The phrase trying to be a light came to me. I repeated it like a mantra (in my head) as I tried to hold on to my grip. I was sad that my plans hadn’t worked out and I was really anxious about the message I had just gotten from Heather.
An older woman and her daughter (still older than me) walked up and asked about my painting and about art school. “No, I’m not an art student.” I told her I was fresh out of a seven month stint in rehab and that that’s where I had picked up art. We talked for a few minutes and then she asked if she could pray for me.
And I said yes.
I’m tempted to defend myself. “Why wouldn’t I say yes? What do I care if she prays for me? It can’t hurt me.” But – in that moment – I think I was actually wrecked enough that my actual rationale was closer to: “Shit. Yes. Please.” (That episode where Homer’s in trouble and he screams something like, “Help me! Jesus! Allah! Buddah! I love you all!” – that’s kind of the state I was in). In either case, I’m positive that my outward response was simply a shrug and a nonchalant (possibly dismissive) “sure.”
But what I didn’t realize was that she didn’t mean later, at home. She wanted to pray for me right there and then. Aloud. With me, at the table, outside of this grocery store, as people milled in and out around us.
I was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. But I didn’t want to be. So I fought the impulse to stop her and just let it happen. She might have even tried to take my hand and I might have even let her. (I think I did). And then she went inside to buy groceries.
When she came out, she said bye and wished me luck. Just as I was finishing this. So I gave it to her. I don’t know why.
(I know why. Or… I have theories as to why. Good and bad. I don’t really like either. So I’ll just leave it there).
“Trying to Be a Light.” 2/26/13. Acrylic and watercolor. 10×12½”.
“Titrating.” February 26th and March 14th, 2013. Acrylic, marker, and pen on canvas. 8×10″.
I’ve never shared the text in this piece with anyone until now. Shortly after I moved out of Tranquil Shores, I went down to Sarasota to see if I could sell some of my artwork by just setting up on the sidewalk. I didn’t want any trouble with police and the most trafficked spot in downtown Sarasota is outside of Whole Foods, so rather than set up in such a way as to be explicitly selling artwork, I just sat at a table outside of Whole Foods and painted, with a few finished pieces (facing outward) in the crate attached to my bike, another on the table in front of me, and another leaning against my chair. I just painted and hoped that someone would walk up and want to talk to me and then I could somehow segue into trying to sell something. Plenty of people did stop and talk to me, but I didn’t say anything to anyone about selling anything. And it was twilight, so no one could really see anything anyway. The whole thing was awkward. It wasn’t exactly my best plan.
Just before I went to Whole Foods, I had stopped by Clothesline. I had made a habit of doing that whenever I was back in Sarasota in the last year or so (in between stints in rehab), but this time it wasn’t just to say hi to the owner, Austin (my best friend from ages two to ten or so). Clothesline does gallery openings or art exhibits or [whatever you call that kind of thing] and – as of a couple months ago – I was now an artist. I figured I’d show him some of my pieces and see if there was any possibility of showing some of my stuff there. He was really supportive and sweet, but I didn’t actually ask outright and the whole thing didn’t pan out exactly as I’d have liked it to. Looking back, that makes a lot of sense.
Anyway, this was written a few hours later – after the Whole Foods attempt, after starting my ride back to Bradenton. It was colder than I could stand (to ride in) so I pulled over and wrote this on a piece of canvas that I had started to paint earlier. It says:
At first I thought it was just because she wanted to see me, but when I started writing on “Smiling With a Paintbrush in My Teeth,” I realized it might not be a good thing. When I asked her if she just wanted to see me or had something specific to talk about (and that I might not be home by ten) she said, “It’s not a big deal – it can wait ’til tomorrow.” But it’s a big enough deal that it’s not a text or a phone call. And a big enough deal that – ideally – she wanted to talk about it tonight. I’m really scared. Trying to see the good. Trying to be a light. Whole Foods today (covert street sales) was a bust. Clothesline was a bust. I might need to be in a big city to be an artist. And what keeps me from that? Heather. If she left me, I could go wherever I want. In another piece today, I had described myself as “stuck” and “trapped.” Also “smiling,” but still. My little punk rock heart’ll be broken, but I’ll be free to pursue my dream. And she’s been weird the last two days. “A dream I don’t want to wake up from.” It’s true, but maybe it’s time for me to wake up. I tried to ride the moped back. It’s too cold. The zipper on my bag keeps opening. I caved and called Lynette. There’s pizza waiting at home. I’m scared but I just need to make it another 100 minutes. Writing this killed 17. By the time I’m warm and fed, I’ll only have maybe 55 minutes to kill. Fuck. I’m smoking a cigarette now.
