I’ve been here in the house for about a week, and have to report that I’ve lost four light bulbs and two animals, which I think everyone might agree, is a strangely high number for both.  There have been no known power surges, and believe it or not, all animals have been fed and watered with better regularity then I’ve even given to myself over the last couple of years.

There is no record of when the bulbs blew.  That would be stupid.  But Spinner the Gerbil was found stiff and buried under a thick mound of pine shavings and shredded toilet tissue just three days ago.  There was a funeral, of course, with three people in attendance, and Spinner was laid to rest under the small Japanese maple at the north end garden, where all the small animals end up that my son cares anything about.  It was, I think, the easiest funeral we’ve had in years.  A gerbil grave, it ends up, takes only about two good scoops in the fertile garden soil, to make it deep enough to go beyond the range of curious dog noses.

Bye Spinner, we all said, some with more enthusiasm and honesty then others, then pushed the dirt back into the hole and the funeral was over.

I wish I could remember everyone who was buried under that tree, or even around this farm, for that matter.  But I’ve been on or around this place ever since I moved to Oregon in 1986, and a lot of animals can come and go in eighteen years, although I should mention that the maple has only been in place for about five or six years, so if you come looking for skeletons, you won’t find them all under that tree.  But if you did dig there, I’m pretty sure you’d find three chickens, two rabbits, a bird, a mouse, and now, a gerbil.

About fifty feet further to the north, if you looked, you’d see a curly willow, and if you dug under there, you’d eventually bump into the bones of Floyd the miniature donkey.  I should find a picture of Floyd.  Everyone liked Floyd, with his deceptively grumpy look and his big, dirty-toothed smile.  Floyd was content to be led around the yard for hours on end with any child plopped onto his back, so I guess in that sense, he and I were a bit alike.  Okay.  And maybe the deceptively grumpy look.

I couldn’t tell you why, but the bones of Bear the Chow Dog patrol the western fence line, clear on the other side of the property, away from everyone else’s bones.  Bear came with the farm, a long time ago when my mom and dad wandered away and abandoned everything, leaving everything in my care without saying a word.  Honest to God, not one word.  It was just assumed, I guess, that I would show up to take care of things, even though I didn’t live here at the time.  A thirty mile drive, round trip, to feed Bear, a small herd of cows, and a barn full of cats, then wander through the house to see what else had been left behind.  It was a strange time, sitting there in that empty, cold house, looking through a garbage bag full of old family pictures that had been left sitting in the dust under an old bed, stripped of it’s sheets.  I took a few pictures, thinking back then that they wouldn’t miss a few, but now realize that I should have taken the whole bag.  Nothing would have been missed.  I know that now.  But back then, I guess I still held onto the idea that the pictures meant something to someone else besides me, and that they’d be back for them, and that their home in the black trash bag under the bed was only a temporary hiding place.  A safe place to remain while mom worked through her new relationship with the overly possessive man and dad wandered silently around the world, doing whatever it is that he did.  No one knows because no one talks about it.  Just like no one knows what finally happened to the sack of photographs.  One day it just disappeared, and I can only guess that dad finally carted it off to some storage place where it was finally forgotten about once and for all. 

The farm’s eastern flank is patrolled by the bones of every mouse, gopher, mole or vole ever hunted and killed by the farm’s dogs.  The dogs kill them, drop them somewhere near the back door, then I fling them by the tail over into the field.  There aren’t enough trees on this farm to bury all the mice, just like there isn’t enough time or energy to even try.  In eighteen years, I bet I’ve flung hundreds of rodents over the fence, and I’m sometimes surprised I don’t hear the crackling of bones when the cows walk by.

The south is patrolled by no bones at all, but rather by a two-lane strip of asphalt.  But some people call roads the backbones of this country, so I guess in that sense, there are bones.  The road, incidentally, happens to be the very reason that Bear’s bones ended up next to the dwarf peach tree along the west fence.  I’d just climbed into bed, and even though I’d never heard it before, I recognized instantly the dull thud of a black dog on a black road on a black night playing with a passing car.

There will be no cake and no champagne toasts.  No tiny sandwiches, no fresh vegetable trays, no chips or trail mix or dips of any sort.  There will be no appetizers at all, just like there will be no decorations.  No streamers, no balloons, no clever signs or specially imprinted napkins.  As a matter of fact, there will be nothing out of the ordinary to even suggest that it is an anniversary.  No special pictures, no well thought out entry, and no new layout.  Yes, it’s an anniversary, but I’m no fool.  One year is not a big thing.  Nothing to jump up and down about.  I won’t be writing home or putting my picture in the local paper or even taking the day off from work.  One year is just not that big, and yet, here it is, staring me in the face, demanding some sort of attention.

After one year of writing here I’ve discovered a few things, which I suppose I could share.  We’ll make these things the cake and champagne.  A little will be plenty, and too much will make us all sick.  I’ll try to be brief.

It was only last night that I happened to notice the date and realized the significance.  One year of Word Shadows.  One year of trying to separate time, so that work and words could both be given their due.  One year of trying to shape words around truths, which I saw last night, as I reviewed everything that I’d written over the year, has not been nearly as successful as I had hoped.  Oh well.  Maybe truth doesn’t come around until the second year, or maybe it’s the fifth.  I have no way of knowing.

As I looked over what I’d written, I discovered that I’m about 95% stuffing.  Crap.  Bullshit.  Fluff, if you will.  I talk around everything and even then, have a hard time choosing the right words.  But maybe 5% of the time (and here I’m being generous with myself, given the nature of the holiday), I strike a cord that is at least close to what I intended to say when I started writing, and that, at least, gives me hope.

I discovered that everything on these pages is just free thinking, which means that nothing was ever planned.  Not once did I sit down to write with anything on my mind, and simply typed what popped into my head.  This alone might explain why no story thread is ever is followed through to completion.  Just about every Imaginary Keith story I can think of ends at a dead end.  Did you ever realize that?  Oh well.  Cheers.

I discovered that I had not written at all about what I thought I would write about, or at least when I’d attempted to do so, had failed miserably.  Oh well.

I discovered that I had written almost absolutely nothing about my daughter, with the exception of maybe one sentence in one list, and I have to wonder what that could possibly mean.  Do I have something to say that might be better left unsaid, or am I just pulling punches, afraid of who might be hurt?

I discovered that without even knowing it, I had started a collection of working men toys.  Charlie Brown pushing his mower.  Headless Lawn Man.  A Little Tykes generic laborer, dressed in green and blue.  Some tiny, heavy equipment operator, plucked from his last job site so he can sit up by my books, forever posed at his controls, trapped now in some form of early retirement.  Yukon Cornelius on his constant search for silver and gold.

