This morning I broke the news to Imaginary Keith about his acid trip twenty years ago, which of course, neither of us knew about until last Sunday.  He took it better then I thought he would, although he insists that from this day on we refer to my brother only as Little Timmy.  I’m not so sure archaic references to dead guys is the way to go, but wants the point in arguing?

“This does bring up an interesting point,” Imaginary Keith says.

“What’s that?”

“Well, I have to wonder about the nature of addiction.  All addictions.”

“What do you mean?” Is it possible for an imaginary friend to discuss addiction?  Somehow, this doesn’t make sense to me, but once again, what’s the point in arguing.”

“Let’s take coffee, for instance.”

“Okay, what about it?”

“There’s no denying the addictive qualities of caffeine, so for argument’s sake, let’s say you know nothing about coffee and caffeine.  And then let’s say that somehow, it is possible to give you several cups of coffee each morning without you knowing about it.”

“Sounds like my first cup in the morning,” I say.

“Yea, kind of like that, except here you know nothing about the coffee you’re drinking.  You’re sleeping or something, and someone’s pouring it down your throat, let’s say, before you wake up.”

“There’s someone who’d do that for me?  Sounds nice.”

“Be quiet and listen,” Imaginary Keith says.  “Anyway, you don’t know you’re drinking coffee and becoming physically addicted to the caffeine, so my question is this - how does your mind know what to seek during the waking hours, when your body has become addicted to something, and the mind, because it was asleep while the addiction occurred, has no idea of what has happened?  Can the body even become addicted without the mind’s cooperation?  Could this be the key to unlocking addiction?”

“That sounds just like the desire to buy a new car.”

“What?  Are you even listening?”

“Wait, that sounds just like love.”

“What are you talking about?”

“No, I take that back.  It sounds just like watching reruns of Mannix.” I know this isn’t true, but say it anyway, just to irritate Imaginary Keith.

“Will you shut up?  I’m being serious.”

“That’s it!  It’s just like an imaginary person being serious.”

“I said shut up.  Don’t you dare try making this about me.”

“No, listen.  Let’s say someone slips an imaginary being into my consciousness without me knowing about it, and continues to do so day after day until one day, I just start to expect this imaginary being to be there, even though I “know” nothing about it.  Just like the caffeine in your example.”

“You’re trying to make this about me, aren’t you?”

“No, no.  This is some other imaginary being.”

“It is?”

“Sure.  I wouldn’t compare you to caffeine.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course not.  Caffeine is much more stimu--”

“I get the point.  Do you remember yours?”

“Well okay.  So then my question would be - how does the body, with it’s mind now addicted to this imaginary being, know what to go looking for in the world?  The body feels this inner need, but doesn’t know what it is.  It doesn’t know it’s been force fed an imaginary being.  What does it do?”

“That’s just stupid.  I was trying to talk science and you’re just making things up.  Besides, you can’t force feed someone imaginary things.”

“Ummm… television.”

“Besides that.”

“Religion.”

“And that one.”

“How about, smashed peas to a baby.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Imaginary Keith?  What do you think televisions would talk about, if they could talk to each other?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Politics, I suppose.”

“And sex?”

“Sure.  Politics and sex, with a few jokes thrown in, here and there.”

“Kind of sou--”

“I know.  Shhhh.  I think it’s listening.”

I try hard not to believe in ghosts, or at least not in too many ghosts all at once.  Cripes, that’d just be plain ol’ scary.

But now that I think about it, I’ve never once seen a pulpit that didn’t have a ghost standing behind it, trying to scare me.  And every time I open a refrigerator, I feel something blow by me, sending shivers up my spine.

Apparently ghosts smell a little like old milk.  I’ve never confirmed this by smelling either a priest or a minister.

And babies often smell like old milk.  I suspect they are ghosts as well.

I also believe dairy farms are ghost headquarters, although they do a good job of hiding the fact behind that overwhelming cloud of cowshit.  It’s hard to smell anything but cowshit when you drive by a dairy.  It’s also hard to drink milk, if you’ve just driven by a dairy.

But I’m on to ghosts.  Even if I try not to believe in them, all at once.

I can’t believe that meme terrorism is allowed to run rampant like it is.  Something should seriously be done about it, before it gets any worse.  I’m telling you, we shouldn’t let a bunch of memesters ruin the Internet for all of us. 

I’ll participate, just this once.  Once, mind you, since it’s a book meme, and not some stupid Name Your Five Best Smelliest Farts and The Casseroles That Go With Them kind of thing.

But after this, you’re on your own.  I’ll have no more memes doing their dirty work around here.

Total number of books I’ve owned.

This one’s a little tough for me to nail down.  I’ve moved a lot, and with moving, comes purging, and boy oh boy have I purged over the years.  I go through times where I try to give nearly everything away, including books.  My “Possessions Are Useless” phases, which come and go with no real regularity.  But I’d put the number somewhere around 2000, although at the moment, it is much, much smaller.  I’ve always wanted many more then I’ve ever owned, but have never been wealthy enough to listen to my shopping muse.

Last book I bought.

Let’s say ‘last books I’ve bought,’ since my last trip to the bookstore produced more then one.

• Lamb, The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Christopher Moore
• Leaving Small’s Hotel, Eric Kraft
• In The City of Shy Hunters, Tom Spanbauer
• Girl With Curious Hair, David Foster Wallace

So far I’ve only read Lamb (recommended, I believe, by two Word Shadows’ readers, Mouse and Jill) and a book, I think, which should make it onto the semi-random part of the meme as well.  I was searching for some different Kraft books, but I only found this one and it was cheap, cheap, cheap.  A buck, I think.  The Spanbauer book had been recommened reading by another Word Shadows’ reader, Jarrett, and because I’ve enjoyed other Spanbauer books, I picked it up.  The Wallace book was just sitting there, taunting me.  I’ve never read anything by Wallace, and yet I hear all this blah, blah, blah, the man’s a genius crap.  Don’t ask me how I heard that, because I won’t remember.  Maybe I made it up.  I don’t know.  Maybe he is a genius.  Maybe he’ll stop by someday and loan me some words.  I’ll serve blank notebook paper and ink pens for dinner and just sneak the leftovers into my office when the man isn’t looking.  Who’s the genius now.  See what I’m talking about.

Five Books Which Mean A Lot to Me.

I find this to be an odd question.  It doesn’t necessarily imply that the books need to be good in any way, but just that they mean something to me, in one way or another.  I’ll give it a shot, in no particular order.

