“Damn you, Imaginary Keith!  If you ask me one more time to let you out of that cage, by God, I’m going to come over there and give you a pounding!  Don’t think I won’t.”

“You’ve never even been in a fight, so come on, just let me out of here.  I hate cages.”

“I just need to get Scrine tweaked a little bit . . . “

“OPEN THIS CAGE BEFORE I BREAK OUT AND GIVE YOU A POUNDING!”

“Geez.  Calm down.  What’s gotten into you, anyway?  It’s only been . . what? . . three, four hours?”

“Three days.  Now open the cage.”

“Alright.  But don’t pound me.  Promise?”

“Never bargain with a caged man.  He’ll tell you whatever it takes.”

“No, really.  Don’t pound me.  I don’t want to get pounded.”

“No, of course not.  I won’t.  I promise.”

It’s not finished, but since when have I ever finished anything?  Today will not be the first.

It’s testing time!  Scrine is open for business!  Earlier then planned.

I’ll put up the Help section by tomorrow.  That will help everyone fine tune their Control Panel to make things easier.  And there are bound to be questions that come up.  Yes, I imagine there may even be some problems.

I haven’t tested the site on anything other then my Mac running the Safari browser.  I apologize if something doesn’t work properly in IE.  Not for me, but for IE.  They’re sorry.

Have fun and watch for changes.

I see some people are jumping through the membership hoop.

That’s good!  You’ll be ready to go when Scrine rolls out in a day or two.

If you can, please let me know if the signup process went smoothly for you, if it was irritating, etc.

Any input you share will be appreciated - pro or con.  The whole membership thing is new to me as well, and I need to know if something is not set right.

At this point, I believe you sign up, then reply to an email to verify your email address.

Scrine will be fun.  Stay tuned.

Just up the road a piece, a woman was attacked by a pit bull, but there she is on my television last night, talking to the news reporters from her hospital bed.  It’s not the real news, mind you, but just the commercial for the news.  Advertising for news.  I like to think about that sometimes.  It seems like news should somehow defy advertising and rise above it.  Anyway . . .

“I was screaming to God to either let me die or faint,” the woman says.  Those were her exact words, I promise.  If I could file a single sentence in it’s own category I would, and that sentence would end up God’s Honest Truth, if I had such a category that is.  Anyway . . .

Maybe I should try more advertising in my own writing, I started thinking.  Just to keep everyone interested and on their toes.  Anyway . . .

“ . . . until you fight off a desperate raccoon yourself, I suggest you just keep your mouths shut.”

There.  Let’s see how that works.  You’ll have to envision me talking to the cameras.  Most likely I’d be flushed and out of breath.  The raccoon didn’t just attack me, but I would reenact the whole thing for the commercial.  Anyway . . .

I don’t remember the last time I screamed out for God, but I bet you it was during sex.  I think that’d be the safe bet.  A lot of people cry out for God during sex, or at least if you’re lucky, or you might hear it if you’re watching a movie sometime after the boy has conked off some night.  No.  Not that kind of movie.  I’m just referring to movies in general, which I guess doesn’t really make that much sense.  Anyway . . .

If it wasn’t sex making me scream for God, then I’d guess the second best bet would be golfing, but then, I don’t golf all that much, so I don’t know.  Come to think of it, I don’t have sex that much either these days, so I suppose you might say that for me, sex has become a little like golfing.  I wonder what my sex handicap would be?

[reader thinks his/her sarcastic, but very funny and witty reply here, saving the comments box for serious business, because you never know, there may end up being some, and joking around about my sex life by making golf references (i.e. cut some strokes and anything to do with balls) would just diminish the importance of whatever it is we might end up discussing ]

I can safely tell you I’ve never called on God to help me faint.  That I know for sure.  I like to think that fainting might be just an old lady thing, and not something someone just emerging from his peak “golfing” years might experience.  But then again, you never know.  I suppose if there were men out there fainting left and right we would never hear about them.  Men are often tight-lipped about the smallest of things, so you can bet they’d keep a tight lid on their fainting spells. 

