Once I was a young man although I vaguely remember, for my art has consumed my life. A few million cigarettes, a couple thousand bottles of wine and vodka, and more women than I can, or care to count, have gotten me to this point; alone with my brushes, my acrylics and oils, my empty canvases, and the same vision I had so many years ago—the one of my youth.

My mother always told me to build to my vision, to my dream, and not to my limitations. She said the only limitations an artist possibly has are those in the confusion and chaos they have created in their mind. My mind has been cluttered with stories, experiences, philosophies, theories, and images—none of which have brought me closer to my vision, to my dream.

I’ve only wanted to paint, to create one piece—yes, just one picture, the one that has been burned into my minds eye for countless years now. I remember seeing it, before I even knew what it was as a child; hell who am I kidding, I still don’t even know what it is, but I do know it is beautiful. It is so beautiful that I’ve felt obligated to recreate it; I’ve spent my entire life trying to replicate it so I can share it with the world. Sometimes, in fact more times than not, I’ve viewed it as a plague, and I just wished the damned thing would fade away, but that hasn’t been the case. With age it has only gotten more vivid, bolder, and consumed more and more of my mind and my time. Some days I’ve tried to drink it away, and other days I have feverishly painted for hours upon hours, sleeping only for minutes at a time, because God only knows how much it would kill me if I missed the minute, or the second, when I would possess whatever it is I’ve been missing up until this point to paint the picture of my mind, the passion of my life.

There are so many tangents I want to go off on now, so I suppose this tangent is as good as any to begin with. Right before my mother’s passing, some thirty odd years ago, she told me a story. Perhaps to make me feel better, or maybe because she somehow knew where I would be at this point in my life, at all points in my life; in actuality, I’m not quite sure why she told me the story, nor do I really understand it. I don’t remember all the minute details of the story because after all I’m a painter, not a storyteller, and at the same time I don’t think my mother ever intended for me to remember what she said verbatim, but the story goes something like this:

There was once this Chinese man whose name was Chuang-tzu. He was an accomplished man with many skills, one of them being a draftsman; he was in fact the very best draftsman of his time. The king of China sent for him, and immediately Chuang-tzu went to see the king. The king wanted Chuang-tzu, this very skilled man to draw for him a crab. The king asked for a picture of a fucking crab! Chuang-tzu of course told the king he would draw a crab for him, but he had some stipulations. He needed a house in the country away from everything, he needed twelve servants, and he also needed five years. The king had no problem with that, and met all of Chuang-tzu’s requests.
After five years, not only was the drawing not finished yet, it still hadn’t even been begun. Chuang-tzu asked the king for another five years, and this king must have been a very tolerant man, and believed in his abilities because he granted him another five years. After ten years, ten years, Chuang-tzu picked up a brush, and in a split second, with a single stroke, he painted a crab—the most precise, the most beautiful, the most perfect crab anyone has ever seen.
Mom, if you can hear me, what in the hell am I supposed to take from this story? You and your stories, you and your proverbs! A perfect crab? Was the chink thinking about this fucking crab for ten years, and when he used a single stroke, it was a stroke that had been premeditated and practiced in his mind for ten years?

That’s why I never really valued writers, storytellers, or religious texts because there is always some underlying or “hidden” meaning; or is there really, maybe that is just what we as humans have come to think. We need closure, or we need to look into things, we need to know “what’s correct;” and most of the time I think we see things that the author or storyteller never intended for us to see, or we just draw conclusions that are convenient and comforting for us. Instead of just showing me, or telling me what I need to know, written texts and stories always tend to “beat around the bush” with fancy words and imagery ultimately saying very little or nothing at all—well, at least that’s the case for me.

Like take the stories of Adam and Eve, or Abraham and Isaac? From Adam and Eve I suppose I learned that when God tells you not to do something, don’t do it? I mean what a stupid story. Women are nice cuts of meat, because they are created from the rib of a man. They are evil temptresses who will ultimately cause your demise. ‘Mulier est hominis confusio.’ The reason humans live with pain and illness is because of some evil bitch named Eve, and some moron who ate a fucking apple? That makes perfect sense, some jackass eats an apple and all of mankind for eons to come is damned. And besides that, God has never spoken to me, or told me to do or not do anything, so how can I even relate?

