It was an assignment in the group session on the morning of my coin out [the ceremony to recognize successful completion of an inpatient treatment plan]. (It’s worth noting though that completion of my treatment plan didn’t mean the end of my inpatient stay; it had already been decided that I’d stay on, with a new treatment plan). “Using your non-dominant hand, draw a picture of the body part with the most sensation right now,” we were told. “Then ask it about the feeling and let it answer.”
My face was tense. My whole head was. I asked why.
‘Cause I’m scared of everything. I don’t wanna coin out and I upset Heather last night and assumed the worst so I could cancel everything but it didn’t work ’cause she’s not mentally ill, she’s smart and sweet, supportive, thoughtful, and wonderful. But I need to ask her to be more direct ’cause that “goodnight” could have really fucked with me. You did good not just letting it go, Sam.
Presented without further comment ’cause I’m a mess right now.
I drew this eleven months ago. It’s only the fifth thing that I ever made by choice (and not as part of a treatment assignment). People say that Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous (or, more generally, recovery) is a “selfish program.” It’s not about self-interest or self-serving as much as it is… well… let me put it this way. The girl I dated for most of 2012 – we went to go “visit” her family in St. Louis when Miami got to be more than we could handle. (I say “visit” because her parents agreed to a week but – desperately wanting to not go back to our lives in Florida – we stayed for more than a month). Anyway, something her dad always said that stuck with me is this oxygen/airplane metaphor: “Put on your own mask before assisting other passengers.” Meaning – if you don’t take care of yourself first, there’s a good chance you’re not gonna be much good to anyone else either.
At Tranquil Shores, the first major assignment everyone has to complete is the “First Step” (not to be confused with the first of the twelve steps; this is something different). Anyway, it’s the assignment where group feedback is the most important (and the only one where everyone’s really supposed to be as honest and blunt as possible and call the person out if they’re full of shit). The morning that I drew this, I was losing my mind (a pretty regular occurrence back then). On the one hand, a friend was presenting her First Step and I felt like I’d be letting her down if I didn’t give her my full attention. On the other hand, I had my own mess to sort out and I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to get out of my head, get away from damage, destruction, hell, and shit. Iwanted to color.
So I did.
Mental health doesn’t happen on a schedule. As much as I’d love to always be there for everyone, I can’t. If my own life/head is a mess, I’ve gotta deal with that first. And it’s worked out; if you were to ask my friends, I’m certain they’d say I’m a better friend today than ever before. So – as the block letters behind the fence in this drawing say…
Selfish program.
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This piece is currently on display, as part of my first art show, now running at Sun-Ray Cinema in Jacksonville.
“Face Thing.” 12/12/12. Oil pastel and watercolor. 12×34″.
For a long time, I thought this was the most embarrassing thing I’d ever made. I was hesitant to even call it “art.”
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Immediately after figuring out how I felt about myself, I decided to see if I could use the same approach to figure out how I felt about the girl. With my non-dominant hand, I wrote until I had completely filled the two sheets in front of me (taped together earlier for some other purpose). My only pauses were to change colors and even that was done without real consideration – a quick swap when I felt the urge. I tried my best to be totally blunt, perfectly honest, and entirely concentrated on my feelings. I didn’t want to rationalize, bullshit, or otherwise fuck myself up. I wanted what came out of me to be real. I’m not sure whether or not it was…
Some parts were written in such a way that they wouldn’t make sense to anyone else – and there was no punctuation in any of it – so I’ve made a few minor edits.
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Your first group, the buddhist monk we had coming was running late. I was manic but I caught myself and asked the group to keep me in check. I didn’t want to be a spazz on your first day even though I preemptively disliked you. (You seemed too level-headed and assembled to like me).
I didn’t like the way the other guys talked about (and sometimes to) you. We didn’t talk much but you were nicer than I’d assumed and smarter too. When I ran into you after getting kicked out, you were so sweet to me. I thought, “I’d like to have sex with her.”
