It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage

August 26, 2013

“I think I should (or at least want to) eat but I feel fat so I’m gonna try not to do that. I’d eat with Adderall but don’t wanna stay up too late. Got treatment tomorrow. I’d work out but don’t want to. I should get some work done or make some art (which I sort of am) but really I think I’ll just beat off. It’s a good distraction. I wanna say I wanna use heroin at times like this but I don’t. I never will. I’m not a good addict.”

"It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage." 3/14/13. Acrylic, watercolor, resin sand, duct tape, marker, colored pencil, fabric dye, coffee, and urine on flat-rate USPS priority mailing box. 12x16".
“It Smells Like Pee Because I Peed On It b/w How I Feel About My Life Right Now + Doll Garage.” 3/14/13. Acrylic, watercolor, resin sand, duct tape, marker, colored pencil, fabric dye, coffee, and urine on flat-rate USPS priority mailing box. 12×16″.

Yeesh. [or something]. Right? I wrote that on a discarded USPS box with no intention of it actually becoming a piece. I was just losing my mind. There’s a lot going on here but that’s how it started (bottom center, red pencil).I’m proud to say that – like the other piece in which I express an interest in masturbating – I wound up getting pulled into art instead. (If you wanna know the truth though – on other occasions, I actually have masturbated! Don’t tell anyone though – it’s a big secret).

I already covered the “feeling fat” sentiment with “Insecure and Overwhelmed” so I won’t repeat myself here.

On the edges we have two allusions to the piece I finished earlier this same night (“Titrating”). On the right it says, “If THAT wasn’t titration-related, maybe THIS isn’t either.” On the left it says, “On a scale of one to ten, are you warm and safe? Do you find colors soothing? Is there any leftover pizza? On a scale of one to ten… Leftover pizza?” (That’s me poking fun at myself for being so concerned with pizza back on February 26th). Regarding “colors,” that’s about the neon green paint splattered across the pink duct tape that coats the far right side of my “canvas.” I like colors.

I was “making a living” at this point in my life by selling weird antique dolls on eBay. Every morning (or afternoon) I’d wake up and go out to the garage (in my ex-girlfriend’s family’s house) and list the dolls for sale. The details don’t matter, but they were basically inherited and I was enlisted to sell them in exchange for 50% of whatever they brought in. The dolls were all stored in giant plastic tubs. Some of them didn’t have clothes on, but there were a bunch of clothes floating around at the bottoms of the tubs. In order to make as much money as possible, I had to research the dolls based on their attributes and the markings carved into their backs and necks. For many of them, what clothes they were wearing was “important” (by which I mean, it affected how much I’d get for them). So here I was, sitting in a dark garage, putting different outfits on these toys and photographing them. Context aside, I was twenty-seven years old and playing dress-up with dollies. When that thought occurred to me, it struck me as being so absurd that I had to snap a ridiculous picture and post it on Facebook. The caption read, “Don’t even try to pretend I’m not the funniest motherfucker on the planet.”

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Because I totally am!

When this piece was just one step away from the way it ended up, I fucking hated it. Aside from the fact that it mentions embarrassing stuff (body image issues and masturbating) I just didn’t like the way that it looked. I can’t really explain my next move. Maybe it just popped into my head and seemed characteristic of mental illness and (since that’s how I felt in this moment) I embraced it. I took the piece and I peed on it.

And – call me crazy but… that’s what did it. The slight change in color tone brought about by my urine soaking into the cardboard… really brought the whole thing together. (My phrasing is intentionally silly here, but the sentiment is 100% dead on). Suddenly, I loved this piece. I deemed it “finished” and immediately started my next piece – “Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should.”

The next day (as I always did) I brought all of my new artwork with me to Tranquil Shores to share. I wrote the name of this piece on the back of it and came up with a really funny game. I’d hand it to someone, let them look at it, and then tell them to flip it over and read the title. At which point they’d look up at me like, “seriously?” And I’d give them a big dumb grin and nod.

Urine is sterile! The piece was dry by this point! Who cares?!

I am a child, but I have fun.

