March 10, 2002
Now that I’m not taking myself so seriously and trying so hard to be the perfect image of a writer, I’m having a lot more fun and my brain is loosening up quite nicely.
I’m getting back in touch with the messy bits, the disheveled bits, the awkward, scary, basic, real bits.
When I was around 16 or so, my mum was fed up with the state of my room.
It was a space literally in the attic, with sloping ceilings and a little window that barely opened on one end. There were household storage items sharing my bedroom space, I used to fall asleep to the hum of the freezer.
But in this space I had blankets all over, all of different colours. I had pictures hanging here and there, tables filled with art supplies and oddities. Clothes strung from the ceiling on pieces of string and forts built in some corners. There were things everywhere – and I knew where everything was. I loved having my supplies out everywhere – ready at a moments notice.
My mother, however, did not.
One day when I was out, she took a photograph to show me how messy and disorderly my room really was. As a neat freak who demanded order in the whom, she was hoping that if I saw my room for how it really was, I’d change.
But a funny thing happened.
When she had the photograph developed, she saw my room for what it really was – artistic and beautiful.
She saw the bright colours all over, the art strawn on the tables and floors, the magical world that I had created. She giggled to herself as she looked at the photograph and decided not to show me. She never complained about my room again.
It took me ten years to hear this story.
During my Corporate Stint, when I tried so hard to fit into the suit wearing, lots of meeting, drinking coffee atmosphere, my home was a perfect showcase. Free of colour, clutter, anything “weird” or “offensive.” It was your typical Ikea showroom floor. Everything had a place, and if it didn’t, I’d find it.
Luckily, I’ve gotten over it.
There’s something comfortable to me to have my paints sitting on the table – almost as if they beg me to use them – even if it’s badly.
My stash of writing supplies are sprawled by the couch, the table, the computer and even beside the bed. I have secreat boxes of stickers, pens, pictures hidden throughout the flat. Special forts I create during the day when I need a private office space to work in. Things are all over the place and somehow, it doesn’t look messy. It looks like home.