I didn’t really understand friendship but ,when I came back, we became friends. It was outstanding. We were exceptional. I liked it when we’d touch but knew that was the limit. We had both made that mistake in treatment before. Our counselors said they were worried about us getting too close. We talked about it and you said, “If this were last year, we’d be in trouble.”
We respected the physical boundaries we were given (for the most part) but got carried away otherwise – we loved each other too much. I didn’t know what was real. A pretty girl, an interesting boy, codependency issues, rehab and limited options… Was it love or something like it, or just compulsion and fear?
You didn’t seem too interested when I presented my life story. (Punishment for how I acted at your first step?) It hurt. That and more. It got worse. I needed to talk. I still don’t understand that night. I got mean enough to get rid of you when all I really wanted was for your door to open.
I couldn’t handle it. I told the truth and you denied everything but, in between, I realized that I really did care about you, contrary to what I thought and said when I first spilled our guts to everyone, while you were away. It gets worse: I think i love you. I admit, I’m still not 100% but I’m going with it – even if you hate me. And not ’cause I wanna be tragic.
I still want to have sex with you but, mostly, I want to be friends.
For real.
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Two months later, when I had my coin out, the staff decided that we should have an “art show” – everything I had made since arriving (more than one hundred pieces) was hung up on display in the group room. Each had a title card with a short statement. The one next to this piece said, “If this thing actually ends up on the wall at my coin-out then I am way fucking braver than I have ever suspected. And way more honest. Well, honest about disclosing my art and my thoughts from the past (as evidenced in my art). There’s very little that’s honest about this thing in and of itself.” I’m not totally sure how I feel about that. The things I said with this piece were definitely honest when I wrote them… By February though, I had convinced myself that I had been seriously deluding myself – to such an extent that “the truth” was something completely beyond my reach. Today, I think that was probably an example of my “putting walls back up” to protect myself. My feelings were real and I shouldn’t have tried to discount them just because things played out a certain way and I now (then) felt silly about them.
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This piece was later cut up and merged with its title card and a related piece I’ve also thought of as “embarrassing.” It’s listed for sale in my webstore but – if anyone wants it – you can name your price. Seven dollars should cover postage and (beyond that) I don’t care about the money.
Update (a couple hours later): Wow – kinda funny. I just looked at the Storenvy listing for this piece and it has a different statement that I wrote back when I first listed it for sale (sometime in August, I think). It’s interesting how much my attitudes and perceptions shift over time.
“Why I Fail.” 12/8/12. Tempera, watercolor, oil pastel. 9×12″.
Initially, this was to be a painting of me and this girl, having a picnic under the shade of a tree. You know – cute, innocent. Except not really.
Toward the end of 2012, there were a couple times in the van when I took out my headphones and noticed that the female patients were a little more giggly than usual – and talking about trees. On both occasions, I was the only male in the van and had been listening to music but it was still pretty dumb insofar as it was painfully obvious. Trees was a code word (and not a particularly clever one). I didn’t say anything though (who was I to ruin their fun?) I just rolled my eyes and put my headphones back in.
But that’s how I got the idea and I thought was really clever. On the surface, it’d be really sweet and innocuous but – underlying that – something a little bolder. I wanted it to say, “Hey, I like you, you like me, we’re really cute together,” as well as, “I know what your little code word means and – oh – here’s a picture of my dick — how ’bout that?”
So I set to work. First thing’s first: I needed to trace my penis (you know – the “tree” under which we’d be having our picnic). I chose not to start tracing from the bottom edge because I wanted to leave a little ambiguity. (Like, “Is this the whole thing? Maybe! Maybe not!”). After all, you don’t wanna give it all away, right? I still needed to camouflage it to some extent with branches and leaves, but I decided to draw the two of us sitting in the grass first.
