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Since moving into my 15 x 15 bedroom on the top floor of a cozy house nestled at the edge of a tree-lined street, where a pack of rough-and-tumble kids toss balls at cars to set off the alarms and old Greek ladies, frail as porceline in body but wiry like chewing tobacco in opinion oversee their microscosmic kingdom from their porches, I have planned to paint.

“Green!” I exclaimed, lime green, the lightest shade of lime at Benjamin Moore. Energizing and esoteric. Stimulating but soothing.

That was two months ago.

I admit I am slow to attend to practical matters.  Money I need to deposit wastes away in envelopes labelled “DEPOSIT” until the very last second.  I live off scraps in the fridge rather than taking the time to grocery shop regularly. Thus, painting a room, which I have never done, is an adventure that has yet to occur.

And my books are still in boxes.

Upon waking this morning, however, and journaling a flurry of ideas fresh from a dream, I noted my surroundings, and smiled.

I like my clutter, my unfinished-ness.  Perhaps I am unsettled by too much order right now.  It feigns a chosen direction that I do not have. Perfectly organized bookshelves would hold me to this place, to my present job, to this state of being.  I want to feel the current moving forward, not whirlpooling in the center of a pristine abode.

Green paint would be nice.  Maybe I’ll do it in the dead of winter, when the white on the naked branches outside needs a squeeze of lime.

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