To Be or Not to Be … That was Hamlet’s Question … and Mine and millions others. … They looked up at my paintings … Ah, yes … my paintings up there on the walls, there, and there and there!
Would killing myself add extra value to my work? … Doesn’t suicide bring attention? … I am not IN the Art World. … That would imply existence within it … oracle-sounding sure … but obvious wisdom and just as obviously … to me and others … I was not IN it. … So perhaps I was simply a Nobody OUTSIDE the Art World. … I was the Nobody’s Nobody. … If I murdered myself … who would notice?

Nobody but family, friends, loved ones … those who I knew a little … those who knew me a little. … Would the Art World? … No. … Why? … Because they didn’t know I existed to begin with … and they didn’t know my art existed to begin with. … No, suicide would not help my art career … Suicide only helps those that are known already … and it doesn’t always help them either. … Statistically speaking for most known artists it doesn’t help them either.

So, for someone like me? … No, None chance whatsoever. … What would suicide do then? … End my Flesh Life and forever scar, mar, and torture the ones who cared about me most. … End my life. … Cut it short at 23 years of age … and forever scar, mar, and torture the ones who cared about me most. … Is that what I want? … No. … Scar, Mar, and Torture the Ones I Cared About Most. And cut my Flesh Life Short at 23. … Then I can’t … I cannot kill myself … I will not.

Decided, decision, decision made … I will live. … But what then? … Life itself was killing me. … I may not be able to murder myself but Life will. … Go then, leave! … Depart, go somewhere else! … the wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww Nine Earth Earls on the spur of the moment … now, now!

What about the lines of leaves … shams of soap-judo … sewers of summer? … What about my art? … Leave it? … Take it? … Yes take it. … And tell no one? … Not even my mother? … My father, Gene … my blood father, … my biological father, my true father … was dead … Died last year, shortly before I met Rosie the Russian Dancer. … The false one … Richard … the false father, step-father … was still alive … the parasite. … I no longer communed nor communicated with Richard nor the rest of the step-family … not Steve … not his wife … not any of my step-cousins bpvere none of the Steps … foregone the Steps … Curse, the Steps! … Curse them for their Cruelty!

Bygone … My mother was Love and Loved me sweet … sweet love … sincere truly … well, probably … perhapsly, at times yesly … for surely … but other times, not so surely. … It was my father … the real one … who I communed and communicated and related my real life relations to the most. … But he was dead … which I mentioned already. … With my father’s death created an irreplaceable void … an Ice Land in my heart … thawing and melting perhaps … but still lodged deeply in the farthest corner of my gut … was created.

So the telling of my departure … the discussion, no … I cannot tell anyone I’m leaving, … not even my mother, no one. … Not even Alma in Texas … the Love of my life thus far … not even her … although she was not talking to me now anyway. … Just go … leave … I will. … The walls to my dank and dashing … dungeon-like, macabre, moon-lit madhouse Mar Vista apartment … apartment #9 … on the second floor … up the stairs on the left … 2nd door down the hall on your left.

Yes, once entering my cell … you’ll immediately notice close to everything was black. Black drapes for the window in the kitchen … black drapes, much smaller, for the window in the bathroom. … Black table clothes and napkins. … Black plates and bowls and coffee mugs and cups. … Black hand towels and bath towels. … Black bed sheets and pillow cases and blankets. … Black book cases and tables and chairs and bed frame. … All of my clothes were black.

And now, at this very moment … the Crossroads of the Cross … the walls in my padded cell were empty. … I took all my paintings down and put them in my 1989 black Subaru station wagon. … Took the ones in my closet … took the ones leaning against my walls … in my room, it was a single in the kitchen … in the bathroom. … Sketches as well … hundreds of sketches … perhaps 30 paintings … all were in the back … laid flat against each other … individually protected by moths and mermaids and packaging … and all covered by a large black tarp … laying in consolation in my black station wagon.

No, Art work … my children, my off-spring … I wasn’t taking you to a gallery. …Then I razed, I realized … just as I passed Downtown LA on the 10 freeway right where it gets all confusing with the 60, 5, and all the other crap … I’d forgotten my shit. … Should this be it, though? … Perhaps, maybe? … The time to quit? … Suck up and go cold turkey … deal with the withdrawal while on the road? … Or should I turn around? … How much did I still have?

… Rosie … oohhh yesss … yes, yes … oh God, Rosie, fuck … I’m gonna cum. … Oh baby, I’m cummin’! … I did just get a Ball, 3.7 grams, 3.7 days ago from Rosie, Rosie the Russian Dancer … the one that started it all. … And out of the 3.7 I still had 2.7. … Yes, that was worth going back for.