Immobilized from a heroic dose of psilocybin in high school, I lay in my bed and saw a number of scenes in my head. The one that stuck with me after all these years was these giant robotic insects in a deep cybernetic canyon. I was walking on a tightrope a mile high, a thin band of pixelated light across the void. Everything sounded like rubber bands snapping down an echo chamber. The insects seemed to be linked telepathically, and while they didn’t react to my presence, I could feel them analyzing my thoughts and feelings. They could sense my fear. They were mining what seemed to be data. Information that was flowing in from the thoughts of infinite people.
Back then, I was fearful of many things, and rightfully so. I’d been arrested for underage drinking and shoplifting, and my young life was potentially headed down the wrong path. I was at a junction. Walking this rope quite literally. I hated authority. I didn’t know where my life could go. I had the world view of a suburban teenager in Delaware, and felt I was being funneled into the place where bad people go. I told a psychiatrist I heard messages and saw visions that were not of this world and was prescribed prozac and lorazepam. My parents cried. I was a good kid. I needed a guide, not a shrink. These psychedelic visions shocked me into a sense of action, and ultimately had a calming effect on my life. It was during this time I began to take drawing seriously, and channeling my fears into a mode of expression.
I suppose that’s where I first drew the comparison between the giant all-knowing, all-hearing spider and the US government. Either that or I watched Pink Floyd’s The Wall too many times, or I took the concept of Big Brother to heart. I’ve decided to keep much of my life as private as possible, and I hold a strong belief in personal privacy. The insects in the void are real, and they are always listening.
Killer Acid, 2024
