Just this very second I realized that I have been wasting a ton of time and energy thinking up titles for my posts.  I should have been stealing titles all along, plucking them from the comments of others.

I’ve had worse IT nightmares then this one.  This one was more like a mild case of night sweats.  Nothing substantial to really whine about, but then that is what whining is all about, isn’t it?  The sound we make when we really should be silent.  The sound that the body produces when it is in need of a rebooting.

How about a list?  A list is something to make when we really don’t have time for the whole thing.

How about we make a list of some things that I wish could be easily rebooted?  Just off the top of my head, which translates into: things given no serious consideration whatsoever.

1. My checking account balance.
2. Cleanup debates with small boys.
3. Receding hairlines.
4. Good strawberry shakes and your stomach’s ability to hold it all.
5. Sexual climax.
6. Laughing.
7. A first kiss.
8. Being small enough to play on a slip n slide without killing yourself.
9. A good book.
10. Innocence and wonder.

Now, where was I?  Oh yea, trying to reboot time.  Just hang on tight.  If this works, you may feel a slight sting.  But nothing worse then, say, a bee sting.  I think.

If I ever make a career change, I will become a door-to-door salesman.  I will carry a backpack filled with little packets of ant killer.  I will give expert advice on how to rid your home of ants.

“Are they on the kitchen counter?”
“Yes”
“Those are sugar ants.  You’ll need this.”

“Are they in the bathroom?  Around the toilet, perhaps?”
“Yes”
“Those are piss ants.  You’ll need this.”

“But they look the same.  The ants, I mean.”
“Sure they look the same, but trust me, they’re not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Denomination, mostly.”
“Oh.  I guess I’ll take two.”
“Good choice.  Same time next week?”
“Okay.”

The change of pace will be nice.

A girl named Lucy appeared at my doorstep one day and carefully explained why certain individuals might be prone to type my name as Keither, rather then Keith.  She left no number.  No calling card or hints about where to find her.  Just that her name was Lucy and she knew about our problem.

“You type ”Keither” because you’re used to typing “either,” and your fingers just have that kinetic memory,” she said.

“I don’t do it,” I told her.  “Who are you talking too?”

“Everyone else.”

“But everyone else isn’t here,” I said.

“That’s okay.  You can tell them all when they get here.” She seemed very insistent about this, so I agreed.  And then she just turned and walked off without another word.

I like to think that Lucy meant that Keither rhymes with ether.  It sounded right to me, so I looked it up, to prove my point.  I wanted to be ready when everyone showed up.

ether

E"ther, n. [L. aether, Gr. ?, fr. ? to light up, kindle, burn, blaze; akin to Skr. idh, indh, and prob. to E. idle: cf. F. [’e]ther.] [Written also [ae]ther.] 1. (Physics) A medium of great elasticity and extreme tenuity, supposed to pervade all space, the interior of solid bodies not excepted, and to be the medium of transmission of light and heat.

I found myself liking the idea that I rhymed with ether.  Ether Keither, the man of great elasticity and extreme tenuity, pervading all space and solid bodies, carrying with me light and heat and whatever else I could think of.  Maybe a pocket knife.  A cell phone and a small pad of paper.  A good pen.  These are the things that Ether Keither might carry around with him.

I wish Lucy had stuck around for just another minute or two, so that I would have had time for a question.  I’m not as quick on my feet as Lucy.  It takes me time to think sometimes.  I just can’t imagine everything with someone standing there in the doorway, telling me things I need to know.  Important things.  Things I’ll need to tell everyone else, when they show up.

I would have asked her about the word tenuity. I would have gotten out the dictionary and read to her (in a questioning kind of voice) the definition:

tenuity

Te*nu"i*ty, n. [L. tenuitas, from tenuis thin: cf. F. t[’e]nuit[’e]. See Tenuous.] 1. The quality or state of being tenuous; thinness, applied to a broad substance; slenderness, applied to anything that is long; as, the tenuity of a leaf; the tenuity of a hair.
2. Rarily; rareness; thinness, as of a fluid; as, the tenuity of the air; the tenuity of the blood. --Bacon.
3. Poverty; indigence. [Obs.] --Eikon Basilike.
4. Refinement; delicacy.

“I know all about tenuity,” she might have said.  “I know, for instance, that tenuity seldom rhymes with anything, but that the lines on a roadmap are as tenuous as the dreams of a man.”

“I never thought of it that way,” I might have said.

“Of course you haven’t.  The tenuity of life doesn’t mean that you’ll necessarily understand anything.  Or even that you’ll have dreams.”

“But I do have dreams.”

“I know.  But you need to keep in mind that Keither will never rhyme with tenuity.  No matter how hard you try.”

In the future, television shows will become obsolete.  For entertainment, people will receive live feeds from the nearest traffic intersection camera.  The cameras will be interactive, allowing people at home to see and talk with people on the street.  And all television remote controls will have voting buttons, giving viewers the power to rule on such things as traffic violations, accidents, and witnessed crimes.

And property values of large, suburban homes will plummet, due in large part to the success of the cameras.  The wealthy, seeking the entertainment of hectic, crime-infested neighborhoods with their well-placed cameras, will force the poor from the tiny, inner city apartments, relocating them, ironically, into the houses of their dreams.

In the future, the poor will soon come to realize that the dream of their lifetime has become nothing more then a long empty hallway.  They will pace back and forth with their children in tow, moving silently between television and window.  They will stare at a screen that never changes and a street corner that is forever silent, dreaming of a time when life felt more full.

Happy Fourth of July!

We stopped at a parking lot tent, intending to only buy a few fireworks, and instead bought another eight year old boy.  My own son was very excited, called him his friend, and the two of them ran off laughing.

But I’m withholding judgement.  Waiting to see just how good of purchase the new boy was.

No fuse to light, no sparks or smoke.  Definite pluses, I’ll admit.  But the noise.  Oh god, the noise.  There seems to be no end to it.  The boy whistles and screams like nothing I’ve ever bought before, getting my own son so excited he joins right in.  So if you’re looking for noise, then I’d have to say you’ll get your money’s worth with an eight year old boy. 

And two together, screaming around the place, could easily be mistaken for a small, county fair fireworks show.  A few pickup trucks might even park out front.  Tailgates will drop, more kids will run around the yard, and slow-moving adults will set up lawn chairs and pull blankets down tight over their shoulders.

Oh yes, I should mention the mess.  When the show is over (sometime around midnight) there will be plenty of mess to clean up.  The living room will look like a small tornado gathered up a camping store and a toy store and somehow funneled it all through the mail slot.  At least one shoe will be missing for an hour.

But on a positive note, at least the place doesn’t stink like burnt sulphur.  Well, not much anyway.

This morning I scramble to get to work, like a grainy highlight clip from some historic football game.

This fact, in itself, is not that interesting.  But with a good cold beer and the right snack in front of you, watching me could be damn exciting.