• The complete Rabbit Series by John Updike.

I guess I’ll treat these books as one.  For whatever reason, I fell for that sometimes likable/sometimes despicable character known as Rabbit.  I was reading the last book, Rabbit at Rest at the time of my second divorce (this is a book meme, so that’s all you get on that), and remember finishing the book very early in the morning after having read in bed all night.  I was sleeping in a separate bedroom those days, and remember getting up, walking into the room where she was sleeping, and waking her up with the words, “Rabbit is dead.”

“Oh,” she said, and rolled back over and went to sleep.  The words meant nothing to her, while I, on the other hand, had this strange feeling that I’d just lost someone forever.  I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way about another fictional character before, and probably contribute it to the first book, Rabbit, Run, where I know I was sympathetic to Rabbit’s desperate attempt to escape.

• Blue Highways, William Least Heat-Moon

This book should probably go onto the Semi-Random list, but let’s just put it here because that other list is already going to be long enough.  Funny, in a way Blue Highways is another book about running and escaping.  I enjoyed the stories and the idea of a man living in a small world, the back of his van, moving across the U.S., talking to strangers and seeing a bit of what the country is all about.  I often think of doing exactly the same thing.
• Almost everything by Lewis Nordan

I took a writing class from Nordan all those long years ago, but still remember the sound of his voice as he read to us some of his own work, which was then unpublished, but eventually made it into books that now sit on my shelf.  Gives a person hope, it does. 

I loved the enthusiasm he had for his own words as he read, and think, to some part, that my own style might emulate his to a small degree, in some ways, on a good night, when the light is just right, and the moon is full.  Sort of like that.  There are several books of his out there, some of them collections of short stories, and some novels, if you care to check them out.  Welcome To The Arrow-catcher Fair, The All-Girl Football Team, Sugar Among The Freaks, Lightning Song, Music of the Swamp, The Sharpshooter Blues, and Wolf Whistle.

I wouldn’t call Nordan a great writer (sorry, Buddy), but if you could hear his voice in your head like I do, you’d see why I think the man shines.

• Alright, here goes nothing - Richard Brautigan

Brautigan was definitely not a great writer, but for a long time, I loved the strange way that he chopped through his odd little stories.  I’d like to say that I still like his books, although I’d probably be much closer to the truth if I said I liked the idea of his books.  He told stories that seemed to me to be stories that others wouldn’t tell, which of course, might simply mean that they were stupid stories to begin with, but either way, there he was, out on the end of that shaking limb, doing whatever it was he did best.  Most of this took place in the 60’s and 70’s, finishing up with some of it in the early 80’s.  Of course, if you know about Brautigan, you probably also know that that small limb he climbed out on finally shook the man loose in the mid-80’s, with Brautigan putting an end to everything himself, alone in his own home.

I won’t list them all - you can look them up just as easily yourself - but how about I mention Trout Fishing in America, In Watermelon Sugar, Willard and His Bowling Trophies: A Perverse Mystery, Sombrero Fallout: A Japanese Novel, The Tokyo-Montana Express, and So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away.

All my Brautigan books sit on a shelf in the living room, perhaps reminding me of another time that can never be again.

• The first chapter of The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck

The impossibility of existence during the Depression.  The dust.  That part about the women, watching the men to see if they would break.  I love those few paragraphs in that first chapter.

Well, that’s five (or twenty-five or so, depending on how you look at it), but I’ll add a couple more, if I can sub-categorize them into:

Meant A Lot To Me As A Child or Young Adult

• The White Mountains, The City of Gold and Lead, and The Pool of Fire, a trilogy by John Christopher.

As a kid, these books introduced me to sci-fi, aliens, and the idea of fighting back.  Fun!  I still recommend them for kids wanting some alien adventure.  Maybe I should reread them, just to see if they’re actually any good.

Then in high school, and later in college, it was:

• The Dune Trilogy, Frank Herbert
• The Foundation series, Isaac Asimov
• The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant series, Stephen R. Donaldson

and since I’m throwing around fantasy fiction, let’s not forget:
• Lord Valentine’s Castle, Robert Silverberg

And just for good measure, let’s throw in:
• Still Life With Woodpecker, Tom Robbins (so long ago I don’t actually remember the story)
• Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

There.  That’s a good solid five.  Let’s move on.

Mouse added the following questions to the meme:

Five Semi-Random Books My Friends Should Consider Reading Before They Die

In no particular order, with some of the books on the list being nothing more then vague memories in my head.  Let’s say this - I wouldn’t pass any tests on any of them.

• Into The Wild, Jon Krakauer
• Dog of the South, Charles Portiss
• The Minataur Takes A Cigarette Break, Steven Sherrill
• The Bone People, Keri Hulme
• The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. LeGuin
• A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole
• Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig
• Where I’m Calling From, Raymond Carver
• Automotive History of Lucky Kellerman, Steve Heller
• The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon, Tom Spanbauer
• Another Roadside Attraction, Tom Robbins
• Unless, Carol Shields
• Norse Mythology, Rasmus B. Anderson

Five Books I Read Recently that I’d Recommend (or Just Liked Well Enough to Pass Along)

• Lamb, The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Christopher Moore
• Holy Bible, King James Version, cover to cover.  Naw.  Just messin’ with ya.

By the way.  April 26, 1973.  Cedar Rapids, Iowa.  Three-bean casserole, leftovers, Day 3.  Perhaps you remember the day.

Hustling along this morning, keeping my eye on the bouncing money ball, doing what I can to envision a miraculous come-from-behind victory.  Debt in my eyes like sweat.  Hard to focus sometimes.  (Sorry, but I had a basketball dream last night.  The kind where I can actually jump, dunk, and float around in the air for impossibly long times.  So consider this basketball analogy morning.) And with the new bankruptcy laws soon to go into effect, the game clock is ticking.  No more borrowing and sinking further into debt.  I’m out of time outs (predictable), so I either end this company’s shooting slump (that’s not so bad) or walk away from seventeen years work, defeated (universal).

Of course, the blame lies solely on the coaching.  My men are great.  A customer called just yesterday, telling me to add a hundred dollars to his bill so the men could be properly tipped.  He appreciates their hard work.  (No advertising endorsements, however.) I suppose there is hope, and because of that, reason to fight it out to the last second.

