Now I know why Van Gogh Went Crazy and Cut off his Own Ear

Do paint fumes kill brain cells?

All signs point to yes.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided that I would use a portion of my first real vacation of 2010 (from December 23rd to January 4, 2011)* to paint my new** condo. 

Why did I choose to paint it myself instead of hiring a painter?

a) I am a go-getter with moxie and energy to spare.

b)  I want to experience the pride that comes with engaging in a  DIY project (and anything involving a drill is still out of the question).

c)  I was gouged the last time I hired painters, but was so afraid that they would come back and break my legs with the illegal key copy they undoubtedly made that I agreed to their terms.

d)  I am a $%^&! moron.***

Armed with this logic, I pranced off to my local Canadian Tire to choose my weapons of mass destruction.   All of the walls would be painted a very trendy grey colour named “Veil”.  The accent walls would be painted a very warm and jaunty colour named “Bonnie Bell”.  One cab ride and a glass of red wine later, I was ready to attack.

Now, the first roll of the brush onto a stark white wall is always a bit of a shock.   But Bonnie turned out to be less of a burnt…something and a bit more…well…bright LEGO orange…than I thought.

It was now evening .  “I’ll paint the whole wall and see what it looks like in the morning”.

That night, when the clock struck midnight, I was visited by two ghosts.

"Naeeeeee!!! Ya canna paeeent a wall orrrrrange, ya wee chickeee!"

The ghosts of Colin and Justin roused me from my slumber, and dragged me out into the living room to look at what I had wrought.  

The wall was like the giant monolith from 2001, except that it was orange.

“What have I done, Colin and Justin?!?” I howled, “WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?”  I began sweating profusely.  “Is it too late for me?”

They pointed with cold, yet fabulously manicured hands at the receipt on the dining room table.

“Are you trying to tell me that I have to go back?  Back to the store?”

A paint chip lay next to the receipt.   I knew what I had to do.

The next morning, I trundled off to the Canadian Tire and bought a gallon of “Downing Street”.  Brick red, and very dignified.  Very Churchillian.

*  I am planning on taking my 2011 vacation on or about 2020.

**  Yes, I moved in at the end of April.  Keep in mind that it took me THREE YEARS from move in date to paint a previous condo.  This is relatively quick by comparison.

***  DING DING DING!  We have a winner.

And Everything is Going Fine

It occurred to me as I was viewing “And Everything is Going Fine” – a documentary by Steven Soderbergh about his friend Spalding Gray – that Gray may have in fact been the very first blogger.*

The late (great?) Spalding Gray

This is probably not an original thought.  But it was the first time it had occurred to me.

I was not a huge Gray fan, as most of his famous monologues had been delivered while I was still a child.   But in 2004, when he was declared missing and presumed dead, I was intrigued.  Soderbergh thankfully did not venture into this dark territory, although it was hinted at throughout the film. 

Hindsight is always 20/20, but the moments of thoughtful sadness, the shy vulnerability, and the raw fear of slipping into the same suicidal tendencies of his mother were plainly evident behind the witty veil of neurotic humour.

At one point, as Gray described his art as a kind of “reliving” of his life experiences, I found myself almost yelling at the screen.  “That’s not good for you, Spud!  No one should dwell so long on his or her own life.”

“I guess you’re right, it’s good to let things go,” my companion responded when I made this exclamation outside the Bloor Cinema after the film.

But it’s not just about letting things go.  That answer is too simple.

Writing can be cathartic.  It can be a kind of release, a way of spilling forth words and ideas and feelings that cannot stay contained.

As I’ve said in the past, it can also feel as though one is bleeding onto the page.  There is a fine line between the healthy release and the flow of words that once started, cannot be stopped, cannot be staunched, leaving the writer feeling shaky and weak. 

For years, Gray bled his life onto the stage for the audiences.   He was the story, and the story was him.  His life was his source of inspiration, in a blurring of life and art that is likely very familiar to many bloggers (or at least the good ones – you know who you are).   The writer gives a piece of himself to the reader, cuts himself in the process of sharing an intimate, sometimes terrible life experience.  “Look at me,” the writer says.  “I am bleeding.” 