Apparently it was exactly 50 years ago today that rock n’ roll was born, appearing, in the words of guitarist Scotty Moore, from a young man named Elvis, who “ was just fooling around.” According to Moore, who was there at that historic moment, Elvis “was just a white teenager rocking through an old black blues song he heard on the radio.” You can read the BBC article in it’s entirety here.

I like to imagine that there are still things to discover.  That foolish, young teenagers, looking for a different direction, still have a chance.  That all the good things aren’t gone.  I like to imagine that there is something bigger and better waiting for them, just past this time, where we seem to spend too much energy struggling with the idea of tattoos or sexual preferences.  That one day, one of them will just be fooling around, and suddenly that thing that is so different will just be there, right in front of them, and they will share it with everyone.

And all of the young people will smile, or tap a toe, or close their eyes, or whatever it is this new thing makes them do.  And all of the old people will frown and scowl, or whatever it is the new thing makes them do.

But maybe a few old people will smile too, because they’ll remember that once a man with a guitar wiggled his hips so much that he could make a crowd of girls faint.  And they’ll realize just how silly they once were.  And maybe some of them will even be singing That’s All Right Mama, and shaking their own hips.

Which if you think about it, never has been easy to do.  Especially if you’re trying to make people faint.

For two hours I drift in and out of sleep.  Dozens, maybe even a hundred dreams pass through my head, all unconnected with each other, yet somehow tiny magnifications of my waking life.  I wake after each dream, enough to know only that I am dreaming, then roll over, pulling the blankets tight to keep the cold, fan air from reaching in and waking me, and fall back asleep.

It is literally a dream job.  I am at work.  From 5 to 7 it is my job to dream, and I attack my job with enthusiasm.  I love my job.  I must work fast.  So many dreams.  So little time.

I meet a friend at an airport, unexpectedly. My plane is boarding and he is heading across the lobby, back to his boys.  Necessity pulls us apart, but we are still smiling and laughing.  I watch him disappear behind a door, then walk through the gates.

Layers of something.  Soft to the touch. Cotton towels, maybe.  White towels, between thicker layers of color.  Yellow and light green.

I step gently onto the stack of hay, hoping to reach some cobwebs high in the eaves of a house.  A friend has me by the wrist, but it is not enough. The hay gives loose and I fall, pulling my friend over with me.  But we twist and jump, and the hay cushions our landing.

Water is running and shooting up in the air, all around me.  It is like a river cast in cement.  I walk carefully across, stepping from concrete stone to concrete stone. I wake, dry, missing both the sound and the mist in my face.

As I slip my laptop into it’s bag I notice that it has been switched.  It looks the same, but is smaller.  Someone has gone to great lengths to deceive me. I sneak around the dream, looking for my laptop and the person who has made the switch.  I think of my stories, in someone else’s hands.  When I wake up, it is hard to know whether I feel determined or scared.

I have made some mistakes.

The first was going to see Fahrenheit 9/11.  It was a great movie, but a disturbing one.  But that was my little mistake.

The big mistake was thinking that I could sign up for one of those blog reading accounts, and that I would have the stomach for the headlines and the news from around the world.  Well, I don’t.

I have an extremely hard time reading about the thousands of children dying of starvation in India.  It seems impossible.

I have a hard time imagining that there are people who would place an advertisement for cannibalism, so that they could kill and eat another human being.  And I have a harder time yet believing that someone would see this as a great opportunity to make a film about cannibalism. 

I have a hard time finding out that at about the same time that a German man is looking for someone to eat, a whole group of people, the Pygmies of the Congo, are being systematically hunted, raped, and killed, and in many cases eaten.

I avoided the news for a long time, mostly because I have no stomach for it.  I find it nearly impossible to believe the way people treat each other.  I read of a man who is being jailed because he defrauded a family, convincing them that he could return their missing daughter to them, when all along she was dead, and he never, ever had any knowledge of her whereabouts.  He simply lied to them for the money.

I tuned into the world for only one day, maybe two, and it has depressed the hell out of me.  I feel quiet, almost silent, and it is hard to know what to say.  I thought I could turn it all back on.  I thought that I was ready for it all once again, but I was wrong.

I made a mistake, and now it feels like I am paying for it.

If a mistake is made, I am a believer in doing whatever it takes to make a correction.  I’m a wrongs-must-be-righted sort of guy; naive enough to think that when something goes wrong, people should have something in them that allows them step forward and face the consequences.  But that’s beside the point.  All I wanted to do today was correct my own mistake of reading too many news stories in one sitting. 

I needed to find a quiet spot, and find one fast.  A place that I might wander aimlessly without the sound of voices.  I needed a place filled with quiet distraction.  A place that moved slowly, so that my mind would have a chance to wrap around something.  Maybe even a place with a few ducks, who would quack quietly and follow me around at a comfortable distance. 

In Salem, there is such a place, and I remembered it just as I thought I was about to curl up into a little ball, wrapped too tightly around the horrific news of the world.  I remembered this place existed just as the letters and comments began to filter in, attempting to calm me down, or tell me I wasn’t insane, that yes, the world is a crazy, scary place. 

Thank you.  Your thoughts, along with a stroll through Mission Mill, was just what I needed this morning.

Great detail could be given about Mission Mill.  I suppose I could fill your head with information about life in a woolen mill around the turn of the century.  But I won’t.  I could write about the family behind the mill, or make up stories about the life of a mill worker, or show you pictures of small children, perched in the windows and around their parent’s legs, taking a short break from a long day of labor so that an historic photograph might be taken.  But I won’t.  Instead, I’ll share with you what I thought about as I wandered around the mill buildings, snapping close-ups of old gears and sprockets and equipment, some greasy and operational, and some rusted thick, frozen forever in time.  I’ll tell you exactly what was going through my head as I took it all in - nothing.

Listening to the water as it funneled through the mill, I could feel the rumble clear through me.  I stared at cobwebs, and watched spiders resting in small patches of sunlight that filtered through century old cracks and slipped around knotless, wooden beams as big around as my waist.  I looked at rust like I’d never seen it before, running my fingers over lines of inch-wide rivets, feeling them bump past my hand, one by one, as I imagined them being set, long ago, brand new and full of promise.  I leaned over old, wheeled carts, filled with wooden spools, large and small, some empty, some half-full. 

Near the front door of the mill, the original front door, I stood and thought about the workers responsible for the worn wooden floors.  I imagined them filing in one by one, gathering around the time cards, as some foreman surely looked on, anxious for everyone to be in place.  I wondered what the machines sounded like, when all of them were running.  I pictured hands, pulling hard on ropes, raising and lowering the wool from one floor to the next through trap doors, now nailed tightly shut.

And yes, as I was leaving, the ducks finally found me, and together we walked over and watched some young children, all girls except for one, play the kindest, gentlest game of Red Rover that I have ever witnessed in my entire life.  There was no hard handholding, no attempts to break through the ranks, and barely even any running.  The girls would simply chant the red rover, red rover, send ______ right over part, and then a girl would just walk over and stand in front of the opposing line.  She wouldn’t break through, or as far as I could tell, even touch the other girls’ hands.  Everyone would giggle, the red rovered girl would walk to the end of the line, take the hand of the last girl, and the whole thing would begin again.

