20150525

I have spent the last three days on a painting retreat in my house.  The structure was constructed anew and dabbed beige by the contractor seller.  The world of the would-not-want-to-offend, the homogony of dental office music, not highs or lows just sedated.  When I first walked in I thought this could be my canvas, this blankness, rather paint and make art like love to an inanimate thing in droplets of intimacy. 

The twelve foot ladder to the eighteen foot ceiling at the peak of the front room pressing tape which removed pulls the white off the under roof.  The little smacks of memory of what one cannot control.  The lines of colors blending to a bolero red washing seven painted kitchens before three a similar color I keep coming back like memories of people I have been incrementally adapting to the light of new mornings. 

Pressing a razor blade to pull off the blue tape for exact edges I feel like my professional accountancy, the slow methodical linear protrudes.  Balancing one foot on a step ladder leaning to brush that corner while the opposite suspends like Virabhadrasana I have set aside yoga to be here with me. 

The only person I talked to was my neighbor who hustles washing cars on the street I took him to Auto zone for some soap and the discountzone to put some money on his prepaid cell.  I put my iPod on shuffle the Soul Rebels, Tom Waits, K’naan, and Bruce etc. etc. keep me company.  In the rain though painting inside sometimes I just like the silence dabbing my brush and sliding it against the wall getting to know home.  Hoping this is home and no more walls.