Part the First: Don't Go in the Basement

Maybe 2013 will be the year I cease to moan about not blogging often enough and just...write. And leave off with the wahhh, I can't get up early! and just get up...and run. Maybe, maybe, maybe. If wishes were horses, all of us would ride, right? It's times like these that I may listen to Nikka Costa's "Can'tneverdidnothin'," which I'd love to link to here, but the YouTube versions are lacking. Hop on your spotify, it's funky.

Anyhow. The Winter darkness has indeed been descending, and fittingly, I have been dwelling in my basement in the evening hours. Mainly with the horror (periodically felt anew) of all the clutter everywhere, packed into my various areas of existence. Get it out, pare it down! Out, out, out! This time, a call with my dear sister last weekend served as the springboard, wherein we discussed Psychological Attachment to Possessions* and the Odd Role this Can Play in Families, etc., etc., etc. There has been lots of bustling, shuffling of art supplies, inventory, and tossing out of ancient papers. 

*This was not an intervention. Relax. I don't hide tuna fish sandwiches in the TV console, or BOGO offers from 1980, nor do I water my records in the garage (likely the coolest part of this post, but which I can't really expound upon b/c it's not my story to tell.). But I will say this: based on a peek in a couple beaten up boxes, my basement had and still has journals of heartfelt, absolutely awful scribblings from a new adult. At their worst when they attempted to be clever. It's only appropriate to nod to This American Life's Cringe episode. So, ahem. Outside of that, and it leads one to cringe in another way, I also discovered things like this:

....WOW. So, I think this had 1/10th the ability of my current (not smart) phone

Oh, I remember it well. The screen showed three lines of text, green letters against a black background. After it had been on for several hours, typically when one was frantically writing something to pass for a first draft, hands shaking from pots of coffee at 3 AM, the processor would tire. It would be hot, and fatigued. It was at this point, it began to issue protests. You would type type type type out your harebrained line, and a second and a third. The cursor would blink at the line's end. And then it would swallow one of the recent lines.

"WHATTT ?!? No! What. Fuck." You'd retype the line and know that it was beginning. The intermittent info. swallowing. Just when you most needed peace of mind, it was sure to withhold it. And as, Pavlov would attest, it would be exactly the sporadic nature of the info. swallowing that would keep you going, but on edge. Ahhhh, those were the days. And now our phones laugh at these machines. Our ipods and ipads could swallow one of these as if they were single kernels of popped corn.

Getting help: prospect dim.

The first sentence says it all: If a document exists in memory, you have to erase it from  memory before you can create a new one.

Odd to find so many things from distant past. The hokey dreams books with all their pat psychology can not entirely be dismissed: things are lurking in your basement, the lower order of your mind. The water heater about to blow*, the informational grad school packets you had wiped from your memory, the warrens of tiny animals, letters you may never read again.

*True, dat. New one being installed tomorrow. Current one, slowly weeping out its contents from the base, though blessedly still performing, thank god, for I love a steamy shower. And maybe the new one will be even more delicious. The sales man/co-owner who stopped by for a free (pricey, nauseatingly pricey) estimate also saw fit to segue into politics, which at this point is expected. If you come to fix something at my house, you will surely go off in some way, I don't know who made this rule. I don't actively dissuade it, b/c sure, let's hear it. "Haha, We didn't come to blows!," said the guy yesterday evening. Well right, I said, we are on the same side. Which could not have been said of the loquacious plumber from a few months ago, who WOW had a lot to say about (his many) guns and maybe some Mary Jane, but he was certainly QUITE an entertaining storyteller. Worth the price of admission, really. To some, garbage disposals actually lack integrity, they are LIES. That's what I love getting to: the heated quirks in perception that every single one of us develops from whatever path of work we take. Surface: all fine. Get to the details: whoa. Funny! and Whoa~~.

Mysterious Accents, A Truly Good Box is Hard to Find, Mark of the Beast

Today was just what was needed. A productive, quiet work day at home, followed by some carving, with a resurrected tape of Peter Gabriel's melting face playing next to me on the basement worktable.

