If Imaginary Keith ever becomes historically significant, there are going to be certain questions that will pop up.  People will demand answers, because people, let’s admit it, are funny that way.  They want to know things that matter very little.

Like Spalding Gray.  Imaginary Keith sees people talking all about Spalding Gray, but realizes that he knows nothing about this man.  But he knows that he wrote and was in some movies and went floating in a river.

Maybe people will ask: Hey!  Imaginary Keith!  What about Spalding Gray?  And Imaginary Keith will turn and look faraway and dreamy, like he’s thinking of something that happened long ago, maybe something that he hadn’t thought about in a long time, and just now has resurfaced in his memory because of the curiosity of the people.  Imaginary Keith’s head may move slightly, up and down, just like curious people’s heads move when they too remember something from long ago.  And Imaginary Keith will stand there silently looking back at the curious people, giving them enough time for their own thoughts to drift a bit.  It will be a long enough silence that the curious people will begin to grow just a little bit uncomfortable.

Curious people, you might know, are uncomfortable with silence.

And then, finally, Imaginary Keith will say something.  Something like, “I just don’t know what happened to Spalding Gray.”

And because of the faraway look, and the dreamy eyes, and the slightly nodding head and the almost too long uncomfortable silence, the curious people will decide that Imaginary Keith has thought long and hard about the life and death of Spalding Gray.  They will think that there is great mystery here.  They will think that Imaginary Keith has clung to the hope that Spalding Gray will somehow survive floating in a river for two months.  That somehow he will turn up alive and well and kicking.  They will think so many things.  Their imaginations will run wild in that moment of silence as they try to fill something that is so unbearably uncomfortable.

So Imaginary Keith will answer the curious people’s questions by saying nothing.  Inside he will smile, thinking it is odd that silence can be mistaken so easily for reflection and knowledge.

And people, because they’re funny this way, will answer all of their own questions.  They will talk and talk and talk until they are sure they’ve said enough, making everything up as they go along.

I was thinking the other night about all of the things that slip through my life that are real but seem so unreal.  Things that I’ve seen with my own eyes, yet even at the moment of seeing them, begin immediately to surround themselves with doubts and questions.  Things that slip by so quickly, that even knowing they were real, I am left wondering because of the briefness I was exposed.

One time long ago, when Imaginary Keith was just a boy, he found himself sledding with his brother and a friend on a snowy hillside in Iowa.  A sunny, bright day.  A day after a storm, where the only thing showing against the blue sky is the intermittent cloud of your own breath and a handful of large, fluffy white clouds tumbling slowly along in the storm’s wake.

And on that day, now so long ago, Imaginary Keith had felt the need to look up into that sky.  Something pulled at his attention, and he remembers, even to this day, the pressure and bulk of his coat and many layers of clothing as he leaned back his head so that his eyes could reach whatever it was that called for his attention.  He remembers breathing slowly, so that the mist from his breathing wouldn’t be in the way.  He remembers a thick, gray, wool mitten coming up to shield his eyes from the sun as his eyes made the adjustment, going from the blinding snow white of the hillside to the deep, warm blue of the sky.

And on that long ago day, standing there on the top of that small hill, Imaginary Keith’s eyes found themselves resting on what appeared to be the front end of a large airliner, poking out from the clouds.  A large rounded shape, silvery white, sticking out slightly from behind a group of the large, puffy white clouds that hung low in the sky just over their heads.  Imaginary Keith sat and stared at the object, thinking that it looked like the nose of an airliner, but realizing at the same time that it didn’t move.

First in a low voice, and then louder and louder, Imaginary Keith called out to his brother and the friend, telling them to look up.  Something is up there, he said, knowing that they would look up and they would all see it.  Imaginary Keith took his eyes off of the object once, to see why his brother and the friend did not respond or say anything.  Only five or six feet away, surely they had heard him.  Surely they would want to look up and see whatever it was he was yelling about.  But when Imaginary Keith looked over at his brother and the friend, they were just standing there, silently staring straight ahead.  Imaginary Keith, looking straight at the two, told them to look up.  He pointed and motioned with his head.  He repeated himself, but the two boys just stood there, staring blankly at him.  They didn’t talk, they didn’t move, and they didn’t look up.

Imaginary Keith looked back up and the object was still there, poking out from behind the cloud even a bit more then before.  He watched it sitting there, wondering what it could be, knowing all along what it was.  He stared at it for maybe thirty, forty seconds, and then the object, silently and smoothly, slid behind the cloud in one quick motion and was gone.

