RJM62
Touchdown! Greaser!
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2007
- Messages
- 13,157
- Location
- Upstate New York
- Display Name
Display name:
Geek on the Hill
No, not painting pictures. Painting walls.
Some of you know the drama of my most recent break-up, which actually has left me with more sadness than anything else.
Briefly, she is an alcoholic and an addict, and her condition had progressed to a point where ( 1 ) I seriously doubted that she was capable of recovery, barring the direct intervention of God; and ( B ) I had no doubt whatsoever that I couldn't deal with her addictions any more.
We parted on amicable terms, given the circumstances, which is good. And like I said, I harbor no animosity toward her; if anything, I pity her more than anything else. Addiction is an ugly thing: It's heartbreaking to watch, and almost impossible to comprehend.
Mind you, I'm far from perfect. I'm acutely aware of that fact. When I was a young man I was hell-bent on self-destruction, and I really didn't care who I took with me. But midway through my 20's I had a wake-up call, and by the grace of God, I changed my life. That was half a lifetime ago, and I'm proud of the man I am today.
This is why I can say that this was the first breakup I've had in which I know without a doubt that I was in no way at fault. Even my friend Jim the priest, whose shoulder I leaned on greatly for the last year, says only half-jokingly that I should be sainted for putting up with the situation as long I did. So when I ended the relationship, there was no guilt on my part, no asking myself where I went wrong or what else I could have done, none of that nonsense.
There was just sadness.
Because deep inside, I still love her; and it hurts to watch someone you love destroy herself.
I gave her some time to find a place to stay, and I helped her put her stuff in storage before she left. And then I spent the next few weeks moping around, scratching my beard, calling friends, and talking to Jim the priest. At some point, my head cleared -- it felt a little like emerging from a cloud.
And I looked around, and suddenly something that I'd previously overlooked, despite it being obvious, became clear to me. I looked, and I sniffed, and then I uttered words of great wisdom.
I said to myself, "Richard, this place is a pigsty."
And so I embarked on the great cleaning blitz of 2009. Many bags of garbage and shredded papers later, and after aquainting myself with the wonderful world of cleaning solvents (Murphy's Oil Soap does an AMAZING job on hardwood floors), The place sparkled.
And yet, something was missing. It just seemed... boring. And so I decided to embark on the great painting project of 2009. Not only would I paint, but I would paint in such a way as to make a statement. I would get in touch with my inner child and let him choose the colors. And choose them he did. He chose bold, bright, daring colors that proclaimed to the world, "Yes, this is MY place now -- and if I want blaze orange window frames, then blaze orange window frames I shall have!"
I must say, I'm actually very pleased with the results, despite having selected colors that would make my eye doc break out his old Farnsworth Lantern were he to see them. They're garish. They don't match by any stretch of the imagination. And they're... well... odd.
But you know what? I really, really like them. They make the place interesting. So despite my deep hatred of painting, I actually enjoyed the whole process.
Hence the title of this post, Painting as Therapy. I really can't say that the place needed painting. But somehow I needed to do it. I needed to take possession of it again, so to speak. And so I did.
Oh, before I forget, I took some pics. Tell me what you think of my color choices. (Go ahead. I have thick skin.)
-Rich
Some of you know the drama of my most recent break-up, which actually has left me with more sadness than anything else.
Briefly, she is an alcoholic and an addict, and her condition had progressed to a point where ( 1 ) I seriously doubted that she was capable of recovery, barring the direct intervention of God; and ( B ) I had no doubt whatsoever that I couldn't deal with her addictions any more.
We parted on amicable terms, given the circumstances, which is good. And like I said, I harbor no animosity toward her; if anything, I pity her more than anything else. Addiction is an ugly thing: It's heartbreaking to watch, and almost impossible to comprehend.
Mind you, I'm far from perfect. I'm acutely aware of that fact. When I was a young man I was hell-bent on self-destruction, and I really didn't care who I took with me. But midway through my 20's I had a wake-up call, and by the grace of God, I changed my life. That was half a lifetime ago, and I'm proud of the man I am today.
This is why I can say that this was the first breakup I've had in which I know without a doubt that I was in no way at fault. Even my friend Jim the priest, whose shoulder I leaned on greatly for the last year, says only half-jokingly that I should be sainted for putting up with the situation as long I did. So when I ended the relationship, there was no guilt on my part, no asking myself where I went wrong or what else I could have done, none of that nonsense.
There was just sadness.
Because deep inside, I still love her; and it hurts to watch someone you love destroy herself.
I gave her some time to find a place to stay, and I helped her put her stuff in storage before she left. And then I spent the next few weeks moping around, scratching my beard, calling friends, and talking to Jim the priest. At some point, my head cleared -- it felt a little like emerging from a cloud.
And I looked around, and suddenly something that I'd previously overlooked, despite it being obvious, became clear to me. I looked, and I sniffed, and then I uttered words of great wisdom.
I said to myself, "Richard, this place is a pigsty."
And so I embarked on the great cleaning blitz of 2009. Many bags of garbage and shredded papers later, and after aquainting myself with the wonderful world of cleaning solvents (Murphy's Oil Soap does an AMAZING job on hardwood floors), The place sparkled.
And yet, something was missing. It just seemed... boring. And so I decided to embark on the great painting project of 2009. Not only would I paint, but I would paint in such a way as to make a statement. I would get in touch with my inner child and let him choose the colors. And choose them he did. He chose bold, bright, daring colors that proclaimed to the world, "Yes, this is MY place now -- and if I want blaze orange window frames, then blaze orange window frames I shall have!"
I must say, I'm actually very pleased with the results, despite having selected colors that would make my eye doc break out his old Farnsworth Lantern were he to see them. They're garish. They don't match by any stretch of the imagination. And they're... well... odd.
But you know what? I really, really like them. They make the place interesting. So despite my deep hatred of painting, I actually enjoyed the whole process.
Hence the title of this post, Painting as Therapy. I really can't say that the place needed painting. But somehow I needed to do it. I needed to take possession of it again, so to speak. And so I did.
Oh, before I forget, I took some pics. Tell me what you think of my color choices. (Go ahead. I have thick skin.)
-Rich
Attachments
Last edited:
