve been “on the run.” When the cops started coming to my house looking for me too often, I left Jacksonville. Which I needed to do anyway if I was ever gonna kick heroin again. It worked. I’m four months clean now. I’ve started making art again. This will be my fifth post-relapse painting. I don’t want to turn myself in. I don’t want to go back to Jacksonville. I know myself: if I go back to Jacksonville, where all my dealers are just a phone call/stone’s throw away, I will wind up back on heroin. Could I get drugs in the city where I’ve been hiding out? Yes – OF COURSE. (I’m a PROFESSIONAL). But I have just enough willpower/self-discipline and enough good things going here that – in my weaker moments – I can be strong (enough to hold fast so long as scoring dope will require more than a single phone call). But if I get dragged back to Jacksonville, I’ll be homeless – crashing on couches of people who really don’t want me there. I’ll feel WORTHLESS and UNWANTED and HELPLESS and USELESS and HOPELESS and I WILL START SHOOTING HEROIN AGAIN.

Here’s what I would much rather do: complete the outstanding terms of my original probation and then contact the judge and make my appeal directly. I sat in her courtroom a lot. She seemed pretty reasonable; she did not want to lock people up for the fuck of it. When people were fucking up the terms of their probations – not doing shit – she would try to drag any reason out of them to justify giving them another chance. If I can satisfy my terms (taking that second class and completing fifty hours of community service – that’s all I had left) I think she’ll close my case. After all, before it was terminated, I was A MODEL PROBATIONER.

I’m scared to go somewhere to do my community service though. They’ll probably run a background check, possibly discover my active warrant, maybe have me come in only to have the cops come get me [in hindsight, this was pretty unlikely/paranoid] and – before I know it – I’m in jail awaiting extradition to Jacksonville, where – AS NOTED – I do not want to be for (what I feel are) pretty legitimate reasons.

But I know Carmen… We’ve gotten to be friends… Because (BEFORE I RELAPSED) she liked my art and (presumably) the fact that it’s all about my mental illness/borderline personality disorder and my histories with heroin and codependency and girls and BAD BEHAVIOR. And my constant fucking struggle to do right. And feel okay. And she has a fucking non-profit that’s all about art programs and mental health. That’s MY FUCKING JAM. (I only started making art because I was forced at knifepoint while in inpatient rehab for sixteen years). (Okay – it was only two years but whatever).

So, non-profits can dole out community service hours… Abridged conversation: “Yo, Carmen – what could I do for ‘I Still Matter’ to get community service hours?” “Paint something we can auction off at our next event and write a statement about why you support I Still Matter.”

In rehab, when they first told me I had to participate in “expressive art therapy,” I thought it was a contemptible joke. “I can’t keep a needle out of my arm and you want me to fucking COLOR? Go fuck yourselves.” But as I was worn down by failure and frustration and misery and just wanting a life other than the one I had, I stopped fighting and I started just trying to do whatever I was told. I started to make art. I was really bad at it. But something interesting happened. At the end of each art therapy sessions, we’d go around the room and talk about what we’d made – and when it’d be my turn to share, I’d talk about my piece and how I was feeling, and how those feelings were reflected and represented in whatever I’d drawn/painted/written. And people laughed. Or they cried. Or they smiled and wanted to hug me. Or they just told me how much they related to and/or how much they appreciated what I was saying. They liked the things I was making. And then something really interesting happened: I started to feel good about what I was doing. I started to develop SELF-ESTEEM. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn’t wanna die anymore. And I was actually excited about living. I was finally able to envision a life for myself that I could enjoy (and that wouldn’t require heroin just to get me through each day). 