So – being incredibly codependent – I wanted to see Heather every night, but I was trying to be cool with it on the nights that I didn’t see her. But when she sent me a text on this evening, asking if she could come over around 10, I was excited because she had said that she had to work early and wouldn’t be coming over. And then my brain went into panic mode, as I realized that her text also implied that there was something we needed to talk about. Obviously, I jumped to the conclusion that she was going to break up with me. We had only been dating for a couple of weeks, but – shit – I didn’t really understand why she had been into seeing me in the first place. I’m a heroin addict and I just got out of rehab. She’s well-adjusted and employed. She drives a car! That she bought! With money from working!
I got picked up on the side of the rode and went “home.” (I was living with an ex-girlfriend’s family – although – I think it’s safe to say at this point (eight years in) that they’re basically my family; they’re as much family to me as anyone else in the world). Anyway, I was a ball of anxiety, I was so incredibly stressed out throughout this, but I remember that the one comforting thought in my head was there will be pizza – I will eat pizza and everything will be okay. (Yes, I am nine years old). When I got back to the house, there was not any pizza left. It was a pretty devastating blow.
I didn’t finish this piece that night because I didn’t want it to be a piece. I didn’t want anyone to see what I had written. It’s embarrassing.
Three weeks later, I found myself similarly upset though and I picked it back up. In all of that time, I had been cutting my anti-depressants all the way down to zero. For that reason, it was tough to tell when something was a legitimate issue and when I was maybe just feeling the absence of my medication. Just before I moved out of Tranquil Shores, it had been suggested that maybe I didn’t need anti-depressants after all. I started titrating down and we were monitoring my condition to see how I did with a lower dose and then with no dose. The day that I finished this piece, I was at the very end of my titration. I had no idea what was what.
I still get depressed, but I haven’t gone back on anti-depressants. After all, I still got depressed even when I was on them. And actually, I got depressed even more often because my “mental health tools” weren’t as strong back then. I don’t wanna go on a long spiel about it, but I’ll just say: I think anti-depressants are for people suffering from depression without cause. If, on the other hand, a person has plenty of legitimate reasons to be depressed, depression is the appropriate response and not something that should be treated with a pill. That strikes me as being roughly equivalent to putting a piece of duct tape over a “check engine” light and thinking the problem’s solved.
Anyway, I’m not saying that I have good reasons to be depressed, but I’ve got my little episodes and I have ways that I can manage them without a pill. Did I need it for a time? Almost definitely. I don’t think I could have started to get a grip without them. I was immeasurably miserable all the time. Words like “hopeful” and “happy” disgusted me. I wouldn’t even say them out loud. My process, getting well… it wasn’t quick and it wasn’t easy. I had a very long way to go. (And – yeah – I’m still going).
Quick aside. In writing this entry, I noticed something cool about this piece: how many other pieces it alludes to or is tied to in some sense. At least five. Maybe those will be the next ones I add to the site. (As I add those pieces, I’ll add links to them in the text of this entry, where each is referenced).
I just saw a teaser trailer for No Real Than You Are! I’m not allowed to share it with anyone yet, but it’s pretty awesome.
It’s silly, but I think my favorite part is just that I’m wearing a Jonesin’ hoodie as I fall apart in a graveyard and a Rational Anthem shirt as I make out with a girl in a treehouse.
I have a post that I’m really excited about (that’s half-written) but I can’t get to it and finish it for another hour or so.