With kids playing this calmly, I’m not quite sure what the two older girls, sitting on the porch with me and the ducks, were supposed to be supervising.  Maybe they were in charge of bonnets or something.  I have no idea, and the ducks left before I had a chance to ask them.

But not before they’d posed for a picture.

Friday :: A Thursday Update

Imaginary Keith’s labor pains were false.  But in other exciting news, President Bush gave birth to an excellent sack of coins.  The child, upon closer inspection, appeared to be filled with mostly yen and riyals.  As of this morning, there has been no official statement issued from the White House.

This morning at roughly 6:30 a.m., Imaginary Keith went into labor.  Doctors have predicted the labor will last roughly fourteen hours, and have gone on to say that they expect to deliver a healthy, baby mortgage payment.  Imaginary Keith’s breathing is heavy and labored, but the doctor’s seem unconcerned.

“Just look at the weight he’s put on in the last year,” one doctor was overheard saying.

“Don’t you mean nine months?” another asked.

“No, I mean last year.  This has nothing to do with the baby.  How much do you think a new baby mortgage payment weighs, after all?”

“It might be born all in coins,” Imaginary Keith volunteered.  “Isn’t that a possibility?”

“A sack of coins?  No one has ever given birth to a sack of coins.”

“But it could happen.”

“Imaginary Keith, if you expect to make it through this day, I suggest a bit of realism on your part.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“That’s the spirit. Now get ready to push.”

“I’m going to be pushing for fourteen hours?”

“You have a problem with that?  Now . . . PUSH!”

One day Imaginary Keith stretched out his arm and showed me a new watch on his wrist.  It was nothing fancy, and I wouldn’t have even noticed it if he hadn’t pointed it out.

“So, what do you think about my new watch?” he said, holding out his wrist.

The thing didn’t look that great to me.  Most of the face was taken up by some sort of solar panel looking thing, and the actual numbers were tiny.  And it looked like a couple of tiny wires ran out of the watch and disappeared under the cuff of his shirt, but I couldn’t be sure because he kept sweeping his hand around, like moving it around in small circles was the proper way to model a new watch.  Nothing really seemed right.

“It looks good.” One small lie couldn’t hurt.

“This watch is going to change the way people live.” It was a bold statement, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Imaginary Keith makes bold statements all of the time.  I’d grown used to them over the years.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Ummm . . . let’s see . .” He held the watch up close to his face, tilting the face back and forth, apparently trying to catch the light or adjust the angle or read some secret code or something.  I couldn’t tell.  Apparently, neither could he.

“I don’t know.  I still have a few kinks to work out.”

“What you mean you don’t know?  What’s the watch say?”

“I can’t quite tell.  I told you, there are still a few quirks to work through.”

“Quirks?  You mean like numbers with a colon in the middle that you can actually see?  Oh, I know.  How about two thin sticks that circle around and point to numbers?  Maybe you could invent that?”

“There’s no need to be a smart-ass about it.  Telling time is just one of the things my new watch does.”

“Almost does.”

“Okay, yes, almost does.  But telling time is the easy part.  It’s the other thing this baby does that is so exciting.” Imaginary Keith now had the watch stretched out in front of my face, the index finger of his other hand frantically pecking at the glass.

“Did you just call your watch a baby?”

“No.”

“Yes you did.  You were tapping at it and said ‘this baby.’ I heard you.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Well, you did.  I know what I heard, and I heard the word ‘baby’.”

“Well, maybe I did.  But I’m just excited.  It’s inventor talk, you know.  And salesman talk.  All wrapped up in one.”

“I’m not so sure I could agree with that.” Imaginary Keith’s eyes were opening big and wide.  He was getting himself all worked up.

“Sweet Jesus!  Do you want to hear about this thing or not?”

“Of course I do.  I just never heard anyone call their watch a baby before, that’s all.”

“I swear, can’t you ever stay focused?  What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m eight years old.  What do you expect?  All I asked for was the time.”

I could see Imaginary Keith’s chest rise and fall as he sucked in a deep breath, calming himself down.  You’d think, being the adult and all, that he wouldn’t be so easily riled.  I could see him, focusing on the watch, thinking of what to say.

“This,” he began, “is no ordinary watch.”

“No, I know.  It’s your baby.” He ignored me.

“Not only does it tell time . . . well, eventually, but it also functions as a human stat counter.”

“Oh.  I see.” A human stat counter? I should have never asked for the time.

“Yes!  That’s the exciting part.  You just put this baby on and you can find out all kinds of things about the people around you.” I let it go, this time.

“Oh.  I see.” Can imaginary friends even be repaired? How important is time anyway?  And why would an eight year old need to know the time?

“I modeled it after the stat counters people put on their websites.  Just a little code that checks names and locations and IP addresses and all that stuff.  This watch is a lot like that, but way better.  Way better!  This baby’ll tell you everything!”

“Oh.  I see.” Baby’ll? I wonder if you can sell imaginary friends on Ebay.

“Oh yea!  This watch not only tells time . . . “

“Eventually.”

“But it let’s me know who is checking me out, and where they’re standing, and how long they checked me out for.”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you appreciate just how exciting this is.  This little watch right here is going to revolutionize the dating industry.  No, no, no!  This baby will revolutionize the relationship industry.  I’m telling you, it’ll change the world.”

“I’ve never really thought of relationships as an industry.  Now dating, on the other hand . . . “

“Will you listen?!  Once everyone gets one of these on their wrist . . . Wait!  Look!  Look!  Look!  It’s going off!  Someone’s checking me out!  Right now!  This very instant!  It’s working!”

“It is?”

“Yes!  Oh my god, this is exciting!  It’s working!”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know yet.  I’m having a hard time reading the results.”

“What are they thinking?”

“I told you, I can’t quite tell.  But I think they’re getting closer.”

“Closer?  You mean, close like in the same country, or close like here they come now?”

“I’m not sure.  I haven’t had a chance to calibrate the range yet.”

“Well, let’s hope when they get here, they just don’t ask you for the time.  That would definitely be a blow to the relationship industry.”

Imaginary Keith, did you . .

Ssshhh!  I’m trying to think!

I was just trying to tell you about the dream you had last night.

Ssshhhhh!  I’m redesigning our site.  I’m going to need some peace and quiet for a few days.  None of this makes any sense, you know?

Oh, I know.

I think I like this ExpressionEngine thing.  I think we might use it.

How can you know what you like if you don’t know how to even use it?

I just, ummm . . . I don’t know.  Just go away now.  I’m busy.

You know what’s funny?

If I answer, will you go away?

When kids get busy, they just run around screaming and laughing and having fun.  But when adults get busy, they’re usually holding real still and scrunching their brows and looking like they’re trying to absorb the world in through the pores of their skin.

Will you go away now?

You know, someday laptops will come alive and they’re going to be mad.  And they’ll all snap closed, all at once, and then all of the adults will be walking around town without any fingers or noses.  The laptops will snap them right off.

