This week my beloved city by the sea is infested with all manner of bad creepiness and ugliness from the 4 festering corners of hell. Carnaval, a demented specticle of mass debauchery to make the likes of Joe Coleman and Heronymous Bosh cringe in revulsion together. Me, I’m planning to hole up at home and bury meself in me work for the duration of this foul interlude — which is pretty much all I do anyway. And so life goes on here in Rio de Janeiro.
Meanwhile, the new book I’m working on, Scabvendor — Confessions of a Tattoo Artist –is coming along and getting easier for me to write, a day at a time. The process is bringing me all sorts of new revelations as I go along, and with them a much-needed sense of ease to the whole cathartic process of writing about my life and my past — Everything from my nightmarish non-childhood, my insane alcoholic family, the musty dungeons of drug-addiction, to the art and travels which ultimately lead me in search of redemption. All I can do is continually give thanks to whatever powers of light and darkness seem to be guiding my hand as I go.
Actually, these last few months have been the best period of time for me, hanging by the sea and working on this book at home here in Rio. And the further I go, the more the syncronicity seems to happen around all the stuff I’m writing about — as if the universe is sending me the help and support I need, just when I need it from all over the place; strange, long-estranged friends and random unexpected people coming out of the woodwork lately and writing to me out of the blue from all over the world — and each time just as I’m completing another new section of material that would be of special interest to each of them, amazingly enough!!
Meanwhile, all sorts of obscure long-blocked people, places, things and family memories keep creeping into the book as it seems to slowly write itself with me being there simply as its servant, showing up to work a day at a time. More will be revealed, surely, and when it rains, brothers and sisters, it fuckin really pours!!
Dunno how its all gonna play out with whatever family members are still living, people who are mentioned in the book – mostly cousins on my mother’s side who I haven’t seen or heard of in decades. Sometimes I wonder about stuff like that, since, surreal as it may seem, this book is officially a factual Memoir. I seriously doubt, however, that most of em are even still above ground at this point — not the way alcoholism was taking em out when I split from my family of origin over 40 years ago, running for my life. But it will be interesting to see what some will have to say about certain memories I’ve put to paper, if and when I ever find em. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find me. Considering the mystical way these things seem to be going and developing lately along this quest, nothing would fucking surprise me now!!
The fact that I’m battling with is that The American Dream itself has to take on face and character somewhere in this story, since it is the real villan — and what better living incarnation for all its bitter dissappointment and disillusionment than real-life characters like my insane stepfather, who enabled– even encouraged– my mother’s alcoholism until the day she died of it. With a cast of characters like that, it often seems more like a horror story than a memoir. But those fuckers are an intergral part of the palate I’ve been given to paint this picture with — and I only pray to be able to use their sorry asses to good and effective purpose without my own spite and resentment creeping into the narrative to pollute or cloud artistic judgement. Especially since, deep in my heart, I truly believe that in real life, as in art, there are no heros or villans. Only people, some more fucked up than others, but people nonetheless, all doing the best they can in their fumbling, bumbling, often tragically pathetic way… The only real villans are our own mistakes, and the fears which cause em. At least that’s how I’ve come to see things over the years since I’ve begun to wake up.
All in all, this is a time of heavy inspiration and creative energy for me, and I’m glad to be here in Rio, making the most of it. I can really feel the presence of many invisible and human hands helping me to write this and dig deeper and deeper into the essence of my task. More and more with every day I go along. And for that I am infinitely grateful.
Another long hard summer rain is fixin to fall here at my open-air office by the sea now. I can see the lightning flashes on the trembling horizon. Soon I’ll get on the bike and brave my way thru the storm to home with a quick stop for dinner. There I can get back to the laptop and sauna and whatever else there’s to do there on another wonderful day’s work, praying all the while for guidance.