I spent today doing yard work. I cleared an area overgrown with six foot weeds. It took me four hours (which equates to two large pizzas). I have a funny life.
“Tola’s Approach to Demons.” 7/21/13. Acrylic paint and ink. 16×20″.
The text at upper left: “That was amazing,” Vincent said. “How do you feel?” “Like garbage.” I went back out on the dock with Tola. We sat out there for the rest of the night. “I don’t really mind demons,” he told me. “So long as they’re not actively trying to fuck my shit up, I just keep my distance and everything is cool.”
—–
Tola had been drinking and I don’t know exactly what he meant when he said “demons,” but it made sense to me either way. Everything he said to me that night made a lot of sense. And meant a lot to me. That conversation was exactly what I needed that night.
I don’t believe in evil. I don’t believe that there’s such a thing as bad people. I have to think that way ’cause if I’m wrong, then I’m most certainly evil – I’m definitely a bad person.
But I try really hard. So I give other people the benefit of the doubt. If someone does something fucked up, I choose to believe that they’re doing their best. (Their best just happens to be pretty terrible relative to average/acceptable standards). I try to keep that in mind whether we’re talking about some asshole on the sidewalk or someone like that kid that shot up Sandy Hook. It’s hard to give everyone that credit – that empathy – but I try. In return, I hope to get the same.
With all of that said, some people are not entirely well. (I should know; often enough, I’m one of them). And if you play with fire… if you fuck with a demon … that demon is going to burn you alive. Nothing good ever comes from it. When it comes to people who are sick – people that aren’t even interested in being well – stay the fuck away. This is a lesson I have learned the hard way, but am still having a little trouble applying.
I need to learn to more closely adhere to “Tola’s approach to demons.”
—–
Everything you just read was written right after painting this. It was two days after I wrapped on “No Real Than You Are.”
July 4th (the night referenced in the piece) was my first night of filming. In the hour or so before we actually shot the scene, my co-star and I were not getting along. In fact, we weren’t even speaking to one another. And this scene we had to film – let me put it this way: the director told us that it was the scene in which it was most important for the audience to really see just how in love these characters were with one another. Suffice to say, I was not feeling any love for this girl on that evening and I’m pretty certain her feelings toward me were about the same. In hindsight, she was probably a scapegoat, but that didn’t change my feelings in the moment.
I still haven’t seen the footage, but – from what I’m told – we pulled it off. It took everything I had in me to not say FUCK THIS and just walk away from the set and quit. I was miserable and I was angry. But I didn’t walk away. I shook my shitty feelings the fuck out of my body and for [however long we filmed that night] I played and pretended and made myself alright. If that footage is at all believable, then I gave one fuck of a performance. More of a performance than anyone watching would ever realize. As soon as the director said “cut” though, I fell right back into it. Suppression and healing are two very different things. I can’t actually force myself to be okay. I don’t think anyone can. “Holding it together” and “getting it together” are two very different things. Real healing takes a lot of work. I think that this painting was one step of a walk in the right direction though.
—–
During the month I spent working on “No Real Than You Are” (and scooting around Sarasota on my little thrashBike) I listened almost exclusively to the songs on a playlist that I made shortly after getting into town. The first song on the playlist isn’t online anywhere, so here’s the second. “Eviction Notice” by Riverboat Gamblers.
—–
Signed and numbered 12×15″ prints of “Tola’s Approach to Demons” are available in my webstore.
Hit me up if you’re interested in purchasing the original piece.
“My Favorite Cartoon.” 1/15/13. Pen on scrap. 3×4″.
I was sitting in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and I was pretty bummed out over (surprise!) a girl. (I’ve astutely noticed that this seems to be a pattern). You see… When we saw each other just before we went into the meeting, she hadn’t paid me quite as much attention as I felt that I needed (ALL OF THE ATTENTION).