I really don’t have time for your foolishness.  I’m busy learning something here, if you haven’t noticed.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Go!

What about the dream?  Don’t you want to hear about that?

No!  Now get out of here before I chase you off.

Yelling and screaming like a kid?

Go!

Did you . . .

How about a friendly little contest?  We’ll call it Race for the Throne. Or maybe we’ll call it When Monarchs Collide, or Too Busy To Be Anything But Royalty, or even The Day Complete Strangers Kissed My Ring.  It doesn’t matter what we call it, because we’re only having it because I don’t have much time over the next several days for anything that would even come close to resembling meaningful thought.

The rules are simple.  There’s only one.  You send me your list of multi-task accomplishments - the things that you think make you deserving of the title of either King or Queen Multitask.  Either slip them to me as a comment or email them directly.  If you don’t know how to find my email address on this page then you and your children, and your children’s children and their children’s children, will never rise higher then duke or duchess.  Unless of course someone is murdered or dies prematurely, which has been known to happen when ordinary folks like us attempt to force a claim on the throne.

After receiving your curious multi-task lists, I will then rank them in any order I see fit.  You may groan and complain as much as you like, but I will remain steadfast with my decision.  Unless I have a whim or am feeling particularly frisky, then I might change my mind.  Or if I’m out walking the welsch corgis, and I suddenly realize that a any dog with short legs trying to poop is at some sort of disadvantage, and this in turn reminds me of something you sent me, then I might decide to change my mind.

And if your task and name rises to the top, you will be crowned king or queen, whichever the case may be.

I don’t see how becoming king or queen could be any easier.

Let’s begin.

The King is dead!  Long live the Queen!

All Hail Queen Jo

Ummm, writing in your comments box, while cooking dinner and telling my children to go away? Jo (http://spanglemonkey.typepad.com)

Changing a diaper while driving. Michael (http://www.orionoir.com)

2) Conduct a 15 minute live television interview whilst your 10 month old son crawls at your feet, tugging wires, giggling loudly, and issuing forth the occassional bursting - “Ma Ma Ma!” from underneath the desk. Jennifer (http://jendomain.blogspot.com)

Composed legal documents for title transfer of real estate while posting amusing stories to my blog. Snowball (http://www.snowballinhell.net)

Participate in a (successful) telephone screening interview with a promising new employer under the nose of your current boss as he stands beside you writing little post it notes full of banal instructions. Jennifer (http://jendomain.blogspot.com)

Ever squint at code with one eye and call a bingo game with the other? Keith (wordshadows)

Brushing teeth while drinking coffee.  Michael (http://www.orionoir.com)

Brushed teeth while nursing a baby (and none of you boys can beat that one, lacking the proper glandular function) Snowball (http://www.snowballinhell.net)

Run a scroll bar with one hand and a bingo spinner with the other? Keith (wordshadows)

Performing magnificent sexual intercourse while reading eyeball-reflected cnn crawl (mirror-writing plays havoc with bond prices). Michael (http://www.orionoir.com)

Want to play?  The rules are simple.

Here’s an odd comparison.

What do you think would be more exciting:

1. Preparing to launch your very first internet site at age 43.

2. Having sex for the first time when you’re just a young punk.

Sure, sure, sure.  I know anything to do with sex always skyrockets to the top of everyone’s list.  If I’d listed, say, launching your first internet site and, ummm . . . watching two dung beetles slowly leave their ball of dung and mount each other, I’m sure just about everyone would pick the beetles.  I might have even picked the beetles.  But that was before.  You know, pre-internet days.

I’ll let you in on a little secret.  It doesn’t really matter what it is.  First times are always exciting.

In about ten minutes from now, I’m going to take in one big breath, one really, really big breath, and hold it for seven, maybe eight days.  I’ve never done it, but I think I can.

As you can imagine, holding your breath for a week is no easy task.  It’ll take the utmost care and concentration.  I’ll need a backup plan.  But most of all I’ll need to not waste one bit of energy, and this, sadly, includes typing.

Yes, for seven days there will be no typing.  Well, not much.  Not much at all.  And you know what no typing means.  No typing - no writing.  No writing - no blog.

Don’t blame me, because while I hold my breath I have to accomplish all of the following:

Wednesday morning:  Cram one whole work day into a half day.  Be on the road by 12:00.
Wednesday afternoon: Cycle around Diamond Lake.  Enjoy a cabin with my son and his grandpa.
Thursday morning: Hike up Mount Thielsen.  Elevation 9,182 feet.
Thursday afternoon: a bit more cycling
Friday morning: Drive back home
Friday afternoon: Work
Saturday and Sunday: Entertain son
Monday: Catch up on all of the missed work.
Tuesday: Take a day off, redesign this site, and launch the brand spanking new Word Shadows.
Wednesday: Take giant gulps of air.  Begin typing.

I thought about freezing myself in a big block of ice, but of course it’s already been done.  I suppose I could have had just my feet sticking out, and walked up the side of Mount Thielsen that way.  David Blaine never did.  But then I thought, Ice is kind of heavy. And what if I tripped and fell, and then slid all the way back down the mountain and landed in Diamond Lake with a big splash.  Then I would just float around all day, melting, while a bunch of resort hooligans took turns diving off my icy belly, using my toes to hang their six pack of beer.

And I hate when things touch my toes.  I just couldn’t take it, no matter what.

Just a note to let everyone know that we are alive and well.

Have you ever tried to coax an eight year old up the side of a mountain?  You should try it sometime, especially if you’re in sales.  It’d be a great training experience.

Just a note to let everyone know that we are alive and well.

Have you ever tried to coax an eight year old up the side of a mountain?  You should try it sometime, especially if you’re in sales.  It’d be a great training experience.

We didn’t quite make it to the tip of the point you see behind us.  But close enough to play in the stone and gaze over the edge into the abyss.  Close enough that when I fell asleep for a few minutes, back in the cabin, I was able to have a vivid, mountain climbing nightmare.

I hate heights.

I’d write more and post more pictures, but the connection at the lodge moves like magma from the depths of the earth.  Steady, but mostly slow.

Like the Six Million Dollar Man with a million dollar upgrade.
Like the entire NBA freshly de-tattooed, so they can begin again.
Like genetically altered popcorn, that never gets stuck between your teeth.
Like finding out the moon really is made of cheese.
Like a 25 hour day.

Welcome to the new and improved Word Shadows.

Oooh and ahhhh with me as we watch the randomly generated title images, rivaling even your home’s own television for variety. (Disclaimer: summer schedules only)

Puzzle right along with me, as we try to figure out the benefit of becoming a Word Shadows member.  You don’t have to, of course.  But why not?!  What are the benefits, you ask?  Who knows.  Never enter your name and other information again, for starters.  How about making a Word Shadows profile?  Win valuable prizes and secret giveaways.  Okay, well maybe not valuable prizes.  But maybe I’ll give something away.  Just keep in mind that the trick to enjoying Word Shadows membership is to think of it like belonging to a secret tree fort club.  More fun then a private country club, and definitely easier on the budget.  But that isn’t to say we can’t talk about golf and wear crisp, snappy clothes as we sit around reading each other’s nonsense.