When I finally got out of rehab, they told me I needed to get a job. I had a law degree from Georgetown but I didn’t want any of that. I just wanted to PAINT FUNNY FACES AND SCRIBBLE ABOUT MY FEELINGS. So that’s what I did. And, before long, I was making enough [money] from art alone to support myself and build a new life. Now, OBVIOUSLY, SOMETHING WENT WRONG ALONG THE WAY (three years later). But that’s another (really fucked up) story; I don’t think anyone could’ve gone through what I did before I relapsed and NOT kill themselves or otherwise self-destruct. It’s okay that I relapsed. And now I’m rebuilding. I’m getting back to what made my life the kind of life I want to live. I’m getting back to art. Art is what saved me the first time and it’s what’s saving me this second time. ‘I Still Matter’ is important because it can do for people what Tranquil Shores [my third treatment center] and expressive art therapy did for me. It can turn broken people into something better. It can turn cautionary tales into inspirational stories. It can uncover talents and aptitudes that people never knew they had. It can radically change lives. Or – at the very least – it gives people like me something nice to do for a little while. A safe, welcoming place to go and something to do (not drugs) that can silence the anxiety, even if only for a short while. It offers a respite from the monsters that live in our heads. AND – in this particular instance – it can get me some community service hours to help sway the court’s opinion in my favor.

So, please, if it’s not asking too much…: BUY THIS PAINTING OR THEY’LL PUT ME IN JAIL WHERE I BELONG.

I haven’t spoken to Carmen in some time but – while I did eventually/successfully use this painting to satisfy the terms of my probation – I don’t think it was ever actually auctioned off. If you’d like to purchase it (and support a non-profit art/mental health organization in doing so) I’d imagine that can be arranged. I also have 12×16″ signed, hand-numbered prints for sale. Get in touch if you’re interested in either.

What Makes Life Feel Worth Living

July 1, 2024

“What Makes Life Feel Worth Living.” 6/16/24. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.

This painting was essentially the product of my second month clean and single. To be fully honest, I was still pretty hung up on codependency issues and  the fact that, for once, I didn’t have a girlfriend. I found myself experiencing kind a low-grade depression a lot of days, not really wanting to get out of bed. In my head, I kept thinking that finding a new girlfriend was the answer to all my problems but I knew that, really, that would just be a way to distract myself from my problems. In any case, I was too embarrassed to make a painting about that immediately following one about my ex. I pushed myself to really try to get at something deeper in my journal writing. It took a couple weeks and quite a few attempts before I felt like I got at anything remotely meaningful. That’s what’s written across this canvas (in the upper left and just to the left of the very bottom center).

I struggle a lot with meaning and purpose. “Does anything matter?” “What’s the point of doing anything?” “The world’s a mess,” “I’m a mess,” “is anybody really happy?” I don’t know the answers to those questions but – as long as I’m gonna not-kill-myself and keep living – I’ve gotta try. It’s really hard sometimes. I’m not alone but I feel like I am a lot of the time. One person can really make a difference in that. Whether it’s A GIRL PAYING ATTENTION TO ME or someone deciding to GIVE ME MONEY (for my artwork).

When I tell people about my first month clean and making art again, it’s a success story, mostly on account of the commissions I got from Rick, a stranger walking down the sidewalk. But because I was painting outside and because he stopped to talk to me and took an interest, it’s given me concrete reasons to keep painting and writing. Pretty random, very easily could have NOT happened.

It’s genuinely INCREDIBLE when someone tells me how much my art means to them (and I don’t wanna discount that) but when they PUT THEIR MONEY WHERE THEIR MOUTH IS, it’s crazy validating in a way that’s rivaled only by A HOT GIRL WANTING TO FUCK (or date) ME. (Which is totally unrelated and indicates just how broken I am but that’s an issue for other days). It says that what I’m doing has actual value worthy of supporting human life – MY life. That hard validation can bolster my spirit against any/all of the negative feelings I have that could otherwise overtake me.

Even when everything else is wrong, one well-timed “yes” can make all the difference. A thousand rejections are nothing against a few key “yeses.”

These things are small and inconsequential in a world that’s so random and meaningless but when nothing matters, we choose what matters and I choose what makes my life feel worth living.