But an anniversary calls for something special, something homemade, so when I realized last night that today would be the one year anniversary, my son and I broke out the box of packing peanuts and a damp sponge and set to work to create something worthy of 365 days of blogging. 

Let me present to you, for your viewing pleasure, a bust of myself, formed with nothing but love and patience, packing peanuts, and water.  And of course, two blue marble eyes to symbolize my intensity for your attention.  Gaze into them.  Search for me.  Protect me or throw water on me and watch me melt.  The choice is yours.

If anything, I discovered that it has been a year of things left undone.  Ideas started but not finished.  Stories imagined but not written.  So in that sense, it has been a year just like any other year.  If nothing else, I am one big collection of things undone.  A museum piece of procrastination.  A endless film clip of every dropped ball.

I discovered that I have battled a major depression and am slowly winning.  I discovered I have an uncanny ability to float even when I should sink.  I am silent when I should talk, and talk when I should remain silent.

I discovered that it is possible for the death of a complete stranger to have more effect on me then the death of someone I know, but still don’t understand what this means.  Do I distance myself from those closest to me?  Am I guilty of romanticizing everything lying just outside of my reach?  Do I think I have something inside of me that other people need?  Am I that foolish?  Or is it the other way around?  I have no idea.  What I do know is that people disappear into the earth every single day, and yet, most of us hardly give it a passing thought.  I don’t understand this.

Say a few words, Keith.  Speech, speech.  So I sat down last night and looked through what I’d written, and pulled out a few things that made me smile.  Some are only a sentence or two, some a paragraph, some entire entries.  Most of what I saw begged for death by delete key, and my finger hovered over the keyboard more then once.  But I wasn’t there to cleanse, I told myself, but to search. 

And as stupid as it seems to me to create a list of things that I’ve written that I like, here it is.  Cheers.  Bottoms up, which in list talk, I think means “in no particular order.”

1. Shadow Day

Imaginary Keith would make an excellent runner.  If it were not for the inexhaustible excitement of the one young boy, Imaginary Keith would close his eyes and follow his feet.  His heart would beat, his feet would move, and together they would become a soothing rythym.  At night I would shine the flashlight for him, so that he would not have to stop.  He would fly across the land.  He would run so far that thin, wiry men, running across mountain tops in Kenya would step aside to let him pass.

2. from Separating

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.

3. The People Deserve Answers

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.

4. Six Feet

What if being pushed into a grave is nothing more then the universe doing its best to hold us down?  Trying to be helpful. 

5. from Skinny Legs

The two of us would never wrangle anything.  We wouldn’t wear cowboy boots, ever do any ropin’, or have a single shirt with a yoke.  As a matter of fact, you’d be hard pressed to find two worse cowboys, either east or west of the Mississippi.

6. from Separation :: Part Two

I have begun to think that any man can withdraw into his own mind.  I have begun to think that memory both saves us and kills us, all in the same moment, without our even knowing it.  Connecting us while it separates.  Comforting us while it hurts.

7. from Passing Quietly

As I listened, I couldn’t help but think that Valerie passed from life in exactly the same way I remembered her living it, dying so quietly that twenty five years would pass before I would hear the sound.

8. from Counting Hobos

. . . while a handful of hobos are dangerous, a thousand or so wouldn’t cause as much trouble as one would expect.

9. from When I Think Of Emily

Can you imagine the world all around Dickinson, drawn into her hungry eyes, distilled of its perceptions and dressings, then offered back to those who dared?

10. Things With No Direction

11. Confusion Magnet

12. from Thursday

“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.”

13. from Poking At Things With Sticks

I don’t know about other people, but I have begun poking at things with sticks.

14. from Carved In Stone

When I die I will have all of my ideas carved into stone, and it will tower over me and my dead neighbors, peeking through the tops of trees.

15. from Conspiracy

A blind man once asked a deaf man how to waste time. 

The deaf man said nothing.

16. from Transparencies

I knew a man worn out so badly that you could see right through him.  He had fought his own depression for so many years that when he did finally begin to recover, it was too late.  The tiredness had become part of him.  He wore hopelessness like a skin.  I would sometimes sit around, just waiting for him to say something, but of course he never did.

17. from Dear Therapy Council :: Three

Is that how this therapy thing works?  Me guessing what you’re guessing, trying all the time to outguess myself so I don’t stumble and say the wrong thing?  Damn it.  Well, there’s no going back now.  There never is, is there?  Anyway, I just want you to know that I don’t want to kill my wife, no matter what she’s done. 

18. from Asking

“Do I dare tell him the truth?”
“What can it hurt?”

19. from The Successful Story of One Small Business in America

But from a distance, the man’s tumble may look very different.

20. from Them

I asked him once what they all did, all day, running around like that in the forest with no clothes on, and he just smiled and told me that it was no different then anywhere else.

21. from Stupid Lists of Everything

It’s funny how a person’s mind sometimes wanders and you end up having conversations with things that have no way of talking back to you.  Like that broken television.  All the while I’m staring at this rose stem disappearing into some girl’s cleavage, I’m thinking, fucking television, why’d you have to up and quit on me now?  You couldn’t have waited a few months?  A year maybe?

22. from Things That Never Happened

“Good bye, Superman,” I said, and then the phone went dead.

23. from Blowing

In the park one day, the center of the universe slapped up against my leg . . .

24. from Tyrannical Father

I have to believe that inside of us all, and especially with children, is the desire for stability.  We want to know where we stand.  We want to know our place in the world, even if it ends up being only the small world of just our own home.

25 from Until They’re All Invented

She has had a new family now for more then ten years, and yet I still don’t know their names.  They tell me, but somehow the sound never vibrates my eardrums.  Nothing makes it into my head.  I know they exist but would be hard pressed for details beyond that.

26. from Breathe In, Breathe Out

I am glad to be reminded that dreams are sometimes nothing more then the past becoming all tangled with the present.  And that sometimes dreams are just like taking in life along Bay Lake - there is no way you can do it all.  There’s just too much there for one breath, or one dream, so you do your best to take it in, and then do your best to let it out. 

But looking everything over, I think maybe the following two lines were my favorite.  If I’d written only them, and nothing else, I think I would have been just as happy.

“I have no idea why people even insist on talking with one another.  It’s like pounding good ideas into a loaf of fresh, warm bread.”

So Happy New Year, all you strange, wonderful people, whoever you are.  Thank you for stopping by, and thank you for reading.  Thank you for being my fresh, warm bread.  I’ve enjoyed you all very much.  Every single bite.