And I’ve never been attacked by a pit pull, so I can’t say with any certainty that I wouldn’t scream out for God to help me faint.  You never know about these sorts of things. 

I was chased by two dobermans once with no fainting, and then again by a policeman once (or maybe it was twice, I’ll have to do some thinking on that one), and I didn’t feel at all like fainting either time (yes, I remember now - twice).  Nope, I only felt like running back then, not fainting. 

And then there was my recent brush with death.  You remember.  I tried to tell everyone about the raccoon attacking me, although in hindsight that was more of a lunge, snarl, and bite at my legs attack then an actual chase.  There wasn’t actually any real running involved, other then my backpedalling.  And it should be pointed out that the raccoon wouldn’t have even gotten to my legs at all if I hadn’t tripped and fallen flat on my back.  It was a little scary, although I did learn that I still had a few good kicks left in these old legs of mine.  What was that raccoon thinking anyway, attacking me like that?  A full grown man.  Still quite capable of shooting excellent golf, I might add, should the opportunity present itself.  Anyway . . .

Until you fight off a desperate raccoon yourself, I suggest you just keep your mouths shut.  And no, I didn’t faint.  Lying there kicking, it never even crossed my mind.

Coming soon to a computer near you - Scrine!

It’s like a dating service for sentences.  A group home for errant words.  A halfway house for the mumbling of writers.

Brace yourselves!

Sure I talk.  I talk about all sorts of things.  The problem isn’t remembering to talk, the problem is remembering just what it was I talked about.

* * *

Relationships are fine.  I’ve had several myself.

The trouble with relationships is that people are too much like stones.  You can stack together any two stones, but finding two that can build a wall, that’s the hard part.

* * *

I’ve thought of another blog - Scrine.

It will be a collection of lonely, single sentences, all submitted by me and whoever else wants to join the club.  Yes, that’s right.  Members to Scrine will have publishing privleges.  Our single sentences will gather around and stare at each other.  Maybe they’ll do something else, but we don’t know that yet.  Maybe images will pop up like a water cooler, and our sentences will gather around that, but we don’t know that yet either.

Maybe nothing will happen.  The future is always a mystery.

* * *

A storyteller’s skill can often be measured by the length of time his or her children continue to believe in certain lies, such as Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.  There are many, many other lies equally valuable in measuring the storyteller’s skill.  These are but two obvious examples.

A few of the 3:03 AM telltale signs that you’re getting over the affair of your ex-spouse:

1. You’ve lost the ability to wander the house all hours of the night.
2. You actually sleep through the night.
3. If you do wake up, you recognize the many rewarding qualities of a warm bed.
4. You’re generally irritated about everything, but can’t place the blame.
5. Television properly bores you, once again.
6. You realize the last murder you plotted was months ago.
7. Except for television programming, of course.  You may still find yourself regularly planning the gruesome murder of television programming, which is both a healthy and normal activity under any circumstances.

“If I don’t recognize you the next time we meet,” I always tell people upon meeting them for the first time, “it is because I suffer from dyslexic eyesight.”

Few people, including those in the medical fields, understand the causes of dyslexic eyesight.  Fewer still understand the difficulties faced by those who suffer from the this devastating affliction.

“Will you please look into this mirror?” I am forced to ask everyone I come in contact with.  “I need to see your reflection.  It’s my only hope of recognizing you later on.”

People who suffer with dyslexic eyesight typically have few friends and rarely succeed in business.  Their pocket mirrors, however, are to die for.

One time Imaginary Keith was in charge of the children.  Whole droves of them, running around crazy like wild horses, and it was Imaginary Keith’s job to round them all up somehow.  Wrangle the children it might have said on the job description, although I’m sure that’s not what it said, but rather some nonsense about how rewarding a time it would be for any young man to spend a summer or two in the exciting and challenging field of camp counseling.  Yes, thinking back, I’m almost sure the brochure never mentioned the wrangling of children, but this was long before Imaginary Keith even knew much about children, and so he was easily persuaded by the glossy literature and the promise of free room and board.