I couldn’t fucking do it. I couldn’t get the characters to look the way that I wanted. I erased and began again over and over until I got frustrated. And then it occurred to me: this wonderful new thing (art) that had recently come into my life — I didn’t enjoy it because it was a way for me to showcase my dazzling fucking wit (or my penis), I enjoyed it because it was a way for me to legitimately work through my feelings and express myself authentically. This – what I was currently engaged in – was bullshit. And what do you know? Like so many of my mistakes and fuck-ups, both big and small, what was at the root of this misstep? My dick.
I changed course, painted without intent, and looked at the page. Yeah – there it was, right in front of me: WHY I FAIL.
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Aside from a commission, my first sale was for two pieces: this painting and a drawing.
My first sale as an artist was a painting of my dick.
The buyer had to have seen it, right? Jacob certainly spotted it when I posted it on Facebook back in December. I opted to respond vaguely with comments like, “Eye of the beholder, my friend!” (even when he posted his own derivative work on Imgur to support his interpretation).
I think I was scared because if I acknowledged it, anyone that saw it could play mathematician based on the dimensions of the painting. Unless I also added that it wasn’t my entire penis. And then I’m suddenly the kid on the internet writing about how “my dick is at least this big (and who knows how much bigger?)!”
“Diminishing Returns.” 2/16/13. Acrylic paint, peptol-bismol, glue, on cardboard. 6×13″.
Of the ten paintings in my series, “The Weak End,” this was the seventh. I had spent the last forty (of my waking) hours painting and it had begun to feel mechanical. I didn’t feel productive, creative, or fulfilled; I felt dull. “This is a television in the same sense that I’m an artist” means two things. First, that the thing in front of me, occupying all of my time, might as well have been a TV insofar as I had lost myself in it and was now just wasting time. Second, that while I might be performing the same functions as an artist, no one should ever mistake me for one; I was just some asshole, playing with paint, for nothing.
Initially, I titled this piece “Stop Now” because I felt like that’s what I ought to have done at the time. Instead, I told my inner-critic to shut the fuck up, set this piece aside, continued on to the last three pieces in the series, and – today – couldn’t be any happier that I did. While my self-deprecating title for this series of paintings is a reflection of my hurt feelings and self-loathing upon discovering (Monday morning) that I’d be moving out of Tranquil Shores, all of my experiences between Friday and Sunday (primarily comprised of this paint marathon), I think, were exactly what I needed to propel me forward and back out into the real world.
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This piece is available for purchase in my webstore
Like Bats left to start their tour late last night. Though I recently made some adjustments to the cartoon I drew for them (for use as a tour poster) I was up before 6 AM this morning, so I figured I’d draw another cartoon inspired in part by one of the songs on their upcoming EP.
When I checked back in at Tranquil Shores (after getting kicked out) in October 2012, Like Bats had a show in Tampa just two days later that I was (consequently) unable to go to. It wasn’t until a month later that I found out they stopped by Tranquil Shores the next day to try and visit me. (Since I had just been readmitted, I wasn’t allowed visitors yet and they were turned away).
It’s been years since I saw Like Bats play live and I’ve never even met Matt and Alec, who stepped in when Kyle and Joey left the band. Seeing them play and seeing Mike and Dave (who’s on tour with them as usual) is one of the things I’m most excited about for next week.
It’s been a strange morning. (“Strange” being code for “I don’t feel like acknowledging what’s going on). When I first went outside today, it was early enough that it was still dark. And it was cold enough that I had to put on my jacket for the first time since February. I sat outside with coffee, pop tarts, cigarettes, and punk rock and thought about how much I missed rehab. A few minutes later, I realized I was sitting in some really shallow self-pity. I didn’t even know that I was necessarily upset, but I was embracing anything that made me feel sad – and reveling in how tragic it all felt. I was enjoying it in that way that kids like us do but – at the same time – I knew that a well-targeted attack/word could probably pull my pin like the Death Star and reduce me to a puddle – which would certainly take the fun out of it all.