And of course, no new and improved Word Shadows would be complete without an excellent Search feature.  Now you can hunt down all of your favorite entries.  Or just spend your free time looking for your own name.  It doesn’t matter.

I should write up a small bit about the pros and cons of the ExpressionEngine software, as seen through the eyes of a non-technical guy like myself.  I’m sure there are others out there who find themselves from time to time thinking of making a change.

You’ll probably notice, if you look around at all, that not everything is fully functional.  For starters, the categories are incomplete.  I made the decision to re-categorize the entire blog, which will have to be done manually, one entry at a time, due to the new, nested category tree.  I’m working at it, but it’ll take a little bit.  So until that’s done, the category archives will be incomplete.

If you click on the links, you’ll see right away that I’ve barely begun re-creating that page.

I haven’t created or uploaded all of the images that will be part of the random image collections that appear on the top of the page.  Nor have I created a separate image gallery.

And I still have a few image links to manually go through and correct.  In some entries, the pictures will simply not appear.  All in good time.

As you find things that don’t work, or quirks that rub you the wrong way, please, don’t be afraid to tell me about them.  I can use all of the help I can get.

Everyday the neighborhood’s potential must be inspected and reevaluated.  Scrutiny is the key word here.  Everything must be scrutinized by the keen eye of my imaginary friend, then reported back to me.

“There’s a girl at the back door, crying,” Imaginary Keith reported the other day.  “She’s been stung by a yellow jacket.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know.  But I think she may have just come from Mardi Gras.”

This would make no sense whatsoever.  Oregon is a long way from Louisana.  Too far for a little girl to walk, no matter how sturdy of shoes she might be wearing.  Besides, the timing wasn’t right.

“She’s with the boys,” Imaginary Keith added.  “They’ve brought her here for help.”

Sure enough, there was a little girl just outside the back door, stung twice and crying.  The yellow jackets still flew around her head, and she swatted at them with her tiny little arms.  The boys were all inside, hooting and jumping around and telling the girl’s story in loud voices.

So Imaginary Keith swept the little girl through the open door and into the safety of the apartment.  He attended to her stings and asked her questions.  He tried his best to act adultish and serious.  He quizzed her about where she had come from, about her parents, where did she live, was she with anyone, did she need to get home, and things like that.  But she would have none of it, and as soon as the tears were dry she was ready to play.

I liked her immediately.  The neighborhood’s potential was on the rise.  Her presence alone was more then enough to trump the crazy man who worked on his RV in the street for 8 hours a day, constantly mumbling to himself.

So now, every day, this little Mardi Gras girl stops her bike, lays it down on the sidewalk, and comes to our front door, where she opens the mail slot and peers into the house, smiling and calling out ‘hello’ in her little Mardi Gras girl voice.  Like all kids, she is simply looking for someone to play with. 

“Hi Mackenzie,” Imaginary Keith will say, talking to the mail slot. Day by day, the girl disclosed small little facts about her life.  First it was her name.  Then it was that her dad needed to go to jail, but that nobody could find him.  And then it was that her bicycle helmet was getting too small.  Just yesterday, she told us through the mail slot that she was an Indian.

“I didn’t know you were part Indian,” Imaginary Keith said.

“I’m not,” the voice through the slot replied. “I’m full Indian.  My mom told me.”

But that was yesterday.  After telling us that she was full-blooded Indian, she hopped on her bike and disappeared around the corner, and we haven’t seen her since.

As I test and adjust, I notice off in the corner that I have been visited by a true beancounter.

Who are these people who watch over the world’s beans?  I clicked on the link - a page filled with numbers.  Beans, it seems, are on the move.  But ever so slowly.

I thought this was the highlight of today’s bean news:

Trading activity in the Dry Edible Bean market was extremely slow this past week
as many trade members are attending The US Dry Bean Convention this week.

And is it any wonder.  This years convention is in Ft. Lauderdale.  And while the brochure coughs up not one single interesting bean fact, it does conveniently give the names and phone numbers of several golf courses, as well as vital information regarding glass bottom boat tours in the area.

I think I miss the little notes section that I had on the other site.  It was the perfect place for small, incomplete thoughts.  An excellent place for the things that will have trouble having a full and meaningful life.

Like:

People are like notes.  It suddenly occurred to me that there very well could be a god, and that all of the people on earth are just his version of post-it notes.  Each of us, with just a tiny little bit of half-important universe information, serve as some sort of reminder for something still coming up.

And then I thought, but what about over-population?  What’s the deal with that?  Of course, the answer wasn’t really that hard to imagine.  God simply has a busy and hectic life.  His desk is messy.  He’s getting behind.  I look around and think, yes, perhaps I am created in god’s image.  Just look at this desk.

But then I got scared.  Because on my desk, there are things that have nothing to do with the future.  Maybe a fourth of the notes are old, losing their grip, as well as their meaning.  They have nothing to do with anything big and important just around the corner.  They are reminders of things that will never be.  As a matter of fact, if I took each and every one of them and threw them away, not a thing would change.  Nothing would be any different.

It’s uncomfortable, thinking of yourself as an old post-it note.

Just where does the time go?  I turned my head just now and realize that I have a full month of timesheets piled in a neat little corner on my desk.  Can these dates be correct?  Was there a June?  There must have been, meaning that I’ve been navigating all along by the light of an eleven page calendar.

But if I can climb a mountain, I can puff through this little inconvenience.

And if you’re reading this, Brian, know that we are on our way.  Next week, say Wednesday.  But I’ll need to call and confirm, I know, only I’m afraid if I pick up the phone I’ll somehow find out it’s really August.

But here’s the fun part of falling off the map only to fight your way back - Technorati rankings.  You see, by changing domain names, I began my climb to the top all over again.  First thing this morning, I was apparently ranked at 152, 269, which I thought was rather generous, considering they claim to be watching 3,210,959 blogs.  (That’s a lot of reading, even for a computer.) But just now I’ve noticed someone else altered their link from the old site to the new, giving me yet another big boost.

Currently, I am ranked 130,238.  And climbing fast, if I don’t mind saying so myself.  Look out Boing Boing and Slashdot and Mr. Wheaton, you happy little punk.  And someone please tell those Suicide Girls to step aside so I don’t end up scratched or tangled in their collective mass of various piercings.  And if you happen to bump into Dave Barry, tell him I’m on my way over and that I’ll stop by for a beer or something when I’m in the neighborhood.

In the mornings, sometimes Imaginary Keith and I will just sit around saying nothing.  We enjoy the quiet.  We drink coffee and just think of nothing.

“I like hearing the sprinklers running across the street,” I say.

“I hope they’re looking both ways before crossing,” Imaginary Keith will almost always reply.

“That’s a stupid joke.  Every time.” We’ll go back to being quiet coffee drinkers, both of wondering when Imaginary Keith’s son will wake up.