“It sounds kind of like joining the Army,” he remembers telling someone who was also standing there in front of the job fair recruiting table for the camp.  “Only without the commitment or the chance of war.”

But like I said, this was long before Imaginary Keith even faintly understood the workings of children, and without another thought, he grabbed a pen and signed up for the adventure, right there on the spot, while his rather empty, twenty year old head, which was itself unfamiliar with the concept of impending doom, listened quietly to the steady beat of a distant war drum.

So Imaginary Keith was put in charge of the children, every single one of them.  Boys and girls, big ones and little ones, smart ones and dumb ones, it was just like in the Oscar Meyer wiener song, he thought.  As a matter of fact, there were so many kinds of kids running around that it was a bit overwhelming at times, and it was then that he realized that the Oscar Meyer wiener song was really a little oversimplified.  In the days approaching camp, he’d imagined all the kids having sort of the same face, sitting there quietly listening to him as he told them what to do.  I imagine he thought there’d be a list of things for the kids to do, and that they’d just run up and read the list all on their own, and then run off and do whatever the list said, and he’d just sort of follow them around and keep an eye on things.  There’s really no telling what Imaginary Keith thought he’d be doing, I can tell you that.  Whatever thoughts were going through his head more then twenty years ago have long since disappeared.  We’re lucky these days if he can tell us about yesterday with any degree of accuracy.  Twenty years is simply out of the question.

So like I said, Imaginary Keith was put in charge of the children, and spent an entire summer running around after them, chasing them across open fields and around bunk houses and crowded dining halls.  There seemed to be no end to the chasing, and it sometimes felt like he was chasing these kids halfway across Oklahoma and back again, which is where this particular place happened to be.  And because it was Oklahoma, they’d sometimes spot a tornado, off somewhere in the distance, and then he’d have to start chasing the kids all over again, because believe it or not, a bunch of wild children off at summer camp really have no sense at all and will run straight off into a tornado if you let them.  So Imaginary Keith would have to get up and run around outside by the tornado, trying to round up the kids without any sense, which like I’ve said, is most of them.

Now, here’s the funny thing.  It always sounded to me like my friend just wasn’t that good at rounding up these kids.  The way he tells it, they were always escaping and sneaking off somewhere and either laughing or shrieking or screaming about something, and there he was, hot on their heels, chasing after them.  It always sounded to me like any other job he’s ever had, and that he was always one step behind, trying to catch up.  But then, maybe I’m wrong, because when the summer finally ended, and Imaginary Keith stopped chasing those kids all across Oklahoma and back, the people suddenly started lining up in an effort to give Imaginary Keith things.  After all that time, they wanted to give my friend something so they wouldn’t be forgotten, and so they lined up, and one by one, began to hand him things.

There were a couple of people from Texas who thought that Imaginary Keith should chase their two kids around full time, and so they handed him the opportunity to work for them.  Pack your bags, son, because you’re coming to Texas, they said, waving money around and promising him more of that irresistible free room and board.  But Imaginary Keith, for whatever reason he now can’t remember, told them no.  Maybe he’d chased their kids around quite enough, or maybe he just didn’t like their kids, or maybe he just didn’t like the idea of being stuck in Texas with a couple of other people’s kids, one at each hip like a couple of six-shooters.  Whatever he was thinking is long gone, but we do know that he never took the job.

There was a girl who gave him a small notebook of poetry that she’d written, although if you asked him now, he would be forced to shamefully admit that not only does he not remember the girl’s name, but that he somehow managed to lose the notebook of poems many, many years ago.  It’s a pity, really, for anyone to hand over something special to Imaginary Keith thinking he will treasure it next to his heart for all eternity. 

And there was this other girl who didn’t write poems, but instead took a vow to lose her virginity to Imaginary Keith, which really caused quite a stir at the small camp and got everyone at the camp running around faster then ever before, even the other counselors and the owners of the camp.  I don’t know how it is now in Oklahoma, but back then, when some teenage girl started talking about vows and losing her virginity, it wasn’t just some down home production of Oklahoma where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plains and everyone ends up going for a nice buggy ride.  No siree.  Back then, everyone got bent out of shape and called a meeting in the mess hall to see if, in fact, they could talk about a penis without ever actually having to say the word.  It was, perhaps, the only time in Imaginary Keith’s life where a whole room full of people were actually thinking about his sex life all at the same time.  It’s unfortunate, really, that it had to be such a stressful event.

