Friday January 11, 2013
10:27 p.m.
Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
I am painting my bedroom. Dreamy Cloud. That’s the name of the color. A pacifying pastel hue of blue, gray and purple.
Operation Relaxation. That’s the name of my mission. I am creating a personal zen zone. An escape from the endless efforts of city life. And from all the people who think they know better than me who I am and what I want.
With each stroke I am claiming ownership of these walls and regaining control of my life.
The end of 2012 was a disaster. Well, mostly. The exception being two exceptional boys that came into my life and took a liking to what they saw. Not just my looks. Me. And the brilliant power of my spark and sass. A welcomed reprieve from the constant concern of the Judgementalsteins who insist that my personality is obnoxious. Whatever happens with these boys, I am grateful for their alternative point of view.—Although I will probably forget that in a few months when they inevitably break my heart.
After being knocked down and then downer in 2012, I have picked myself back up and found refuge back in Brooklyn. This time I’m living in Bed-Stuy, five blocks from the Myrtle Ave. JMZ. “Sure beats the Jersey Turnpike,” I say to myself every time I ride the subway over the Manhattan Bridge, the New York City skyline filling the panoramic windows of the train.
I found this apartment on Craigslist. Not an easy feat considering my only source of income is unemployment. (Getting laid off was just one of the straws that broke my 2012 back, but it was a big straw.) My roommate is this guy, I haven’t even met him yet. Which isn’t ideal. But what’s even less ideal, to the point of unimaginable, was continuing to live with my parents and all of their opinions.
The Judgementalsteins do not agree with my living here. But they don’t agree with most of the things I do, so whatever reasonable concerns they have about their daughter living with a stranger in perhaps not the safest neighborhood just congeal with the rest of their complaints, all of which I am painting away.
It’s about 10:30 on Friday night. I am waiting for Shuck to get dismissed from work so we can meet for a Brooklyn nightcap. It is raining. Which is nice because it’s not too cold outside. But also inconvenient because it takes much longer for the paint to dry.
I’m done painting for the day, my supplies wrapped up in cellophane. And I am sitting on my bed—is it still called a bed if it’s really just a mattress on the floor?
I am dressed, and ready for a stiff drink with my boy du jour. I don’t feel tired. But my body and brain are exhausted. I’ve spent the week purchasing paint and supplies and carrying them back to my bedroom, thankfully only up one flight of stairs. Then preparing my walls for color and filling them with broad strokes. Alone in Brooklyn, I’ve spent the week talking to myself.
After three days of painting, I am bored with the activity and questioning if I really need a second coat. I guess I’ll see what it looks like when it’s dry. I breathe in Dreamy Cloud. It smells like paint.
Oh! Shuck just texted. He is off work and on his way to the bar.
Goodnight!