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).

The Garage Sale: June 24-June 26!

What about Day 1? That was yesterday, and yesterday is over, pal! And really the bargains don't happen til tomorrow (Day 3), by which I mean Sunday, in case you're reading this Sunday (in case I don't finish writing this til Sunday). Half-price Sunday at the ol' Garage Sale. GAH-ridge Sale, sez da Brits. Grodge, sesame.

You like antique furniture? Whaddya? Too modern? Looka dese treshuhs:

The Oregonian, Sunday, May 27, 1951 - "Gaunt, fiery" De Valera stages a comeback!

Terrific progress in the field of handicraft weaving!

Hip end tables - try to find a better price! Go on, try, you big shot!

Friday was a success. The early birds were here at 9 (hey, gramps, the ad said 10 -- who cares if you ate your eggamuffin too early?). No complaints, though, we (Adam & Josh, not Erin & me) sold a bunch.

Today,  hot Saturday, the sun ever so buoyant, we saw fewer customers, but had a swell time basting on the driveway. I went undercover as a customer:

And tried a little creative marketing on some items:

No, I DON'T think it's "too soon."

Look what else we got!

 

Start a wolf pack of your own! Come on down to the Basement Gang's Antique & the Such As Garage Sale! It's half-price Sunday!

I See The Sun Between the Leaves

So by now, the gloom cannot be beared. It's unbearable, this unbearable gloom. Beared. "Christ, you look like you been beared." What would that mean? It would mean you look like hell. But we, shufflers through the gloom, rain-logged, backs bowed, don't look like hell. We look like Limbo, we look lost. And we have lost things. Our patience, our lust for life, our good nature. We've lost our good nature because we've lost our Good Nature. The sky weeps, the wind moans. This has been the long winter, the winters of the Northwest, cold, but not freezing, and wet, without snow.

We are exiting spring, but our hearts have slept through it. I can't see summer through the sheets of rain. It's up ahead! What but of it? Didn't we hope the same for spring? Spring hopes eternal, waits in vain, in rain.

But the summer must come. The gloom can no longer be beared! Beared? No, wait, it's borne, not beared! The gloom cannot be borne!

Hurry up, summer, true summer!

A Monday Evening

I'm loading "Where the Action Is! Los Angeles Nuggets 1965-1968" into iTunes.

Erin's cutting up New York magazines for a collage.

Adam's previewing Lady Gaga's new album on his smart phone.

Josh is manning the remotes, time-traveling through commercials.

We're all watching TV. "Parks & Recreation", then "The Office." Oh, and "Modern Family."

Earlier, Adam made sweet & sour chicken, and we ate it.

Adam & Josh have gone to bed. Erin & I are watching "Glee."

I'm drinking green tree.

Simba just walked into the living room. Now he's roaming, maybe stalking. Lazy stalking. Not even -- he's just walking. He stops at the bathroom door which we keep closed. He wants to get in there and climb into the basket of towels and cover the towels in long orange fluff.

Nala, too, has ventured out of the bedroom, making an appearance only slightly less rare than Garbo.

Good, Mike, keeping making those Greta Garbo references.

Basementing!

Ope! Googly Eyes!

Erin picked up a small bag of googly eyes and stuck them to a bunch of houseplants. It's one of our favorite SNL bits. We couldn't wait for the boys to come home. How long would it take for them to notice! Adam returned first. I think it took him less than a minute to notice them.

Ope! as Christopher Walken would say.

Then Josh got home. I think it took him a little bit longer. But then...

Ope! He saw 'em!

"I don't feel comfortable around these plants whatsoever."

Hence...googly eyes!

What Time Is It? And Why Is It So Breezy?

It's a close-up photographer's paradise down here in the Basement. Lots of artifacts and chachkas. Lots of small things with wonderful textures. Objects of intriguing and nostalgic design.

A brief tour of the clocks and fans.