 

Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should

August 25, 2013

My first reaction to twelve-step programs was: “Required belief in a higher power? This isn’t going to work for me.” I read “We Agnostics” and heard about the proverbial higher powers of atheists (light bulbs, door knobs, etc.) and it was all bullshit. Besides, from what I could tell, these programs weren’t talking about “a higher power of your own understanding,” they were talking about GOD. Narcotics Anonymous goes so far as to refer to God as “Him” (with a capital fucking H)! The Alcoholics Anonymous text is even worse; with exclamations like “May you find Him now!” they might as well have a crucifix on the cover. I was equally unimpressed and unswayed by the guy who told me his higher power was Spiderman. And the people who said that NA or AA was their higher power just seemed to be reaching.

It wasn’t for me. “We Agnostics?” More like you agnostics. I wasn’t an agnostic or an atheist because I’m not even acknowledging it.  If someone asked me if I believed in God, I’d look at them like they were retarded. “It’s not something that concerns me. It’s not a relevant question. Who fucking cares?”

In December of 2011, worn by desperation, my mind opened just a little bit. In my room alone, my second night in (my first) rehab, I accepted my first higher power. It was something. Literally. My first higher power was something. “Whatever it is that those addicts who recover share in common – that’s my higher power.” My thought was that I may not be able to identify or articulate exactly what that was specifically, but that only made the concept seem more in line with what I thought conceptions of God or a higher power are really all about.

As I became more well-versed in recovery speak, I would playfully throw the slogans and principles around – mock-chastising staff and peers when they’d do or say something that could be interpreted as out of step with recovery. This, of course, included statements invoking God. As it so often happens in rehabs (or kindergarten classes – or any place populated by those with the emotional maturity of children) someone made a joke that sparked a whole series of related jokes, perpetually retold, refined, and expanded. In this case, the joke was Sam’s punk god. I loved it and, somewhere along the way, actually adopted it. Accepting a higher power in spite of my awareness that it was the product of our imaginations – in a way – showed willingness. It required more than ordinary faith; it required total nonsense. And while completely irrational, it was still (as I’d love to point out) every bit as valid a conception of God as the ones presented in religious texts. Its absurdity was part of the appeal. “Punk God isn’t really concerned with sin,” I’d preach. “Except for voting. Punk God fucking hates voting. If you vote, you’re definitely going to hell.” In more earnest moments, I’d confess: “I don’t actually believe in Punk God, but as a concept – as a tool – sure.” Eventually, I’d need something that could offer me more guidance than a parodical exaggeration of myself. But for a time, the idea that Punk God was looking out for me was enough.

Something in me changed. I was building up to it over the course of more than a year but there was a moment when it really crystallized and I became a different person. [See: “No Accident”]. I’m still somewhat embarrassed to talk about it isometimes, but I got to a place (emotionally) where I could accept a real higher power.

Love.

I’m not perfect when it comes to practice but, in a tough situation, sometimes I have the peace of mind to pause and ask myself: What’s the loving thing to do? What action can I take in this moment to demonstrate love for myself as well as love for others?  If I answer it honestly – and have the discipline and willingness to honor the answer in that moment – life seems to… everything seems to work out pretty okay (better than okay: extremely well).

This might not always be the case though, were it not for the second of my (let’s call them) “spiritual principles.” When something bad happens, I don’t accept that it’s bad. It might seem bad, but it isn’t. I might feel some kind of pain in response to it (whether physical, emotional, or [whatever]) but it’s a good thing. When I struggle with something, that’s a good thing. It’s an opportunity for growth. It’s a chance to become a better, stronger person. I believe that everything happens exactly it’s supposed to or, alternately, everything happens for the best. This is not a belief that I get consequent to some other belief (for example, that there’s a god up above that’s playing chess with all of our lives). This is a choice. I choose to believe that this is true. And – on a very basic philosophical level – it is very much, absolutely true – so long as I want it to be.  Reality is reality. I can’t change it. What I can change is my perspective / attitude.

It’d be easy to conclude that terrible things happen on this planet and that we live in an awful world. Even in examining my own situation, I could conclude that I live in my ex-girlfriend’s parents’ house because I’m fresh out rehab; I went to Georgetown Law and I don’t even have a job; I sit in a dark garage all day and generate my only income by selling weird antique dolls on eBay; I’m 27 years old, spent most of the last 16 months in rehabs and mental health institutions, and can’t even get a bank account; the record label that I poured myself into for years has crumbled and my band doesn’t even really exist; I’m a fuck-up, a loser, and I have no prospects for the future.

