The basement was a place of fun.
The basement was a place of fun when I was young playing with friends, there were many games boys could play.
Many games and Christmas parties happened down there in the ‘wreckroom’ during the course of my growing up!
I didn’t like being the last one up the stairs when all the lights were out because I believed a monster would grab me.
I didn’t like the ‘old house’ because of the room with the coal in it. It was a dirty room with spiders and crawlies, webs and ….
But many years later, after my older sister moved out, I moved down there because my parents believed it would help my independence, since there
was a complete self-contained apartment now built in it.
Down there in that basement turned beautiful many good things happened.
I started my self taught oil painting executions there. I would be painting while I would hear my friends motorcycles start up and drive off into the distance.
Stroke stroke the coloured canvas shook, bounced and stayed as the oil saturated paint revealing it’s true self as an illusion through my eyes.
Many strokes of creativity enabled me to release the angers mankind bestowed upon my young teenage hood.
It was in that basement, with the air full of turpentine, paint and oil I lost my virginity. Was a spider watching? Did my parents hear upstairs?
Was and has the mattress become my canvas shaking, bouncing and wet? Did our smell impregnate the wet staid paint on the canvas?
Ah basements, how do they live without them in those lush tropical places where they need them not?
Can I see us trying to make concrete bounce and shake beneath our form? Have I beat the monsters and pleasures of childhood
into the cellars of my mind, transforming them into packaged memories never to be forgotten?
The basement was and is a place of fun.