Taking a chance is worthwhile. Saying “yes” to someone is meaningful. Helping another person, offering encouragement, supporting an artist (ESPECIALLY WHEN IT’S ME). These are things that count. We never know what small act might be HUGELY CONSEQUENTIAL for someone else.

I still don’t know if I’m going to be able to revive my art career and make a living like I was, but it’s working out so far thanks to just a few people and a few key moments and decisions. It reminds me of the last lyric from one of my favorite songs: “just one good thing, that’s all – sometimes that’s all it takes.”

I lined up a handful of commissions right out of the gate upon getting clean: paintings that I had no idea what they’d be but that were pre-paid-for before I even started them. Knowing that a painting is already sold while I’m working on it is really motivating. It gives me a push to get to work. That’s over (at least as of this moment; no one has pre-purchased my next painting). That makes me a little nervous but it’s also how most artists operate – not to mention the only way I’ll ever be able to amass enough paintings to ever have another exhibit. I’m on my own for the first time in a while and need to start hustling again – whether that’s going out on the street to paint in public while slinging prints or putting more effort and thought into my social media. Probably both. It used to come so easily to me but now it seems almost impossible – though much less so than it did even a month ago. One of the main reasons I stayed on drugs so long was because it was an excuse not to do anything else. I’m so afraid of trying and failing. But I’ve got to try. I’ve gotta put myself out there. And hopefully I’ll get the “yeses” I need to keep going.

I’m in danger of rambling now. I wanna say something about how those “yeses” are less-than-ideal external validation in the same way that female attention is, but that’s a subject for another time. The spirit of this painting was about the positive feelings that come making something meaningful that resonates with another person and the positive consequences of that other person’s response. Not everything needs to be overanalyzed. Nothing is perfect but sometimes little things spark joy and pride and feel an awful lot like fulfillment – even if only for a moment. And sometimes that’s enough.

The song quoted in my painting (on the little blue guy’s black t-shirt): “Precious on the Edge” by Drunken Boat

This painting has already been sold but limited edition 12×12″ signed, hand-numbered prints are available for purchase WHILE SUPPLIES LAST.

Every Song Sounds Like the Last One

December 22, 2015

When I was first forced to participate in “expressive art therapy group” while in inpatient treatment, I thought it was a joke. “I can’t keep a needle out of my arm and I’m fucking dying and you want me to color?? You’ve gotta be kidding me.” But once I started to actually put a little bit of effort into it – and sharing with the group what I had made and the reasons I made the choices that I had – I got my first little taste of self-esteem. People liked my art and they thought my explanations were funny and insightful. It made me feel good about myself. Eventually, art became something I really enjoyed and – later – my primary occupation. Not only did it save my life but it’s my primary tool in maintaining emotional balance and it pays my bills and enables me to spend most of my time doing what I love most: making more art.

A lot of my work looks like a lot of my other work. I have a distinct style and I don’t really stray outside of the box too often. I’ve tried to experiment here and there but – when I do – I’m usually not too happy with the results. It’s only when I get back to doing what I love (drawing/painting funny faces with bright colors) that I start to feel better.

In September of 2014, my friend Paul paid me to draw something for him. He didn’t give me any instructions but I decided to visit a record he’d released when he first started his label, Radius Records, for a bit of inspiration. The lyric that popped out at me was from The Smoking Popes’ “Theme From ‘Cheerleader’”: “Every song sounds like the last one.” It made me think about how my art is all pretty much the same but how I’m okay with that. Just like how almost all of the songs I like (in the fairly rigid genre of pop punk) are all essentially the same. It reminded me of something I’ve often said when talking about music: “I don’t care about innovation or breaking new ground. A band can do the same thing over and over again; what’s important is that they do it well.”

It’s the same with my art. It doesn’t matter if I do the same trick again and again; so long as I do it well.

That’s what was on my mind when I did this. That and the fact that I had come to like my own art enough to stand behind it in spite of any criticism – but that I was still grateful to have fans and friends, like Paul, that liked and supported what I do. I wrote just a little bit about it on the left side of the drawing.