I texted with a friend for a little bit and then drew this cartoon. I think I’ve got a grip on my day now.
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If you’re in any of these areas, go see Like Bats this week. They’re one of the best bands in existence today.
10/24- Boston, MA @ Fort Warner w/Peeple Watchin’
10/25- Hartford, CT @ Whitney House
10/26- Brooklyn, NY @ Lulu’s
10/27- Bethpage, NY @ Mr. Beery’s w/ Iron Chic
10/28- Baltimore, MD @ Charm City Art Space w/ Sick Sick Birds
10/30- Greenville, SC @ CFR
10/31- Gainesville, FL / The Fest
11/1- 10/31- Gainesville, FL / The Fest
11/2- 10/31- Gainesville, FL / The Fest
11/3- 10/31- Gainesville, FL / The Fest @ 1982
11/4- Athens, GA @ Flicker Theatre and Bar w/ Two Hand Fools
Here’s the first song I ever heard by Like Bats; it’s called “Lousy” and I love it as much today as I ever have.
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If you missed it, go read the short story I wrote that Razorcake posted on their website yesterday. It’s about me fucking over Rational Anthem in the desert.
“Gift Horse” was the best birthday present I’ve ever given to anyone. I don’t mean for the recipient – but for me. Because there’s nothing better in the world than going into the bedroom at night or waking up in the morning to find Heather fast asleep cuddled up with it in her arms. When I see that, I feel so loved. I mean – I’m not the horse but (maybe because I made it[?]) it feels like I’m getting to look at her cuddled up to me…. [or something like that…] – that’s the best explanation I can come up with anyway. But she’s so beautiful and she hugs it (even in her sleep) with such conviction that… – it’s just really nice. It makes me really happy.
I love her a lot.
And I don’t wanna disturb her by turning on the lights just to take a picture but, luckily, I have this one from a few weeks ago.
9/22/13.
And – just this moment – I’ve realized that this is the perfect opportunity to share a piece that I haven’t yet… [yes – the one with the title]. “Took a Picture” was the product of one of my Friday afternoon expressive art therapy groups, back when I was in outpatient mode. Earlier that day…
I opened my eyes and looked over at Heather. “Do you know how much you laugh in your sleep?” she asked. I smiled. “Is it a sinister, maniacal laugh? Do I sound like I’m plotting evil?” She laughed. “Not at all. It’s really happy. You sound really happy.” “Hmmm, well – don’t tell anyone that… or tell them, but say that my eyes are open at the time – my cold,dead eyes.” She rolled hers at me.
Heather didn’t have to work early that day but – when she did have an early morning shift – she’d only come sleep over the night before if I agreed to “no funny business.” Of course, I would promise. And though I don’t think I ever once actually honored that promise, she’d take my word for it every time (like a total sucker). And even once I did go to sleep, she said I’d sometimes contort and throw my body across the mattress like a maniac. What a joy it must have been to share a bed with me!
It hadn’t even been three weeks since I moved out of Tranquil Shores and back into the real world. How was my life this wonderful already? How could I possibly deserve to be waking up next to this girl each day?
This piece existed in a strange limbo for a long time because I titled it as soon as I finished it and immediately wished that I had used the title for the caption as well. Because the original caption – though based in authenticity – felt contrived. I wrote it without forethought in a “stream of consciousness” sorta way, but I had essentially quoted myself… which I didn’t like at all. I had this “rule” though – against altering anything once I had deemed it finished. Eventually, I got over that and – now – the title and caption are one in the same and the piece finally feelsright.
That original caption was: “She stays over even though I keep her up. (I’m a sexual terrorist). And when I sleep, I thrash. And I laugh. A lot. Not with cold, dead eyes. It’s joyful. Don’t fucking repeat that.”
This piece is available as a 14×6″ print.
The original drawing is also for sale but given its strange dimensions, the frame isn’t quite right. Then again, it looks kinda cool like this…
Check out “Gift Horse,” the catalyst for this entry.
