Blue(s)

There are 27 beezillion shades of blue.

At least, that's my very own personal estimation.

So, picking up sample paint chips at the paint store is a little bit fun, a little bit baffling, and a little bit intimidating.

So.

Rather than standing in front of the display, while wearing a mask, trying to choose a reasonable number of samples to bring home, I grabbed several.

I now have a few samples and I'm pretty sure I'll be able to find the "perfect" color.

But still feeling a bit intimidated.

I just want a cool pale blue, a whisper over white.

How hard can it be?

Pffttt.

Hard!

I started thinking about painting our bedroom a couple years ago (see how quickly I move!).

And, here's the thing.

I actually enjoy painting.

It becomes, for me, a zen sort of activity.  

Calming.  

But.

It's the prep work that's a royal pain.

Our bedroom is small, but is full of areas of white trim.

A built-in bookcase, a closet, a quirky little cubby closet, windows, and a door.  Baseboards.

All of which will look wonderful with pretty cool pale blue walls.

But first I'll need to empty bookcases and dressers.

Move furniture.

Take a lot of pictures and artwork off the walls.

Looking around I see so much to move.  


books.  boots.  candles.  


sit-abouts.  stuffies.  


a big iron bed.

It's enough to give a girl The Blues.

So.

While I'm  pondering all this and psyching myself up for this project, maybe I'll read a little.

Maybe a poem or two . . . 

THE BLUE

by Billy Collins

You can have Egypt and Nantucket.
The only place I want to visit is The Blue,
not the Wild Blue Yonder that seduces pilots,
but that zone where the unexpected dwells,
waiting to come out of it in the shape of bolts.

I want to walk its azure perimeter
where the unanticipated is coiled, on the mark,
ready to spring into the predicitable homes of earth.

I want to stroll through the pale indigo light
examining all the accidents about to rocket into time,
all the forgotten names about to fly from tongues.

I will scrutinize all the surprises of the future
and watch the brainstorms gathering darkly,
ready to hit the heads of inventors
laboring in their crackpot shacks.

A jaded traveler with an invisible passport,
I am at home with this heaven of the unforeseen,
waiting for the next whoosh of sudden departure
when, with no advance warning, to tiny augery,
the unpredictable plummets into our lives
from somewhere that looks like sky.



Think about how many staggering shades of blue there are . . . 

and those names!


Wonderful, fun, astonishing names!  Millions of them!


don't get me started . . . 



Maybe one more poem -

A slash of Blue—
A sweep of Gray—
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky—
A little purple—slipped between—
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on—
A Wave of Gold—
A Bank of Day—
This just makes out the Morning Sky.

   - - - Emily Dickinson