And just as quickly as the object was gone, Imaginary Keith’s brother and the friend came back to life.  Suddenly they were talking and laughing and moving around, getting ready to head back down the hill.

Why didn’t you look up, Imaginary Keith asked them.  Why didn’t you say anything, he asked.

And the two boys just looked at Imaginary Keith like he was crazy.  What are you talking about, they said, then jumped on their sleds and disappeared down the hill, leaving Imaginary Keith to stand there all alone, thinking about what had just happened. 

But while a boy standing all alone on a hill might know what he has seen, he really has no idea just how hard it will become to separate real from unreal later in life.  He has no way of knowing that this is just the first of many things that will appear before his eyes and then disappear, leaving him to stand there wondering.  He has no way of knowing if he is better off for having seen the object, and now believing it, or whether it would have been better to be one of the other boys, staring blankly into nothing.

A neighbor is moving out this morning, and I see her trudging back and forth, going up and down the stairs just outside of my kitchen window.  No, it is not the church mouse who lives upstairs.  Her quietness lays over me still, like a goose down quilt, its presence comforting, yet hardly noticeable.  If the world was filled with four billion souls just like hers it would be a quiet, peaceful place indeed.  Of course, it would also be an incredibly scared place, where people scamper inside out of fear that some unruly gentleman might be so bold as to say hello while passing on a sidewalk.  I know her name, but will not tell.  I, too, will someday forget her real name, and she will then forever be remembered as the church mouse.  Just as it should be.

Was it the neighbor moving up and down the stairs that awoke me this morning?  I’m not sure.  But my eyes popped open while having some odd dream that seemed filled with imagery even a child could interpret.  It was a dream filled with the images of swimming long distances, lost identity, intimacy, and sexual ambivalence.

I, along with some others unknown to me in waking life, had missed a boat that would take us to our next destination.  We approached the docks from a high, treacherous mountain road that sat precariously near the edge of a cliff that twisted back and forth, following a coast line far below.  Someone else was driving the car, but driving erratically.  Our wheels constantly were leaving the edge of the pavement and skidding on the narrow, gravel edge.  I felt certain that the car would plummet down into the water, far below, yet recall not feeling too exceptionally frightened by the prospect.  I urged the driver to slow down a bit and get control, all the while feeling that I would like to reach the boat in one piece.

But the boat was missed.  The poor driving, it seems, had caused us to miss the launch time, and now we found ourselves stranded on the dock, far from wherever the boat was to take us.  But several people from the group decide that they will head out after the boat in much smaller rowboats, risking the high waves and uncertain conditions further out.  Not all make this decision, because it seems like one filled with potential disaster.  No one knows how far it is across the water, and the water is rough and cold.  Most, it seem, are content to stay behind.  So we climb into our flimsy craft, and begin rowing across what seems like river, lake, and ocean all at once.  The waves lap high on the sides of the boat, and it is clear that it will indeed be a dangerous journey.

We have not gone very far when I realize that I have forgotten my wallet.  Without my identity, the trip will be meaningless, because once reaching the other side, I know that I will be required to prove who I am.  I have no choice but to turn back, which means either forcing others to turn back with me in the boat or swimming off by myself against the heavy waves.  My decision, at this point, seems simple to make.  I bid farewell to the others, telling them that I will catch up (which everyone knows is impossible), then dive into the water.

I am a much better swimmer in the dream then I am in real life.  My strokes are steady and strong, and I make quick work of the distance back to shore.  Those who had decided to stay behind are there, waiting for me at the dock.  Not much time has passed, so they have not even begun to organize or settle into what is to become their new life - a life, I realize, that is centered around the idea of being left behind.

I begin searching for my clothes, or pants, or suitcase, or something.  Personal belongings are scattered everywhere - along the dock, near the edge of the water, and all along the road that lead back up along the cliff’s edge.  Some of those who have stayed behind have already started to scavenge through suitcases and bags, searching for valuables.  It is a desperate act of self-preservation.  Most of the people, however, are simply lost and lethargic.  They are, for the most part, doing nothing more then milling around the dock, talking with one another in low voices, wondering how long they will be able to watch the small boats off in the distance.  The main boat, the one we have all missed, has disappeared from sight long ago.  And when I stop and look out across the water myself, I see nothing.  Even the small boats have disappeared.  The people, it seem, either have better sight then me or are staring at nothing.