So, as I had become prone to doing, I tried to work through my anxiety and hurt feelings with a pen and a piece of paper. I drew a little cartoon, but I wasn’t happy with it. Which made me even more upset. So I tried again. Annnnnnnd… same result. I put my pen and paper on the floor and decided to just sit in my misery and sulk. Because I so enjoy feeling that way. (Who doesn’t?!)
But that was what the old Sam would do. So I begrudgingly picked my pen and paper back up and started again, not even knowing what I was drawing. And this is what came out.
And then I wasn’t upset anymore.
So while I really like this cartoon, what makes it my favorite isn’t necessarily the cartoon itself as much as it’s evidence that I can use art to heal all my stupid, petty wounds. It helps me step back and realize that every little thing that happens around me is not (and is not meant to be interpreted as) proof that I’m a worthless, unlovable piece of shit.
Here are some related images…
This is the original as I’ve framed it. Underneath the glass, the cartoon is “laminated” in packing tape because… [see next picture for more]When I had *my very own apartment* at Tranquil Shores, I took it upon myself to “decorate” (to the extent permitted). Of course, I put my favorite cartoon on my front door. To protect it from rain though, I had to “laminate” it first. After a couple days, I was told that I couldn’t have it visible outside like that, so I hung it from a piece of scotch tape, just inside my front door, to greet any/all visitors.At Dave Strait Fest in Minneapolis last weekend, I picked up a copy of New Noise magazine. There was a feature on Rumspringer, in which Wes describes meeting me. I was selling records outside of Common Grounds and handing out fliers with a list of bands with upcoming releases on Traffic Street. In the feature, Wes says something to the effect of “Sam swears they weren’t business cards, but they totally were!” I thought it was funny that I found that article while attending another fest, at which I was (arguably) distributing “business cards.” But *this* time, I wasn’t giving them to people, I was…Using my homemade keychain to tape them up to walls, signs, bike racks, and all other vertical surfaces. “Business cards? Yeah, right! These are stickers! I just don’t have a major label budget like all these millionaires with pre-stickified stickers. There’s this thing, maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s called punk.”
Heather and I started dating in February. She’s not at all into punk rock, but she does like to do normal human activities like go to baseball games with other normal humans. In May, I went along with them to see the Rays play some other team that I forget. While I was sitting there, I drew a silly comic about my experience on the back of two tickets.
“If You Watch Sports, You’re Not Punk.” 5/8/13. Marker, pen, duct tape. 8×10″.
While this was really well-received by my friends and others that follow me online, I was surprised that half of the people to see it through Reddit got really pissed off and defensive.
I like to think I’m open-minded though so I’m going to take this opportunity to change my position on the matter. Watching sports is totally punk (but having a sense of humor is absolutely not).
Should I discover otherwise, I’ll definitely keep you posted.
—–
On an unrelated note, someone online bought my copy of Henry Rollins’ “Get in the Van” today. It’s been at least seven years since I read it, so I took a look before packing it up to ship it out. The thing that stood out most to me… the guy’s talking about some people that let him and his band stay with them (not for a night, but for a while) and he’s talking about how much he hated them. He says he keeps to himself and never really interacts with them – yet he hates them. Because they’re “stoner-hippie-punks” and he thinks they’re “full of shit.” My kneejerk response is, “how terribly unhappy do you have to be to hate someone that you barely know?” I’ve never really understood why anyone has held Rollins up as any kind of an idol or hero, but – reading this stuff – I’m really reminded of the huge ideological differences that exist between different “sects” of punk rock. This book’s all about fighting and violence and self-righteousness. It’s all “I know what’s right, you’re wrong, and I’m gonna kick the shit out of you for having ideas that aren’t exactly like my own.” Basically – it’s got a lot in common with everything to come out of hardcore (which has pretty much nothing in common with what punk means to me).
Sometime in April, I found two baby birds that had fallen out of a nest and were clearly dying. I’m embarrassed to say so (which strikes me as a pretty strong indication that I should) but that little incident sparked serious thought – about my priorities, my responsibilities, and how I spend my time. I felt stupid since (apparently) I need to be confronted face-to-face with a dying animal in order to consider it. And I felt weak for being affected by the encounter at all.