I even goaded myself into some dishes and a little straightening. Which does not, however, mean that everything is now in its rightful place. It in no way means that clutter is absent. I am merely the least cluttery member of a very cluttery family.

Here are a couple underlying principles governing my family:

1.) Beware: things could get worse in a way you haven't anticipated. Things are rarely easy; and perhaps they shouldn't be. More succinctly muttered by my Dad: "Don't get excited yet."

2.) Say, this could be useful! Better keep it.

While the first principle doesn't really help with...much of anything, other than staying put and developing worry lines/ulcers/a false sense that one is somehow more prepared for the twists and turns in life, I have never worked to disown this second principle. Since I am quite capable of paring down, I am also happy to acquire. And more importantly, HOLD ONTO. Because you never know. So it's not so much in the obsessive shopping-racking-up-credit-card-bills sense, but more in the I-live-alone-and-my-cupboard-is-always-full sense. The olive oil is half gone? Best to buy another one now, people. Like my mother, I have a twistie tie container. Isn't it annoying to hunt around for the proper sized cardboard box, only to find you don't have it? Well. I imagine it must be.

I remember once my folks showed up from PA to drive me back home from college in MA. My Dad brought a few heavy boxes he had scored from the state store (see also: "party store") to help me pack up my dorm room. "Now these are GOOD BOXES," my Dad said, as he handed them over. "I WANT THEM BACK." Which, hello, Father's daughter, I know better than to go pilfering boxes.

This tendency can easily extend to pretty much any other area of life. And it's at once totally negative (when could this come again? what if it doesn't?) and also strangely optimistic (seeing something's potential and yes, being thrifty). Here we come to: paper scraps.

Lack of Context: Timeframe 

One of the frequent problems of paper scraps is lack of context. When? When did this week of good ideas occur? Nothing stands out. Had I been watching, maybe I could have DONE something with those good ideas! They could have become good plans, or actions! But no. When did I even last have Chinese? Maybe I used it as a weeeee bookmark. Maybe it was stuck to my elbow. Who knows.

Lack of Context Strikes Again: Attribution

I can't remember a time when I didn't jot down remarks people made or strange moments, etc. I also can't remember because my memory is pitiful.

In case my handwriting is illegible, it reads: "I always thought he had kind of an English accent, but I think he was from the South." I mean, pretty funny, right?? Kinda ridiculous. But who on earth said it? I would attribute it to my Mom, as she is the origin of many a comical remark, but heck she's from the South herself.

No Lack, Just Extremism

I found this gem with the expired coupons in my pen/rubber band/spare hammer drawer. Where from? Front door, naturally. I love how religious flier distributors consider themselves exempt from the NO SOLICITATIONS sign, though I guess it does fall in another category. No salvation coupons. Bring a convert, get in free! Hee. Or more accurately, donate a convert.

But really, how can I complain about this? The four-headed leopard-cheetah with wings! King of the jungle...with wings! I can't help but feel the grizzly has gotten short shrift here. He has beady green or grey eyes and looks like he's gumming some bones, but where are his wings? Where, the extra appendages?

Note to flier creators: you're missing opportunities with the water. How about a shark/squid mashup? Could also have horns. Or wings, since they seem popular, though they'd have to be more pteradactyl-ly. Or perhaps you could get some photoshop skills under your belt and really heighten the drama. Doesn't your End-of-Times brochure deserve the very best?

Other things of note, that have kept me from tossing this in the recycle bin:

• subtitled A Bible Seminar on the Beasts and Our Future
• All of the seminar times are weirdly specific -- they clearly have a mysterious  significance -- 12:14 1/2 and 7:14 1/2 PM
• Whatever Happened to Right and Wrong? (I might have them in my basement.)
• The Mark of the Beast --- 666, Part 1
• Armageddon and the Seven Last Plagues
• The Object of the Antichrist's Attack

Whew! So much, packed into one little tri-fold. As well, disturbing that these events occur nearby. Luckily, this took place way back in February, without a detectable rise in Revelations talk. Nevertheless, this could still be useful at some point. Settled: back in the drawer it goes! I'll just nestle it down below the new coupons and take-out menus. All better now.