Basement Blather 1.0: I Always Like to Begin with a Picture

I write a lot of stuff after looking at pictures. The image is a trigger for the word. Indeed the image articulates the sentiment more clearly than the word. The word obscures and manipulates. But I'm hooked on words. If the "Word" is a virus, as Burroughs writes (wait a minute...), then I am infected. Logosexual, you could say (but I wouldn't recommend it; first of all, they'll look at you funny, and secondly, I just coined the phrase* and don't even know what it means).

(*Sonofagun! Beaten to the punch!)

Anyway, that's the thing about words -- no one really knows what you're talking about. Here's a photo of a rose. Hey, it's a rose! But if I say "rose", I could mean a buncha things.

Is this the "City of Roses"...

...or this?

That's the joke. Anyway, what was I getting at? Nothing I suppose since I use words for the most part and I think it's been scientifically established here, today, that nothing can be said with words.

Henceforth, future "Basementing" posts will be in the form of rebuses.

Out of the Basement, Endlessly Rockaway

"Get out of town, think I'll get out of town." - Neil Young, "On the Beach"

Born in the Borough of Queens, New York, I found myself 42 years later (to the very day!) on the coast of Oregon. Lord of the Sand Fleas. King Inept-une (that's a good one, huh?). A child of Apollo 11, I frolic in my own Sea of Tranquility.

All right, enough with the poetry. The ceilings are low in the Basement. Only when we emerge into the broad expanse of the out-of-doors do we realize what a stretching our limbs need. And we stretched them!

Erin and I, with family in tow (we didn't literally tow them -- cripes, we'd packed enough food to stuff one of them giant crabs from "Mysterious Island"), settled into the beach house and immediately set out for the sand-whipped stretches of Rockaway Beach.

The beach house had a basement. You know, just in case the light grew too bright for our bathypelagic conditioning.

Before dawn, we met the low tide and cleaned the beach of sand dollars. A rival gang of seagulls glided at a distance. We accepted the sunrise-blindness in favor of the warmth. I wore my sneakers to the beach, delicately trodding the sand so as not to scuff or soak them. And forget about my dungaree cuffs! So, as tide encroached, I found myself trapped between the ocean and a thin stream. Luckily, Erin was beside me, smartly shod in her flip-flops. She gave me a piggy-back ride to the other side. It was then I reflected on that poem, "Footprints."

Onward and outward to other nearby beaches with tide pools full of starfish and anemones. Here we see a starfish tapping an anemone on the jaw. They're best friends!

We spelunked at Hug Point! That's the filthiest thing I've ever written. No, really, we explored a cave there. Not so much a cave but a crevice. Or crevasse. Or big crack in a cliff. Whatever. Who am I, Loren Eiseley?

Anyway, a good time was had by all! Brilliant weather (well, it was a bit cold and windy at times, so brilliant is a flat-out lie), great food (no denying it) and terrific company (Erin's parents, brother, fiancee, niece, and my mom).

Now back to the pleasant depths of the Basement. Away from the sea creatures and back to the crotch-sniffers and couch-scratchers.

BONUS PHOTO: Here I am jumping over a salt water stream that was not too wide for me to cross! "Ain't no river wide enough..." (except for, you know, that one I mentioned earlier).