Sunday, August 23, 2026
Anger Number 64
So, I’ve tried several things. I’ve tried 4×6 cards, which I’m still interested in, but maybe not the ‘odd and psychological’ angle. The ASEO cards are still on the table, but the thing is—I guess these past several weeks, I just didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t feel creative. I couldn’t do anything; I’d just sit, look at things on my computer, think, and mess around with pen and ink, dip pens, and my Lamy pen—but nothing clicked. So, this morning, I realized: I think I’m still angry.
I don’t want to give myself away too much, but the psychology behind this craving to express myself comes from a deep anger about growing up and even while I was growing up.
It’s complicated.
My parents believed in corporal punishment—my dad used a belt, my mom used a ‘switch’ (for those who don’t know, it’s a long, skinny tree branch you’d use to spank a kid). To them, it was normal; to me, it was just life. Even in my 4th and 5th grade years, I got paddled at school for a couple of things I can’t even recall today. But later in life, when you actually have time to sit and process, you start to realize the gaps and missing pieces in your childhood—good and bad. Every emotion just lays itself out in front of you. Part of me wants to be so angry at my parents, but another part of me feels like I shouldn’t—they raised me, I was cared for, and I was given every opportunity to be an outstanding human being; I was loved in their own way. When I left home, they figured their job was done.
I didn’t spank any of my kids, I didn’t feel a need to actually.
Not to make excuses but, they were old school—born in the twenties, grew up through the Great Depression and World War II. They had three kids, and I was born much later, so I was effectively raised as an only child. I was a bit spoiled at times, but there was a lot missing, too. I turned out to be a moral, decent human being—no felonies or anything like that—but I still carry anger, mostly because of the things I don’t know. My parents were very good at keeping family secrets. Really good. Nowadays, with an adult’s understanding, looking back at some of the things I saw as a child… it really pisses me off. I won’t go into details, but there was an affair I didn’t understand until I did the math later on as an adult.
I remember my middle sister (God rest her soul, she passed away a few years ago). Right before she left for high school, she did this incredible painting with brush splatters—I can still smell the oil paints and the linseed oil. My dad got mad because she splattered the wall of our rental, but the painting itself changed hands through the family, and God knows where it is now—probably with my oldest sister. Then, my sister got married, and suddenly, I was alone. There’s so much I don’t understand, and when I don’t understand things, I get frustrated. With nobody left to ask, that frustration just builds.
So, I’ve decided to use art as a coping mechanism. I’ve always done this, honestly—photography was a huge outlet, though I never really understood why I took pictures the way I did. It’s all starting to click now. Maybe.
This morning, I told myself: ‘Okay, I need to stop shopping for art supplies and watching YouTube videos. I just need to do it.’ So, I made this painting—ink and acrylic. I used long pipe cleaners, high-flowing acrylic paint, and India ink. I’d soak a foot-long pipe cleaner and slap the paper with it. The first time, I cringed. Then I did it again. Then I loaded more ink, added a different color, and slapped it again. And again. Eventually, I thought, ‘Okay, you’re good now.’
Breathe.
Many artists use frustration as an outlet because they don’t know how to express it with words. It can be anything—from interpretive dance to classical art. I love it all. I’ve never really given myself permission to call myself an ‘artist.’ I could handle ‘photographer’ because my dad was a hobbyist, but ‘artist’? That felt different. Then again, I’ve always been one—back in third grade, while everyone else was making ashtrays in pottery class, I made a small toilet with the roman numeral II on it. I don’t know why, but I think it was the second one I made.
Anyway, this feels like a good start. It’s not how I wanted to start, but I finally did. And I’m probably going to do some more of these, so be ready for it. Y’all be good to each other out there. Don’t get too frustrated like me. Time moves fast, whether you believe it or not.
Peace and love, man. Bye.