About an hour before I had planned to start painting this, I was reminded of another incident where I had felt similarly weak. In twelve-step programs, the sixth step is to become ready to have God remove all of one’s character defects (and the seventh is to actually ask God to remove them). For me, step six meant spending a considerable amount of time actually considering and listing my character defects and then really thinking about whether I truly wanted to stop indulging them. Regarding the seventh step… I talk about faith in relation to other pieces and it’s not the crux of this painting so I’ll just say that one of the best things I’ve ever heard in Alcoholics Anonymous (one of very few things that actually stuck with me) was: “If you’re gonna pray for your character defects to go away, you better fucking act like it worked.”
I did those two steps and realized, “Shit – if I just committed to being honest, I can’t really sneak out of rehab tomorrow to meet up with a girl.” (A scheme I had hatched earlier in the week). So I called the girl. “Um… this is going to sound really dopey, but I have to cancel… I just did my seventh step so I can’t be dishonest and sneak out to see you.”
The buildings in this painting are arranged like the ones at Tranquil Shores. The one with the bird at the window was my room. I often contemplated sneaking out by stepping out of that window and onto the roof of the adjacent building. (I never followed through, but only because I had easier means of sneaking out).
I’ll never forget when Kyle’s mom left (or, more specifically, the day she came back), her attitude, and Kyle’s response… We were sitting in his room when she showed up at the house. She was really happy to see him and he was just… blank. Emotionless. He looked bored by it. I’m sure he wasn’t bored, but he was hurt and I guess that’s how he protected himself. Or maybe he was angry and that was his way of getting back at her: acting like he didn’t care. I don’t know why Kyle’s mom left and maybe she didn’t have a choice, but I saw how the way that she left hurt my friend. She loved him, but she fucked up. My parents loved me and they fucked up. Kyle has his own kid now and I have faith in him as a dad, but he’s going to fuck up in some respect somewhere along the way. We all do. It won’t mean he doesn’t love his daughter, it just means that he’s as shitty, selfish, and imperfect as everyone else. I might do tremendously terrible things in some moment, but I never have that intention; I’m just misguided, short-sighted, frustrated, or [whatever].
The mean looking bird is in my window because it’s me. It’s me and it’s my dad – and my mom. It’s Kyle’s parents, it’s Kyle, it’s his girlfriend, and one day it’ll be their daughter.
“Take what you need and leave the rest” is a slogan that gets used a lot in the contexts of substance abuse recovery and mental health treatment. “Take what you need and leave the nest” is a silly, little bird/growing up pun that I came up with for this piece to show everyone how clever I am.
I struck out on my own at a pretty early age. Some people seem to never leave home. It doesn’t matter. When it comes to parents, family, and home (or anything really), get what you can out of it – all the good lessons or experiences available – and then move forward to what’s next. Don’t dwell on the bad. Resentments only hurt one person – the person holding them. Forgiveness can still be tough, but it’s easier to forgive someone when you remember: they mean well, baby bird.
—–
On an unrelated note, I just fixed a lamp with a soldering iron. If anyone needs the wiring in their house redone, I’m now taking appointments.
—–
Who says a full-length can’t be 19 minutes long? The first three tracks on this thing are so good, they could have cut it off right there and called it a full-length and I still wouldn’t have argued.
![This is the original as I've framed it. Underneath the glass, the cartoon is "laminated" in packing tape because... [see next picture for more]](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/myfavoriteframed.jpg)
![At Dave Strait Fest in Minneapolis last weekend, I picked up a copy of New Noise magazine. There was a feature on Rumspringer, in which Wes describes meeting me. I was selling records outside of Common Grounds and handing out fliers with a list of bands with upcoming releases on Traffic Street. In the feature, Wes says something to the effect of "Sam swears they weren't business cards, but they totally were!" I thought it was funny that I came across that while at another fest at which I was (arguably) distributing "business cards." But *this* time, I wasn't giving them to people, I was... [see next image for more]](https://samnorth.art/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/myfavoritesticker.jpg)