I wish it wasn’t spam, because I would love to have just gotten three emails from my three friends named Sakhalin L. Storefront, Fractures U. Speculative, and Outlasts H. Lew.  And if we were friends, it would probably mean that I could read Russian, and that they were all on their way to meet me for a late lunch.  Maybe Sakhalin wants to go shoot some pool, and maybe Fractures just wants to sit around and talk.  I don’t know what Outlasts wants to do.  He’s the quiet one of the group.  Even quieter then me.

Hey, why don’t we go over and see my brother’s giant Spongebob, I say.

Sakhalin says “cool” and Fractures says “sure”, only they both say it in Russian, but because they’re my friends and not spam, I understand everything perfectly.  Outlasts says nothing, but nods approval.  Outlasts is a lot like Mortimer, and they usually sit around, whispering stories of their conquests to each other.

But of course Sakhalin L. Storefront, Fractures U. Speculative, and Outlasts H. Lew are not my friends.  They’re spam and write me letters in Russian that I can’t understand.  And because of this, they don’t get to climb up onto the roof of my brother’s house to pose for a picture in the fading light with the giant Spongebob.  Maybe they actually could make my penis longer, or sell me cheap prescription drugs, or show me the internet’s best collection of schoolgirl pictures (I’m guessing Sakhalin on this one), but they certainly won’t be standing there on that roof with me and my son.

Besides, who needs anything longer when you have a ten-foot tall Spongebob Squarepants.  According to my brother, I’m told that the nose alone took more then five minutes to blow up, and that with that air-thingy locating right near the tip of the foot-long nose, somehow looked more then a little compromising to perform.  I wasn’t there, but I’m told there was general snickering all around.

I received a new pillow for Christmas, but I’m afraid my head isn’t heavy enough to use it.  It’s some sort of memory pillow, and is as heavy and dense as a fresh loaf of home-baked sourdough bread.  My head just sort of sits on top of it, and hardly sinks in at all. 

Now I’m even more perplexed on whether or not I should send in the registration card that came with my new pillow.  I’ve never heard of registering pillows before, but then, these are new times we live in.  The card urges me to register my pillow in case my pillow is ever stolen and I need to file an insurance claim.  Registering will assure that I am properly re-pillowed without delay.  Those aren’t actually the words they used, but close enough.

I’m thinking about calling my insurance agent today, to see what she thinks.  I may very well live in the heart of a crime infested, pillow snatching area and be totally unaware.  Will this affect my property values?  Should I get dead-bolts?  How can I disguise my new pillow to look like a worn out feather pillow?  Does the county extension office have brochures about this sort of thing?

It occurred to me in a dream that I have spent a good part of my life as an impostor.  I had returned to my alma mater, where one old English professor who happened to still be alive recognized me, took me by the hand, and walked the grounds with me for hours, talking about old times.

It is the dream of an impostor.  Mediocre college students come and go without a second thought, and I was, at best, a mediocre student.  My grades were fair, but my thinking was missing.  As far as I know, I may have only had one original thought in all those college years put together.  I was content to mimic then forget, and now, nearly everything that once passed through my head as knowledge has vanished.  I remember nothing.  I earned a degree, but I think I may have lost it.  Honestly, I can’t find it anywhere, and I’m beginning to panic.  I mean, what if after all these years I want to become a professional impostor and hang the degree on the wall.  What am I going to do then?

I went to my brother’s on Christmas and asked Mortimer.  He’s the one guy I know who’s stayed the same through all the years.  Well, except for the drinking.  I don’t remember him drinking so much when we were kids.  Maybe only one or two, but never before noon.

I am not dead, although my lips might very well be.  They are as dry as December corn husks and suck up Carmex as fast as I can wipe it on.  When I talk, the sound of them rustling together reminds me of a cold, Iowa winter blowing along the edges of some forgotten cornfield.

Santa came to our house, disguised as a man with a sore throat and messy hair.  He left some toys for my son, a nice flashlight for me, and a banana for my son’s mom.  That made the boy laugh.  “A banana?” he said.  I kind of like the sore throat Santa.  Such a joker.

On Christmas I unpacked books.  I had to stuff tissue up my nose to keep if from dripping on everything, but it was worth it.  Shelf after shelf of books, appearing out of nowhere, like a banana in an ex-spouse’s Christmas stocking.  As each book passed through my hands, I had to wonder how I ever married people who didn’t ever really think of books.  In hindsight, it makes no sense, but then they say that love is blind.  She showed up on Christmas day to see what Santa had brought, and can you believe it, said that she didn’t like the kitchen sink in her new house.  “I miss this sink,” she said, staring at my sink.  I’m not even sure the sponge was dry yet from me cleaning it.  Isn’t there an old saying that goes something like “packed everything except the kitchen sink”?

Last night I dreamt of Valerie, the girl from high school who I found out committed suicide several years ago.  I’d seen her coming and going from some building, but she would never make eye contact, even though I knew she’d seen me.  Just before I woke up, I saw her walk by again on her way to a bus.  My cellphone rang and it was her.  She wanted to talk, but it had to be quick.  Give me an address, I said, or a number.  Something so I can get in touch with you.  The bus was loading quickly and there wasn’t much time.  I don’t know, she told me.  I’m with someone who won’t even let my brother call me.  I just don’t know.  She tried to tell me her address, but it made no sense and I kept writing it down wrong.  We hugged and I told her she looked great, that she hadn’t changed a bit.  But as I said it, it wasn’t what I wanted to say.  She had changed.  She was better, and that’s what I wanted to tell her, but instead it came out wrong.  And then she slipped away with the crowd and climbed onto the bus and drove off.  I looked down at the gibberish on the paper and knew that I’d never see her again.

Can you call a cleaning lady the day after Christmas, just to see what she’s up to?  I have no experience with cleaning lady etiquette.  I think I need a good cleaning lady in my life, just like I’ll probably need a good ear, nose, and throat specialist in my life in about fifteen years.  That’s just a guess, though.  Maybe I’ll need some other kind of specialist.

One of the good things about being back home is turning the dogs out early in the morning and watching them charge out into the dark in all directions at once, barking their fool heads off at every dark lump that everyone knows by now are just dumb, sleeping cows that could care less.  Funny, kind of, how I eat chocolate candies the way a cow chews it’s cud.  I suppose if the dogs catch on they’ll start barking at me.

It is Thursday, right?  There’s no time to waste.  So at 8:00 a.m. I’m off to do a little holiday spending.  My first and last trip out into the great world of retail bustle.