“I wonder when your son will wake up,” I say.

“Hmmm.  He sure enjoys talking, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.  Eight year olds are seldom quiet.  Especially in the morning.  It takes time to appreciate quiet.”

“But you’re eight,” Imaginary Keith will say, “and you’re quiet.”

“Yes, but it’s easier when you’re sitting around drinking coffee with an imaginary friend.  Even for an eight year old.”

“Maybe I should see if my son wants some coffee.  When he wakes up, I mean.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Just a thought.”

With the windows open, trying to suck in as much cool air as possible before the day’s heat sets in, the sprinklers seem almost loud.  Impulse sprinklers, clicking back and forth, producing two clearly distinct sounds, Imaginary Keith and I have come to an agreement that they are the very best kind of sprinkler, simply for the sound alone.

“I wonder if it’ll go over 100 again today,” I say.

“I hope not.  I thought I was going to die yesterday.  As a matter of fact, I did die once, but somehow sprung back to life.”

“I must have missed that.”

“I would have told you right away but I was too hot.”

“I see.”

“I also lost four pounds yesterday.  I guess the sun just pulled it right out of me.”

“You better drink more water today.”

“Do you think I could market the sun as a diet plan?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Maybe I could work Apollo into the logo.  Might be good to have the sun god behind us.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“And maybe in the brochure we’ll mention that story where Marsyas challenged Apollo to a music contest, but that when he lost, was flayed by Apollo, signifying the incredible stripping power of light.  Strip Away The Pounds we’ll call it.

“That all sounds a bit harsh to me.  For a diet plan and all.”

“Oh, we’ll pretty-up the language a bit.  Besides, I think people are ready for something with a bit more bite to it.  Didn’t I just hear the other day that some show called Nip and Tuck won a bunch of awards.  People are loving the whole idea of radical alterations.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Yep.  Strip Away The Pounds will be an instant success.

“Maybe.  But I have a question about Apollo.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he fall in love with Daphne and chase her around for all eternity, only to be constantly rejected?  I don’t see how that little fact is going to help your diet plan.”

“Well, sure, but it wasn’t Apollo’s fault.  Besides, we don’t need to go and dig up every little detail.  It’s just a diet plan.  It’ll only be around for a few months, maybe a year.  Eternity has nothing to do with it.”

I click the edit button, one time after another, working my way back through the entries as I clean up the categories.  Who knows why I would do such a thing.  If you’re a therapist and want to offer some free help, I’m all for it.  If you’re not a therapist, but have a gift of insight, I’m all for it.  Or maybe you’re not a therapist, but have something you think should be said.  I’m all for that.  Or maybe you’re just feeling like being a smart-ass.  Hey, I’m even for that.

The thing is, at 43, I’m convinced that a smart-ass has just as much a chance as a trained professional of implementing any constructive changes in my personality.  But I may be wrong.  It’s open for discussion.

The way I see it, the task I’ve undertaken can only go on so long.  It has a definitive ending.  At some time soon I will move onto bigger and better things.  It’s not like I’ve decided my hands are dirty and need scrubbing every few minutes, or that I’ve locked myself in the bathroom of my mother’s house and decided to live there for the next nine or ten months, having food slipped under the cracks as we line up ways to appear on some talk show with the hope that a camera aimed at a talking door will somehow cure me of my madness.

And then there is the man who walks by our apartment twice a day.  At each and every street corner he stops, snaps his arms straight down, palms open.  In every way the man looks like just another ordinary guy on the street, so the suddenness of his movements takes you by surprise.  It’s one of those things you find yourself watching out of the corner of your eye, unless your a kid, and then you just stare.

He then clenches his right fist, followed immediately by his left, then raises his right arm up, like he’s about to punch, followed by a similar movement with his left arm.  Still standing in place, his arms still held up by his chest, he snaps his right leg up towards his chest, like a marching step, puts his leg back down, and of course, follows the whole series of movements with his left leg.  Everything is balanced and symmetrical.  If he was standing in front of a palace you might not even feel uncomfortable for the man’s obvious addiction.  And then, once all of these movements have been performed, he crosses the street, only to perform the whole routine over again.  It is the same on each and every street corner.

I’ve learned from the man that I don’t think I’ll ever go completely mad.  I can see that it would be much too tiring.  Plus, I’ve never been good with routine.

And another thing I’ve noticed, and this to me is the most disturbing of all, is that the man never looks either way before crossing the street.  As a father, I see that as a real problem.

I should really go and take a picture of the new fence being built around the National Guard building here in Salem.  Construction has gone on for months on this thing.  Giant trenches dug, excessive foundations poured, large bolts set into concrete in preparation for an obviously expensive, spiked-top black metal fence, that is now being lowered into place, piece by piece, by a small crane.  The fence not only encircles the building, but the entire facility, parking lot and all. 

Fear certainly knows how to spend money.

I’de watched them spend the money month after month now, and finally one day I just couldn’t take it anymore.  The sheer expense was driving me nuts.  The idea of spending tens of thousands of dollars, maybe more, to protect a parking lot filled with import cars was driving me nuts.  As a contractor myself, the fact that the job seemed to be going on forever was driving me nuts.

Like I said, I couldn’t take it.  I started yelling out loud.

“Just look at that fence!  What are they thinking?!”

My son, always the astute one in the car, calmly replied, “I know.  Just look at it.  That fence isn’t going to keep anyone in.”

* * * * *

I’m much better off now that he’s put the whole fence concept in perspective for me.  It’s only money, after all.  Besides, the fence is pretty.  And after all, with all of the prisons and state hospitals in and around Salem, I would have to say that we are a city of fences.  We love our fences, and our fences love us.  Someone should come to Salem and shoot a documentary about our fences.  I would be happy to serve as host, now that I’ve calmed down a bit.

The armory fence doesn’t bother me at all now.  I don’t even care that they can’t seem to finish it.  Now my son and I just spend our time having animated discussions about ways to get over the fence.  Should we jump it?  Ram it?  How big of car will it take?  What about pole vaulting, or a really good pogo stick?  Will any of those ideas work?  He thinks he could do it with three simple moves - grab high with one hand, spring up with his feet, land and balance on top of the spikes, and drop to the other side.

Wait that’s four simple moves.  Well, no terrorist plan is ever perfect.

Imaginary Keith limps through the day, favoring a bee-stung foot.  He squeezed the swollen, discolored thing into a boot this morning and hobbled off to work.  Personally, I was happy to be rid of the whole business for a few hours.  I don’t mean to be rude, but Imaginary Keith’s feet are ugly enough already without some sort of poison swelling them beyond recognition.  They look more like a corpse, floating face down in a lake, then they do feet.  Well, one of them anyway.  One of them looks like a corpse.  The other one’s just plain ugly.