I find my suitcase, halfway up the cliffs, dumped and scattered alongside the edge of the road.  My wallet, with my identification, is nowhere to be found.  I creep to the edge of the cliff, wondering if it has somehow fallen over and is lost forever.  But this doesn’t seem likely.  My grip is tight on the edge.  My balance seems more precarious then it did earlier, speeding along in the car.  My eyes seem locked on the water, far below, but a sound makes me turn, and I see a young boy, stealing off, my wallet in his hand.  I give chase, catching up with him just as he slips inside some sort of house or shelter.

My wallet and identification are easy to get back.  The boy is young and easily persuaded, both by my size and by the intensity of my demand.  I have no intention of leaving without my identification.

But here the dream becomes less clear.  Somehow, after my wallet is recovered, the boy disappears and I find myself talking with several people.  They are some of the adults who have made the decision to stay behind, and now I am with them, listening to their stories with a mixture of concern and pity.  I genuinely feel for their situation, and want to help somehow, yet know that I will only be drawn in.  If I stay too long, I will miss any opportunity I have to catch up with the others.  I must begin swimming soon.  The feeling of running out of time, mixed with the feeling that these people are in need of help, pulls on me in two very different directions.

My conversation with these people seems to become more and more of a conversation with one woman in particular.  So much, in fact, that I eventually find myself drawn into a room with only her.  We are alone, we realize, and without a word, find ourselves hugging.  The closeness of this contact is not lost on us.  We are both more then a little frightened by the uncertainty of what the future holds.  The feel of the woman against my chest seems like strength for decisions that must be made alone.

But I find myself, even at this moment, at odds with myself and my own emotions.  I can feel the comfort of the hug.  I find myself lost in the intimacy of its embrace.  But at the same time, I feel myself detached.  A part of me watches the embrace from some far off position, as if I am really standing on top of the cliff itself, seeing everything all at once - the large boat pulling away from the dock, the hope of the people as they climb into the smaller crafts to give chase, the uncertainty of the crossing, the cold, dark blue of the crashing waves, the look in the boy’s eyes as he tries to escape my chase, my own look of fear in the moment that I realize my identity is missing.

From this vantage point I watch everything.  I am on the cliff, but without the sound or feel of the wind.  I see everything, but hear nothing.  The distance is too great.  I can see the woman’s lips move, she is saying something, but I cannot hear her.  I realize that I am seeing myself undress the woman, but at the same time, notice that I am fully clothed.  She is exposed; I am not.  This woman, who I cannot even hear, mouths words to me that only my eyes can hear.  The silence roars all around me, and I watch myself go through motions that seem impossible to witness.

I watch her, both from my vantage point and through a reflection in my own eyes.  They seem different images, and I wonder how this can be.  In the reflection she is lost in a moment that seems eternal.  But from my vantage point, high on this cliff, I see that I am already walking away from the bed, and the woman, and the moment.  I see with clarity the real reason that we have been brought together, and I see with as much clarity the briefness of our moment.

But what I see more then anything else, from this vantage point, is that inside, she is no more lost in the moment then I was the moment we first embraced.  Somewhere inside she is not lost, and it is only her eyes and her words that give the illusion.  Her body, it seems, is looking in the wrong direction for answers.  I am no answer, only a comfort.  Her eyes need to close if she is to see inside.  Her lips need to stop moving, if she is to hear herself speaking.  I realize that we are all lost and detached, all of us, all at once, and I quickly stand up and look around, thinking that I will see her, sitting up here somewhere near me on this cliff, watching everything herself.  She, too, will be watching her own life unfold.  This is what I think.  Like me, she will be watching reflections, only they will be reflections of me and of my desires.  I will see myself through her eyes.  But there is no one there.  I see nothing.

So I leave the woman and the cliff’s edge.  The dock is now empty, except for me.  I step into the water and begin to swim.

One day into a new age and I get sick.  Figures.  My nose doesn’t work, my ears throb, and a steady flow of magma snot runs runs down my throat.  The pressure builds and pulses.  My head could blow any minute now, just like St. Helens back in 1980.

The only difference here is that the crotchety old man sitting on the side of the mountain is me.  There is no Harry Truman and sixteen cats.  No pink cadillac.  No hidden moonshine and a stash of loot locked in a safe. 

Just me and my head.

My only regret will be that I won’t get to see the ash that filters down to earth after my explosion.  Will it be light and fluffy?  Thick and dark and a real mess?  Or maybe sticky, like good snow.  And kids all over the neighborhood will rush out to make snowmen with my ash.  And every snowman will look different and odd because they will have somehow shaped themselves into the things that I once imagined on better days.