Every time I pick up a pen, a brush, [whatever], I risk failure, risk repeating myself. I’m not afraid. I like what I like, do what I do, and every time I pick up, I’m saying so. I believe in myself. But I didn’t always. Other people had to believe in me first. And if they didn’t continue to… I don’t know that I’d be able to either.

It’s taken me more than a year to write out the statement for this piece. Thanks for your patience, Paul!

"Every Song Sounds Like the Last One." 9/28/14. Ink. 14x11".
“Every Song Sounds Like the Last One.” 9/28/14. Ink. 14×11″.

 

On an unrelated note, my second NPR story of 2015 aired a few days ago, this time courtesy of Ryan Benk and the Jacksonville affiliate, WJCT. You can read or listen to it on their website.

I Could Never Love Anyone More Than I Hate Myself

September 19, 2015

"I Could Never Love Anyone More Than i Hate Myself ." 4/30/15. Acrylic paint. 36x36".
“I Could Never Love Anyone More Than i Hate Myself .” 4/30/15. Acrylic paint. 36×36″.

For as much as I talk and write about Wallis, I’ve never really shared the full story of how we first came together. I’ll save the cute elements of the story for later and just give you the important part that hasn’t seemed relevant until now.

When I met Wallis, she was actively addicted to heroin. She was trying to not be on heroin but (like most addicts) she was finding that to be a little tougher than she could handle. We hit it off really quickly but I told her on our very first night together that I couldn’t be around that sort of thing. I told her that if she wanted to continue spending time with me, she couldn’t be using drugs. (I’m way too fucking fragile to not relapse if a pretty girl has a needle and a bag of dope to share with me). She told me she didn’t wanna use. I invited her to go with me on a road trip for a week – up to Illinois and back.

In the course of that trip, we fell in love. Which was a problem because it meant we needed to figure out what we were gonna do to keep her from going back to heroin once we got back to Jacksonville. We decided that she’d need to quit the strip club and get another job (nobody can stay off drugs in that environment – no addict anyway). I told her I’d cover her (financially) ’til she got a new job and then – when it was time for me to leave Jacksonville – she’d quit her new job and come with me. Sound familiar? I did for Wallis the same thing I had done for my best friend, Chris, a year prior. I brought her out on the road with me to keep her off drugs. To show her another kind of life. Like Chris had done, in exchange for “all expenses paid” she’d just help me with my set-up, selling art, whatever. (And like Chris, it pretty much worked. She never used once; not while traveling with me anyway).

When we left Jacksonville, it was for Minneapolis, where I was to be featured in a gallery exhibit. Halfway through the exhibition’s run, we returned to Jacksonville for a week, so I could make CRAZY MONEY at One Spark. On the drive down, Wallis started talking about going to see old friends – friends that she had, historically, used drugs with. I told her that this was a terrible idea. She argued that I needed to have faith in her. I responded that I’d heard that same exact sentence and had this same exact conversation many, many times in the past (with another girl) and that I knew perfectly well how this was gonna end. I told her that if she wasn’t willing to forego the reunion (and the inevitable relapse that’d come with it) that I couldn’t be her boyfriend anymore. One Spark was going to be an incredibly important week for me financially and I didn’t wanna fuck it up by spending the whole time worried about whether Wallis was safe.

She said okay (as in “okay, then you don’t need to be my boyfriend anymore“). There was no hostility or drama beyond that but when we got to Jacksonville, we went our separate ways. Wallis relapsed that very first night (though she wouldn’t tell me until later), but called me the next morning and spent the rest of the week by my side like a lost puppy. On the night before I was to return to Minneapolis, she broke down crying, told me she had fucked up, and that she still wanted to be with me.

And I took her back.

I first had the thought years and years ago – upon hearing Rivethead’s “In My Heart a Warehouse Burns For You.” The last lyric in the song is “I love you just as much as I hate the man.” I’m not exactly the biggest fan of cops or authority figures of any kind but when I’m really fired up and full of hate, there’s only one target it’s ever directed at: me. I still listen to that record (The Cheap Wine of Youth) all the time so the idea of captioning a painting with “I love you just as much as I hate myself” had occurred to me on a couple occasions but I didn’t wanna be derivative.