But it’s not the first time that my friend’s feet have given him trouble.  Not so long ago Imaginary Keith had gone to the roller rink with his son, and as things turned out, found himself sitting along the sidelines, chatting with some little girl’s mother.  Having not talked with anyone for more then a year, he no doubt found the conversation refreshing.  I couldn’t really say, as I wasn’t actually there, but only heard about the whole thing later, when they returned home.

What I do know is that after talking with the woman for the better part of an hour and getting to know one another, Imaginary Keith’s son skates up, grinning and standing around.  For all his uniqueness, he is also like nearly every other child alive - he wants to know what’s going on.  And whatever it is, he wants in on it.  He won’t be left out and he won’t lose the center of attention, no matter what it takes.

“What are you two doing?” he asks.

“Just talking.” Imaginary Keith says.  The woman smiles.

“Oh.”

It’s at this point that the stories seem to take different directions.  One version I’ve heard has the three of them simply staring at one another for a minute or so before the boy skates off again.  Another version seems more about the woman, and the way she kept stretching up and looking around, seeing if she could see her daughter out on the floor.  But the third version, and the one I mostly believe, has Imaginary Keith’s son already beginning to grin, bigger and bigger, like he’s just thought of something that he’s bursting to share.

“So, what do you have to say?” the woman asks, leaning in closer so she can hear the boy’s answer above the music.

I guess in hindsight you can’t really blame the boy, because he was asked a direct question.  And almost every day I hear Imaginary Keith trying to pound the lesson into his son that every question deserves an answer.  If someone takes the time to ask something, the least we can do as decent human beings is take the time to answer them.

“My dad has toe fungus.” It is the only thing he says before he laughs and skates away.

Imaginary Keith and the woman do their best to laugh it off.  They say things like boys will certainly be boys, and isn’t he a cutie, and oh what an imagination.  As a matter of fact, they pretty much talk all around the boy’s simple statement.

And I believe that Imaginary Keith, for the briefest of moments, even considered defending his poor toes against the libelous attacks of his own son.  But what would be the use, he probably thought.  Toe fungus or no toe fungus, that’s just not the conversation you have with a woman you’ve just met at a roller rink, no matter how you’re hitting it off.  As a matter of fact, if you made a list of conversations to have with someone in similar circumstances, I’m sure just about everyone would place toe fungus very near the bottom.

I wish I would have been there.  I’m positive I would have spoken up.  I would have told the woman that Imaginary Keith’s son was crazy.  Imaginary Keith doesn’t have toe fungus, I would have said.  He just has really ugly feet.  You can’t fault a guy for that, can you?

In my country, trash not only falls from the sky and is blown into every conceivable corner, but is often addressed and stamped and hand-delivered directly into my post office box with speed and pinpoint accuracy.  The service is second to none and something to be proud of I’m told.  And it must be true, because while standing in line, all I have to do is look up and I will plainly see the pride glowing on the faces of the postal workers as they call out next, time and time again.

And as true as postal worker pride, and as true as bits and pieces of garbage moving up and down my street in the wind, I now possess a mannequin catalog, that before today, I didn’t even know existed.

And the timing couldn’t be better.  With only three years left before the big Eight Is Enough Thirty Year Anniversary Party, every second counts.  Imaginary Keith has already placed an order for the entire Small Frys collection, with plans to animate one entire season, using only mannequins and stop action animation.  And now that Willie Aames has stepped down from his role as action/adventure superhero, Bibleman, we’ll be able to assemble the whole family.  Rumor has it that Adam Rich, who played Nicholas, has gone and posed for Playgirl, which left us with a bit of an ethics issue.  How do you portray a late 70’s, early 80’s child actor who grows up and poses nude?  Hmmm.  For better or worse, we’ve decided simply not to dress his Small Fry mannequin, which actually makes life simpler for all of us.  And believe it or not, even Dick Van Patten is still alive.  Who would believe such luck?!

Remember what Einstein said, I keep reminding him.  Imagination is more important than knowledge.

I know it is, he says, but that doesn’t help me get through this article.  Imaginary Keith is looking over a magazine given him by their neighbor, the philosophy professor.  He holds open the magazine and reads to me:

Opinion is a substitute for authentic knowledge.  The epistemic nature of human consciousness is such that we obtain access to reality conceptually through abstract symbolic forms in the symbolic space of images and languages.  Authentic knowledge or truth is traditionally understood to be a contextually unified arrangement of coherent symbolic representations that coincides with (the human experience of) reality.*

Yes, what’s the problem?

Are you kidding me?  You’re going to try and tell me that it’s okay for someone to talk like that?

The author isn’t talking.  He’s writing.

Well it’s a good thing.  Because if he tried to talk to me like that, I’m afraid I might have to punch him in the nose.  Let him imagine that for awhile.

Oh you would not.  What’s the article about, anyway?

Changing the world.

I can see you’re not quite getting it.  Better keep reading.

*from the article Alignment Beyond Agreement, by Yasuhiko Genku Kimura, appearing in VIA, The Journal of New Thinking for New Action

Imaginary Keith is flushed and out of breath when he walks in the door today.  I suspect the heat, at first, but then see that he is holding a book in his hands.  It doesn’t even look used - the corners are crisp and straight, the cover a very soothing blue. 

“You haven’t been working at all this morning, have you?”

“Yes I have.  I fixed a sprinkler.”

“Three hours to fix a sprinkler?  I’m going to have a hard time billing that one out.”

“Okay, I only worked a few minutes, maybe five.  We were out working at Brian’s this morning.  You know I always get talking whenever I go out there.”

“I see.”

“But the guys were working.  Things were getting done.”

Brian has been working on a book for some time now.  I don’t even know how long.  I know that Imaginary Keith brought home a rough draft of it at least a year ago, maybe longer, and we looked it over then.  Keeping track of time is so hard these days.

“So, is that Brian’s book?” I ask.

“It is.  He even signed it for me.

For Keith,

Both the Imaginary and, especially, the Real.

Good reading,
Brian

“Sounds to me like we’re suppose to share it.  As a matter of fact, it sounds to me like it’s mostly for me.”

“Nah.  That’s just the way Brian writes, all mysterious and elusive.  But you’re welcome to read it.”

“Well, at least tell me the name of it.”

“It’s called Return to the One.”

“Open it up.  Read me something.”

“Okay.  Here’s a chapter called Time Is Temporary.”

“That sounds about right.  Go on.” Imaginary Keith begins reading.

Here in our universe, material things (including thoughts produced by the physical brain) always are separated by time and space.  Since time continually brings about changes and only one thing can occupy a certain space at a particular time, there is a constant push and pull within materiality.

Imaginary Keith stops. “Do you think that means even things like you and me?  Even imaginary friends?”

“How would I know?  You’ve only read one paragraph.  But relationships, even those with ourselves exist within time and space, so I suppose so.  And I would certainly call ours one of “constant push and pull”.  Keep reading.”

Life on earth bears an unsettling resemblance to a crowded parking lot at a popular shopping mall the weekend before Christmas: there is incessant circling around and jockeying for position, some leaving and some arriving, people frantically striving to be somewhere other than where they are now.  Such is the way of this material world, says Plotinus, but not of the spiritual world.

