Echoes of the Garage

Fragments of life in Los Angeles — art, film, street stories, and the quiet rebuilding of a man. Start here: Best Of • About • Subscribe.


“Transmission”

Follow me on X: @punisherpapi · IG: @punisherpapi

📓 Saturday, November 8, 2025 — 7:54 p.m.

I am again attempting the act of writing.

My left index finger is bandaged — I put a bandaid that’s now ragged from moving cases of plastic bags through L.A.

Trying to move my bags of cases with my van parked on the street, I pierced my finger.

I didn’t see it — well, I did.

But I thought I had room between my side doors and this damn plant — the Spanish Dagger.

I didn’t have room.

I’ve said in different entries I’ve written here that I am not a writer.

I mean it.

I love to draw.

But I don’t draw as much anymore.

It takes me time to draw because I get bored with traditional drawing — the kind I was taught in school, at the university level.

Specifically, CSULB.

To be taught to draw is good,

but to be taught to feel is better.

As a kid, I drew from cereal boxes.

I loved the smallest drawings best because it was a challenge for me to recreate them on a larger scale.

I loved drawing comic book heroes.

Loved Wolverine, Spider-Man.

But it started with Mickey.

Mickey Mouse.

He was my start —

two circles for the ears, one for the face, one for the nose, and two for the eyes.

Simple.

But I loved seeing the make-believe not be — but instead, be.

Art to me is making something that shouldn’t be, be.

To feel.

In live drawing class, I enjoyed painting with three brushes taped together.

It was a challenge to draw, and the fuck ups were part of the language —

everything doesn’t always have to be refined to perfection.

Why do I move plastic bags?

I am an artist?

Well, because I need to make a living.

I write more now than I draw — because drawing hurts my head.

Always thinking of composition, color, typography, perspective, and so on.

It’s needed, but I need to introduce more chaos and less refinement.

I think I need to try what doesn’t work,

and leave it as is — not because it’s beautiful,

or what people like to call “cute.”

But because it doesn’t work,

it makes you feel that this shit don’t work.

Shit is better than “cute.”

I hate that word.



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