Blank Wall

My bedroom’s too small to decorate. I mean, I certainly could put something over the blank wall above the long part of my bed, but I’ve always liked having at least one blank wall. It’s like having a control in a chemistry experiment. Something to contrast and compare against to make sure nothing’s gone horrible wrong.

So instead of decking my place out with posters or making 8.5x11 printouts of pictures I’ve taken that I fancy, I’ve gone with practicality. One wall is filled by a bookcase and a mirror. One by an over-bed shelving unit with DVDs, books, clocks, radios, and – inexplicably – an umbrella. One wall is filled with a desk on the left half and an armoire on the right. This is me, so of course there are clipboards and whiteboards and a corkboard hanging, and I of course have calendar printouts and to-do lists, and even an NPR schedule. But from sitting on my bed, I cannot see the four most important things: The four 4x6 photos I have reminding me of a spacious life I’ve left behind. A life of open skies, beaches, winding roads, and perhaps most importantly, teaching archery.

But for some reason, I find my eyes drawn mostly to the blank wall. In a way, it’s the only wall I have a choice with. The room is such a size that the desk and armoire can only fit on that wall. I could reverse them if I please, or shift the armoire 90-degrees, but it’s pretty much set. The bookcase is the only thing narrow enough to leave me room to walk in its current location. The over bed unit can only go over the bed – and the bed cannot fit any other orientation than what it is. I cannot even push it to the opposite wall, as there is a furnace in the way. So that leaves me with one wall to do with it what I please. The blank one.

I could hang my Muppet Show poster if I wanted. I could put up a painting. I could buy shelving. I could find a tapestry or something of the sort to give the place color. But instead, I stare up at the blank wall and wish it were more blank. I wish I had the energy to retrieve the tape that’s up where the previous tenant had a poster. I wish I had some surface cleaner that would make it possible to clean the scuff marks that exist for who knows what reason. I wish I had paint and a roller so I could even out the lines that I see when the light reflects. I wish this wall to be even more plain than it already is.

Rather than embrace its flaws as character, I wish they didn’t exist. The bumps and holes on the blank wall above the mirror don’t bother me – well, not as much at least – and the dirt above my desk seems almost fitting.

So I have a blank canvas – almost literally – and I’m not sure if I’m stuck because the possibilities are (almost) endless, or if I’m stuck because I really think it’s more beautiful this way.

It seems like a potential metaphor – and a potentially damn good one – perhaps for me. Maybe I am my room and three-quarters of it are pre-set almost to the inch and that last quarter is a virgin wall waiting to be corrupted. Or maybe I just want to hold on to control it a little more. Or maybe it’s just a simple principle of design: White space is good.

Or maybe I should just leave it without making it poetic or making a metaphor out of it…but then that wouldn’t be me. Maybe I should let that blank wall be my readers’ own metaphor and the other three walls are the metaphors I blatantly spell out in almost every other post.

But tonight, rather than count sheep before bed, I’m going to look up at this blank wall and take solace in the fact that it is blank. And I’m just going to leave it like that.