Red Mosquito

tree_ wrote:why

doug rr wrote:pretty sure i'd hang myself in that house

dad wrote:

doug rr wrote:pretty sure i'd hang myself in that house

sure, but would you hang yourself above or below that portrait of the dog, which is way above the baby photo.

tree_ wrote:if we sell our house I will be affluent.

Bammer wrote:

tree_ wrote:if we sell our house I will be affluent.

Selling your house in a market that has appreciated and not using the money to buy another house which has also appreciated is a baller move. What’s your secret.

tree_ wrote:You guys do know that when you purchase a house, you can decorate it however you want, right? Pretty sure those deer heads are the first thing to go.

tree_ wrote:

Bammer wrote:

tree_ wrote:if we sell our house I will be affluent.

Selling your house in a market that has appreciated and not using the money to buy another house which has also appreciated is a baller move. What’s your secret.

Buying a brand new home in a lake community in the middle of nowhere that hasn't yet been discovered by many people that's managed to grow a great deal in popularity the past 5 years.

bart wrote:You don’t see a whole lot of brutalist patios

Carl Sandburg wrote:There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.