Hope hides in funny places sometimes.  Take this particular customer I just mentioned, who is having a new back lawn installed because the old one was “just too old and lumpy.” The guy is pushing ninety, and here he is, spending his hard-saved money on a new piece of grass.  He hopes, I guess, that he will be around to appreciate the change.  Or maybe it’s just for the benefit of his overweight dog.  Who knows.

You know what I like best about our older customers?  Most of the time they could care less about all the legal mumbo-jumbo and the contract end of the work.  They’ve already looked you in the eye and made their decision whether to trust you or not.  It’s easy to see where their trusts lie, and more times then not, I walk away with the money.  I never push people who don’t feel they can trust me.  I’m sorry someone has burned them in the past and left them scared.  It’s too bad.  In my younger days I used to bend over backwards trying to restore that trust in them.  I’d go out of my way to show what a trustworthy company we were.  Anymore, I just walk away.  I don’t have the energy to repair or save people.  I don’t have the time.  And I certainly don’t have the money.

Hey, where’d my basketball analogy go?  Man, you should have seen me floating around the court last night.  I could do no wrong.

There’s a garden tour in Salem this weekend, and as it turns out, one of our jobs ended up on the list of stops.  So for the next couple of days, people will drive up in their cars, get out, and mosey around the place, oohing and ahhing and whatever else it is people do when they look at someone else’s yard and plants.  Personally, after seventeen years, I’ve mostly just grown tired, and seeing something in full bloom only makes me think that it’s just about time to deadhead.  Again.  Gardening is all about that one word - again.  There’s no escaping it.  You just do things again and again and again.  I once heard that repetition can be therapeutic, but if you ask me, real therapy is in knowing that you’ll never have to do something ever again.

I’ve never understood the thing in people that drives them to show-off.  What makes certain individuals brag while others keep their mouths shut?  What value is there in wanting complete strangers to walk around your yard, looking at your shrubs and flowers?  I might understand it a little if the garden was an expression of the homeowner’s creativity, but in this case, all they’re actually showing people is the end result of their money.  What is really on display is nothing more then the things they have purchased and the services they have had performed for them.

For me, sitting here this morning, the garden tour basically boils down to this - do I ignore it, or waste the hour it’ll take to drive back and forth across town to small talk with the homeowner, just so I can stick a sign in the yard to take advantage of the free advertising.

I wonder what percentage of decisions I make in a day revolve around money in one form or another.

Another day, where I do what I can to balance thought and deed.  The boy has a friend over for another sleepover, and earlier today I shot some golf with my brother.  I found out my mom got herself a tattoo a couple of weeks ago, while on vacation, which is quite the comical surprise.  This is the same woman who became physical ill and vomited when my brother told her that he’d had his ear pierced, many years ago.

This morning I sorted through stacks of work files, cleansing the records while listening to the movie My Dinner With Andre.  Have you seen that one?  Of course you have.  How could you have missed it?  It’s old, I know.  1986, I think, but still pertinent in so many ways.

I’ve been kicking around a part of the dialogue in my head, where Wally and Andre are discussing what it takes today to reach people.  The basic premise is that people have become numb, or are even asleep to the world around them, and that it seems to take more and more to startle them into any sort of reaction these days.  Victims of an ever-escalating sensationalism, I guess.  I would tend to agree.  I stole a few lines, typing as fast as I could to try and keep up.  I’m sure I’ve missed a word, here and there.

Andre:
Okay, yes.  We are bored.  We’re all bored now.  But has it ever occurred to you, Wally, that the process that creates this boredom that we see in the world now, may very well be a self-perpetuating, unconscious form of brainwashing, created by a world totalitarian government based on money, and that all of this is much more dangerous then one thinks?  And it’s not just a question of individual survival, Wally, but that somebody that is bored is asleep, and someone who is asleep will not say, No.

See, I keep meeting these people.  Just a few days ago, I met this man who I greatly admire, he’s a Swedish physicist, Gustave B-, and he told me that he no longer watches television, he doesn’t read newspapers, and he doesn’t read magazines.  He’s completely cut them out of his life because he really does feel that we’re living in some sort of Orwellian nightmare now, and that everything that you hear now, contributes to turning you into a robot.

And when I was in Finhorn, I met this extraordinary English tree expert, who had devoted his life to saving trees.  Just got back from Washington, lobbying to save the redwoods.  84 years old, and he always travels with a backpack because he never knows where he’s going to be tomorrow.  When I met him in Finhorn, he said to me, “Where are you from?” and I said, “New York.”

He said, “Ahhh, New York, that’s a very interesting place.  Do you know a lot of New Yorkers who keep talking about the fact that they want to leave but never do?” And I said, “Oh yes.”

And he said, “Why don’t you think they don’t leave?”

I gave him different banal theories.  He said, “No, I don’t think it is that way at all.” He said, “I think that New York is the new model for the new concentration camp, where the camp has been built by the inmates themselves, and the inmates are the guards, and they have this pride in this thing they’ve built.  They’ve built their own prison, so they exist in this state of schizophrenia, where they are both guards and prisoners, and as a result, having been lobotomized, the capacity to leave the prison that they’ve made, or to even see it as a prison.”

And then he went into his pocket and he took out a seed for a tree, and he said, “This is a pine tree.” He put it in my hand, and he said, “Escape, before it’s too late.”

I think I’m trying to balance this whole idea of living (or should I say, existing?) with the concept of creativity.  Both seem all-consuming.  I know I struggle constantly with the two, trying to keep both alive and thriving, when most of the time, something nagging in my head tells me that in reality, only one can live.

Try balancing this with daily life, relationships, and kids, and, at least to me, the concept of living creatively outside the box of normal existence seems almost impossible.  Something always has to give.  For instance, just a moment ago I had almost cracked the secret of existence, when I was pulled away to solve another of the boys’ important debates.

“You will too die trying to find a piece of hay in a stack of needles!”

“You would not!  Even if it poked out your eyes!”

“Yes you could!”

“No you couldn’t!”

“What if the needles poked out your heart?”

“Needles wouldn’t do that?”

“But what if they did?”

“But they wouldn’t!”

The argument would no doubt go on forever if it weren’t for me, a pizza, and my pizza cutter.  I slice up the pizza, intentionally uneven.

“Here, figure this one out,” I tell them, pointing to the pizza.

Disagreements over food seldom last long because hunger is such an excellent mediator.  Nothing cries out peace like hot pizza pie.