Or Abraham, what a stupid bastard that guy was! So God says to him, I want you to take your first born, your only son, the son you have waited your entire life for, and bring him to the top of a mountain, and kill him. Abraham doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even think, he says “sure!” What should I have learned from this, to blindly follow a hirer power that is asking me to conduct a malicious act? That makes a lot of sense.
Or how can I forget my favorite; the drunkard who couldn’t even find his way our of a shoe-box building a boat that must have been the size of a continent, and putting two of every known animal aboard. See this is why the world is fucked up, because of stories, philosophies, theories, and religion that people try to make sense of and interpret, and believe they understand.

Aesop and his fables, he’s another one—slow and steady wins the race. Wins what race? If you are sprinting 100 meters you better believe that slow won’t win even a bronze. The written word, or oral stories, for me at least, have not expanded my mind; they have only cluttered it, and confused the shit out of me. It’s not even pleasurable. The only reading I find pleasurable is reading that I can enjoy at face value, like when Samantha something’s face and statistics are printed on the back of a milk carton because she has been missing for six months now. Facts, as horrible as they might be, for me are enjoyable to read; I was going to say history, but I know history is told by those with the power, and isn’t really factual at all—it’s always changing.

On this Wednesday, the children outside were singing a round of “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” They obviously aren’t thinking about what they are singing, nor should they be because they are children and should be playing and having fun—but in a few years when they do think about that song they loved to sing, what will they, or what are they supposed to take away from that? I sure hope to God they don’t come knocking on my door and ask me because I’ll be damned if I can give them an answer about that, or about anything for that matter.

When I was a kid, I at least remember singing a good song with my buddies that started off, “There’s a place in France where the naked ladies dance, there’s a hole in the wall where the boys can see it all;” that’s to the point, that song made some sense, that song got us interested in looking at each other’s older sisters through the keyhole of the bathroom; and as we got a bit older and bolder, we just swung the doors right open and had ourselves a good hard look. The female body is so fantastic—we learned that young.
Or what about those people who go to the movies, and see films that “really makes you think?” Don’t you think all of the God damn time already? Don’t you think about what to eat tonight, or the bills you have to pay, or the folks you must telephone, or how taxes are killing you, or when are you going to find time to mow your lawn, trim your bushes, and wash your car, or how your favorite uncle is coming along with his cancer treatment, or when to take a shower and go to the bathroom, or about the dishes pilling up in your sink? I mean we think all of the time. If I were to go to the movies, and I haven’t gone in years, but I want to see something fun; something entertaining, I want an escape! Not something that I must ponder because it is a microcosm for life and society or some shit. I’m just not interested in another movie about the travesties that happened in Nazi Germany. I’m sorry for my tirade; I guess that’s probably why they say, “different strokes for different folks,” and apparently I must be completely insane.

You know when I learned about myself—you know what spoke volumes to me in a number of seconds, I appreciated at face value, and then just stopped speaking; Michelangelo’s David, and Sistine Chapel, or Picasso’s Blue Period and his surrealist shit—I mean art, visual stimuli I have always felt, I understood, I knew, I experienced, I related to—not some stupid story my mother told me about a man who painted a perfect crab with one stroke. I love the irony, a wonderful storyteller, a lover of language and literature, giving birth to a frustrated and tormented artist who has never created a single painting he was happy with. But, in her defense, and God rest her soul because I love her and everything she did for me—at least she told me stories, and philosophies, and information that she thought was pertinent and would help me—ones that were at least aimed at helping me achieve my dream, and not hers. She never discouraged me from wanting to be an artist, from wanting to create my vision.

Also, I must give some credit to classical music—music that is free and flowing, and not controlled by repetitious phrases and monotonous melodies. I’ve had many wonderful nights blowing the doors off my car driving to Beethoven, or Mozart, or of course Vivaldi. The highs, the lows, the conquests, the defeats, and on and on and on; I hope classical music and great art never die, but it is very possible as people become more technologically advanced and simpler in their minds that Van Gough, and Bach will just be two names they once heard about in their youth and never experienced.

Well, I can honestly say, at this point in my life I only have one regret. Am I sad that I am alone? Not at all, I chose the life I led and I know this. At any time I could have given up, or stopped being such a perfectionist, settled down and had a family. But, I didn’t want that, hence I never attracted those types of women. The women I’ve had, or in some instances had me, were just sexual experiences. We just had fun together, we fucked, and when the act was complete, they went their ways, and I went back to my painting. Every time except once, I’ve always woken up in my own bed, or on the floor or in some chair of some random room in my house—and every time except once, no one was around to make me breakfast.