Then, when I bought Pretty Boy Thorson’s An Uneasy Peace (the final song of which is called “I Love You Even More Than I Hate Myself”) I had a bit of a god dammit moment. That should’ve been mine! The song’s awesome and it doesn’t matter that the lyric is similar to another.

I started thinking about it though – that line – and whether or not it was actually true (for me). I was dating Wallis and I absolutely loved her but did I love her more than I hated myself? I wasn’t really sure. I decided that sometimes I’m afraid that I could never love anyone more than I hate myself. After all, we had weathered the storm of her relapse but I was sabotaging our relationship bit by bit with my low self-esteem [and cheating]. I wrote about some of that anxiety in the bottom-right corner of the painting:

It’s so much harder to travel with a second person. Staying with friends feels like a much bigger imposition and I can’t stay with girls I meet. That’s probably the hardest part. But I love Wallis. (And I really like fucking her). And I think she needs me. I tried to leave her in Jacksonville but it didn’t work out. I hope she’s with me because she really loves me and not just ‘cause she’s scared to go back to “real life.” It if doesn’t work out, it’s probably gonna be because I can’t stop thinking about fucking other girls, which I know hurts her (and is really so selfish and dumb - and even mean - on my part) but really has nothing to do with her. (She’s so fucking hot and sexy and cute and beautiful). It’s just my insecurity and my compulsion to fuck every pretty girl, to prove to the world (and myself) just how fucking wonderful and desirable I am. It’s not helping that girls are throwing themselves at me these days. But I know (or think) that shit won’t make me happy. And in the end, I’m just gonna want someone to love me and I love Wallis.

There’s another, shorter string of text higher up in the painting, similarly inspired by punk rock: “I was listening to that Gateway District song where they sing, ‘I’m always falling way behind and you go on and on and on.’ If only I knew someone like that. Maybe I’d have someone to look to. Everybody I know is struggling. Everyone I know is as hopeless as I am. (Or worse).”

There’s a brighter, happier pair of sentences in the top-left corner – the product of a moment when everything was right in the world. Amazing sex with Wallis and I’m driving to the gallery showcasing my art while listening to “Another Way Out of Here” by The Murderburgers. The thought occurred to me that “nothing in this world makes me happier than an energetic, upbeat song about suicide.” I gave it a second thought. Is that true?  I concluded, “Except (maybe) hitting girls in the face during sex.” I smiled. That’s pretty funny. I’m pretty fucked up. The things that I enjoy are – well – a little odd. This was all well and good at the time. I posted a close-up of that part of the painting online and it was met with positive feedback and just a little bit of “Oh, Sam…” But before I even got the chance to write the statement for this painting (as I am now), that photograph – that caption – would make the rounds on the internet elsewhere and garner a very different kind of response.

You see, when I wrote that, it was about sex with Wallis. Sex which includes light, consensual, fake-violence (or whatever the fuck you wanna call it). Wallis likes getting slapped in the face during sex. And I like doing it. Win-win, right? Well, yeah – until you get accused of a violent rape and the media picks up on the story and uses your art to support the idea that you’re the kind of person capable of violently raping a nineteen year-old girl you just met.

Sitting in jail, I wondered how I was going to break the news to my friends and fans that I had been accused of this horrible fucking crime. I bailed out, Chris Spillane picked me up, and after ten minutes of discussion he tells me, “There’s one more thing we’ve gotta talk about, Sam. The publicity on this story is not good right now.” Publicity? This story? “What the fuck are you talking about?” I googled my name and discovered that I didn’t need to worry about breaking this news to anyone. Some reporter knew or figured out who I was, wrote an article about me complete with images of my art (like the “hitting girls in the face” one) and everyone else picked it up and ran with it. Suddenly, strangers on the internet were talking about how I was the kind of person who PUNCHES girls in the face. I was a scumbag and I was definitely guilty. What the fuck? I’ve never punched a girl in the face! I slap! Playfully! And only with girls that WANT me to!

