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Do you have violent thoughts? Of course you do. My last words, (*4/25/1... "Have a nice day, Mr. Connett"), devolved into a rant describing my violent fantasies. Individuals have written to me saying that it appears I am condoning violent acts by describing my violent thoughts ... Not so. It is true that I have been prone to violence and violent thoughts since an early age. I was removed from school for the first time in the 2nd grade. I crushed a my friends skull with a hammer when I was 7 years old. He died of a brain hemorrhage 10 years later. (R.I.P. Mark Crandle! I'll never know if I killed you.) ... I was expelled from school and forced to undergo psychiatric counseling. I was allowed back into the San Francisco school system only under the condition that my therapy would continue, and that I could refrain from violent acts. I failed all subjects but I was not held back. I was promoted on a 'trial basis' from grade 1 through 6. This "trial basis" was used as a threat to make me behave. The threat was that at any time during the school year, at the teachers discretion, I could be put back into the previous grade. I would be humiliated. I felt stupid and inferior. These feelings were reinforced by my teachers and piers ... I hated school, as you might well imagine. I was not allowed to participate in sports due to my temperament, (thus to this day I have little interest in sports) For several years I was not allowed to join the other children in the school yard during recess. I sat on a bench alone and watched as they played. There was always a teacher on guard hovering over me. Eventually, I began to fantasize about killing the children, and the teachers. Perhaps under the same circumstances today I would have got myself a gun. But I didn't fantasize about shooting. I dreamed of many more cruel ways of reaping vengeance. Time went on and I continued my forced therapy. It was at the prompting of my doctors that I began to express my temperament through artwork, for which I had a minor ability. The drawings were mostly of torture and giant flying eyeballs. (These drawings were eventually burned by a fanatic Christian religious group in the 60's.) One doctor suggested that I be institutionalized. Thankfully, my father would not allow it. There was another boy who was like me. We became friends. His name was Brian. He had only one eye. (The other being poked out is a sword fight with his older brother) He was put in a hospital ... I never saw him again. Years later I was told he'd died in the hospital of a drug overdose. (Their drugs, not his) Eventually I learned that there were consequences for violence against people, so my anger was secretly channeled toward small animals, but that is a different story. After an animal torture spree that lasted several years, I realized that animals were too innocent to hurt, so I never harmed or killed another. To this day I will not kill a bug in my house if I can help it. I could not hurt people, or I would be punished. I had not the heart to hurt animals, so there was nothing left but to turn to my fantasies. I used my artwork to externalize my intense feelings. Eventually, If I did not do artwork, the pent up emotion would turn in on me. I would become ill. Ironically, I was not allowed to draw in school, so I became sick often and was frequently absent. I moved into my closet and slept there at night with the door closed. I mutilated myself. I sliced my arms with Exacto knives and burned myself with paper matches. I was 13. Soon I discovered drugs. At 14 I found I could deaden the fire in my head with the drugs that I could steal from my parents. My Mom took Methadrine to keep slim and my Dad took Percodan to dull his martini hangovers. Drugs were the perfect escape from my rage. In 1966 pot and pills hit the streets of San Francisco and the Beatnik/hippie propaganda was that it was 'All good'. LSD made me feel like strangely superior. I felt I suddenly KNEW mankind's greatest hidden wisdom's and nobody else knew shit. I dropped out of school at 16 and embarked upon a life of enlightenment. Within a year or so I became a pathetic Junkie with yellow jaundiced eyes and snow white shit. I found myself on the brink of death in an intensive care ward. I had contracted what they used to call "Serum Hepatitis". You got that from sharing needles, which I did. That was the first time I got "a little bit" addicted to Heroin. The Hippie dreams turned into a dark nightmare of drug addiction, disease and deep hypocrisy that only broken ideals can spawn. I was young, and recovered from the decease's of the "Love Generation" ... but when the drugs wore off, the rage remained. The violent thoughts returned and haunted me like a head full of buzzing wasps. I managed to stay away from drugs for awhile. However, the truth is that I have never completely been able to find an alternative to self medication. I have "managed" to stay alive for nearly 50 years. I have mellowed with age, but I still sit in bars and think about how I might torture and kill my fellow patrons, who I know not, yet they represent some unknown, mysterious and monstrous enemy. I have managed to grow old. I use my art as a catharsis for my feelings. That is all it is. Perhaps it could be more, perhaps not. Probably it is like everything else, what it is, is what it is beheld to be. I believe that had I not been able to learn to control my demons, I would most certainly be dead ... or worse, (There are MUCH worse things than death, unless there is REALLY some HELL and some Bosch like Christian Satan waiting to fry your ass). I eventually learned that all actions have a consequence, good or bad. What you do does effect much more than most people imagine. Like the ripples in a still body of water when you toss a pebble in, the consequences of your every action reverberates endlessly and infinitely. I have learned a few things ... Clearly, that I am foolish. So, don't think that my words are some justification to do violence. Don't look at my crude drawings and paintings and see some license to be an asshole. You don't need my permission to be a fool ... You can do just fine without me. If you think you see a justification for violence in my work or my words, or ANYWHERE, you should think again.