It’s an odd Christmas, to say the least.  But I bet we can scrounge a tree together by tomorrow night, and even hang those stockings.  Ho ho ho.

Monday Night:

1. After cleaning refrigerator for what seems like all day, she arrives and drops off son, takes one look at the work I’ve done, and suggests that we exchange refrigerators between houses.
2. Sore throat worsens.
3. Wake up all night long because of throat

Tuesday Morning:

1. Beds need to be moved from farm to her house
2. Bank calls.  Business account about to be overdrawn.  Can I make it to the bank within thirty minutes.
3. Brushing teeth and peeing at same time to save time.  Phone rings, I flush, toilet plugs.
4. Can we come to Lowe’s to help buy washer and dryer.
5. Constant money negotiations.
6. Throat worse.
7. Mail arrives.  Jury summons - January 3.  This alone proves that deferring duty does little or no good, since last August I had requested deferment until February.

Tuesday Afternoon:

1. Moving beds.
2. Scrubbing sinks.
3. Toilets and showers.  Nope.  Not yet.
4. But just look at that fridge shine.

Wednesday Morning:

1. Swallowing not allowed.
2. But wallowing in self pity, allowed.  Two hours maximum.
3. Move another computer and computer desk.  Gasping for every breath.

Wednesday Afternoon:

1. Drop off son at his mom’s house.
2. My house.  Her house.  Has a nice ring to it that still hasn’t fully sunk in.
3. Couch and a movie.  Rest.
4. Rise occasionally to make sure animals aren’t starving.  All is well.
5. Dish out telephone disipline to unruly son.  Twice
6. Drive three miles, park in front of Mac Store to use wireless connection.
7. Resist temptation to go in and buy stuff.
8. Exchange rental movie.
9. Go home.  To my house, not my apartment.  My house.  Everyone, say it with me.  My house

Okay.  I have a sore throat.  A sore throat and my ears hurt.  And a stiff and aching back.  Anything else?  Hmmm.  Oh yeah, I’m not used to cat wandering up by my face and purring the moment I show any signs of life sometime around five in the morning.  But that’s not medical, is it?  Well, the cat, like my forever aching back, is something I can adjust to.  But the sore throat - it’s got to go.  I have no time for it.

The upside, I suppose, is that I can’t swallow, making it an excellent diet plan for the next few days.  Although I don’t suppose I’ll be losing those extra thirty pounds I’ve packed on now, will I?  Not in the three or four days it takes to feel better.  I don’t know about you, but I think sore throats are downright uncooperative.

And yet, in spite of my uncooperative body, I push on.  I disassembled the refrigerator entirely, cleaning and polishing every single surface until I shined like new, wearing nothing but my underwear and socks.  That last part is just an added detail, for those of you who enjoy visualizing at a slightly more involved level.

You know, I don’t think a moment goes by where I’m not coming up with some fantastic new business opportunity just waiting to happen.  Like cleaning refrigerators in your underwear, for instance.  Okay, here’s how it works.  We all know the story of the handsome and strong pool boy, scrubbing away with his shirt off, his tan glistening while some hungry woman stalks him from the wings.  Well, let me tell you, that’s rubbish.  First off, not that many hungry women have pools needing cleaning, and let’s face it, most of us are not tan, glistening pool boys.  Time alone sees to that.  So, what we need is a more practical fantasy, don’t you think?  So let me present to you, for your entertainment and pleasure, Refrigerator Man.

Imagine, if you can, the following:

A slightly overweight man enters your house dressed only in underwear and socks and proceeds to clean your refrigerator while you watch.  He is meticulous with every detail, and is completely at ease with the rise of his belly, moving back and forth between refrigerator and sink dozens of times as he removes every shelf for it’s individual scrubbing.  Egg container, butter dish, produce drawer, Refrigerator Man’s attention to detail is unparalleled, and you watch with increasing fascination as he cleans every corner and every groove of every rubber seal.  Refrigerator Man misses nothing.  And when he’s finished, before everything is put back into the refrigerator, he will take a photograph that will become the trademark of the company.  You select one food item of your choice, and then select from a large variety of heads that Refrigerator Man brings with him.  The heads could represent anyone or anything to you - an ex, an relative, a nosy or hated neighbor, even your own husband or wife who refuses to help keep the refrigerator clean.  A picture is then taken of the item and head that you choose, digitally printed on site, and presented to you as a refrigerator magnet.

This sample picture, for instance, has a Ken head representing a much younger me, posing next to a jar of Blackberry Honey Cream, which isn’t actually my favorite, but in this case, happened to be the one and only thing left in the refrigerator after throwing away all of the expired foods.  But I thought it made a fine picture, and I’m sure, will make an equally lovely refrigerator magnet.

You see, pool boys come and go, but the Refrigerator Man, now he’s someone you could keep around for the long haul.  Everyone has a refrigerator, and every single one of those refrigerators needs a good thorough cleaning.  Come on, admit it, wouldn’t you be thrilled if Refrigerator Man arrived at your door?

Unfortunately, I’m much too busy right now to work out the details, what with moving and my sore throat and all.  But if someone wants to work up the business plan for Refrigerator Man, Inc., I’m willing to throw in with them 50-50, just for helping out.

I might suggest we throw in a disclaimer of some sort.  You know, something like: Shape and style of Refrigerator Man may vary upon region and/or season.  A preference for either boxers or briefs must be mentioned at time of order.

With no telephone service in the house, the Tivo is hopelessly out of whack.  It’s a different cable service, here along the fringes of civilization, and the channels are all scrambled around.  Not like there’s time for television anyway.  Cleaning is still top dog around here.  Although I did sneak in a ten minute break yesterday, sitting down in front of Discovery channel just long enough to watch the mating habits of the porcupine.  I never knew that it all began with an aggressive urine shower.  Urine, it ends up, plays an important part in the porcupine’s reproductive life.  Who would have known?

You’d think that I could take that little fact and run with it, but truth is, I’m pooped.  It’s the cleaning thing that’s doing it.  You see, the porcupine is all about scent, and apparently doesn’t mind pooping and sleeping in the same place.  As I sat there watching, I couldn’t help but compare some of the habits of the porcupine with my ex-wife.  Not so much the urinating (as far as I know), but rather that whole fascination with living with so much shit all around her.  For her it’s not actual human feces, but rather the kind of trinket feces you pick up after years and years of unrelenting shopping.  Dust traps that apparently worked exceedingly well.

But I’m here in the house now, and it’s not about her anymore, it’s about me.  Me.  Me and my den.  You see, I like my den neat and tidy.  Simple and sparse.  In my mind, comfortable living is a lot like effective advertising, and isn’t afraid of generous amounts of white space.  I like to think that the open space we surround ourselves with says just as much about us as the things we use to fill the space. 