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that it was incredibly easy to paint me as some kind of violent sexual deviant who had finally gone off the rails and just started violently raping people. Freedom of expression has its fucking consequences apparently. The charges against me have since been dismissed by a judge who (after hearing all of the prosecution’s evidence and the girl’s testimony) ruled that there was no probable cause to believe that any crime had been committed but the evidence in the case isn’t all public yet and I’m still having to deal with (well-meaning) assholes who think I deserve to be castrated for something I never did. At the time of this writing, this is all still incredibly recent so I’m still working out exactly how a person does deal with something like that. (I’ll let you know when I figure it out).

Flashback to five months before that nightmare though – back to when I was still working on this painting (that’d later incriminate me in the court of public opinion). I wrote that I was feeling:

“stuck in a rut. This spot [on the street] isn’t super profitable [for selling prints]. I don’t even wanna write about what else is going on. I don’t want to muddle up this painting that I’m not even happy with. My little sister is killing herself and today I blocked her phone number because I’m tired of her asking for help, not taking my advice, and then texting me updates on her self-destruction that she knows will just upset me. 

I really need the validation of some sales to cheer me up today. If I make less than $100 today, I’m gonna feel super depressed.”

And then – to remind myself what a dipshit I am for worrying about how much I make in one particular day, I added: “I’ve made $7,000 this month.” True as it was, it didn’t really help me feel any better in that moment. I continued writing – about an interaction I had with a guy who stopped to watch me paint:

“Someone asked me yesterday if I really hate myself and why. I had a hard time articulating it [the way that I feel sometimes]. He said he thinks I’m not as unhappy as I let on. I’d do a much better job explaining it to him today: I’M UGLY, PALE, OUTTA SHAPE, MEAN, SHITTY, POOR, FEARFUL, AND IN A CONSTANT STATE OF STARVATION FOR VALIDATION.”

Reading that now, remembering that day – it’s kinda scary. Everything in my life was going so well and I still had this monster inside me, gnawing at my insides, telling me that everything was awful. That I was awful. I’m really grateful that I don’t feel that way about myself all the time. Arguably, my life is way more fucked up now (on account of the VIOLENT RAPE ACCUSATION) but – I don’t know – I feel better today. Maybe it’s because I’ve had to fight this awful thing. Maybe it’s because I’ve had to become stronger. Maybe it’s because enough other people hate me now that I can take a break on the self-loathing. I don’t know. I’m not sure. But after separating in late-June and spending two months mostly apart, Wallis and I are back together full-time. We’re living together in an apartment in Chicago and it’s been really great. And you know what? I love her WAY more than I hate myself. Not just ‘cause I’m not hating myself so much right now but… This girl… After all we’ve been through. After all I’ve done for her and all she’s done for me… Words are insufficient to express my gratitude, affection, and love for her. I’m probably gonna marry her.

And you know what? When it comes to “falling way behind” versus “going on and on and on,” maybe I do a little more of the latter than I allow myself to recognize sometimes. Maybe I do a lot more of it.

HAPPY ENDING.


“I Love You Even More” by Pretty Boy Thorson & The Falling Angels


“Another Way Out of Here” by The Murderburgers


“Waves and Cars” by The Gateway District

“In My Heart a Warehouse Burns For You” by Rivethead

“I Could Never Love Anyone More Than I Hate Myself” is now up in the webstore.

Have Sex With and/or Buy Art From Me

September 7, 2014

"Have Sex With and/or Buy Art From Me." 7/1/14. Acrylic paint and duct tape on canvas. 22x28".
“Have Sex With and/or Buy Art From Me.” 7/1/14. Acrylic paint and duct tape on canvas. 22×28″.

