| dewy decimal |
2004-07-27 - 2:02 p.m.
I was 16 when I'd had enough.
It was the summer of 1994 when my peach fuzz became wiry and I'd discovered that I could draw frosting out of my penis. The first summer where the inside of my head felt like packed dirt. The first year that I can remember shoplifting. Red haircolor, Kahala Mall, Longs.
Well I couldn't just sit around watching TV with such a growth spurt, so I painted my my room blue and wrote my very first novel. Electric blue. Ninety-six pages.
I even sent a copy to Harper Row Publishing and they kindly sent it back stating that I would need an agent before they could even consifer reviewing it. God, it was a piece of shit.
As the years passed, my walls became increasingly more subject to impulsive graffitti, more oil and acrylic, more string and staples. Just a whole lot more shit if you know what I mean.
Imagine my suprise, when in the Spring of 96, I'd first discovered the David Bowie song about everything that I'd been feeling at that time. A song about my room!
Blue, blue, electric blue
That's the colour of my room
Where I will live
Blue, blue
Pale blinds drawn all day
Nothing to do, nothing to say
Blue, blue
I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision
And I will sing, waiting for the gift of sound and vision
Drifting into my solitude, over my head
Don't you wonder sometimes
'Bout sound and vision
Well its ten years later since that prolific summer and everything is so totally different, but yet, I'm doing the exact same things. Still trying to write "my Great American Novel," and today, I said goodbye to my blue room with a can of primer and a 2nd rate brush.
Tonight I'm gonna go to sleep, anticipating my awakening in a new room, thinking of Margaret Browne stories as I drift away, "Goodnight fly, goodnight cucumer."
"Goodnight blue room."
