I wrote about hanging around the lobby outside the Chicago International Film Festival. Also: a play about how we don’t know how to deal with death in America.
I got back to painting out my window.
All the artwork which didn’t sell is back home from Dominican now. It’s time to reset, to get back to making new work.
Eber walks a guy over from the door. Said he needs directions. He moved slow. It takes him forever to unfold a packet of papers, then find the place on the sheet with the address he’s looking for. It’s the Pacific Garden Mission—a homeless shelter about a mile away. I’ve been walking all day, he says. Then asks for a glass of water and some napkins.
His face is swollen around the eyes and his features are off, like they’re the wrong proportions. Every movement takes forever. He dabs at one of his eyes, leaving stains on the tissue after each touch. He says he’s happy the shelter’s close—he thought he was still many miles off. Then he asks for a drink on the house. When I say no, he asks how much it would be if it wasn’t on the house. I tell him I wouldn’t be comfortable serving him a drink at any price.
You think I’m fucked up, right?
I say I don’t know but that he wouldn’t be getting a drink here. Can you make sense of this? he asks, fanning out his packet of papers. It’s from Stroger Hospital. Intake information, diagnoses, and directions for aftercare. I say I don’t know. This is what they say I got. Pink eye. You know how you get it? It’s from shit. Wipe your ass, then rub your eyes. The doc said I should get better by the 20th, that’s when I turn 22. But I don’t know. Then he asks if I heard about Banksy’s latest stupid art world stunt. Even skid row wastoids like my new friend know about that clown.
I walk away to pretend to serve my three remaining customers, but mostly for a break from the guy’s misery. When I go back to him he tells me I should probably throw away the glass I served him water in. That it might be contagious. If it’s not one thing it’s another. Let me give you a piece of advice: don’t ever mess up.
I thank him for the wisdom and reiterate the directions to Pacific Garden Mission: Go left out the door down Cermak till you get to Canal. Take a left and walk about three quarters of a mile. You can’t miss it. Good luck.
He takes several more minutes to gather his papers and stuff them slow-motion into his pocket, then points his body towards the door. After he clears the threshold, I throw the glass he used in the trash.
—I made some illustrations for an excerpt from a Will McGrath book for The Rumpus.
—Chris Miller wrote a really nice review of my Dominican show (which you only have a couple more days to catch.)
I went to California for my brother’s wedding. Max was born when I was halfway through senior year of high school. That spring, I took him in his stroller down the hill to Brookline High and presented him like show-and-tell to my classmates in the art building. A girl named Nina couldn’t get over his little feet. Rosy, unblemished baby feet which had yet to touch ground, feet which had never been used to walk.
Max and I haven’t lived in the same city since he was small but he’s visited me in Chicago many times. I took him to Six Flags for the Batman ride when he was eleven or twelve. Then to Kuma’s for metal band-themed burgers the next time. I snuck him into a bar to hear a metal band when he was underage. The next few times he’d fly in on business and we’d grab a meal—sometimes metal-themed, other times not. About five years ago he showed up in town with a girl. I’ve only ever seen Max’s life in brief glimpses but seeing him with Lauren made for a fuller picture. Just as with my other brother, Boris, and his wife, Blakeney, watching Lauren with Max made me see my brother in a new light. A couple which works creates its own world, which doesn’t need anyone else. It’s a joy to see that both my brothers have that.
When Max was growing up I used to joke that he’d have to take care of me in my old age. All these years on, it’s no longer so funny. I’m glad he has Lauren because he’ll need her help with that. She’ll help him steer my wheelchair when the time comes. Maybe they’ll find some place to present me for show-and-tell so we can come full circle. In the meantime, they have a narrow window of time to enjoy each other before I completely break down and I hope they take full advantage of it.
—I had a few hours to kill in LA before heading north to Santa Barbara, so I went to see Marc Maron perform at a venue called Dynasty Typewriter, located next to MacArthur Park. I could help singing the song as I walked through it…Someone left a cake out in the rain…etc, etc.
I listen to Maron’s podcast twice a week so seeing the guy in the flesh was like visiting a longtime companion. Afterwards he was out in front of the theater with some friends and I went over and thanked him for the show. It was awkward but I’m glad I did it anyway.
—I wrote about a horrifying new documentary about contemporary Russia called The Red Soul and about a clever and unique play by a young Iranian playwright.