Instead, I choose to see it more along the lines of… I was a trainwreck of a human being and behaved abominably; in spite of that, I have people in my life who not only trust me to live in their home, but allow me to do so rent-free; I got to take more than a year out of my life to study myself with the help of incredibly gifted counselors, therapists, and doctors and finally figure out why I’ve spent most of my life unhappy, and discover a new kind of happiness that I never knew existed; I also discovered visual art, something that I was once too fearful to even attempt seriously, but that I now enjoy as thoroughly as anything else in this world (even pop punk!) and that has allowed me to connect with other people (people still struggling with addiction, people in recovery, and just regular people) in a way that those people tell me has enriched their lives and, in turn, enriches my own; I have dreams and aspirations that I work toward everyday and I enjoy that work regardless of any external success that might or might never come from it; I have beautiful friendships with inspiring people whom I admire and a girlfriend with whom I am thoroughly in love; life could not possibly be better.

Only one of those two statements is true but I get to choose which one it is. This is where the old, abandoned concept of Punk God comes in – it’s all about choice. No one can prove me wrong. Things may look one way – it doesn’t matter. Everything is exactly as we believe that it is. Right and wrong don’t really exist. Not in any practical sense anyway. I choose to believe that everything works out for the best for the same reason I chose to “believe” in Punk God. Because it helps me. It makes life easier. And just as no one could prove that Punk God wasn’t real, I can’t prove that everything doesn’t work out for the best. So I believe that it does. And I’m right!

"Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should." 3/14/13. Marker on foam board scrap. 8x10".
“Everything Works Out Exactly As It Should.” 3/14/13. Marker on foam board scrap. 8×10″.

—–

  • Prints of this piece are now for sale in my webstore.

Trying to Be a Light

August 24, 2013

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. 10x12½”.
“Trying to Be a Light.” 2/26/13. Acrylic and watercolor. 10×12½”.

Titrating

"Titrating." 3/14/13. Acrylic, marker, and pen on canvas. 8x10".
“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).

 

This painting has already been sold but hand-numbered/signed prints may still be available. Contact for availability inquiries.

Tola’s Approach to Demons

August 23, 2013

"Tola's Approach to Demons." 7/21/13. Acrylic paint and ink. 16x20".
“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.

Weird War

August 20, 2013

"Weird War." 8/20/13. Mixed media. 9x12".
“Weird War.” 8/20/13. Watercolor paint, watercolor pencil, marker, pen, and oil pastel. 9×12″.

I started (and finished) this piece in the van, but also worked on it at the Ski Haus in Carbondale, (where Rational Anthem played with The Heat Tape, Future Virgins, and Hate Waves).

My primary purpose in creating art is emotional balance / regulation. Sometimes though, when I don’t like what comes out of me, the process can actually throw me off base a little bit.

I’m pretty fragile. Little things fuck with my head. I sometimes forget that I can write private journals that don’t have to go online immediately. When that happens, I lose one of my tools.

Noelle said this one looks like a warzone. From the beginning, I was pitting the top right and bottom left against each other, alternately considering cropping one or the other out. It took a long time to bring them together in the center in a way that felt right to me. I think the combination of textures (through the layering of the different materials) helped a lot with that. So did journaling (privately) in order to really examine the forces behind my feelings. Taking a suggestion made by a friend a few weeks back, I wrote on the back of the piece. As I wrote on the front of “Iowa,” I don’t need to put my every thought up in lights for public scrutiny.

Noelle works early on Wednesday morning, so we decided that tonight (in Valdosta) is the last show before we head home. We’re running more than a little late, but I’m not stressing it anymore. I don’t know how tonight will shape up, but I’m excited for whatever’s coming next.

This piece is currently listed for sale in my webstore.

Iowa

Things got a little hectic yesterday morning. I’m going to try to tell this story, which involves other people, while keeping the focus mostly on myself. I’ve never stated so explicitly but there’s a reason I do that and it’s not because I think I’m such a fascinating character. Letting my focus shift to other people would make for better storytelling but less effective mental health exercise. When it comes to my well-being, the things that other people think, say, and do are irrelevant. Really, they have nothing to do with me and are none of my business (or at least none of my concern).

The Lipstick Homicide and Bloated Kat houses are about a block apart, so our crew was split between them for the night. It was about time for us to get on the road from Iowa City to Carbondale when Noelle called me and said she needed my help. “It’s nothing bad or serious, is it?”