But no, Imaginary Keith assured those in the room that just like the job in Texas, he had refused the girl’s gift, choosing instead to remember the young woman for her beautiful, willing spirit.  I don’t think those were his exact words, but close enough.  Anyway, the whole thing really is something, looking back on it, because although Imaginary Keith can’t remember, I would bet anything that he thought this would simply be the first of many girls who would vow their virginity to him, and that all he had to do was wait for a more opportune time to collect.  I would bet that he thought the girls would just keep lining up, one right after another with their vows and promises, right up until the day he died.  But I can pretty much tell you that’s not the way it ever happens, not for Imaginary Keith anyway, and not for any man that I’ve ever met.  But try telling that to a young, twenty year old man who’s just had the good sense to walk away from a willing teenage girl.  Come to think of it, try telling anything to a young, twenty year old man.

But there were all sorts of things handed to Imaginary Keith that summer that he will never forget - images in his head of kids playing capture the flag on the gentle slope of grass that led away from the bunk houses, the sound of the dinner bell ringing without fail three times a day, the wide-eyed look of kids sitting around an open fire at night.  He’ll never forget the cowboy boot sticking out of the ground at the mock grave, or the old, frayed noose still hanging in a nearby tree to help him along with the well-rehearsed horror story.  And many a night, even still, I sometimes see Imaginary Keith looking up at the stars, and I know he is thinking about the conversation he had with a boy who was not so unlike himself, when he was a boy, and how the boy described to him what it felt like to be considered crazy by your own parents and forced to see therapist after therapist in the hope that you would one day be cured.  Cured of what, Imaginary Keith couldn’t imagine, because to him, the boy had seemed fine, dreaming of stars and girls and the life that waited for him at the end of his childhood.

Other things were given him that summer.  More things really, then he sometimes cares to remember, because after all, it was only one short summer of his life, and if you spend all your time thinking about one summer, you end up losing track of all the rest, and by the end of your life, you find yourself thinking back on everything that has ever happened to you, and it starts to feel like you’re chasing those kids all over again, chasing them not only around Oklahoma, but this time around an entire lifetime.  And this time, because there is so much space, you realize there is no hope of ever rounding them all up.

I have a feeling there’s this magical state of obliviousness that is the place of existence for any small boy.  It’s the place where he hones his skills of distraction and restlessness; that special place that allows him to beg for food without shame, or urinate on or around the toilet without developing hangups or irritating quirks, or take apart the television, for example, without a single ounce of concern for the future.  Obliviousness leads to couch cushion forts and broken panes of glass, lost coats, and uncombed hair.  It’s well-known that the small boy will often discover his own genitalia while in this state of obliviousness.  Penicillin is the result of obliviousness, as are America, the art of tattooing (I think), the wheelless lawn mower, the need to invent prosthetic limbs, and oddly enough, chewing gum.

If you ask me, obliviousness in a boy is perhaps the most important step in his mental development, because without obliviousness, where would any boy be?  More importantly, where would any boy end up?  You can teach any creature mathematics or the importance of looking both ways before crossing the street.  I’ve seen horses pound out simple addition problems with their hooves and birds deliver a stack of mail to their proud owners, the bills pinched tightly in their eager beaks.  But I’ve not once, without exception, ever been witness to a single man surviving much beyond boyhood without the skill of obliviousness.  A man must know how to mentally divide himself if he is to survive the long, grueling years of existence that await him as an adult.

Life is the fine line he walks, strung like a cable between the peaks of two tall buildings.  The air feels fresh but most of what he sees is a blur.  His obliviousness is just the stick he holds onto as he tries to cross, hoping to keep his balance, his toes gripping the cable as the sweat drips from his nose.

