Obsession

I’ve spent the last few days painting. I was shopping around with my ‘friend’ Paul on Friday when we walked by an art store that had twenty percent off its merchandize. Paul decides to go in looking for a frame, and I leave with a bag full of art supplies.

It wasn’t a bad idea. I mean, this was something I have had a strong interest in for a while, but I know because of my addictive personality and my uncanny ability to be a perfectionist, it would probably cause severe mental trauma.

I have created four pieces of art. Each one different in their own merits and each one constantly in my mind. I have deemed these two as finished pieces that I am truly satisfied with as finished, and the other two…lets not think about it right now.

All my life I have put my soul into various projects. When I was a kid I would collect both stamps and comics. My collections are well organized, well thought out, knowledgeable and organized. At the age of eight I would peruse stamp collection magazines, whip out my fathers credit card, and proceed to order stamps until I reached the threshold: punishment.

My father was good about it all. He encouraged both collections, although holding the costs over my head, and nurtured this creative environment I was in. I loved him for that, even though I took advantage.

The collection of stamps is immense and it spans over a period of about six years; the comics span about ten years. I want both of these items in my life again, but sadly, they are in Newfoundland, and my father is hesitant to give them to me for three reasons. One, it would occupy me again, and he would consider it a waste of my time and energy. Secondly, he did invest his money into these projects also (although when I started working at the age of 13 I supported my own habits). Three, shipping is expensive. I did opt to pay for whatever shipping costs incurred.

Now, I have four pieces of art, and I also have a deep desire to run to the art store this afternoon and buy a massive canvas. It would keep me up for a few nights, maybe talking to myself about the proper colors, constantly working and reworking the piece, and thinking: I am as crazy as Jackson Pollock.

One of the things I am missing in my life is an artistic/creative outlet, and this would accomplish this yearning desire to produce. Unfortunately, I always take it to the next extreme and I don’t know when to quit.

I have four pieces…two are questionable, and I will bask in the enjoyment of creating something that I truly enjoy. I consider two of these works purchasable. I would buy them, and because of that I am truly satisfied and happy about the whole process.

The memory of being stoned and drunk, with a set of tweezers, arranging stamps according to their history and date of conception into a gigantic collector’s book still flashes in my mind. My back would ache, I would almost cry at times because I couldn’t escape my work, and the sun would eventually appear in the sky. I don’t want to do that again. I never want to be that obsessed again.