“Andrea broke up with me and is driving back to Florida without Jessica.”

Since 2008, Rational Anthem has had an incredibly sensible rule: no girlfriends on tour. Relationship problems are bad enough on their own, but when they come up on tour, they become the whole band’s problem. This trip though wasn’t quite a tour and an exception was made. Noelle’s girlfriend rented a car to drive up to Dave Strait Fest, but also to stop along the way up and back for two of the shows Rational was playing between Florida and Minneapolis. In the car with her was a friend of Noelle’s (and – at one point – possibly of Andrea’s as well).

What happened isn’t important. There was now bad blood and Andrea didn’t want to drive back to Florida with the other girl.

Rational Anthem has three members. Their van has four seats. I was along for the whole trip and Zack’s summer in Minneapolis was over, so he was hitching a ride with us back home to Florida.

I walked over to the house and sat down with Andrea. I offered a couple different ideas/options that might make her more receptive to driving back with Jessica in tow, as planned. She wasn’t having it.

There was a point in my life where I was so desperate to be perceived as a “winner” – as someone capable of pulling any trick or fixing any problem – that I would have pulled whatever emotionally manipulative bullshit was necessary to get those two girls in the car together and back on the road to Florida. But that’s not me anymore. Andrea was hurting and I felt for her. Whatever happened to spark the conflict didn’t really matter to me. Two (or three) people can have radically different versions of a story and neither’s is wrong. Perception *is* reality. If Noelle or Jessica were mean to Andrea, if it was all in Andrea’s head – it didn’t make any difference. Emotions are more powerful than facts. I didn’t care about the problem, only the solution.

The rental car was in Andrea’s name. On paper, the call was hers. Could she have been coaxed into taking Jessica and making life easier for the other people involved? Probably. But I consider Andrea a friend and – it’s a little strange but – my empathy was stronger than my need to be the clever problem-solver. It’s strange because I’m not sure that’s ever happened before. I wasn’t willing to do anything to keep her from doing what she felt she needed to in order to feel okay.

I gave Andrea a hug and told Jessica she’d have to take a bus from Iowa to Florida. Not because she did something wrong (I don’t know or care whether or not she did) but because that was simply the situation we were in. Unfortunate but… things are as they are.

Jessica said she didn’t know what she had done wrong. I said that I didn’t either, but that it didn’t matter. She was upset (and reasonably enough so). Not being the type of itinerant punk rock fuck-up that so many of us are, a bus trip from Iowa to Florida was going to be a new kind of experience for her. I did my best to remain calm, compassionate, and supportive, and to alleviate any fears, but it didn’t go over much better than my initial proposals to Andrea. Jessica asked if she could go in the van with Rational Anthem and someone else could take a bus or ride back with Andrea.

Chris, Noelle, and I walked back to the other house. Chris wanted to keep the group intact as it was. Noelle said she felt bad about the situation Jessica was in so she was okay with Zack or I heading back with Andrea – so long as we were. I didn’t like that option, but was willing to do whatever seemed to make the most sense. Zack was too. I saw Andrea’s hurt, but there was hurt all over the place and I’d do just about anything for Noelle at this point. She’s my friend and – besides – I owe it to her. For all the times when I haven’t been a good friend to her. For all the times when the only thing she could really count on me doing was making trouble myself.

As it turned out, Andrea returned
the car in Iowa and made other plans. The five of us decided to hit the road as initially planned.

"Iowa." 8/19/13. Watercolor, marker, and pen. 9x12".
“Iowa.” 8/19/13. Watercolor, marker, and pen. 9×12″.

This was finished later that afternoon but drawn mostly the night before, on the way to (and at) the show in Des Moines (which was The Copyrights, Lipstick Homicide, Rational Anthem, Tight Bros, and a few others). The text is basically journaling about the situation and some other stuff that was on my mind at one point or another.

The text that stands out most to me says, “What’s to come is what matters. We roll with the punches. We’ll do whatever it is that we have to do.” It’s kind of about what is as well as what should be. Or maybe just what is when we’re at our best. Human beings, I mean.

I’m really grateful for the fact that – even when I thought it might mean that I’d have to go home early – the thought never occurred to me that I should go back and try to talk Andrea into taking Jessica after all.

And I’m grateful that I’m still here with four of my friends. And grateful that I’m finally able to treat my friends the way a friend should.

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