“Wooo!  Now that’s easy on the ears!  Better then that stuff you were reading to me this morning.”

“I think so,” Imaginary Keith says.

“You get reading.  I’m going to get on the phone and see if we can’t get him over here for coffee or dinner or something.”

“Who, Brian?”

“Well, yea, I suppose he could come too.  But no, I was talking about Plotinus.  I’m going to see if he has time to stop by.”

“You mean squeeze the two of us into what I’m sure is his already hectic schedule?  It can’t be easy being a mystic philosopher.  The man has got to be busy.”

“Are you kidding?  Sitting around thinking all the time?  Why do you think philosophers spend so much time talking about time?  It’s because they have all of it in the world.”

“I think you’re over simplifying.  I think you’re just going to add to the push and pull of his life.”

“Those are Brian’s words, not Plotinus’.  Now, get reading.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t have a clue what Plotinus will be thinking about.  We need to get up to speed before he comes over.”

“True.”

“I don’t even know the simple things.  I mean, does he even like coffee?”

“I find it stimulates thought.”

“Well, that’s a start.  But we’ll need more then that to hold our own with a third century Greek philosopher.  This Plotinus could be a slippery fish.”

“Hey!  Look at this!  My name’s in the acknowledgments!”

“Let me see that.”

“See, right there.  Plain as day.”

“Hmmm.  Nope.  I don’t see you listed.  That’s my name you see, not yours.  Sorry.”

“What?!”

“It’s one of the perks of being real.  Seeing your name in print occasionally.”

“Well next time you can go over and fix the sprinkler then.  If you get the perks, then you can do the work.”

“You’re threatening me with five minutes of work?  You’re going to have to do better then that, especially when Plotinus gets here.  Now quit wasting time.  Get reading.”

As of noon today, Plotinus is yet to return our phone call.  Actually, it wasn’t a phone call at all, but a scribbled out note that we had hand delivered, figuring that any philosopher worth his beans probably wouldn’t return phone calls anyway.  As a matter of fact, it’s kind of hard to imagine Plotinus even owning a phone.  But maybe he does, who knows.  We’ll try to remember and ask him if he ever shows up.

Imaginary Keith is planning on asking him some questions about irrational spending habits.  For instance: why would he go and buy a word processing software just because someone casually mentioned it in a blog entry as the one he used?  Keep in mind, this is someone Imaginary Keith doesn’t even know?

“But I like his writing,” he said, when I pressed him for details.  “If he writes like that, the software has got to be good.” There is no logic here whatsoever, and we’re hoping that Plotinus will have something to say on the subject.

Imaginary Keith keeps asking me what questions I might have for Plotinus, and I keep putting him off, avoiding the topic altogether.  Lying in bed last night, listening to Imaginary Keith breathing in and out, I realized that giving Plotinus any sort of foothold into my life was simply asking for disaster.  Sure he might have all the right answers, but didn’t that depend on me asking all of the right questions?  I started to sweat, just thinking about it.  Not an easy task for an eight year old boy.

“So come on, tell me.  What are you and Plotinus going to talk about?” Imaginary Keith asked me while we were eating lunch.  It was his fourth attempt of the day to get information from me.  I was beginning to think I should have sent him off to work.

“I don’t know.  Just small talk I think.  Weather, good restaurants he’s known through the centuries, that sort of thing.  Maybe I’ll show him the pictures from our hike around Crater Lake.”

“Are you sure Plotinus is a small-talker?  That’s not the impression I’m getting from the book.”

“Sure he is.  Everyone can small talk.  I just wouldn’t want him to be uncomfortable here.  Not on his first visit.”

“No, we wouldn’t want anyone getting uncomfortable.  That’s for sure.”

“But feel free to ask him about your irrational spending.  I don’t think that’ll hurt anything.”

“Okay, if you think so.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

“I was thinking about asking him how you’ve somehow stayed a kid all these years.  Do you think he’d know anything about that?”

“Let’s just leave that alone for now, if you don’t mind.”

A morning can be classified as quiet and slow when the only decision you find yourself at odds with is whether or not to go out for coffee.  The heart of the question is probably whether or not I think I need a little human contact.  Do I need to see and hear the movement of people around me?  Do I need a morning watching others interact, sitting around placing guesses to myself about the personalities and quirks of strangers?  Watching and listening sometimes does wonders for my imagination.  Catching glimpses of the lives of others is sometimes all I need to float off in new and different directions.  A new character might appear in my mind, based on someone I saw, or maybe a different way of saying something familiar.  Maybe I’ll marvel at someone’s clothes, or tattoos.  Or maybe think about careers and jobs and people moving in and out of the weekend and how that will effect their own upcoming Monday.  Maybe I’ll just sit and listen to young coffee jockeys, riding the names of coffee drinks that I will never be able to wrap my memory around.  How do they remember all of that? 

But I am always left with the question: do I need to balance that thin blade that lies between being alone and being creative?  What if I am cut?  What if in the middle of all of the creative observation I turn slightly and catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and realize that I can’t imagine a single thing?  What if that happens?  But coffee shops are fairly mirror-safe, I’ve found.  It’s bars you need to watch out for.  With their long polished mirrors that sometimes sweep an entire length of wall, bars can emerge like a black plague to someone who only thought they would look around for a minute or two.  Because somewhere amidst the reflections of a hundred liquor bottles and the backs of all bartender heads, your own reflection will be hiding, and a bar, I’ve found, is not the place you want to spot it.

But I’m getting sidetracked.  The debate this morning isn’t about whether or not to find a bar, but where to drink coffee and be alone.  Where to sit and think.  Where to listen to the morning sounds move in and grow louder.  Where to feel the cool air on my bare toes and prop my feet up on a cardboard box ottoman.  Where to have my phone handy, and a bathroom, and internet service.  Where to have all my books close by, just in case.  Where to listen to sprinklers running and birds singing and squirrels crashing around in the limbs.

I can think of only once place like that.

But I am not left all alone to create an imaginary world.  Even now, a neighbor clomps down the stairs of a nearby apartment, her black shoes big and heavy.  An oriental girl of sorts, with short, bobbed hair and bangs, wearing a black dress and white hose and, of course, the loud black shoes, looking like they’ve been plucked off a long dead pilgrim.  I’ve seen her before, several times actually, but not in this particular outfit.  And until just now, seeing her in her black dress and white hose, I’ve never really noticed just how substantial her legs were.  They’re not fat by any means, but thick and strong.  Like tree trunks with white bark.  I imagine that if I ran into her I would bounce right off.  And then I begin to wonder if I could knock her down, say if I had a running start and she didn’t see it coming.  But I keep watching her legs as she moves down the sidewalk, disappearing around the corner of another building.  I study the way the shoes keep contact with the concrete.  I analyze the way one foot curves slightly in and her steps are short and sure.  I notice how she keeps her head and eyes straight ahead, never straying, always confident of where she is going, and I realize that no matter how hard I run into her, I am never going to knock down this girl.  Not with those legs.