Once I had a wonderful woman, who knew how I was, and knew that I could never love her as much as my work, and it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She had an unexplained passion and love for me; I never understood what she saw in me, and why she wanted to be around me. She also had a very interesting name, and she once explained to me that her father was a lover of the dead language Latin, and Latin texts. Her name was Festina Lente Anderson, but she just went by Festina Lente because she despised her last name due to its ordinariness. For sure there are many many Andersons’, but certainly only one Festina Lente.

I wish I could remember just want her name meant, after all she told me once, and told me that the translation of her name was much like my life, but after I forced her out of my life, I’ve never quite found the time or had an interest to research it. I just remember her name being a contradiction of sorts, and never thought much more about it than that. It’s probably good I don’t know what it means because that would just be another thing for me to think about, another thing to clutter my mind. But, I’m kind of happy I mentioned her, because now in retrospect, I mean I haven’t thought about her in twenty-seven years at least, and now I understand that she like her name had something underlining and mysterious about her.

Why did I force her out of my life after having three of the most wonderful months of my life? Even though I could never love her as much as my work, I found myself wanting her, wanting to be around her, and with her. I found myself talking about nonsensical shit, and enjoying it—and I knew if I continued on this path, I would have a child with her, and then my dream, my vision, my passion for creating would have died with the birth of a child. I mean accidents happen, and one of these times she was going to hold me inside of her just long enough to fertilize her womb. The birth of a child for me I guess is like eating “the apple.”

I would never be a bad father, because I had no father, and I know the impact that made on my life. I would have to dedicate my life to my child because that is what one should do, and that is an entrapment I almost fell into, but wasn’t willing to. She was smart you see, respecting me for me, while at the same time being just elusive enough to entice and excite my interests. Well, enough about Festina Lente because she is no more to me now than a silent move, a collection of stills in my mind that are almost all but gone now.

Am I sad I’ve destroyed every one of my paintings after painting them, and now only have boxes upon boxes of photographs I’ve taken of my paintings before tearing and thrashing them into oblivion? I’m not sad at all about that. The truth is, I must destroy my paintings because they aren’t quite right, none of them have been the one I am looking for, the one I see in my minds eye. And if I didn’t destroy them, if I didn’t get out all that frustration and anger I had pent up inside in a somewhat socially acceptable way, then I don’t know what I would do. Imagine having thousands of reminders staring you in the face every day—and where the hell would I have put all of them. After all, I have boxes upon boxes of photos taking up an entire room.

During the course of my life, I’ve experimented with types of paints, different colors, different textures, different brushes and knives, canvas’ ranging from the size of a pencil erasure which I had to paint on using a hair and a microscope, to canvas’ the size of the front of my house. I even painted on glass, on plastic, on wood—I mean you name it, and I’ve certainly tried it. I remember once, I couldn’t get the red just right, so I decided to slit my palm, make a fist, and squeeze a little warm blood into the paint. It was a beautiful red, but even that wasn’t right. I’m just flat out of ideas—I know I have the ability, I also know I have all implements and paints known to man, so what is the problem? My recreations just don’t have “it.”

Why do I take photos of my paintings before destroying them? Well, everyone knows I’m an artist. That is how I make my livelihood you know. Believe it or not, my garage is a studio, and I give private lessons to people of all ages. The lesson is for only one hour a pop, I am extremely expensive, and I won’t let a person have anymore than ten lessons from me. Why ten? Ten is as good of a number as any, and if I ever bump into a former student of mine on the street, I don’t want to recognize them, or anything they’ve ever painted. I assign them each a number, and give them a card with my signature. Some students have spread their lessons over decades, others have done ten in ten days, but all have respected me, and never tried to have an eleventh. I’ve always been lucky I suppose, I must say my pupils have been very kind, and passionate, and had great determination. I wish them all the best of luck.

I am the very best teacher I’ve ever seen. I’m a pupil’s dream. I wish as a child I had a teacher like me, or even close to me, although unfortunately I don’t think it would have made a difference. I cater to each individuals needs, and help them to explore and develop their own visions, while at the same time never putting any value or tag on their art, or artistic beliefs. I also compare them to no one and nothing, for they are each unique and should be valued as being unique. Who the hell am I to judge? Could I paint the Empire State Building to scale using only my eyes, or could I paint as perfect of a portrait as one could possibly paint after only looking at someone for a second, a portrait of photographic quality, of course so! That is easy. But that was never my dream or vision. If you want to paint landscapes, or buildings, or people, or melting clocks, or bitches with three heads, that’s fine with me, and I will teach you—but don’t ask me to do that. I’m sensing that you are laughing a bit; why are you laughing? I know my shit my friend, and I don’t have to prove anything to anyone other than myself.

