James, Don't Falter - 1. Four Skies

I have furniture against all four of my walls. Above my dresser I notice wispy streaks of eggshell inside the cerulean tint of my wall, which reminds me that I am no painter, just a boy who amateurishly painted his room. They sort of look like cirrus clouds forever trapped in a still sky, my little delicate mist. They were born from my inaccurate hands, pushing to smear cool color everywhere. I’m no architect. I didn’t cover my floors or hardware. I didn’t sand any surfaces. I didn’t fill any gaps or holes with caulk where molding meets the wall. I loaded the brush directly from my can of paint, mistake. Dust got in and contaminated my supply, but looking at my wall now, I only see skies.

Bits of color spilled onto my ceiling as if my walls were trying to dye them. My hands grew languid, often threatening to drop the paint roller and splash the color on my legs like a dense river, which would then flow over the floors, and I would appear to be walking on water. Up and down and over again. One wall, two walls, enough walls. My entire body began to ache and cry for a vacation. Could I fly into the paint and soar my sky-like walls or sail on their rivers? I wish. I sat on the floor wishing the renovation would finish itself, and then I decided to call James.

When he arrived in overalls and dingy tan work boots I admired his professionalism. He painted an entire wall while I sat on the floor and watched him work. For a few moments I wanted to be him. I wanted the endurance to paint a wall without stopping, and the patience to add another coat, which would then double the finishing time. I wanted the precision to paint corners and lines along the stark white ceiling and not taint the white with blue. I wanted the determination to finish what had been started so inexpertly.

I helped James paint the last wall. We left the brushes and rollers behind, which was his idea, and we painted with our hands instead. The paint was cold, but as I daubed it over the wall in streaks like trails of shooting stars, my palms began to warm up like comets. I marked my wall in constellations with my fingers, and James did the same right next to me. We were children of muck, spreading mud on concrete, creating an earthy contrast between thick brown clay and smooth grey pavement. We were Gods manifesting warriors in the form of stars in the form of paint in outer space. My hands flew over the wall and his pursued my pathways. I used my fingers to dance in waves of blue shades and pirouette in abstract expressionism. James chased where I went on the wall, leaving his handprint in more than one place.

The furniture in my room now lives against three walls, and the fourth wall is left vacant so that I can see every mark and smudge and handprint that James and I made. There is a spot near the floor from where I kicked paint at him, and a blotch near the ceiling from when he lifted me up so I could rub my palm into it. There is an unbound trail of footprints that alter bigger foot smaller foot, which is from sitting on the floor and walking our feet on the wall after dipping them in paint. There are unruly specks and arbitrary splashes that punctuate our process throughout the wall and in the center of it all are two hand prints that seem to never stop painting.