Long after my flirtation with losing grip had grown into a full blown reality, I found myself finishing off an Oreo McFlurry in the parking lot of the Hollywood Home Depot wondering what the hell I was doing there but thinking to myself, there are certainly worse places to be, things to be doing, people to become.
I knew what I was there for, thinking back, I think. I began in lumber, wound my way through gardening, kitchen appliances, piping…winding with grace, ease. When it comes to riding carts in the bulk-shopping super centers of world America, Home Depot shopping carts are a personal, hands down favorite. It’s a combination of three things really…
1. Wide aisles.
2. Sleek floors.
3. My enthusiasm.
The trick is to immediately load the front end with gallons of paint or something of the like...something very heavy. That way, while gliding the aisles at high speeds, there is no risk of the front wheels coming off the ground. This precaution, in turn, lessens the risk of the back wheels buckling sideways and throwing said rider from the cart, somewhat violently and spilling red paint, not blood onto the concrete floors. And all of this, in final turn, doesn’t lead to an embarrassing conversation between the rider and a graveyard shift employee of Home Depot about shopping cart abuse and the allowance of said shopper finishing said shopping experience.
I was there for paint, paint supplies, lacquer, urethane sealer. See, I’ve lately gotten into huffing, and hard.
Not really.
I wanted to paint something I saw in a dream. Kind of a cross between a color and place, peace and panic…and determined the first step in plan go about it would be to pay a visit to the Depot, late on a Saturday night. I also don’t believe in rational determination.
…
I’ve recently discovered my great fear...recently as in the last 10 hours. Now, let us play with analogy so as to aid in the illusion of self-preservation…
Let’s say I’m a basket maker…quite the noble trade, I assure. People need baskets. People will always need baskets. And let’s say that for the last 10 weeks, I’ve been making this amazing basket. Every time I look at it, blood fires through my guts. And when I feel it, liquid vitality. When I hold it, I learn a new shade of happiness for the first time, each time. Ah, pandering to drama…
But my basket is different. It’s not constructed entirely the same way other baskets are constructed. The handle doesn’t lead to a basin to place goods such as, say, shoes and apples. Instead, the basin and handle aren’t connected at all. So when you try to place goods beneath the handle, they fall, roll right off the flat surface. People look at the basket and say, “What the fuck? Why can’t you just attach the handle the right way like everyone else?” In my mind, I tell them it’s balanced. I tell them to hold the handle from beneath the basin, to balance the goods above the handle, because it’s totally skillful and awesome and who else does? They say, “But that’s insane, why would I want to balance the goods when I can simply carry them?”
It's an answer I know but can't yet speak. And that, friends, is torture.
…
This painting…or the image I see…
It’s light…and dark. It’s angry…and luminous. It’s like standing on clouds, waiting for the sun to come, to melt my footing away until I fall, forever and ever, wondering if the end is near, screaming, happy tears, laughter, loneliness…
It’s an everlasting love, at its peak before fail and the fallout all at the same time, a broken mess. It’s bitter then sweet, never bittersweet, never anything middle of the road, cowardly, balanced, medicated…
It’s an agitation of cool, a splinter in sexy, a kiss before the fight…in my head, my dream, my constant confusion.
My constantly confusion.
…
I need a nanny for my child. And by “my child,” I mean myself. And by “myself” I mean me…to watch me and tuck me in, to sing to me until I fall asleep and hold my hand as I cross the street.
Someone who doesn't once protest my treating every ounce and drip of this life as if it were a dream...and never once worries of the trouble ahead.
