When I was 14, I started on this project of turning my bedroom into this jungle of sorts. The idea was to take black and dark green wax crepe streamers and hang them in varying length clumps about and inch or so apart on the ceiling at various points around the room. Next the walls would be painted a deep forest green and covered in bamboo and other various jungle looking vegetation which would then be covered with African and Amazonian type masks, shields and weaponry.
It sounded cool to me at the time. I bought the black and dark green wax crepe first. When my mother saw it in my room and asked what it was for, I told her and she of course said there was no way she was going to have a jungle room in her house. Needless to say, I was a little miffed. So to get back at her I did this instead:
I took corn meal and flour and mixed them together with a little salt. I made several bowls of this stuff, enough for all the primary colors and a few for some secondary ones (Mom never should have sent me to art school). I then took food coloring and mixed them well in those bowls of mush.
I need to explain the layout of the bedroom area of our house at this point. We lived in a very long and large ranch house. I believe it was somewhere around 30'x100' in dimension. There was a long hall running from my brother's bedroom, past the main bathroom and on down to my bedroom. A hall of probably 12 feet or so. At the other end of my bedroom from this hall entrance was an ajoining door to my mother's sewing room. My guess is that my room was probably 14'x13'. I am figuring this because I do know the size of the living room. My room was directly on the other side of the wall from the living room and it's width was 17 feet. On a 30' wide house, that had to make my room at least 13 feet wide. Since my room was longer than wide, I am guessing it was 14 feet long. So from my brother's doorway to my closet, it was approximately 26 feet. Add another 2 feet from the closet to the ajoining door and you should have about 28 feet from Scott's room to that ajoining door. A straight shot down the hall.
I also need to mention that I was an excellent pitcher. Sandy Koufax was my hero growing up. I learned to pitch from watching his two World Series winning performances. So I was a damn good throw ok?
I think you can see where this is going now.
So with my bowls all lined all neatly in front of me, I began to make balls and with all the Sandy Koufax I could muster with in me, I hurled them at great speed toward the ajoining door 28 feet away. I had to stop between throws and run down to see how wonderful my creation was. The splats were perfection. I couldn't have asked for any better splats. First yellow, then blue, then red, turning to the secondaries, green and purple and orange. Repeat until bowls are empty. It was lovely, splat upon splat and they stuck so nicely. I finished my work and then cleaned up the evidence.
It took Mom four days to find my masterpiece. By then it was rock hard and a permanent part of the ajoining door. I thought she was going to shit bricks. It was close to impossible to hide my glee. Somehow I managed to just stand there noncomittal and mumble something about how I liked it. I am not sure if she hit me or not, I don't remember. All that mattered was that I had gotten her and gotten her good.
My mother's friends thought I was a wild child. A rebellious little sot. They felt I gave my mother far too much grief. But that's not true. I had friends that ran off to Haight Ashbury (my own big brother did this very thing). I stayed home and in school and did the yard work and with great coaxing the dishes every night. I had friends who did drugs (big brother also did this). I didn't even drink (although I did smoke cigarettes behind her back). I had friends who had sex (notch another one for big bro on this one too), I didn't even look at anyone other than to wish I could kiss them (little did Mom know, although I know she sort of suspected, that I was in love with Anita Paleologos who sat in front of me in journalism class).
I was really a good kid when you really think about it. I could have been a lot worse. Really I could have.
My mother once said that all her children were too sensitive. I think what she failed to see was that all her children were creative geniuses and she was not able to cope with that very well. I am pretty sure creativity was not overly encouraged in Mom's family of origin. It was probably considered a sin, God knows everything else was. She had no idea what to do with her artistically and musically inclinded children.
Which is why Mom didn't appreciate my art work on the ajoining door. Really Mom, it was pure genius, no really it was. It was also very good payback.
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