"Have a nice day, Mr. Connett"
Fuck you and your nice day ... I'm having a shitty day. I am agitated, aggravated and angry. I'm on the verge of going 'ApeShit'. If you are talking to me, I'm probably clenching my teeth trying hard not to smash your face. But when I open my mouth, rather than follow my instinct to bite your nose off, I'll pay you a phony compliment, and sport a wide, shit eating smile. I am completely full of shit, just like you. Life is a series of lies, one layered upon the other. I am a lying sack of shit ... Everything I do or say is calculated to manipulate something or someone, so things will go my way. But evidently, I'm not very good at it, because things DON'T. I think that the world is a stage, in Hell ... Everything and everyone are stage props. You don't exist. The world is too ridiculous to exist. I turn my head and it all just stops. I'm in a twilight zone episode. Everything is phony. Phony love, phony integrity, phony compassion, phony ethics, phony tits, phony faces, phony lives ... I believe we are all going to become computers. We will replace every fucking part of ourselves until we become immortal machines. Then we will believe that we are God ... The ultimate phony religion. I am not, therefor I am phony, and I love myself, whom I no longer am. This phony world grows more absurd. It resembles my most morbid fantasies, getting worse as my imagination evolves. The more horrid my thoughts become, the more grim is my world. Everything is falling apart. I don't know ... I don't know anything. I know less than I did yesterday, and yesterday, ... uh, ... I forgot. My memories are lost. My mind is mush. My body is decaying. Yet the horrors become more vivid. I'm constantly harassed ... Stupid, ignorant props in this bad TV show. Base, vile and superficial props. Irritating and uncomfortable. Nothing works anymore ... Did it ever? I can't remember anymore. I don't know what I'm talking about ... and I don't think I care, but I'm not sure. Why are there so many mentally retarded? Did God fuck up? Was God fucked up? I hate this. You are really ugly ... Supermodels are ugly! Movie Stars are Ugly! Young people are very ugly. Babies ... ugly! Old people ... UGLY! ... Dirt is beautiful. I seek it. I want to roll in it and lay down in it. I want to be buried in the soft, dark, reeking earth! I want to sleep with the roots and the worms and the beetles. Your mind is grotesque. Your thoughts attack me without provocation. Why doesn't your head work properly? When I think, I think most people are even more stupid than I am. You never use your fucking turn signals! You always get my order wrong! You are lazy. You are rude, even when I am paying you. You resent me, but you don't even know me. You litter your own front yard, and create a fucking sewer that I have to wade through every day! You poison my food! You cut me off in traffic! You vote in monstrous idiots! You don't show up on time! You misrepresent your credentials! Your dog shits in front of my house, and I have to clean it up! You project your feelings of worthlessness upon me. Dealing with you is getting to be a BIG problem for me. I can't avoid you. Another problem I have is that no one will sell me a pistol. I have a friend. He could get me a pistol, but he won't! I need one! I need it because I want to go out and shoot the next asshole that gives me a hard time! I need a pistol so I can shoot the neighbors dog that won't shut it's God Damn Yap! I need a hand gun so I can shoot the next car that doesn't pull out into an intersection, so I can make a left turn too! Fucking idiots. If you will sell me a gun please click here. I almost wrecked my car by driving off the road. I was having a daydream about smashing some idiots head in with a length of steel pipe ... Smashing his skull until it became a mass of bone fragments and brains and hairy bloody pulp! I was in a trance. The pipe sits next to my front door. It's painted green. It beckons to me. When the neighbors pitbull got loose it growled and barked at me. I ran inside my house and got my shotgun and went after it, hoping it would turn on me so I could blow it's fucking head off ... I wanted to kill it and bury it up on the hillside. The thought made me feel warm and I smiled. But it just ran away. I feel good when I'm drunk. Ed Roth is dead ... Joey Ramone is dead ... and Robert Downy Jr. will rot in jail because he gets high. ... Fuck it. ... Have a crappy day.
A painting - click to see
The painting is dedicated to Russ Kent, A.K.A.:"Mr. Hate", and his incredible radio show "RADIO FREE HATRED." For years Mr. Hates Radio show, "RADIO FREE HATRED" has had a huge influence upon me, my art ... my very existence. Russ Kent, aka; 'Mr. Hate' has been the master purveyor of unique 'sounds' for the past 8 years. I can not, in mere words, describe to you what sort of 'music' or 'sounds' he dispenses. With a few notable exceptions. I have not the patience to memorize the many artists he incorporates into his playlists. However, I will say these sounds come from somewhere beyond Earth, Heaven and Hell ... His are the rarest musics of dead civilizations, the sounds of instruments that time has forgotten, dredged up from the morass of black madness and delivered up from secret dimensions of the deathly white light. I suggest that you tune in and listen for yourself. ... For more info CLICK HERE. You are on Page 4 of 'Connett Speaks'
NEW ARTISTS STATEMENT: CLICK HERE old artists statement: click here Drawings
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