“Hey, that’s my piece!”

“No, it’s not.  I called it.”

“No, I called it.”

“No, I called it.”

Do you think a stack of needles would poke out a grown man’s ears?  No, don’t answer that.  We might start arguing.  It’s too risky.

I woke up, still thinking about My Dinner With Andre, this time something vague about that part of their conversation where they are discussing being alive vs. going through the motions of being alive.  Andre speaks of the years he has spent living, only to realize one day that what he has actually been doing is living a role.  I forget the actual dialogue, but something to the effect that we all fall into the trap of living out roles, rather then the possibility of our actual lives.  The role of father or mother, husband or wife; responsible adult, the concept of success measured with our jobs and our money, etc., etc.  We end up doing things because that is the way things have always been done, and somehow, we unconsciously end slipping into these roles, and once we are there, being dominated by them.

Of course, in the movie, the characters also briefly talk about the impossibility of trying to maintain an existence within that moment of true life, outside of the roles, outside of all that is expected of us for day to day living.  The reality of life is simply too big, too full of energy, and we would not be up to the task of such a life.  It would consume us.  So ironically, it would seem that the repetitive nature of our daily lives, the very thing that seems to trap us and force us into these preconceived roles that we don’t necessarily choose on our own, is the very thing that ends up saving us somehow, providing us with a place to rest.

The whole thing is very odd to me.  This human struggle.  The need for expression.  The attempt to unleash creativity.  The idea that there is something inside, needing to get out.

The inner discussion seems timely to me, as I debate which direction to go from here.

And yet more irony.  The older I get, the more patience I seem to have.  Do you sense the irony in such an attitude?

I take longer to make decisions these days, knowing full well that I have less and less time to make them with every passing minute.  The clock is ticking.  And yet, more and more I get this feeling that this doesn’t matter.  I’m swept over by this sense of “what will happen, will happen” attitude; that this thing I have seen as “the fight” is not really the fight at all; that the struggle is something different. 

I’ll probably wear myself out before nine this morning, debating existence with myself.  Do you every question why we all live in basically square houses?  Why we all accept this with such ease?  We can’t all be so similar, can we, that we all choose to live in the same shape homes?  I do believe it has something to do with our inner need to be lazy.  Square homes are the easiest to build, making them the lowest common denominator, if you will, in the carpentry trade.  Have we become this huge, throw-away society, largely in part to this lazy acceptance of our own homes?

I’ve started having this nagging feeling that this is as good as it gets.  Matter of fact, that it’s all downhill from here on in, and I’m not just talking this life, but the afterlife as well.  Sure it goes against the grain, I know.  But what can I tell you?  That I don’t have the feeling?  Lie to you?  Is that what you want?

I’m worried that people hang onto this life so hard that they’ll drag it into the next.

“Hey!  You!  What day is it, anyway?”

Yes, I think people will want to know.  Even in the face of eternity, I think people will still want to know the date, and frankly, the idea of being asked what day it is for all eternity bothers me more then you can ever imagine.

Lying was probably invented in Heaven.  Maybe by God, or maybe by just some poor soul tired enough to come up with something to get people off his back.

“It’s the weekend,” he probably said, hoping that would be enough.

“I thought it felt like the weekend.  Is it Saturday?  Oh, I bet it’s Sunday.  I bet every day is Sunday in Heaven.”

“No, sorry.  It doesn’t work that way.”

“Oh.”

“God tried it, but newspaper sales dropped.  Ends up, nobody wants a thick newspaper every single day.”

“Oh.”

“Well, except Satan.  Newspapers fuel the flames of Hell, you know.  Satan loved all those extra Sunday papers.”

“What?  There’s no recycling in Heaven?”

“Only ideas.  Everything else is brand new.”

“Cool, I think.  Hey, you happen to know what time it is?”

I leave in a week for points east, flying to Arkansas to see friends.  We’ll pile in the car and drive over to Indiana to see another.  Funny, how distance lessens when traveling with friends.  The miles fly by, just like the time, and afterwards, you realize everything is measured in a different way somehow.  I’ll see my daughter, I think, if she’ll return my call.  I’m still waiting.

Nine days away from my desk and the phone.  I’m thinking about traveling without my laptop.  Just getting away from it all.  Leaving it all behind like it doesn’t exist.  Walking through those nine days with my arms free to swing.  With nothing to look down at, maybe I’ll even lift up my head, and take a good look around me.  See what’s out there.  See what’s waiting for this old boy at the end of every step.

One by one, I wade my way through my list.  Will one week be enough time before I leave?

I have my cellphone unlocked, so it can switch over to a new company, saving me $50 a month.  The checkbook begs to be balanced, but I put it off, in lieu of a much-needed haircut. 

And I’m thirsty, and end up with a bottle of something I’ve never seen before - Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper, suspiciously marketed as a soda fountain classic.  Hmmm.  My first sip reminds me of the lip gloss of that one Indian girl I kissed back in junior high.  Cripes!  How’s that for an unearthed memory?  What was her name?  Brenda Blackfeet, I think.  I can’t be sure.  But it doesn’t matter, because as soon as I swallow, I forget all about Brenda Blackfeet and her coal black hair and her artificially sweetened lips.  I swallow and my mouth tastes like I’ve just come from the dentist.  I take another swallow.  Yep.  Dentist.

With freshly buzzed hair I turn the car in the direction of home.  To the desk!  Onward!

The 6:45 a.m. to 7:15 a.m. blow by blow.  Presented in Honest Vision (tm)

• Wake.  Say inside my head, “It’s late.”
• See cat sleeping on bedroom chair.  Tap her head, three times.
• Wake boy.  Negotiate new wake-up time.
• Move to kitchen.  Start coffee.
• Bathroom.  Shower.  (no singing)
• Dress. (Can you pull on a t-shirt with Q-tips sticking out of your ears?  I just found out I can.)
• Wake boy.  Re-negotiate wake-up time.
• Garage.  Let dogs out.
• Check mouse traps. 
• Open them outside.  Watch dogs unleash their inner beast.  (Cruel?  Only until the moment you see and smell the mouse poop in my garage.)
• Fling mouse bodies into field.
• Kitchen.  Wash hands.  Pour coffee.
• Boy sneaks up.  Scares me.
• Outside.  Move car.
• Coop.  Check on chicks. (various meanings, depending on location or lifestyle)
• Guys drive in for work.  Give short, daily summary in broken, easy to understand English.
• Back to kitchen.
• Discover I didn’t start dishwasher last night.
• Hand wash one plate.
• Feed boy toaster waffles.
• Check email.  New members.  Jennia and Lee.  Welcome!
• Kitchen.  More coffee.
• Cat. Tap, tap, tap.
• Boy.  “Full?  Good.”
• List.