But I’m not saying I don’t have my own porcupine tendencies.  I looked in the mirror this morning, and realized that I desperately need a shave.  And years ago, when some friends and I were on our way to play basketball, we all crowded into the front seat of a truck, and Big Charlie told me that my leg hairs were too bristly.  But I think he compared my legs to a pig, not a porcupine.

Bleach is my friend.

Old vacuums will always do their best under pressure.

I ran out of gas today, but coasted into the station.

I wasn’t so lucky with the washing machine.  It overflowed.  It’s a septic problem, which means, it’s my problem.

I think I may have packed and moved most of the spiders to her house.

I knew the woman was a poor housekeeper, but come on . . . .

One room at a time.

Four hours cleaning in the kitchen alone.  It’s almost done.

At random I picked a housekeeper number from the phonebook.  She appears friendly and wears her hair back in a housekeeper-friendly ponytail.  The bathrooms are all hers.

I miss my internet connection.

I loved waking up, opening the curtains, and seeing cows staring back at me.  Not right outside my window, mind you.  But over in the field, where they belong.

Yes.  Everything where it belongs.  That’s the key.

And treasures everywhere I look.  Like this fish I caught, while trolling the waters of the second grade, using only a small boy as bait.

This morning the task of cleaning the entire house by myself seems daunting.  Maybe it’s just because there are still small piles of things in every room.  Maybe once those are boxed and gone, the actual cleaning won’t seem like such a job.  I’m considering hiring a troop of cleaning ladies to march through and whip it into shape for me, although the budget screams no.

And there is the issue of painting.  Ten years ago, when we moved in the first time, there were rooms and hallways that needed painting but weren’t for some reason.  And since the house will probably not be this empty again for some time, I suppose I should add that to my Christmas list of things for me to do.

1. Finish moving her stuff out - 1 day
2. Clean - 2 days
3. Paint - 2 days
4. Clean carpets - 1 day
5. Move my stuff in - 1 day
6. Clean the apartment - half day
7. Find the croaking frog that’s hiding in the garage - ? days

I stopped for breakfast this morning at a tiny diner that’s near the farm, making it just in time to see a man give the young waitress a $100 tip.  I was sitting at the counter, and she’d just finished telling me about how hard it was to make a living.  She asked me if it was time to start thinking about taxes, since it was the first time that she’d ever have to file a tax return.  She talked about tips and rent and how the two never seemed to meet in the middle, and I listened attentively, thinking about how she had such a long, long way yet to go.  And then, just as she finished her sad but common story, up walked the man, hands her a hundred dollar bill, and leaves the diner.

I believe that life is slowly improving, thanks to my friend, the rusty garden crow who watches over me night and day.

Selfishness hides in many forms.  Can you hang these blinds?” is selfishness, when the flip side of the coin has me cleaning up ten years worth of dust and dead skin cells.

I have decided tonight in favor of drinking.  I’m three beers into the night, and an hour and a half away from meeting up with my brother and his wife.  It’s a birthday party, I guess, at some karaoke bar, where someone is supposed to be serenaded.  I’m warming up right now with a few classic Nazareth hits.  For some reason, I’ve been nothing but classic rock all week long.

I took some pictures of the farm house this afternoon, but everything ends up looking like war photos without the dead bodies.  I’ll post them later.  Have you ever actually seen what it looks like when you move a television off of the one spot it’s sat for ten years without moving, and the carpet around it is supposed to be some shade of white?  It’s like a Hiroshima shadow, that’s what it is.  It’s like a constant reminder of the television that is no more.  The television that nearly snapped my back moving across town.

But not all is lost.  My metal garden crow.  He’s still there.  And I have new couches.  Well, my old couches back.  Hurrah!  Old furniture!  No wonder I’m drinking tonight.

Did I tell you that the cops were hot on my trail?  No?  Well, they are.  I think.  A letter informed me yesterday all about Oregon’s Careful Driver laws, letting me know that I’ve crossed the line.  Two seat belt violations and a speeding ticket within eighteen months has put me on the hot list.  One more infraction within the next six months and I think the letter said I lose my license.  Can you believe it?  This whole world is so bent out of perspective that nothing makes any sense any more.

I did watch the news while sitting at the bar drinking a couple of beers.  I know, three isn’t a couple, but I’m practicing, just in case I’m pulled over later tonight.  So . . . I watched the news while having my “couple” of beers.  I like the way people hover around the president whenever he does something.  Have you ever really noticed that?  Can you imagine what that’d be like?  If people hovered around me like that I’d pretend to love God and start a war too.  It’d drive me that crazy.  I need my space, and would, of course, never make a good president.

There were a lot of interesting stories to help me through my beers.  A California symphony conductor had a standoff with the police and committed suicide.  Someone stole a fetus right out of a woman’s stomach.  (Hey, the news prompter said “stomach”, not me.) And God, it seems, is mentioned more on television these days, recent studies show, but also in a more negative context.  The country of Bhutan has outlawed the sale of cigarettes, making it the first country in the world to do so, and a 90 year old woman gave chase to a purse snatcher.  Not in Bhutan (I don’t think).  Oh, finally, I saw that John Updike has gone and sold his book collection to a small bookstore.  Isn’t that nice?  Probably needed the money.

So much for my update.  I’m off to the farm to settle the animals into their bunks for the night.  I suppose I’ll have time for one quick story before scurrying off to the bar.  Barncat better not scratch me.  I look so unattractive when I’m bleeding.

When I have a spare moment sometime, I’m going to see what it feels like to be a human spambot.  I will go to someone’s blog and post one comment after another all day long until my fingers ache.  I will have no apparent purpose.  My comments will have no real meaning.

This entry, for example, would make a perfect comment in my human spambot experiment.

Between moving trips, I like to stop by the office occasionally and take a break, which in this case, means get some more work done.

The phone rings.

Hello, is this Keith?

Yes it is, how can I help you?

I’m just calling today to verify the information we have on file for your company.  Is the company’s name still (insert your favorite small, struggling landscape company name here)?

What is this information for?

I’m calling today to make sure that your company’s most recent information appears in the upcoming internet yellow page directory.  Up-to-date information will assure that your customers can effectively reach you, and that the billings, being sent out at the end . . .

Excuse me.  You said billings.

Yes sir.

Is this something that I will have to pay for?

Yes it is, sir.  This particular advertisement has been listed in the internet yellow page phone directory for the last two years.  Now if . . .

