And my feet are dirty. My feet have been dirty for as long as I can remember. The only time when they are not dirty is during winter when I wear argyle socks and boots or kicks and they are covered completely. But every summer, the sandals come out and the filth completely takes to my feet. I’m not sure why this seems significant but for today, it does, so I’ll roll with it.
It’s not like I don’t shower or wash them either. It’s not like I wear little bags over them when I rinse (sometimes daily, sometimes every third day if laziness takes me), and it isn’t like I walk through muddy parts of Hollywood. For some reason they just stay filthy. Each night before I go to bed, I wash them in my kitchen sink and the dirt from the day drains down the same pipes that funnel out icky food from plates, or paint from my brushes. Each day they appear dirtier than before, and try as I may, little blackfoot seems the only appropriate name. I wish I was a woman who could have spotless feet, eternal sunshine of the spotless foot, but I am not. Sometimes the tops are dirty too, and then I really wonder what I’ve done to make all this filth happen. Sometimes I make it through the day with only a light brown covering, and I wonder where I’ve gone that is different than other days. All days I have dirty feet.
For a time now, I’ve been thinking that all the work I’ve been doing, all the self care, and therapy, and personal growth bullshit that I’ve been doing is just draining out through my feet. Perhaps years of making dirty films has made my insides such that there is only one place for the memories and happenings to drain, via foot. Other days I think perhaps my sandals are against me, the left plots with the right each night and plan the events of the next day so that they may dirty my feet as much as humanly possible. Other days I give up. These things…
I finished “Just Add Water” and Dr. Karim analyzed it for me. As he is very much a brain type man, I let him have a say at my piece, and to paraphrase, he said that the clenched fist represents the control aspect of my life, controlling of emotions and actions and with all the work I’m doing on myself, I blossom, and open up, palms up. The paintbrush held in the hand with the red nail polish is me, painting myself and doing the psychological work that recovery entails, painting in solid black lines to rewire the brain circuits. The hand holding the paintbrush with red represents all the negative and bad thinking draining out of me, flowing directly into death, the skulls, the life that I once had dripping steadily from my hands, which seem to do all the work.
Interesting concept, for some reason I can never really explain the things I paint, actually prefer to leave it to the viewer to take from it what they will. That is the beauty of art, it’s personal to each man and woman, each mind sees something different, feels something different, experiences something different.
I’m contemplating painting my feet, but have a feeling that no matter how much white I use, the soles will end up filthy. Story of my life. Filthy soul.