Beige

April 29 2014

I am painting the room.

An indeterminate beige

that, I am told, will dry darker.

Like black and white,

not so much a colour

as a measure of light.

The roller rolls easily.

No need of precision

on the blank expanse of wall,

the pleasant repetition

of bend, and dip

drain, and roll.

I have assigned the chattering part of my brain

to this mechanical task,

like letting the car

drive itself home.

My mind wandering,

until the leash tightens

and I’m brusquely pulled back,

brush in hand

back and forth, back and forth.

To the woozy smell

of that small contained room,

the glossy finish

that will dry flat.

The ceiling, the baseboards

will be the same

inoffensive beige

a few molecules thick.

If only transformation

always took place

from the outside in,

that surface

could be so determinate.

The rough strokes

that bled thin, at the edges

have blended nicely in.

The familiar room

is even, stressless.

How satisfying

to complete a finite task,

begin with beginning

and end when it ends.

The ratio of change, to effort

is vast, with paint.

Painting myself in

until it dries.

Wondering,

will I live in darkness

or light?

A poem about the subtle pleasures of manual labour: of completing a physical task, from which you can stand back and see, measure, touch; and of muscle memory, which feels like autopilot.

When the writing goes well, I find myself in a similar state -- of relaxed flow, kind of like channelling: the mind is taking dictation, while the hand is automatic. A repetitive task has the same tantalizing quality, occupying your brain, as it frees your mind to wander. Although when a room is painted, or the rocks piled, the thing is done. Writing never seems finished: there is always something to tweak, something you wish had never been read.

It's also about painting over: illusion, surface, deferral.

And about fear: the inoffensive beige, for someone who is afraid of colour; and the reassurance of an enclosed familiar space. Not to mention the vaguely unsettling fear of imminent change: of glossy paint, drying flat; of soft beige, inexorably darkening.