No thank you.  I’m not paying for internet advertising.

You’ve had this ad for two years now, and I think . .

Excuse me, perhaps you didn’t hear me in your rush to trick me into buying something.  I’m not interested in paying for internet advertising.  Now if you’ll excuse . .

We’re not a charity, we’re an advertising company.  Of course you have to pay for the service.

Listen.  I have never paid anyone for internet advertising.  That I know for a fact.

But I show you’ve had this ad with our company for two years, and . . .

And since I haven’t paid you, I guess that makes you a charity.

We don’t give away . . .

Good bye.

I now live in two separate houses, both looking like places that have gone out of business.  I am in limbo, and let me tell you, limbo needs a lot of cleaning, some spackle, and a few gallons of paint.  And not everything is as I thought it would be.  Take the animals, for instance.

I’d been led to believe that the new pup would go to live with her when I moved back to the farm.  Not so.  But this is okay, since I like the way the pup bounces nonstop off of the old dogs left shoulder, gnawing on her ear.

I’d also been led to believe that the cat would be leaving with her.  Promised it’d be leaving, if I’m not mistaken.  Oh well.  This will give me a chance to question her as to why she scratched the hell out of my favorite chair while I was away.

The gerbil stays, which I’d figured, but that’s of little concern.  Gerbils are not long for this world.

I’m told that the birds will be sold.  Lovebirds.  What need do I have for lovebirds?  “I’ll sell them soon,” she says, and until that day comes, decides that she will leave them with me.  It’s the same reasoning her brother has regarding old, broken down cars.  It’s a farm, with plenty of space!  Fill it up!

Four chickens who aren’t laying, I’m told.  Like the cat, they’ll need a good talking to as well.

Four obese cows.  I wonder if they know about the empty freezer?  I’ll be having a straightforward chat with them as well.  Let them draw straws or something.

And the horses.  Sixty horses running around and eating me out of . . . . no, thank god.  There aren’t any horses.  The neighbor has horses.  I can look across the field and see them any time I want.  I don’t have to feed them, brush them, clip their hooves, or look at their teeth.  It’s a perfect relationship.

Did I forget anyone?  Oh yes, Barncat.  Barncat has been around almost as long as I have.  With regards to the house, that is.  I don’t own a 43 year old cat, don’t get me wrong.  That would be creepy.  Barncat and I are good friends.  We have an understanding.  I go to the barn.  He wakes up and growls, comes down from the hay, purrs, and gets petted.  When he’s finished with me he scratches me until I bleed.  It’s a corporate relationship.  Barncat, I think, has clawed his way to the top.  A barn to himself and all the mice he can eat.  And fools like me with soft skin and slow reactions.

I married a girl just like Barncat once, but that’s a different story.

The beauty of moving is the rediscovery of so many lost and misplaced toys.  It’s the little ones that have fallen into every crack and crevasse, rolled under every conceivable piece of furniture, and buried themselves deeply into shelves, boxes, and dresser drawers.  Who are all these toys, and where do they come from?  Are they our friends?  I offer a few of the many possible explanations for their existence.

1. Toys hide from minimalists to escape certain death.
2. The world is held mainly together by this complicated array of “lost” toys.  Clean up or remove too many of them from their hiding places, and things begin to fall apart.
3. Most small toys are like the seeds of plants, lying dormant, waiting patiently for a bare, adult foot to present itself for poking.
4. Small toys will one day take over the world, flying about the universe in huge, toy box shaped spacecraft.  Their invasion has already begun, disguised mostly in the form of Happy Meal prizes.
5. The right combination of small toys, if properly aligned, can be interconnected to form both a basic hoop and straight stick, capable of keeping any turn-of-the-century kid happy for many hours on end.

I have turned up enough toys that I could roll a small pyramid around town on their backs.  If I had the time, that is, and actually owned a small pyramid.

I had a dream about an attractive, petite woman who climbed onto my lap and let her bathrobe fall open.  My eyes looked her over, up and down, and she smiled seductively, leaning in to kiss me.  Just before our lips met, her nose brushed lightly against the side of my cheek.

What?

I couldn’t believe what I’d just felt!

The tip of her nose had a whisker stubble more bristly then my own face.  The girl shaved the tip of her nose!  I broke off the kiss and she proceeded to show me a tattoo on the side of her thigh.  A caricature of some man, with so many words tattooed above his head, that I found myself wondering how many years it would take for this girl to grow into her tattoo. 

Then my thoughts drifted back to her nose whiskers, and I woke up.

And from the early morning fog, there appeared a stranger, dressed only in bubble wrap and wearing a small cardboard box as a hat.  It was the Moving Fairy.

You are getting closer, Keith.  You must not give up now.

But I’m so tired, and there is yet so much to do.

You have worked hard, Keith, to reach this point.

But if only I could have a short break.

Then a break you shall have!

And with one quick motion, the Bubble Fairy reached up and popped one of the small, plastic, bubble wrap bubbles that completely covered her.

Today you will have your break, Keith.  Go to your son’s school at 11:30.  You will eat lunch with him and his class, then accompany them to the theater, where you will watch The Polar Express.  Enjoy yourself.

Thank you, Moving Fairy!  Is there anything else I need to know?

Yes.  Avoid the cafeteria’s lasagna.

I will, Moving Fairy!

Until we meet again . . .

And then she was gone.  So a lunch date and a movie with a busload of third graders.  The Moving Fairy sure works in strange and wonderful ways.

So what if we all eventually find out that dying is just another form of moving.  We arrive in Heaven, packed in our coffins, only to discover that the big secret of the funeral home business has nothing to do with embalming, but rather that coffins are filled with packing peanuts when nobody is looking.

Someday I will die and someone will unpack me, and as I look around, I’ll realize that I see no fundamentalists.

“Hey, where are all the fundamentalists?” I ask.

“Oh, they’re not that important, so no one really takes the time to unpack them.”

“Yea, but all that time and energy, packing and moving. Seems like such a waste. I mean, look at all those boxes.  There must be millions of them. Why move them in the first place?”

“It’s God. He’s the obsessive compulsive. Can’t throw away anything.”

“You’re kidding me, right?  What about Hell?”

“Just a myth. Hell’s a storage shed out back. Politicians, school administrators, that sort of thing.”

“Lawyers?”

“I said it was a shed, not a warehouse.”

Day Two Rules of Engagement

1. Move fast and efficiently
2. Little stuff is expendable after the first day
3. Anything that slows you down is your enemy
4. Bubble wrap slows you down
5. Eating slows you down
6. Paying attention to dust and/or exposed carpet stains slows you down
7. A sore back slows you down, however . . .
8. A mop handle, with mop head removed, makes an excellent cane
9. Sore backs can mend when the war is over

Puff, puff, puff, puff.