Boy do the days slip past.  Not nearly enough gets done before that school bell starts ringing and those kids come piling out.  Pickup time already.

Oh god, I promised you flowers earlier, didn’t I?  I’m sorry.  Really, I am.  But it wasn’t my fault, promise.  Tomorrow, baby, I promise.  I wanted to surprise you, really I did, but they didn’t come in like I wanted.  Tomorrow.  Really.  Tomorrow I’ll make it all up to you.  A big bouquet of petunias, marigolds, and geraniums!  1,300 of those bad boys, all wrapped up nice and pretty and ---

What?  Who’s Red?  Red who?  I don’t know no— What?  Well, yea, that’s her name and number there, but baby, she’s ain’t no one.  I promi--

What?  No.  You’re just talking crazy now, that’s what you’re doing.  Those flowers aren’t for her.  Why would I give some girl a thousand flowers?  Why wou--

Okay, okay, 1,300, but baby, I’m te-- Hey!  Where you going?  Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there.  I can explain everything.

4:15 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.

• I run my kingdom from an L-shaped, corner desk.
• Men are mowing my lawn, which is very nearly an acre in size.
• The boy rushes out to help.
• A friend of my brother-in-law cut his fingertips off last week with a mower.
• I peruse the accounting, looking for billable items that might have been overlooked.
• The smell of freshly cut grass comes through the window to my left.
• The cat pokes at my leg, looking for attention.
• I drink a Rolling Rock beer.
• I think about the field trip with the boy’s class tomorrow.
• The men ran out of time sheets last week.  Two days’ hours are written on napkins.
• I missed the guys’ payday last week.  They never complain.
• In front of me is a Fire Marshall report 45 days overdue and a certified letter from the IRS.
• I stand up.  The boy tools by with a mower, pretending to be a man.
• I start printing invoices.

Update:
I have been informed by the little man that we no longer need the water-filled weight for the basketball hoop stand.  He moved it, claims to have chopped up “a ton of snakes” with the mower, and when he emptied the water, “it smelled like dead fish.  Like salmon or something.”

Oregon is crazy for their salmon, and now apparently salmon have died in my basketball hoop.  This can only mean trouble.

The boy returns to mowing.  I am spared giving a lesson on spawning.

Field trip day! 

Eighty or so third graders, a handful of teachers, and me - wandering around Minto Brown Island Park from 10:30 to 2:30, searching for red-tailed hawks and osprey.  I’ve already practiced my Stay on the path!  Stay on the path! plea and think I’m ready.

I was also informed last night that osprey have several sets of eyelids, all for different purposes.  Which set will they squint when they see us coming today, I wonder?  That many kids, I’m imagining they’ll squeeze shut all three sets.

Holy crap!  I just remembered I was suppose to deliver and arrange 1,300 flowers this morning at 10:30.  Somewhere around here I have detailed instructions on how to be in two places at one time.

... must ... find ... them ... Yes!  Here they… what?  Damn.  Missing a page.

Quick, Imaginary Keith!  To the Wayback Machine!

The field trip goes off without a hitch.  No kids lost to the nettle patch or the mighty, ever-threatening Willamette River.  Everyone had a lunch, everyone completed their nature craft.  Not a single hobo to be seen on the entire loop.

Lots of pointing when we came in sight of the osprey nest.  The female poked up her head and the male came swooping in from the direction of the river.  Bobbi, the group’s guide, held a much-prized buzzard feather over her head, which she’d informed everyone, was the designated sign for silence and undivided attention.

The hike was roughly a mile in length, so there were tired dawdlers to contend with.  Groups of girls were prone to break into song, while the boys mostly tried to either bust past Bobbi’s outstretched arms or push each other into the occasional puddle in the trail.  Strangely enough, the entire group grew silent as they were forced into a single-file line in order to pass through a part of the woods Bobbie told us would be “the bird song” part of the tour. 

The birds, no doubt, saw us coming.

And then onto a secret, hidden pond, down another trail, where there was only room enough for half of the class at a time.  Who would go first?  It came down to that age-old battle of Boys vs. Girls, of course.  Numbers were chosen.  Who would be closest?  Everyone wanted to know.  A tense moment for the entire class! 

“Six,” said the girls’ representative.

I secretly gloated.  She’d committed herself to the high numbers.  But would the boys be smart enough to play the odds?

“Seven,” the boy said.  My heart sank.

“No, wait!  Five!” Hurray!  The number was four.  The boys!  The boys!  There is much hooting and hollering and the class quickly breaks into two parts.  Seeing all the boys together, bouncing off each other, I suddenly felt sorry for them.  For me.  For everyone.  I’m not sure what’s at the end of that trail, but may God have mercy on it’s soul.

Off to the pond, where something was spotted immediately, floating dead in the water.  How exciting for the boys!  A beaver?  A opposum?  Someone guesses a rabbit, but is immediately shut down by the others.  The excitement is impossible to contain, and I’m afraid the boys’ noise over the floating carcass may very well have caused one or two lesser insect species to go extinct.  Bobbi’s buzzard feather is nearly powerless to stop the commotion, and she waves it over her head so fiercely that for a moment there, I was afraid she might actually take off.  Mysticism often flies right over the heads of young men, I’ve found, whereas a good tap is sometimes just the ticket.  Okay, okay, a touch.  I didn’t actually knock anyone’s head off.  Take it easy.

Then onto sack lunches, a scavenger hunt, and arts and crafts, where we were supposed to create bookmarks with a piece of card stock, bits and pieces of whatever nature we could gather, and a sticky rectangle of clear contact paper.  Is it even legal to hand kids contact paper and expect them to handle it without mishap?  And I won’t even tell you what percentage of Oregon’s third graders think they can fit a giant maple leaf onto a one inch wide bookmark.

Then another bus ride, where once again, the girls busied themselves with their paper puzzles, trying to figure out who loved who.  They broke into song, and at every sharp corner, the boys would scoot their butts, trying to knock someone out of their seat.

The upcoming trip seems to be rewinding Imaginary Keith’s inner clock, because at 5:30 this morning, he popped out of bed and immediately sat down in front of the computer for a bit of accounting.

