Tag Archives: creepy

Today I’m being bad at pinstriping

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Most of what I do as an artist is just materials science. I play with different materials and see how they respond and interact. I don’t make art to exalt a finished product. I make art as a calculated and regular offering to the muse and the end result is a new thing.

Because of this generalist approach, I don’t have solid fundamentals and a real mastery of anything but I’m finding that expanding one skill or another offers advances to other skills and new opportunities to add something unexpected.

I picked up a pinstriping brush for the first time and made some lines. I used EZ Flow Striping and Lettering enamel, and when the brush is loaded it’s a buttery material and glide that’s almost an addictive sensory experience.

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Blows

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I feel
the impact
of my words
in my wrists and
lower back and
when I take a break
and look at the stars
I hear a screeching
either of dying
or of killing
or of trying desperately
to do a little of both
and I try not to
take it personally
as a sign
or an omen
while I
hear my name
reverberate in
each yell and
hammer blow.

Long damn walks.

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I had made it nearly to 44th street when the ambulance pulled over by me.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Walking home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Off of 100th street.”

“That’s a long ways.”

“I know. I don’t suppose you could give me a short lift.”

“We can only take you to the hospital, which I don’t think you need.”

“Makes sense.”

“Got any friends you can call or anything?”

“Yeah.” My phone was long dead by this point. “But I think I’ll keep walking.”

“Anyways, get onto division or something. It’s illegal to walk on the highway.”

I complied, climbing the embankment to jog over a street.

It’s interesting how steps add up. Being suicidally depressed for as long as I’ve been, the only way you get anywhere is to put one foot in front of the other. There’s no real determination to it. Just a sense of inevitability and futility. What else are you gone do?

Taking these steps that seem to go nowhere have an interesting way of taking you places, though.

Thirst drove me back to the highway. Raw, rasping desperation that dropped me to my knees in front of lawn sprinklers, just for enough hydration to get me to the gas station.

Despite my previous warning, I continued on the highway. I was nearing my exit when a late model silver pickup slowed to a stop, then reversed toward me. The man inside, middle aged, wearing a heather tee and whitewashed shorts that were just a little too long to be acceptable fashion, asked me if I needed a ride.

“Oh god yes.”

I climbed in. “So you’ve been walking for awhile.”

“Yeah, I didn’t say it was the wisest decision. I’m just obstinate.”

We sit in silence.

“Thank you, though. You’ve probably saved me two hours.”

“Your husband isn’t gonna be mad I brought you home?”

“Nah, I imagine he will be relieved.”

An edge creeps into his voice.

“You aren’t a cop, are you?”

I chirped out an abrupt laugh. “No.”

“Can you prove it?”

“How would you prove something like that?”

“Take out your boob.”

I laughed again, trying to defuse the subtle malice that such a request suggests. “It’s this brick house here,” I say as he passes the turn.

He reverses down the road a ways, claiming “Nobody’s coming anyways.”

He doesn’t pull very far into the driveway, keeping his vehicle shielded from the house by a large pine tree. I get out, thanking him as I try to get my congealed limbs moving again.

Long walks are good for you, I remind myself.