Moving reminds me how out of shape I am.  Trying to describe myself ends up sounding like someone blowing up balloons.

My God, it’s full of stars crap and dust.

Yesterday never happened.  I don’t know what you think happened, but it didn’t.  I climbed out of bed early, just like I was told, and climbed to the top of the tower, just like I was told, and blew on that horn as loud as I could, just like I was told, but nothing happened.  A stray dog ran down the dark street, but I don’t think that’s what anyone had in mind.

Let’s get moving people!

But today!  Now today is the day!  No rain.  Extra guys.  Empty house.  Children-free from nine to three.  Yes, today is the day.  Couches and refrigerators and washers and dryers and anything heavy that you can imagine will be lifted and moved across town.  Dozens of boxes.  No, hundreds!  Two houses worth in one day, although I will admit, one house is a bit leaner then the other.  But no matter.  In just minutes I will blow that horn once again, and this time around nothing better go wrong.  There better be no stray dog running through the dark because this time, or I swear, I’ll rummage around in the boxes until I find the shotgun.  If the blast of a horn won’t get this thing moving, then I bet the working end of a double-barrel 12 gauge will.

We have one day to get this thing done!

I’m getting excited.

I was at the house last night, moving a few things back into the barn, when I stopped and looked up.  I hadn’t seen the stars like that for two years now.  I’d forgotten how I used to walk out at night all the time, just so I could look up.  Just me in the dark with the stars all around me.  Magnificient.  Someday I’ll tell you about the boy I met whose parents had sent him to a shrink because he spent so much time looking up.  Not me, someone else.  But that will have to wait.  Right now I’m busy.

Come on, everybody!  Let’s move!

I like when Imaginary Keith dreams about those days on the lake.  He pulls on that mower rope and walks around in the thin grass, the sandy, rocky soil visible between every blade.  He sits on that swing and walks up and down the stone staircases, circling the house time and again.  Fishing poles are stacked on the lower back porch, the dock always needs painting, the boat house hasn’t been used in years and rots into the lake.  The furnace, tucked into a dark corner of the basement, roars like a dragon as you drop pennies through the large, iron grate above, listening as they bounce off of it’s metal head.  He never hears her coming, and grandma chases him away laughing.  Only a grandmother could protect a dragon from a little boy with nothing but a smile.

But it’s only a dream, after all, and we have work to do.  It’s a big day, so I shake him awake.

“Get up.  You need to make coffee.”

“Why’d you wake me up,” Imaginary Keith complains.  “I was dreaming about . . . “

“I know you were.  I was watching.  Now get up.  I need some coffee.”

“I was looking at the house, talking to some people about . . . “

“I know.  And that house was thinner and taller then it should have been, wasn’t it?  And the front steps weren’t there, were they?  You just walked right in.  I told you I was watching.”

“That’s kind of creepy, you know.  Sitting around, watching someone else dream.  Don’t you have your own dreams?”

“Sure I do.  I dream of you getting out of bed and making me some coffee.  It’s a big day, you know.  Historically significant, one might say.” Imaginary Keith was climbing out of bed.  One thing I can say about him for sure - he’s a good sport.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been paying attention to nothing?  She begins her official move into the other house today.  We move her.  We help her pack, we load things up, and we help her move.  But first, we drink coffee.  Now come on, hurry up, we’re running out of time.  Historical days aren’t any longer then ordinary old days, you know.  To really appreciate them, you have to get an early start.”

“But it’s 4 a.m.”

“My thought exactly.  The day’s slipping away from us already.”

I suppose some might say that historic days are nothing more then dreams that someone took the time to write down, because in the end, they all look pretty much the same.  Given enough time, today will feel like nothing more then another of Imaginary Keith’s dreams.

“Were you dropping pennies down the grate?” I ask.

“I thought you were watching?”

“I was.  I just wanted to hear you tell it.  It’s better hearing it then watching it.”

“Oh, you should have been there.  The grate was so hot we could barely lay there.  The heat was drying out our eyes and then grandma . . . “

“I saw her coming.”

“You should have warned me.”

“No.  It’s better watching her chase you off.  If I warned you, neither one of you would run through the house laughing.”

“Keith?"

“Yes.”

“Do you think they were happy? I mean, we only really knew them when we were just kids.”

“I know.”

“So do you think they were really happy?  I mean, happy when no one else was around.  Just the two of them, there together.  Do you think they were happy then?”

“I don’t know, Imaginary Keith.  I thought about that this summer, as I stared at the graves.  I suppose life was just as hard for them as it is for the rest of us.  Harder, most likely.  But I like to think they were happy.  I like to think that it all meant something.”

“Yea, me too.”

“Maybe they just sat around all day thinking about when we’d show up.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“I always do, my friend.  I always do.”

Funny that this close to moving back into the house, I would start having dreams of my grandparent’s old house on the lake in Minnesota.  And not just dreams taking place at the house, but dreams about buying the house and living there.  Dreams that seem to take place not in any imagined past, but in the here and now, or at least as here and now as dreams can ever seem to get.

It’s four in the morning, and now I’m sitting here in Oregon, wide awake, when only minutes ago I was resting under the shade of the pines, looking across the slope at the house, wondering out loud with some people on whether or not I could actually live there.  Telling the people the history of the house, about the time I spent there as a child, about my family, and all of my aunts and uncles and cousins who would congregate there, and about my grandparents themselves, who lived there year around, holding it all together so that the rest of us could enjoy it, and eventually remember it, as a home away from home.  From where I sat, I could see the entire profile of the house, the sweep of its sidewalks as they came around the hill, each step down edged by a row of identically sized, round stones. 

To my left was the hill, and although I couldn’t see it, the gravel drive, softened by so many years of falling pine needles that cars seemed to move almost silently through the woods, as the drive curled its way between rocks and trees and eventually slipped between two, six-foot tall pillars of stone, set in place more then seventy years ago by grandfather’s hands.  The pillars marked the edge of the property and welcomed you in, and it was from there that the driveway curved down and around to bring you to the house, tucked comfortably into the side of the hill.

