I don't have anything to offer but empathy.
Alright, maybe I can come up with
something. My name is Soc but I paint
painted under the name downinahole. I
can’t paint anymore on account of I got sick.
I never trained and, hence, have never been any good so no-one’s crying
into their beer.
I kept a diary as a teen (I’m lying to
you; I still have it) and it looked just like that. Then there was me being the try-hard
pretentious poet or some shit. OH FUCK THE
PAGES I CARLESSLY FLUNG INTO THE HARBOUR ARE FLOATING AWAY WITH THE TIDE WHAT
EVER WILL I DO
Soc is a fraud
downinahole, in his early teens, was a
paradox of wide-eyed ambition and teenaged angst. This resulted in the following paintings
which represent a nascent delusion that would turn out to last twenty years
(and is presumably ongoing).
I pulled these abortions out of the
garage. From the concrete floor, in
fact, such is the distain I have for them. There were others that didn’t make the cut,
if you can believe that.
The Park is very comic bookish, but I
never read any comic books because I couldn’t read back then.
I think it’s a teenage boy being defiant
about his inability to talk to girls. It’s
been too long and I don’t remember. I’m
certain that I didn’t have a desire to be married. I only got married later because Frankenspouse
put me in a choke hold and told me it was happening. I bet she fucking regrets that now.
Next up is the Bottle:
I don’t know what this means and I
suspect I didn’t know then. It’s just
fucking awful. WHY DOES THE BOTTLE HAVE
ARMS FOR FUCK’S SAKE
I do recognise the conical jam jar
though. But you’ll find me reticent on
that topic ‘til some particular people have left the Earth. And if I go first, so be it.
The book. This is the only one to which I can attach
some logic.
And then there’s the cross. Oh boy, that’s keeps coming back to me. I like
crosses. Fuck you
I don’t know if I have anything
else. That might be it.
Was this a mistake?
downinahole
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