“5:30,” he said.  “In four days, at exactly this time, my plane will touch down in Dallas, Texas.  The coffee shops will just be opening.  I’ll have time to walk to the departing concourse.  Ten percent of the people will look exhausted from traveling all night, the rest will look squeaky clean, just starting out.  These are all estimates, of course.”

“Of course.”

People need pushing sometimes, don’t they?  Something other then the grind of their day to day life to move them forward?

“You don’t see as many cowboy hats at the Dallas airport as you might expect,” Imaginary Keith tells me.  “But quite a few wear the boots.”

“I suppose it’s like someone landing in Oregon, wondering ‘Hey, where are all the lumberjacks?’, don’t you think?”

“Where are all the lumberjacks?”

“Beats me.  In the woods, I guess.”

“Does Oregon still have any woods?”

“Sure.  Just like Texas has cowboy hats.  It’s a tossup, I think, on which is bigger.”

“Is that a Texas joke or your attempt to make an Oregon political statement?”

“Never mind.  How long will you be in Texas?”

“Is that another joke?”

“I know, I know.  Too long.  Everyone knows that one.”

Two days until lift off, which doesn’t seem like nearly enough time to make it through my list of things to do.

• Downtown for irrigation permits.
• Design and layout system for today’s job.
• Install backflow and controller.
• Complete six bids.
• Return phone calls.  Yes, Brian, yours.**
• Fire marshall report (overdue)
• Worker’s comp payroll report (overdue)
• Phone call with IRS
• Liability insurance report (overdue)
• House payments.
• Reconcile accounts.
• Pay bills.
• Have an early Father’s Day.
• Schedule work for guys for upcoming two weeks.
• Trip to bank.
• Pack.
• Find title for truck I sold.
• Clean house.
• Double-check nursery irrigation schedules.

**Today’s Brain Teaser:  Name as many businesses as you can that conduct business through blog to-do lists?

Hint:  There may be only one.

1:40 and I’m back in the office, having knocked three things sprinkler related from my list.  I’ve found a bottle of water in my fridge and I’m eating leftover Starburst for lunch.

Why in the world did people fall for bottled water, anyway?  Something is definitely wrong with us, naming our water like we do.  The oceans I can understand; even lakes (although in Minnesota I think half the lakes are called Round Lake, the other half Long Lake, and the other half is for all the rest.  Yes, that’s right.  Three halves.  Minnesota has so many lakes they need three halves to account for all the names.) I’m off track.

I have, of course, been forced to add things to my to-do list, and now I am officially backsliding my way into my vacation.  I usually board planes completely out of energy, scuffed up with gravel still stuck in my hair, which probably explains the frequent searches I must endure.  But I’m usually so tired that the inconvenience seems like nothing more then a bad dream.  Did you know that a recent study showed that two out of ten Americans now prefer alien abduction over public air transportation, largely in part to the repetitive nature of the security measures currently being used.

“Sure the aliens probe,” said an unidentified man, “but at least once they check you out they’re done with you.  Last time I flew, I had to take off my belt and shoes four times.  Now that’s irritating.”

To the reports!  And Brian’s phone call!  And lest we forget, the IRS.  Can’t forget those folks, can we.  We would, but they won’t let us.  I think I’ll explain my accounting methods using my three-halves Minnesota lake example.

See you in prison!

Hey, I bet in the future we discover that aliens are really just a select branch of the IRS, sent out to seek and destroy loopholes.

When you buy your tickets, the trip seems so far off.  How can you ever wait that long, you think.  It’ll take forever.

Well, today is forever.  One more list, say my goodbyes, and climb onto a plane at midnight.

Will I document my every step away?  Give you glimpses of life in Arkansas, Indiana, and all points between?  Time will tell.  I’ll snap some photos, observe the native life, and search out whatever oddities I can find.  Maybe I’ll be talked into that F1 race in Indianapolis, where a person can photograph more waxy shine then in all the foreheads in all the junior highs in all the land.  Ahhh, the sweet, smell of automotive history.  Walk through those speedway gates for a day and you come out almost believing that man’s greatest achievement is the automobile.  I wonder if our seats will be near those same Brazilians we sat by two years ago.  They were fun drunks.  I liked the way they taunted my friend for his allegiance to the wrong driver.  I, of course, was noncommittal.  A diplomat in all matters, even the Formula One racing circuit.

Today:

• Out to breakfast with the boy
• Help with school field day (last day of school today) from 9:30 to 11:00
• Post Office
• Return 8 calls
• Rental center - make future arrangements
• Two banks to check irrigation systems
• Install irrigation controller on another job
• Guys’ lists for my time away
• Pack
• Payroll
• Pick up boy from school - 3:30
• Farewell stuff - 3:30 to 9:00
• Drive to airport
• Endure numerous searches
• Fly all night

Well, the first three things are off the list.

At school I spent an hour officiating over several rugged games of Capture The Football, which it turns out, is exactly like my childhood Capture The Flag.  The only exception I might think of is the crying.  I don’t remember breaking into tears quite so easily when I was a child.  Perhaps I’ve forgotten.  Maybe the ground has gotten harder, or children’s arms softer.

I mosey over to the 4-Square station and quiz the teacher in charge about any rule changes that may have occurred over the last thirty or so years.  I was a fierce 4-Square competitor, back in my day.  Apparently the kids have come up with a few moves I’m unfamiliar with.  Cherry Bombs and Chicken Feet, for starters.  There were several more, but I’ve forgotten them already, which is fine, I guess, since I’m no longer playing competitively.

A Cherry Bomb is when you bounce the ball real high, I guess trying to blind the other kid by losing the ball in the glare of the sun.  A real Red Baron tactic, but lame, compared to the much more aggressive move of Chicken Feet.

“Chicken Feet is when someone shoots the ball right at someone’s feet,” the teacher tells me.  “The kid’s are always screaming ‘Chicken Feet! Chicken Feet!’ and I have to break it up.  I carry a 4-Square rule sheet in my fanny pack.”

I don’t remember any rule sheets back in the 70’s, but of course, I don’t remember any teachers on the playground either.  I think we pretty much just ran wild back then, which was fine.  Everyone looked like some sort of Brady Bunch kid with either bangs or pigtails, with an occasional ruffian here and there to spice things up.

On my way back to my car, I check out the chalk drawings the kids have drawn on the playground.  One catches my eye:

Goodbye Shool

The teachers are all smiling and happy.