I painted this immediately after “Something to Cry About” so a lot of the sentiment is pretty similar. Unlike that painting, the journals on this canvas are clearly visible. Three in particular.

From June 21st, in Minneapolis for the CBDS show:
Some days (today, for example) I feel like I’m slipping. Regressing. Losing it. Getting less brave. More anxious. If I’ve already peaked, then you can bet I’m gonna bottom out like never before. I won’t live in the middle. My inadequacy and self-pity are really showing here. I know it. It doesn’t elude me.

June 22nd, still in Minneapolis:
I was driving so I had time to steep in my anxiety. And to find the perfect phrasing to express it with maximum, wit, precision, and insight toward achievement of my twin goals, as ever, of course: HAVE SEX WITH AND/OR BUY ART FROM ME. ‘Cause that’s gonna fix me. That’s the validation I need to know that I’m okay. Why have I been getting so down on myself lately? I’m scared that I’m in a rut – not creatively – but these last two months there’ve been no developments, big breaks, or major sales / floods of income. And it hasn’t lit a fire under me. I’ve grown weaker, timid. I hit galleries but I don’t storm them with a painting and my confidence. I meekly hand over a card – and only if they engage with me. I set up to sell prints but I don’t draw people to me. I wait for them. It’s the same lately with girls. I do the bare minimum to spark interest and then nothing. I let it go nowhere. Because I know that’s where it’ll end anyway. Because I have no interest in anyone but myself. I just want to be loved. I want someone to make me feel okay. (Until I get that and dismiss it). And the girls I talk to might love my art but that doesn’t necessarily translate to any interest in or affinity for me personally. I CAN RELATE.

Finally, July 1st, in Cincinnati:
I withdrew a thousand dollars from my bank account this morning to buy heroin and a gun. So you’ll have to forgive me for not giving a shit about the Supreme Court’s Hobby Lobby ruling.

Between their content and my statement for “Something to Cry About,” there’s not much to add regarding the first two journals . The details of the third probably warrant some explanation, even though I feel it’s so trivial and boring that I’d really rather not (but, consequently, feel like I should).

I was all set to join up with Rational Anthem as they toured out to California. I’d set up at their shows each night to sell prints, as a means to finance my own trip out west. It made more sense than just driving straight out and I’d get to spend some time with my friends. I met up with them in Lexington on the 30th though and – before the night was over – Hembrough told me we’d need to sit down and talk at some point about the logistics of our tour together out west. What was there to discuss, I thought. Rational would drive in their van, Spillane and I would drive in mine, and that was that. If they had room for us to stay the night wherever they were staying, we’d take them up on it. If not, we’d find our own place to sleep. I know I overreacted but the way Hembrough had put it (“we need to talk”) made me feel like maybe I wasn’t welcome after all – like I was some kind of a burden. It hurt my feelings at a time when my feelings weren’t doing too great anyway. He and Spillane are my two best friends in the world but it sounded like he was less excited to have me along than he was concerned. I suddenly felt like there was no place for me in the world. I went to bed, hoping to feel better in the morning. I didn’t. I asked Spillane what city he wanted me to drop him off in, told him I’d give him some money to get set up, and that I needed to “do my own thing” for a while. And that’s when I went to the bank for step one of my plan. Fortunately, it didn’t take me too long to snap out of it. As soon as it was time to actually make a serious move toward execution, I started to come to my senses. “Never mind,” I told Chris. “We’re not gonna go with Rational Anthem anymore but if you still want to travel with me for this art thing, you’re welcome to stay.” He said he did and asked where we were gonna go. “I don’t know. Let’s go buy some fucking cigarettes, get some coffee, and just see what happens.”

Nine hours later, we were getting ready to go into the Masked Intruder / Dopamines / Direct Hit! show in Cincinnati, to sell prints. I scrolled through Facebook and read my friends’ outrage over that morning’s Hobby Lobby ruling. It struck me as so tremendously trivial and absurd, especially against what felt like the now darkly comic backdrop of my morning. I told Spillane for the first time what my real plan for the day had been and then I

Rational Anthem are trying to raise money to buy a new tour van and are offering some really great rewards in exchange for your financial contributions. And if you donate $50 and choose “no reward,” I’ll send you a signed and numbered print of the Sammy thrashLife piece of your choice. At the very least check out the video they made, which I “storyboarded” / sort-of-directed via text message.