“Who’s Collier Pips?” Imaginary Keith asked me this morning.  “I’ve never heard you mention him before.”

I’m not sure what to tell people when they ask direct questions like that.  How do you tell someone that they’re just being reworked and shifted around as a matter of convenience?  That sounds like management stuff to me, and I’m just not management material.  I’ve never even gotten the hang of calling janitors custodians.

“He’s kind of hard to explain,” I say.  “He’s kind of like you and kind of not like you.” I’d have to try harder, I knew.

“That doesn’t make any sense.  You’re not actually saying anything.”

“I don’t know how I can put this.  Let me see . . . Collier Pips is kind of like you with something to do, only dressed better and having a stable opinion.”

“Well, that just sounds stupid.  There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress.”

“No, of course not.”

“And I’m quite opinionated, thank you very much.”

“Yes, I’ve never questioned that.”

“There is no Collier Pips, is there?”

“No.  You’re absolutely right.  Such a man could not possibly exist.”

Sometimes my brain thinks it will figure everything out.  I’m serious.  Everything.  It jumps right out of it’s overstuffed chair and pounds around the room like it’s really onto something.

From down here, I tell it, all that figuring out sounds just like exercise.

It usually sits back down after that.  Brains, after all, hate exercise as much as the rest of us.

There was this one time when God and I were sitting around watching movies and I asked him what he thought about evolution.  I think it was a Karate Kid marathon or something like that.  Most people wouldn’t think this about God, but he really likes wasting time.

“So, God,” I said, “what was it?  You or evolution?  I don’t think you’ve ever really said.”

That’s the thing about God.  When you hang out with him he doesn’t really like saying that much.  I think he’s afraid you’re going to write it all down and get people worked up.  Or maybe he’s afraid you’ll twist the words around and get it wrong, and if that’s the case, I know where he’s coming from.  I’m the same way with newspaper reporters.  I won’t give them the time of day.

“Shhhhh!  Watch this!” I’m not sure which Karate Kid movie it is, but it’s that one where all the people start clicking that little drum thingy with the balls on the strings, and then the kid gets all fired up and comes back strong.

“I always thought the Catholics should use those little drum things,” God said.  “There’s a lot of Catholics.  Can you imagine how that’d sound?  Man that’d sound good.” God held up his hand and pretended he was shaking something, only because he was God, you could hear a little drum sound come out.  I used to call those things miracles, but he insisted they were only little tricks.

“Tricks of the trade,” God told me one day.  “Just little tricks of the trade.  Like birds flying south and people knowing how to scratch.  Things like that.  Like how I make ants follow each other in a line.  That just seems like a miracle, but it’s just one of the tricks.”

“I thought they just followed a scent trail.”

“They do?” God said.  “Damn.  Well, there’s your evolution for you.  In the old days I had to tell them everything.  Now enough questions.  I want to watch the movie.”

“Okay, I’ll shut up.”

“You know, The Karate Kid was almost a Bible story.  It was this close.” He held up a hand, shaking his thumb and finger about an inch apart.  I listened, but didn’t hear anything.

“Really?  That’s amazing.”

“No,” God said.  “I’m just messing with you.  It didn’t even get close.”

I’m tired of the days dragging me through the streets by the ankles.  The back of my head is raw from pounding the asphalt, and one of these days I’m just not going to have the strength to hold it up any longer and I don’t know what’s going to happen.

And the nights aren’t any better.  I no sooner crawl back into the house before it takes a turn at me, slapping me around like a handball.  I’m telling you, I don’t know how much more I can take.  At some point, it seems like a man’s skull would crack right open with the pressure, like a pot of eggs, boiled too long.  Well, my pot’s been boiling for a long time now.  Too long.  Between the days and the nights, I know there can’t be much water left in this head of mine.  I’m just about out of steam.  You know, some mornings I climb out of bed and hear those eggs up there in my head rattling around like a pile of empty spray paint cans.

O Curiosity, guide my questions
And tend my restless spirit.
Question to answer and back again,
Lead me not astray.