Look at this.  Free wi-fi throughout the whole Portland airport.  It’s a good send-off.  Thank you, Portland.  I will return.

Next stop.  Dallas, Texas.  The middle of the night.  I’ll wander the long concourses on foot in my new shoes, skipping the train.  I have plenty of time between planes to do just about anything, but of course, at four in the morning, there’s just nothing to do.

I love the idea of nothing to do.  If they’d lock the front doors to the airport and not let the morning people in, I think I’d be happy to wander around for days.

Watch me post until the last second. 

First class, you may board at this time.

I’d like to extend a warm welcome to our Platinum Members.  You may also board at this time.

I like flying in the middle of the night.  It feels like you’re not wasting any time.  And I like

Golds and Group 1 may board at this time.

the feeling of walking around in a silent airport.  There’s something comforting

People with infants and strollers may board at this time

about walking around in

At this time we’re boarding Group 1

the silence.  Such a giant structure with hardly anyone in it.

At this time we’re boarding Group 2

You’re tired, but…

At this time we’re boarding Group 3 and 4

oops.  Gotta go.

My dinner beer has trouble sitting on top of the breakfast that’s had a sixteen hour head start, and after about an hour of bumping across rough Idaho skies, I go hunting for a flight attendant and my complimentary granola bar.  Get something down there quick, my stomach says, or the beer sees the light of day.  Again.

To my left, a pharmaceutical rep, on her way to a conference or class or something or other.  Ahead of me, an older man with one of those old Surgeon General Koop beards who appears to be flying with his wife.  I cannot see her chin.  Across the aisle, a sleeping grandmother and a younger woman, twenty-five maybe, who was crying before take-off.  Apparently she had never flown and was overcome with fear.

“I’ll change seats with you, if that will help,” says the man next to her.  We all crane our necks around, checking the situation out, knowing that he is doomed.

“Hey, quit scaring the poor girl,” I tell him, but in that joking tone that saves every situation from disaster.  I’m telling you, I can joke dry anyone’s eyes.

“Move up here, honey.” Another woman across the aisle apparently knows the girl, and after some seat switching, the girl is settled in with the woman, cuddling up, gasping the last few of her sobs.  The doomed man is spared, and I put away the rest of my stand-up material, saving it for a real emergency.  I honestly believe if the plane started going down I would stand up and try to make people laugh.  People would be crying and screaming and vomiting all over the place, and I would be:

“Wow, tough crowd tonight.”

We land in Dallas without mishap and shuffle off to wait on another plane.

I am still alive, in Arkansas, sweating to death.  Oddly, I seem to have lost no weight.

Can a state taunt you?

Also, every time I am away I forget about the southern accents.  I spend a great deal of time staring at people, watching them talk.  How do they do that to all the words? 

And why don’t they sweat?  What’s wrong with them?

You should see the topic list.  Oh the places I’ve been, the people I’ve seen!  Things you won’t believe, even when I show you.  Stories I couldn’t make up if I tried, people I couldn’t imagine in a hundred years. 

In Indiana I met middle-aged men, like Eugene, who is living in the shadow of his own past Indiana high school basketball glory, followed around each night through the quiet streets of Middletown, Indiana by his friend and verbal historian, Mark, who to us, appears to worship the ground Eugene walks on.  Mark is so moved by his own stories that they pain him in the telling, and at one point, tears well up in his eyes as he recounts the unfortunate fate of his friend, Eugene.  I hear the sorted story of some children’s bones, found inside an old Masonic building by the new owner, the town’s newspaper editor, when he bought the building and moved in.  I look up at authentic stamped-tin ceilings and more century old brick buildings then an Oregonian can shake a stick at.  I talk with a woman named Mindy, who invites us to watch a night blooming primrose do it’s thing.  Incredible.

Back in Arkansas I finally catch up with my daughter for a talk and a hug.  I laugh with friends and eat too much.  I hang out with Other Keith.  I eat a halibut dinner that is so good I think about it for days.  Thanks again, Laura.

And then south to Van Buren, Arkansas - a place where a twenty minute drive in nearly any direction feels almost like a trip off of the planet.  I stay with more old friends, Randy and his family, and we wander around the countryside, talking with people who seem to be walking straight out of history.

I didn’t expect to be this tired.  My plane landed Thursday night just before 11 p.m., so by the time I picked up my luggage and was hopping off of the shuttle bus and looking for my car, it was pushing midnight.  I’d been up since 5:30 a.m., Central Time, and now needed to convince my body that stepping back into Pacific time was a good thing. 

The notion of going back in time always sounds romantic, and actually is, but only right up until the moment that you climb onto a plane and begin flying west with eyes that already feel like they’ve been rubbed down with a fist full of sea salt.  By the time you climb into your car, which happens to be parked an hour’s drive away from your warm, comfortable bed (if you drive fast), you’re morphing into some sort of Dorian Grayish charcoal sketch that’s quickly becoming undone.  You’re aging fast, smudged around the edges, with eyelids that you swear have been drawn on much too heavy.  And that’s before the construction zone.  Seven miles and an extra sixty minutes to contemplate mankind’s lousy ability to merge.

Friday I slept.  Saturday wasn’t much better.

Do you remember the day that you first realized that most of your best talents fell somewhere outside the circle of gainful employment?  That there would be no rewards for you, my friend?  The moment it occurred to you that there were no community college classes teaching people to do the things that you do best?  No training programs, no degrees, no cute titles like Ph.D. or M.D. or anything D at all, for that matter, that would let people know that you’d worked long and hard to reach your particular space in the void?  You remember that moment?  When your eyes first started blinking in disbelief and you just knew right then and there, without a doubt, no question about it, that the blinking wasn’t going to stop, ever?  No matter what you did?  No matter how much you slept or how tight you clamped down those heavy lids and tried to think of something else?

I do, but good lord, where are my manners?  Of course I remember, and I should tell you about it sometime, but is now the time?  Is that any way to start telling people about my vacation, with a hundred off the wall questions?  No, I don’t think so, which, incidentally, is the first thing I’ve actually said here that wasn’t in the form of a question.  How can that be?  If you’d asked me beforehand, I would have told you it was impossible to talk to someone with only questions, but it appears I may have been wrong about that, just like I’m wrong about so many things.  It’s happened before and I can tell you, it’ll happen again.  I’m good at being wrong.  I know this.  I take it in stride.  It’s part of what makes me tick, you might say.  Part of what makes my eyes blink, and definitely part of what makes me say things like, “Stop the car.  I have some questions and there’s a man now.  We’ll ask him.”