Check out their campaign and see if you can spot my voice anywhere else.

October 18th, 2024 update: This painting got an update of sorts back in 2016. It’s currently hanging in my home. Contact me if you’d prefer for it to hang in yours. [Add’l update (April 2025): the original painting’s been sold]. Or you can buy an 11×14-inch print from the webstore.

Something to Cry About

August 20, 2014

"Something to Cry About." 6/20/14. Acrylic paint. 4x3'.
“Something to Cry About.” 6/20/14. Acrylic paint. 4×3′.

I just had my four newest large canvas paintings photographed, which means I can finally start adding them to the website. This one was started on June 2nd in Atlanta and finished June 20th in Chicago. I wrote the following statement for it a little over a week ago, on August 11th.

 

In May, I picked up Chris Spillane. I was grateful to have him and grateful to feel like I was doing something good for another human being (especially one that’s been such a good friend for so long) but having him with me in the first two months wasn’t always easy – being virtually chained to another person 24 hours a day. Especially since – a lot of that time – I felt responsible for him, like a babysitter or a one-man treatment facility. Chasing girls was suddenly totally impractical if not altogether impossible. I couldn’t leave Chris alone so that I could go on a date or hook up with some girl. Sure – he’s an adult and I’m not ultimately responsible for him (or anyone but myself) but I had taken on a responsibility of sorts and didn’t want to fuck it up, especially for something (that felt) as petty as sex.

If I had the kind of self-esteem (which legend holds is) possessed by normal, well-adjusted people, this might not have been a problem. Unfortunately, I need a steady stream of praise, sales, and sex in order to feel okay about myself. I wasn’t fully cognizant of it at the time but I’ve come to terms with it now. I had gone without virtually any episodes or incidents in May but in June, while painting “Something to Cry About,” I was perpetually sinking into dark depressions over the smallest little things. I tried to explain my bad moods to myself – rationalize and justify them – in all sorts of ways but, looking back, it’s not hard to nail down. First, I wasn’t having any luck getting a show booked in Atlanta (mostly because I had adopted a new, staid, respectful (and totally unimpressive and unmemorable) strategy for selling myself to galleries). That would have been okay if I hadn’t also just gone from a hedonistic period of total promiscuity to sudden and absolute abstinence. If I’m not having sex, how am I supposed to have any self-worth?!?

[I have issues].

Hindsight is 20/20 though and, while this was still going on, I tried to figure it out through journaling. A lot of that’s still visible on the canvas but I’m pretty bored by most of it.  Only the last part is really at all interesting to me. Regarding my bad mood and the silent temper tantrum I was throwing: “I just let myself soak in it ‘cause – hey – if I didn’t lose my shit every so often, wouldn’t that call into question the authenticity of my stupid fucking gimmick as an artist? ‘I’m emotionally unstable! Count on it!’”

Borderline personality disorder is one of those conditions where the diagnosis is sometimes withheld from the patient himself because knowing the diagnosis can actually be harmful. I think that’s because in can exacerbate “borderline behaviors” insofar as the patient decides he “can’t help it” and acting that way is therefore excusable. I don’t think that I do that but I’ve definitely attempted to excuse myself (especially in relationships) by telling the girl that my emotional instability was “always part of the deal” and that she knew what she was getting into when we first got involved.

I’d like to think that I don’t use my diagnosis as a scapegoat; I always try to do my best in interacting with other people and I always apologize when I fuck up but I probably do allow myself to be somewhat more of an emotional basketcase sometimes than I otherwise might.

The original “Something to Cry About” painting has already been purchased. 16×12-inch prints are now on sale in the webstore.

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