Mentally bankrupt and physically destroyed, this is the condition that I assumed I would be in after spending this much time in a ghost town. Much to my chagrin I’m neither…I’m mostly pretty fuckin’ content. I don’t feel like a new man but it sure feels like the old one is keeping a low profile.
It’s my one eyed dog, an old Shovelhead, a bunch of work and roof to cover the whole thing in one neat package. Life, as it is, seems surprisingly good, but being who I am, I am still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always happens with my previous attempts at stopping, this time though feels different, more solid.
I do have my days when I feel like I am falling over backwards in a chair but catch myself right before I topple. Try spending a few days in this condition and see how you end up after a while. Trust me it just plain fucks you up. This seems to be less of a problem when I am working so I just don’t stop.
This town, as a whole, is just another small dot on the map, but when the sun is shining the tourists invade it…and if the mood strikes me I get to fuck with them. Usually, when workin’ with some Devil music blastin’ all I get is fat, doughy retirees with their faces plastered to my window while they try to figure out what the fuck is going on behind that door. I took a look at my front window this morning and noticed greasy face prints smeared across the glass. Kind of gross really, apparently your face gets greasy once you hit the point when you’ll wear a fanny pack in public. Those are the folks I just don’t really deal with, why bother?
There are the days that I flat out have nothing to do but chill. It used to drive me crazy but these days I just open the door of the paintin’ shack and see what walks through the door.
The straight laced and proper pillars of their hometown still have that nose up mentality, but others can be rather interesting or completely retarded. The interesting come from all across the globe and usually outweigh the number of the retarded. Maybe because those of the sloped brow persuasion never leave their couch. That would involve movement which would ruin their life of unending lethargy. Thanks but no thanks, I don’t need their company. On the occasions when I have an idiot that has to be removed from my studio this action is carried out in short order. For once I have my own piece of the planet and in this space it’s George’s rules, like ‘em or get the fuck out…period!
I know, it sounds like I am turning into some ogre in charge of some feudalistic third world country but it’s not, I am the Telekinetic Czar of Planet Painter…the roads here have no middle! This is where the rivers flow with streams of consciousness and the air stills smells of fires that will never be extinguished. It’s a psychological battlefield and I hold my finger on the button…I made the rules and will make more as I see fit. In these few hundred square feet I don’t have to take shit from anyone…except maybe the dog. She can talk your ear off…fuckin’ Satan incarnate when she’s awake or not planning world domination. Dead Eyed Bud!
However there are still those days when I feel like I am going to fall off the back of that chair. Just hangin’ there, somewhere between just sitting…to cracking my head open on the concrete floor. Wobbling, waiting for either to become an end result, neither comes…for days on end. I’m in the middle of those right now. Ain’t shit I can do about it, this I know from decades of experience. It always pans out one way or the other. It’s just a matter of waiting until it’s obvious which way it went.
The town is small but that’s no consolation…it’s completely nuts. Folks are losin’ it. All around me they are hookin’ up with the glass cock, falling into sleazy love triangles and living with their year dead mothers. While all this is dancing around me I am standing in the middle, painting a fucking clown. It seems to make about as much sense as anything else in this ghost town …so I dove in.
I have recently questioned my decision to sell off a perfectly good FXR just to paint a few pictures to show to the public. At times it makes no sense and that’s when the chair starts to teeter, I have lost my ability to catch myself before it tips past the point of comfort. Not a good position for someone of my unbalanced nature…but I have been able to muddle through so far.
So here is a clown for no apparent reason. I have an afternoon off tomorrow and then back ton pressin’ my face against the canvas and balancing on the back legs of that rickety wooden chair. I need the Latowski back under me, but for now I am just hoping for some form of continued balance. Damn the Torpedo’s…full fucking speed ahead!
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