Watching paint dry is perfectly alright as long as you’re getting paid for it.
While at work, I painted a wall. I painted hard, digging into the crevices between the bricks, painting over cobwebs and the flecks of paint peeling from the last rushed paint job. I worked like it was my job, and it was my job to work. I forgot it was Tuesday, musing Monday. The paint splattered onto my clothes, and my fingers were sheathed in thin layers of black and green.
When I washed my hands, I rubbed my palms raw, stretching back the paint latex like it had been the Venom/Spiderman suit that wraps itself around someone’s body. Then I spent an hour scraping black paint from underneath my clipped fingernails.
I painted the stairs leading down to the wall as well. Unfortunately, some black paint splashed on the green stairs and some green paint smeared on the black walls, like both were trading spit while making out. Not that paint could actually be personified in such a way, since paint does not have lips. Unless it’s a painting of a person. Unless that person is Mona Lisa, who has thin lips and also no eyebrows or eyelashes, for dubious reasons.
As I drove home from work, however, the sky began to slobber raindrops. But the tinkling became a full-stream just-ate-asparagus urination. Accompanied by that thunder that shakes your house. Maybe there is a large child, sky-scraper-sized, dissembling the city he’s built out of Lincoln Logs, that city you happen to live in.
And as I realize the rain will probably ruin if not completely wash away the paint on the steps, I realize I’ve run out of metaphors. Like the lemons that life gives you that supposedly you’re supposed to make into lemonade. Though before hearing this cliché, we perhaps never realized that’s what lemonade was made of, actual lemons—in which case, it tastes foreign. I personally prefer my lemonade conjured from a magical yellow powder and a pitcher of water.
With lemons, however, it is very much impossible to paint anything. I would have no use for lemons.
(More daily musings coming soon, for days I don’t feel like expressing anything of worth, but instead want to talk about painting, making out, and lemons (life’s most sacred things). they will not be daily nor will they be your muse. Unless you don’t want them to and would prefer they flop as bad as John Carter did.)