My vision goes beyond time and space; I’m trying to paint everything and nothing at the same time. I’m talking about something so beautiful, so wonderful, that at the same time it’s actually catastrophic and horrid. I’m talking about a living breathing piece of art that can see though you, and see all of you, and overwhelm you with emotions you didn’t even know existed. I’m talking about something I can’t possibly explain to you, because I can’t explain it to myself nor can I recreate it, nor have I ever seen anything like it before.

I know my clock is ticking, I know my end is near. How long can someone continue to live on a diet of intoxicants, sex, and no sleep? I just want at the very least, when the stench of my decaying body is permeating throughout the neighborhood, and my grass and bushes are long overdue for maintenance, and the owner of the liquor store is curious to know where his best customer is—I want at the very least when they must break down my door to find out what in God’s name has happened to me—at the very least I want them to see boxes upon boxes of photographs. My photographs are the only evidence that I have to illustrate that I’ve worked a lifetime, and didn’t just sit around in my house jerking off everyday.

Fuck that, fuck everything, fuck this! You see what has become of me; I’m destroying my house now. I don’t need these paints, I don’t need these brushes, these fucking glasses; I don’t need anything anymore. Where are those boxes of pictures? Let me slide them over here.

I know; I’ve never used this room before, now that I think of it I’ve never ever even been in this fucking room other than the time I set it up! God only knows I’d never had to entertain. Let me just flip my dining room table on its side like this and kick it against the wall; and let me just toss these chairs over here into the adjacent living room like this! Perfect, my dining room floor is a little dirty, but it’s empty. Thank God I don’t have any carpets in my home, I hate carpets—nothing looks better than hardwood floors.

Now let’s spread these pictures out! Let’s throw this shit around. Let’s get crazy baby! Let’s see all my failures spread out on the floor. Do you want to see my failures on the floor? I think you dooo. I think you dooooo. Box number one I’ll splash into this corner. Box number two, why don’t you go over here! Box number three, here’s a spot. Number four; number four, are you ready? Sure you’re ready four, I have to shake you out a bit because you have a few more. Numbers five and six; hell I’ll throw you both together onto the floor at the same fucking time! Does that sound good to you? Of course it does!

Two more drinks for me, and I think this is going to work out nicely; half the floor is already covered and only six more boxes of pictures to go. They’re getting a little bit heavier now. I’ll work throw the pain, I always have. Number seven, off you go!! Number eight, throw them straight! Number nine will do just fine! Number ten, oh, that throw makes me feel like I’m going to shit a hen. Hell, maybe I do have a gift for language. Eleven, eleven on the floor will seem like heaven, because this box is surely breaking my arm. Twelve, last but not least—I’ll spread you over here, and now I’m finished. The entire God damn floor is covered, and all I have left are these thirty-six pictures in my pocket I just got developed today, you can like your friends land were you will!

What’s happening to me! My arm is numb, and my clothing feels as if I’ve submerged myself in a pool of sweat. I must sit down. I must sit down. I knew my time has come. I told you the end for me was near. Oh, this is what…this is what a heart attack feels like. I must sit down, and catch my breath, and focus for a minute on, on my vision, my dream!! It can’t be. It is!! I’ve found it; I’ve got it!! Unfuckingbelievalbe!!!! After all these years I’ve finally got it!!!!!! I’ve got it and now I’m going to die!!! Oh, this is good; this is funny. I can’t even get off this chair to get my camera to take a picture of all these fucking pictures scattered chaotically all over the God damn floor!! I can’t even get to a fucking phone and call an ambulance to save my life!!!

It’s the entire dining room floor and it is beautiful! It is everything and nothing; it is just as vivid and wonderful as I imagined it to be all these years. I knew what I was doing and I had no fucking idea. Thank you mom. The fucking crab! The fucking crab!!! What are the odds of this happening? I’ll tell you the odds, it’s impossible!! It’s impossible, but is must be possible because I’m looking right at it. Son of a bitch, it’s all right here in front of me. I wouldn’t change a single thing. I wouldn’t change a single thing I tell you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mom I’ll see you in a minute. I just hope when they find me, when they find me cold and dead, I hope they look for a second or two and see everything as one; everything as a whole just as I see it now physically in front of me—just as I’ve seen it in my minds eye for as long as I can remember—just as it was meant to be. Please God, please let them look for a second or two before they destroy my vision, my life’s work, my creation by picking all these thousands of individual photos up. Let them see more than just a few thousand photos of paintings scattered around chaotically on the floor. Mom, Mama, I always knew I would see you again. Mama, I did it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!