Monday, May 30, 2011
My pistol is digging impatiently into my hip as I’m staring out the window of the studio. It’s the tail end of Memorial Day weekend and the slow moving tourist trade is finally making its way away from my front steps. This wave of old west fanatics is starting to make its way out of town leaving only some inflated bank accounts and the smell of Grecian Formula combined with roll sweat.
For close to a year I have been living behind the scenes of this little tourist town, paintin’ pictures and blastin’ around on my bike when I ain’t elbow deep in the rebuild process…the never ending rebuild process. This road is nearly at an end…at least at this location. The last painting is done and most of my Shovelhead problems have been addressed and rectified…as soon as the mail man arrives.
Good or bad my time here has been productive to say the least. Initially I had no real reason for being here except it wasn’t back there. I suddenly had plenty of time, time that could be used productively or just the time to waste away properly.
This would be a great place to just latch onto the bottle, line up the pretty colored pills and send my head into oblivion. The tranquil numbing of self destruction is always just on the other side of reality. Just succumb to your own demons and ride that shaggy dog into that fogged forest of self destruction. Yea baby, just let it all hang out dying toothless and frail, mouth full of bad breath and the foul taste of unabridged mental bloodletting. Dead and done…not here, not now, not in this town. If I’m goin’ to step off the edge, I’m going to do it where the water is cool and the women are hard bodied and scantily clad. This ain’t the place, this ain’t the time.
This place was never meant to be the place where I wrote my epitaph. Nope, not here, at least this is something I did know. I have daylight friends that are doing just that. The blather of the fools that emerge from these people that I talk to during the daylight hours are nothing short of lobotomized ferrets, running and chewing at their own freeze dried brain stems.
This is not the place for my own big bang. It lacks the elegance of the places I envision my own demise. It’s dirty and soiled, a place full of those who have settled for whatever they have in front of them. This is the place for a good old bourbon and meth death. I’m looking for champagne and pussy. Petty and insignificant this is not the place that would drive me around the bend; I went into a different kind of full burn.
I sold a bike and lived and painted off the proceeds. It was never enough but I plowed forward with jack booted determination, never once very concerned for my own comfort of living. Do what you have to and just accept that the elegance might come later if you just forged forward.
Slingin’ paint and turning a blind eye to my surroundings I worked on a goal that has been plaguing me for as long as I can remember. Painting, just to paint. Pictures of little or no consequence, paintings in order, an order of disillusion. Not painting for the cash, but painting just because I wanted to. I had the freedom to let it all hang out…so that’s just what I did.
Now it’s over. The last splatter has hit the canvas. The dirty deeds are done. The end of a year full of paint fumes, saturated fats, pot and cigarettes.
In a few short weeks I can move on. Hit the road for the East coast; get some road between my teeth, a decent meal and maybe finally some sweet, sweet American pussy. Of all the things that I have sacrificed to get this series done I miss women the most. I guess it’s time to get back into the game, start chasin’ some tail, ridin’ my bike and work on the rest of my life with what sanity I have left. Enough of this isolation…it’s time to move on! God Bless America…”GTP”