“I have also had that experience,” the reader says.  “I am bleeding, too.  We share these wounds.  We bleed together.”

The moment of connection between writer and the audience is powerful, humbling, sometimes healing, but it takes the toll on the writer who uses himself as a source of material.  In my opinion, it cannot be sustained for any length of time without causing serious damage to the writer.

After Gray’s accident in 2001 left him with terrible neurological trauma, he was unable to tell the story.

“If you knew that you would only degenerate and would never again be able to pursue your life’s passion, would you end it?” I asked my companion. 

That is a question that can’t be answered in the hypothetical.  The answer will only come in the moment of clarity.

***

It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.

Marcel Proust

* There is still time to attend a documentary at the Hot Docs festival in Toronto – running until May 9th.

%$^@#$!!!

I’m in a bit of a mood today.

Wipe that surprised look off your face. 

What do you mean, “this isn’t a surprised look”?

The last time I saw that look, I threw a shoe at it from across the room.  I missed, but it’s the unhinged thought that counts, right?

Enjoy this list of things that I hate.

(1)  Twenty something policy advisors who alternate between wanting my assistance and looking down their self-righteous noses at me.  Live and learn, my little Kool-Aid drinkers.

(2)  Those f*ckers on Queen Street who insist on driving 80km/h on a morning when it can only serve to spray slush all over pedestrians.  I hope you spin out into a lamp post.

(3)  Anyone who contracts pink eye from their %$%$^!!! kids and then feels the need to share it with the rest of us.  It’s contagious, you twit.

(4)  People who spit.  All of them.  There is never a reason to spit in public.  So sayeth the woman with chronic motion sickness.

(5)  Shufflers.  How many shoes do you go through in a year because you’re too damn lazy to lift up your feet when you walk?

(6)  The zombie PATH horde.  Some days these people depress me more than others.  And why do I always feel like I’m walking against the flow, no matter which direction I’m heading, at any time of day?

(7)  Consultants. 

(8)  Breakfast television hosts. 

(9)  Mother Nature.

Have a nice day.

Marvin is angry, and so am I. Source: Unknown, but brilliant.

The Five Minute Post

What a week.

Random thoughts.

This blog was initially created as a showcase for my writing skills.

Why are you laughing?

Right now, the only writing I’m doing is in relation to HR 3933.*

Don’t click that link.  Unless, of course, you enjoy reading arcane bills relating to the U.S. tax code.

What was I just saying?

Oh yeah, writing.  I promise that I will write more interesting things in the future.  And by future, I mean December.  Possibly January.

This morning, while I was walking to work, I enjoyed the best five random iPod songs ever:

Bolero – Ravel

Across the Universe – The Beatles

No Myth – Michael Penn

Shame for You – Lily Allen

Sunday Morning – No Doubt

Yes, yes, I’ve posted this song before.  But this version features Arsenio Hall. Check out the hair and jacket.  Classic.

 

 

 

 

* Which, by the way, is unduly onerous and will place unreasonable reporting burdens on foreign financial institutions.  But hey, what the hell do I know?

Gotham at Night

I am a city person.  I feel nervous in the country, where no one can hear you scream.  I feel nervous in the suburbs, where people can hear you scream, but will likely ignore it.

I rarely feel unsafe in Toronto.  Wary, sometimes vigilant, often annoyed.  Never unsafe.

And then I hear them.

Three distinct gunshots.  Nearby.  Perhaps in that alleyway.

The first time I’ve heard the gunshots, although I’m sure that they’ve been fired nearby before.  I want to go to the window to look, and I want to huddle under the blankets.  My heart is pounding.

“I’m such a lightweight”, I think to myself.

There are no other sounds, no yelling, no screaming, no sirens.  I hear movement upstairs, and I realize I’m not the only one who has been disturbed.

I look out the window.  A man walking a dog through the alleyway.  A man loading stock into the store across the street.  A white limo pulls up in front of my building, and the driver and a man in a tuxedo get out and begin unloading bags.  A bride in full wedding gown gingerly climbs out of the back, attempting to keep the white material from brushing the ground.

Just another night.