Basement Study

I get work done here sometimes, underneath the sub-flooring, where the walls leak. There's also a shrine, a t.v., a bunch of story ideas taped to the wall, and weird, unidentifiable Midwestern insects that come out to chitter and confront the space heater at my feet as I type.

When I lived in Portland, years ago, I rented a basement room in an old house. It was infested with large, white lumbering rats. Sometimes they hovered over me as I drifted off to sleep. Underneath my bed I kept a typewriter. I used to get high and type at the page here, in one of the world's darkest corners. Outside, my housemate's Galaxy 500 rusted in the rain...

This basement isn't that basement, though. In fact, much has changed since then, since that basement was the scene. Yeah. And sometimes, I open up the windows (they're at ground level) and an earthy Iowa gale washes through. And sometimes I burn incense and meditate upon Highest Perfect Wisdom. And sometimes Frau Kundalini erupts up from the molten core of earth, flicks her tongue, and slaps Bird Parker on the hi-fi.