Which reminds me, I really need to tell you about Leon. 

I’ve known some hairdressers in my time.  Hair stylists, if you will.  Barbers for you old-timers having a hard time with the adjustment.  I’ve had friends who were stylists, spent plenty of time in stylist’s chairs, and even dated a stylist or two, back in my day, but truth be told, Leon is the first hairdresser I’ve ever met who keeps a shotgun and two shells hanging on the wall, just above the shop’s chairs.  That’s right, you heard me right, I said chairs.  Two chairs, to be exact.  Who would ever have guessed there was enough hair in need of cutting around the tiny town of Chester, Arkansas to warrant a two-chair shop?  Certainly not me.  And a shotgun?  I know, I know.  Surely a pistol would be enough fire power to get the job done, tucked in next to the perm rods or hidden away in the drawer labeled COMBS, but the more I thought about it, the more it made complete sense.  Let’s admit it, there’s just no piece of salon equipment quite as impressive as a twelve gauge shotgun, no matter how you look at it.  And the more I listened to Leon’s story, the more I got the impression that he was as comfortable around shotguns as he was hair clippers, which might sound strange at first, but not if you’ve spent any time in rural Arkansas, or any out of the way place, for that matter.  Times are tough.  A man has to diversify his talents.

“My fourteenth shop,” Leon tells us, recounting details of other shops scattered throughout the country, most of them, apparently, located along the west coast. 

“Thirty years,” he says, “that’s how long I was away.  When I came back, the place was a bit run-down.”

As I look around, I can’t help but think that this time, Leon is there to stay.  This two-chair shop, located upstairs in the home that has been in his family now for four generations, will finish up Leon’s hair styling legacy.  This will be the place of his last stand, just as it was for his father, and his father before him, and his father before him, which isn’t saying that Leon comes from a long line of hair stylists, but rather that he comes from a line of men and women who are obviously firmly rooted to this rambling room of a house built into the rocky hillside just outside of Chester. 

Leon takes us back downstairs, passing through the kitchen and the parlor, ending up back where the whole tour began - the original room of the house - the tavern.  Yes, once again, you heard me right the first time - tavern.  Leon’s house, just like Leon’s story, is full of surprises.  The man is literally a walking definition of the word surprise.

Leon’s family has spent four generations tacking on one room after another to the sides of a turn of the century tavern.  We’ve already heard the story of Leon’s grandfather, who brought the marble-top bar with him from Algiers, Louisiana, back around the turn of the century.  Shipped, most likely, by train, which in those days stopped in Chester regularly because of the mill.  Chester, which now has a population of less then a hundred, was in those days bigger then nearby Ft. Smith, which now has a population surely over 100,000.  The railroad was big and thriving back then, we’ve already learned from the man sitting outside of the general store with his dog in the afternoon heat.  Thriving enough, we’re told, that it kept a whorehouse upstairs above the tavern (a different one then Leon’s) for the benefit of the railroad worker.

I can’t help but test the humor of the man.  You can never know about people, I think, unless you push them a little.  See what they’re made of.

“So, you ever go in there,” I ask him, my eyes nodding in the direction of the old hotel.  He looks me over, no doubt sizing me up.

“I’m not that fucking old,” he says.  “That was a hundred years ago.” We all laugh, except for the dog, who seems to be saving his strength.  The day still has a long way to go.

Anyway, it was after we’d met the man and his dog by the store that we stumbled onto Leon and his shop, and were being escorted around his home, given the grand tour.  If there is one thing I can say about the people of rural Arkansas, at least those I encountered, it’s that they’re open and friendly, easy to smile, and ready with a good story.

[ to be continued ... with pictures ... stay tuned ]

I don’t know why he puts himself through it, trying so hard to make sense out of it all.  People who write, or even people who try to write, it’s all the same thing, are insane.  Period.  You know this, don’t you?  It’s important.  Certainly something you should keep in mind.

Books seem like perfectly ordinary things, don’t they?  They’re all around us, after all, and once something surrounds us like that, we want to believe that everything is going to be alright.  We want to believe in books.  That they’re good and important.  That they’re somehow a recording of our importance and greatness, a real reflection of what makes us tick. 

I keep saying that, don’t I?  Makes us tick. Sounds like I’m talking about bombs, not people, but then, some time I have a hard time telling the difference between the two.  Everyone I meet seems like they’re ticking down towards some inner explosion, like they need a wire clipped just so they don’t go off in our face.  I think we call them relationships, but who are we kidding?  Aren’t we all just desperately trying our best to defuse the people around us so they won’t blow.

What was I talking about?  Books?  People?  Writing?  I’m not sure.  Writing, I think.  The madness of people, maybe.  Yes, that’s it.  I was trying to say something about madness.  About all these words we’ve surrounded ourselves with.  What are we thinking, looking for comfort or answers in what is surely nothing more then the end result of some person’s insanity?  Permanent madness reaching a temporary conclusion, that’s what books are, aren’t they?  Beginnings, middles, and ends, starting and stopping over and over again.  Tables and shelves full of them.  Whole buildings filled with books.  Chairs piled high with endless stories, everything spilling over onto the floor like the drool from some poor fool’s slack mouth as he tries to tell people about his time aboard the alien ship, but is actually recalling his memory of the peeling paint from the old root cellar door of his grandparent’s farm that was bulldozed away thirty years before to make way for larger combines.  But the memory sticks, so now he talks, the same way that the mad try to write.

Sure, I know it makes no sense.  That’s the point.  And yet, there he sits, my friend, measuring himself against the scale, wondering where he fits into the picture.  I love my dreamy friend, don’t get me wrong, but I swear, some people need way too much guidance to make it through the day.  How many times can you smack someone upside the head before your arms go numb?  You can’t create history from the scraps of a thirty minute conversation.  Even he should know that.

“You can’t actually pull rabbits out of hats,” I remind Imaginary Keith.  I am searching for some cliche that might actually pull him away from this foolish path he’s chosen.  Something he can cling to to help him through his day.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know,” I tell him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Quite pulling history out of your ass.” It’s no cliche, I know, but it should be.  Besides, it’s exactly the point I’ve been trying to make all along.

“Leave me alone.  I’m writing.”