And to my right was the lake itself, the sheen from the water glimpsed from between every tree, as far left and as far right as the eye could see.  Houses, dotting the far shore, are barely visible, and I blot them out, one by one, just by holding up my thumb in front of my face and moving it slowly along the horizon.  The house, sitting there amongst the trees on that hillside, never ceased to amaze me through all the years, and when you were there, held tightly somewhere within the strength of it, looking out upon the lake with it, the house made you feel like you were part of the lake, and part of the house, all at once.  It was as if the logs in its walls hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be trees, but now somehow needed you to be their roots.  They reached out to you in a way that most houses can’t, pumping all of it’s energy and will to live directly into you, so that when you stepped outside, and walked across that sandy hillside, or skipped stones along the lake, listening to the water lapping up against the shore, you were just as much a part of the house as you were a person.  And when you breathed, the house breathed, and when you took in everything around you, the house took in everything around you.  And between the silence of the lake, broken only by the lonely call of a loon or the whispery quiet of reeds rubbing against each other in the breeze, and the feel of the pines reaching all around you, there would be only so much you could take in all at once, and it was then that the house called you back in, to help ease you of the burden of so much life.  Back inside, you could release everything, and the house would absorb it all.

I am glad to be reminded that dreams are sometimes nothing more then the past becoming all tangled with the present.  And that sometimes dreams are just like taking in life along Bay Lake - there is no way you can do it all.  There’s just too much there for one breath, or one dream, so you do your best to take it in, and then do your best to let it out.  Dreaming, after all, is a lot like breathing, and a lot like living, just a whole series of small, insignificant ins and outs that all add up somehow to something much bigger.  You can’t get caught up, thinking about one dream, just like you can’t get caught up thinking about one breath.  It takes them all to make any sense.  It takes them all to make a life.  You draw everything in, then release.  Draw in, release.  Over and over and over.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll recognize the house, or person, or thought, or god, or even just the simple hope, that is big enough to absorb all of that life that is too much for you to hold inside.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll let it all out, so that you can step outside again and again, each time with the strength to draw in just a little bit more.

I may be financed to the gills and tired of the mess that I’ve wandered into this time around, but I’ve also been reminded by a reader to not forget my good fortune.  Thank you ‘Mouse for the simple reminder.

“A fresh start in an old house.  Messy, yes.  But few are ever so lucky.”

True enough, and I’m glad it was pointed out to me.  It’s easy to know things, just like I know that I’m a lucky person.  But it is sometimes hard to remember these sorts of things, and even harder still to live each day with the thought of this luck in the front of your mind.

It’s not unusual for December to leave people feeling that they should be outlined in chalk on a wet sidewalk just outside their house.  (If you’ve read my previous post, you can clearly see that I am practicing for the future.) I am no different.  My Smiling Fernando, the best employee in the world, takes his leave of absence in a few days, disappearing from my daily routine for at least two months.  You’d think I would get used to it, after so many years of working together, but I never do, and will spend the winter with this fluttery, panicked feeling in the pit of my stomach, worried that he will not return.

This year is worse because of the looming shadow of moving hovering nearby.  The move is nearly upon me.  The new house deal hasn’t quite closed, but the owners are completely moving out this weekend.  They’re a nice, agreeable, young couple, and have allowed things to be slowly stored in the garage until the deal finally closes, which I hope is soon.  I’ve moved quite a few boxes over there already, although from the looks of the farm house, you’d think that nothing had been packed.  The woman has some stuff, there’s no doubt about that.  There seems no end to it.

I was hoping that I’d be moved and settled before Christmas, but I’m not so sure at this point.  Moved maybe, but hardly settled.  The sheer quantity of stuff to be packed and moved just makes me feel that it can’t all happen before then.  We’ll see.  I know there’s a sentimental side to me, but right now I just want that house cleaned and gutted like a fish.  I want it emptied of every trinket.  I want the illusion of a fresh start.

I think one of the things that has been so tiring these last two years has been the responsibility of maintaining the farm while living ten miles away in an apartment.  Not just the financial responsibility of maintaining two separate households, but the actual physical responsibility of getting things done.  Too many things get left undone.  Jobs go unfinished.  Stuff piles up.  I could easily sit down and list hundreds of unfinished things that have rattled around in my head all this time.  It’s exhausting, knowing that it is my responsibility to get it done, and yet not being there to see that it is.  Very tiring. 

Let’s hope that moving back will close not only the distance between me and my concerns, but put an end to the countless hours of worrying.  There are other things I’d like to do, projects I’d like to start.  I think of serious writing projects I’d like to jump into, but have held back, knowing that I didn’t have the energy to follow through.

I hope the move helps.  I’m almost sure it’s a start.

How American of me to think that it was all about me.  Everything is apparently out of sych.  Words lose their meaning just as nature loses its instinct.

Onepotmeal knows.

Myself.  I just paid a parking ticket I don’t remember receiving.  Apparently in Oregon, lapse of memory comes with a mandatory fine of ten additional bucks.

They’ll probably hit me up again next week, after my brain has a chance to cool down and re-forget.

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and it’s already getting dark.  The problem with Oregon in the winter is that it tries dressing up as some half-light place like Alaska, but ends up fooling no one.  I once heard that Oregon had the highest suicide rate in the U.S. because of all the rain and the darkness, but never followed up on it.  It may be true or it may not.

When I move I wonder if I’ll miss watching the little hoodlums passing by apartment on their way to the park?  The good thing about living on a farm is that there’s no one sneaking around in the dark, spray painting the sides of your car.  I’ve never actually caught someone in the act of tagging anything.  I wonder what I’d do.

I have stared out my window at the side of the homeless guy’s RV for a year now, and I think that’s just about enough of that.  He bought himself a Honda Civic the other day that he opens with a pull cord that dangles from the driver’s window.  The cord has a wood handle on the end and reminds me of mowing grass at my Grandma and Grandpa’s place on the lake.  You’d wrap this old rope cord around the top of the engine and give a pull, and it never started on the first wrap.  The homeless guy is good for that memory, but other then that, I’m sick of watching him talk to himself all day long as he paces around his broken down automobile collection.  I spoke to him once, about eight months ago, but backed off when I thought he was going to tear into me when I said, “Hey, how’s it going?” Maybe I interrupted.  Maybe I came off as a strange voice.  Maybe a million things.  Who knows what’s going on in his head.  I never will.

“I could see a chain of problems as in a book, all spread out before me, starting from a fact which I did believe and leading me step by step mathematically to a given conclusion which I did not hitherto believe.  I then discovered I had powers within me that I knew not of.  I was reasoning as I never before reasoned.”

Elder Frederick Evans
Shaker

The upstairs girl introduced me to another one of her brothers, and I told her I would be moving.  The brother and I shook hands, and all I could think about was Tuesday morning’s squeaking bed springs as I stared at the big, black hickey on his neck.  An unfortunate coincidence, I tell myself.  Nothing more.  Surely it’s nothing more.