Finishing Brazilian S*x Tourists
Sometimes the detours in life become the whole purpose when you reach the end.
I know nothing about anything, except where I’ve been.
If you aren’t paying me, the risk is all yours.
Life is crazy. And funny. And all kinds of imaginary.
I started this piece last August, the first sketch I finished while sitting out on my patio, late afternoon enjoying the cool evening coming in. My boyfriend, who’d been cheating on me since we first met, came home smelling like alcohol and sex. He was overly excited, hyper-animated, which was always a giveaway that he’d just gotten something from somebody — not me.
We argued and he decided to sleep on the patio, pouting like a child. We broke it off for good a few days later.
And the sketch sat untouched since then.
Really, I stopped making art for a good while, it had left such a bad taste in my mouth. Every time I’d pull out my art supplies all of the feelings I hadn’t dealt with came crawling back out my skin. I took an afternoon to curl up with DMT, asking it for some guidance, and the weight of the Universe laid down on me before saying, “you can’t come in, you need to be alone right now.”
And just like dominoes: my best friend and I took a hiatus, I went no contact with my parents, my dog of 13 years died unexpectedly, a 20-year friendship closed suddenly, and I spent the fall and winter sitting with myself in silence.
My Dog Died Today
I originally published this October 2025, and spent a good amount of time after wallowing in a well of grief. Following a number of other changes in my personal life, I ended up permanently deleting the SubStack I was publishing to at the time and isolated.
Be careful what you wish for. I spent decades saying I wish I could run away to an abandoned island and escape from everyone. I accomplished that, just not in the way I had envisioned it — which was more Irish scenery, less legitimate isolation.
And it turns out all of those things were necessary blessings.
Necessary to force me into the kind of silent isolation that makes you twist up inside yourself and pant endlessly, looking for escape. I understand now why people work so hard to maintain a chronic addiction to distraction. Drown out every negative thought and feeling, to play pretend happy instead.
A few weeks ago I decided it’s time to resurrect this piece and bring it to some kind of final resting place. I never know what that looks like in advance, I’m picking colors on the fly and risking certain failure constantly. If I make a mistake, ce la vie.
I’m still figuring out my comfort level navigating colors.
I’m still figuring out how to be a better human being.
I’m still figuring out how best to photograph my artwork, consistently.
What does it all mean?
It’s about missing things — big and small. It’s about getting dumped on when you’re just trying to get by. It’s things out of your control, but you also chose to sit on that same floor. It’s perversions wrapped up in glamour.
I think that silence helped me become more empathetic. To find love for the people I used to feel anger towards for hurting me.
My life is the slowest, yet most productive it’s ever been. I’m more comfortable now sitting in my silence than I am surrounded by chaos. A resolution I never thought I’d attain.