For those who don't know what Konmari is, here is my version of it: I take the item and hold it up. Does this thing make me smile or feel good in any damn way at all? No? Get the fuck out of my house.
We've emptied an entire dresser. Hundreds of cds have been either filed away or boxed up for selling to a shop. I've purged so many books that if I really stop and think about it, my heart will tear a little more. And, let's not even talk about all those clothes that I no longer fit into because there is just a bit more of me to love right now. But, I found the delight of feeling like all the things have a place far outweighs hanging on to that one paperback beach read that will probably never be opened again or that dress I wore to that one party that really isn't THAT cute anyway.
To be honest, most of the house was a cinch. I found myself almost high off this practice and addicted to tidying all the spaces. However, I hit a massive, anger-filled wall when it came to the last room (you can ask Wes, there was a hideously grumpy display on my part the night we started tackling it.) It's the ol' guest bedroom meets office meets art studio meets library meets "401k statement and other paperwork for expensive shit" filing station. This is where most of purging of books took place. And, art supplies. Vacation memorabilia! (Because, you know, we needed to save all the coasters swiped from pubs across England featuring different beers consumed. Come to think of it, we did save those.) And, WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THESE PHOTOGRAPHS!? No wonder no one prints the damn things anymore. The good news is I don't have to buy gift wrapping supplies for at least the next two years.
It was also in this room that I unearthed the numerous paintings I've done over the years. For anyone that knows me well, they know these things are only cranked out in two scenarios: 1) When I'm coerced into doing one of those "Let's get shitfaced on wine and paint the same painting!!!!!!" parties (to be fair, it doesn't take much coercing cuz that shit is kind of fun), or 2) when I'm fighting a soul-purging phase of depression. I'd always been hesitant to hang these things up around the house out of fear because people wouldn't get the frantic strokes of mostly dark colors (or, because my friends are clearly better drunk painters than me and you will see the same fucking scene detailing a higher level of depiction at their house.)
Today is the day I said, "Fuck it." There is now a massive piece hanging above the guest bed. The strokes are hasty and rough. It's one of those you'd see in the art museum and probably not get it. But, I look at it and I see a moment in my life where nothing else made sense but to make this piece. Because it's so big, I painted it from above while it was on the floor. There are literally my own tears mixed in with the paint because I was sobbing as I anxiously swiped away everything I was feeling. I didn't even sign it that evening because I thought for sure I'd need to come back to it. And, I never did nor have I painted anything since.
I've become friends with my depression after that. It teaches me so much when I'm really in the thick of it. I recently admitted this to a therapist and he tried to chuck drugs at me as he was of the opinion that you shouldn't get "sad" (since we all know that's really all depression is, right?) Fuck that and fuck that guy. Depression will squeeze a soul until it either fades away to nothing or explodes. I explode. It leads me to life exploration. It leads me to creation. It forces me to claw around through the mud, excavate all the gems, climb out of the hole, and wash those beauties off with a hose to put on a shelf.
So, today I honor this slightly dodgy painting as a symbol of honoring that side of me. And, I leave you with one of my favorite poems that I've posted a billion times on various social media.
Love and light, with a healthy dose of dark every now and then, to all of you!
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"Some People" - Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
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