The only comforting thing to me at this very moment is the color of my walls. That is not to say I’m extremely worried, or have anxiety or stress about something, it is to state, simply – that the color purple on my walls right now, is the only comforting thing to me.
The clutter that has become my room reminds me of a a stereo typical bachelor pad in that papers and books are everywhere but in files and shelves or binders. Clothes are on the bed, the desk, the boxes, but not in the dresser drawers or closets. The DVD’s seem to be holding true to their original home, on the shelf, although the lack of use results in dust that stares at me begging to be taken care of.
I’ve never been a super messy person.
I have very few pairs of shoes now, and a designated space in the closet for them to reside, but instead the majority trickle out of the doors and sleep by the bed or door to my room, or by the wall, by the desk, in a bag, or under the bed. This is only tricky when I can’t find matching shoe, and incidentally with a room not much bigger than a shoebox I’m not sure how it’s possible I lose shoes.
I’ve never been one to misplace things.
When I was an esthetician in CA I had a “room” as they call it where I did my work. This room was the home to a massage table and fresh linens, and smelly-good candles, and music by Enya and the likes. This room was where clients came to have hair removed by my cunning technique with wax, or to have facials or back treatments in order to take better care of their skin, or pamper themselves. Currently, my wax pot sits on my desk next to a stack of books I’m reading, or want to read, which are next to loose papers ranging from returned homework to receipts and assignments, and next to those a stack of plays and books I’m required to have and read for school. Above this desk is a cork board with pieces of projects popping out at me. They are thumb-tacked to the cork securely and yet they reach out to me in chaos.
I’m not one to cross over different worlds in which I play.
On the far wall of my room, the dark purple paint blankets the only piece of my room that makes me feel truly home. That wall has no window, or door on it, it stands firm and alone, but not untouched. This wall, the one that makes me feel truly home, has two framed pictures of me and my siblings on it, and a bevy of postcards and cards from people across the United States. These postcards are individually pinned to the wall with pictures facing out, and the love notes, special notes, advice and ideas pressed firmly to the purple wall. At any given time, I can pull a tack out of the wall and read the back of a postcard or the inside of a card. At any given time when I do so, it just so happens whatever the words say, are important for what’s going on in my life at that time. The words of my friends and family members resonate on a daily basis as I continue on my unknown journey.
I’ve always been sentimental.
Even now as I sit on the edge of my hard and squeaky queen size bed the radiator whistles and howls signifying heat is being sent to my room. I am elated. The cold breeze has also ceased to exist in my room because my best friend, Antoan, has successfully removed my air conditioning unit out of the window. With the unit in the window, there was always a breeze from the outside blowing in. Although that was amazing and wonderful during the summer, the restless winds and sporadic rain leave me to desire an air tight, and sealed window – especially since my bed is near it. The silver radiator and pole are becoming my new favorites, and consequently they share a corner with the purple wall with the postcards and pictures.
I’ve always believed it is the little things that count.
The mere fact that I even have a closet is apparently a huge deal in New York. Having been accustomed to the likes of a closet, it was not a huge deal to me, although I appreciated it none the less. My closet here in New York is smaller than any closet I’ve ever had, but still spacious because of what I actually have to call mine. I downsized heavily in the past year, or four, and have been able to function fine with the things I have. Necessities have priority, wants are secondary, and typically I never have money or time for a want.
I was raised to appreciate what I have, and I still choose to do so.
It doesn’t matter that the calendar I have is pinned low and next to the light switch by my door. It matters that it was given to me by my sister and brother-in-law, and it includes birthdays of family members, and each month houses a picture by Matt Schmitz. It matters, because of what’s behind it.
It doesn’t matter that the desk cannot be sat next to and worked upon because it is covered with papers and binders and plays and supplies. Nor does it matter the cork board overflows with what could essentially be a visual aid for a list of things to do. What matters, is what’s behind it.
No matter the clothes and the shoes, the bed or the heater, the DVD’s or the dust, what brings me to the place of purple-wall-comfort is this: I have them. And that allows the possibility of anything else.
If I can find a place of comfort, then the chaos is not as chaotic as it could be. If I can collapse after an eighteen hour day of reading, writing, working, erasing, thinking and trying, on bed that is uncomfortable and cluttered, then turn my head to the walls that reflect a combination of the red fire and passion in me with a cool flowing blue, I can be comforted in serenity. The kind that means I can catch my breath, or allow myself to breath. The kind that means I can become overwhelmed with all that sits before me, or momentarily relish in what I have accomplished so far.
The walls close me in as much as they keep the rest of the world out, and that particular kind of space and freedom is a kind of protection as well. And, if I can be protected and comforted by the likes of purple painted walls…the sheer simplicity of what that even means – then my next question is: