On Paper

Baillie-Gee

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This didn’t take ages. Yes it did. “21st century”, by me, 2016

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Sketches (untitled), by me, 2016

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I like printing. "Good egg", screen print, by me, 2016

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Whiplash (denouement excerpt)

Now an illusion, now a game, now an impossible girl, a miracle or a product.

Isn’t it good, isn’t it great, all you ever wanted it to be? Of course it is, but only if you tell yourself it is. We all live inside our own heads, live in boxes, we live inside our own heads in these boxes and on the outside we can hear things, maybe there’s even a window, to some great party, but no matter how hard you beat on the windows and the walls no one on the other side can hear you and no one on the other side can see you and you could have all the best ideas in the world in that box, you could solve world peace in that box, but you’re still in that box as you hear yourself make polite conversation on the other side, but it isn’t you, not really, because you’re still in that box, unable to escape, unable to talk to anyone, to interact with anyone. And the only difference is that some people pretend they aren’t inside it, they make up stories about the outside from the inside that no one will ever get to hear, and eventually they curl up one day and die. And some fight it, fight it as hard as they can but they also curl up and die and that’s how it goes.

A perversion in the nature of life, unnatural, unloved, doomed to wander forever- Look at this game, this game of life.

What a waste. I can’t help but feel that I have wasted my life, I wasted every day, I wasted every single day. Like some sort of story, some sort of dream, I floated through life and wasted every day. There is a problem with no solution, so is it a problem?

I sit in a room not thinking about anything. Rest so I don’t have to do anything. I suppose I could do a lot, but I have no energy to do these things, and instead I sit in my room and do nothing. There’s a world out there, but I have no concept for it.

And the piper will lead the rats away to heaven.

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“Scream”, digital, by me, 2016

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Tastes like fear

Look at all these old photos, look at how quickly they have grown old, just as us. I remember when we were young, and things tasted like fear, but we were free and love was easy. And the world was clean, and green and warm, and we could cry if we wanted, and we’d talk to the night, up at the sky. But now it’s gone, still tastes like fear, but now it’s empty, cold and hard, this heart that used to love like this, now it’s empty, still tastes like fear.

Love grows apart, things that used to be charming quirks become annoyances, things that used to pull you together now tear you apart. Shared hobbies become competitions to be the best. Those little things become bigger, those big things become smaller. That’s the way it must be.

I don’t know how I’m going to do what my mamma told me but it’ll happen.

Over me, not over me. Be born then born again, under me and over me, and walk beside me for a moment. Silent tears, tear in the fabric, fabric of reality, reality is everything, everything is a lie, lies are what keep you awake at night, night blacker than a hole or a bottomless pit. A bottomless pit, an empty space or an abandoned place, a hollow face full of abandoned grace, grace was the girl that fell down the well, the well was too cold and she drowned, over me, not over me, the cold was what froze her, so when they found her body it was like ice, the ice that melted off her body down the drain and into a well that drowned her.

To be continued when the end is the beginning. Though of course all beginnings are another end.

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"Have you seen my face", by me, 2016

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Just a stupid story ("denouement" excerpt)

This in particular is unique and the smell of a face pressed into the ground is like a fire alarm to heaven. Like a plane-crash survivor being interviewed by the Press. A speeding bullet to the face, there’s no time to jump in front of it. That’s not how it works in real life though! Well fuck you this is my life, this is about a man who lost everything, though hr hardly had anything to start off with. I found him dead on the ice. It looked like he froze to death. We went around him. They’d never kill the main character. What if you were the one finding people’s heads in your bed? You self-described “depressed” fuck. You understand because you were sad once? Bullshit you never woke up with bodies hanging from the ceiling. Fuck you, fuck you. Everyone wants to understand and help. And that was the last time. Fuck me inside. Shocking.

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My mum , “probably”, by me, 2016

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Notebook sketches, no name, by me, 2016

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God doesn't care

He ignored her begging, her pleas for forgiveness, he didn’t care, and then he dumped her body in the sea and no one saw her again and she never had a funeral and the last few moments of her life were a few seconds of bitter pleading agony and yet you still tell me there is a god. If there is a god he will have to beg for the forgiveness of the human race, every person, every life he ruined. Every story of every person, every little problem the becomes bigger that slowly swallows someone from the inside, every loving relationship that was drawn apart every single child who never got a childhood. God doesn’t care, god doesn’t give a fuck. How can we sit there and pretend everything is fine, act like it’s not our responsibility, how can we say that just because they aren’t there in front of us that they don’t matter? Fuck it fuck that fuck the world, every person on planet earth, fuck myself leave me out don’t leave me out corner me don’t corner me. Slot machine today and yesterday. Due to technical difficulties there will be no heaven today. Closed for maintenance. Greasy food and late night Fridays. Why do we have to have a word for everything, a way to describe everything. Sometimes we just need emotion and a little bit of indescribable happiness or pain. Broken glass, making a bomb, is it something that explodes it’s a flamethrower but it isn’t flammable. Leave your excuses at the door, bring your alibis, join the revolution and become a martyr, take a radioactivity field trip, start a shotgun tasting business. I don’t need or want a psychologist, I don’t need someone to interpret my thoughts, I know what they mean. Have fun. Have fun? Have fun. Weapon of choice, I’d say that worked.

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On my medication

I almost miss that chaotic period in my life, I miss when every day was a struggle, against the hallucinations, the thoughts. Against everyone who was telling me to slow down or take a break. I pushed myself to a degree that I otherwise wouldn’t have, in my writing, in my art, my music. Everything became more intense, every emotion was a tidal wave of chaos, but now I don’t have that, and yes, the drugs lift me up, but not enough to be happy, I’m just kind of stuck at average. And everyone expects me to be better, to be happy, so I’m still forcing myself to appear happy, but it’s hard to feel anything, it numbs almost too much. I want to go out and talk to my friends, make up that lost time, but I don’t have the energy. Although, of course, it might still be the depression talking, the drugs don’t magically make you better. I was hoping they would, but they don’t.

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Pencils collection "afraid of heights?" By me, 2016

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PLEASE NOTE: I'm taking a break because of the side effects of my new medication. I might be gone for a while. Thanks for the understanding. "Death grips" by me, 2016

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To my oldest friend

Yesterday she loved me. Today she doesn’t know my name. That’s how it goes, live how you get it, or get it till you die. Not far from here, down by the river there’s a place where you sometimes have to go your new home. Something seems lazy in this house Go, wash yourself I was told Now I am no longer 5, the war is probably still out Now I sit here at breakfast, drink coffee, wash Take one on with a smile slow starts off fraud And far too late one realizes and sees why you have to stay because it’s better than going home again I was once a man with a future A past, I have, probably. Memories fade to home and husband and child I’m afraid and ashamed of what I am now. I am nothing but a deadly will- My sense of irony: preserves I buy cigarettes, a half bottle of wine because I am trapped here You get used to it, but cannot accept and want not how in five years you come to table setting; more coffee? they ask you. All my life I was out and now I’m in here I love but my freedom, the woods and the sun; but more than the bus I’ve never driven The dusk breaks in this town the late shifts slowly from house to house On television news talk show, the neighbor complains, a rerun, Here you can at night the windows better never open The neighbors close, the night service closer be alert and show no weakness. At the end of the day, darkness comes, you’re all alone then arises out your only friend in the end only the home. For we go third, says the nurse in the sky, what have I earned? I want to go home. Home.

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From a while back. "Looking out" by me, 2016 (maybe '15, actually)

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Hallucinations self portrait collection, by me, 2016