If you ask a clerk about security, you can watch yourself become a thief in the reflection of the store clerk’s eyes.  Curiosity is like a pair of panty hose pulled over your head; your question a loaded gun.

But how do you keep people from stealing the books, I ask, watching her run each book over the metal box.

Eyes narrow.  I am sized up.  My human worth measured and remeasured.  It is an eighteen dollar sale - two used trade paperbacks - and yet the potential for loss is so much greater.  Vulnerability is at stake.  Truth is on the line.  It’s a question of trust.  My soul is squeezed for worthiness.

“We put a little metal thing in the books,” she says.

Oh.  A little metal thing.  I walk down the street, studying the bindings, searching for the little metal thing, but come up with nothing.  I see no break in the binding.  No slice or compromise. 

I suspect a lie and wish I was back in the store so the clerk could watch herself in my eyes.  Watch herself turn into a liar in the reflection of my blue thief’s eyes.

If he’d known the bones actually belonged to someone, maybe he’d have done something different.  But then again, maybe not.  In Collier Pips’ world, everything had it’s place, including some old, dried out bones, so when the first bone showed up on the doorstep, he did what he did with everything else in his life - picked it up and put it in a box.

B o n e s, he scrawled in a slow, deliberate hand across the front of the box, found a place for it on a shelf in the barn, then went about the business of thinking. 

Collier Pips did a lot of thinking, and other then putting things in boxes, found that he had very little time for anything else.  The way Collier Pips saw it, thinking was his job, and putting things in boxes was just what he did to free up time for the real work.  If you’d asked him, Collier Pips might have told you that putting things in boxes was his hobby.  Not a hobby that he liked, necessarily, but a hobby all the same.  His necessary hobby, he might have called it, although he knew this sounded an awful lot like a job, which bothered him more then he cared to admit.  Thinking, after all, was his job.  Putting things in boxes was just something he did.

The second bone arrived just like the first, appearing on the doorstep in the morning, dropped on the doorstep by the dog, who like all dogs, seemed over-eager to please - a trait that both pleased and bothered Collier Pips all at once, and one he very much would have liked to put in a box with a label and be done with.  He often thought of what he would write on such a box, if he should ever happen to figure out a way to put the nature of dogs in a box, and had come up with as many labels as there were dogs.  The Plurality Nature of Dogs was one thought, and The Understanding of Man’s Best Friend was another, just like there were a thousand others that seemed equally capable of describing what was in the box; but in the end, he figured he’d probably just end up scribbling Dogs across the top and calling it good. 

Wind gusts will prevent floating the chicken today, not to mention the demands of the delegation.

Will there ever be any peace?  A time when no one demands anything of me?  Is this what drives science forward?  Is this the only thing driving us all?  The pressing demands of others for more?

I’ve appeased the chickens momentarily by telling them that the experiment is off, which made me think of something I thought was even more interesting.  As much as I get sick of the sound of voices sometimes, I still can’t help but love diplomacy.

The chickens are happy because they think they have won a demand, and I am happy because they are leaving me alone.  Happiness, it sometimes seems, has more to do with good diplomacy then it does truth.  It’s not what we say or even what it means, but what the other person (or in this case, chicken) believes it to mean.

For instance - deciding not to float the chicken has nothing to do with the chicken’s recent demands, in spite of what they might think.  But they believe what they believe, and it makes them happy.

What then, is happiness?  Can there even be such a thing as true happiness, if everything hinges upon the words of others?  Words that we have no way of knowing the truth of?

Truth be told, the floating chicken experiment on fear is off because the balloons seem to have lost all their punch.  I found them last night, barely floating above the cage, aged and wrinkled.  Embarrassingly, they reminded me slightly of a woman’s breasts, after all the years of nursing and just hanging there, fighting gravity.  They reminded me of all the breasts I’d seen the last few years, which admittedly, haven’t been many, so don’t take what I say as the gospel truth or even good science.  Make no mistake, I am no expert when it comes to women’s breasts.  I don’t claim to understand them.  I could tell you that they draw attention like honey draws flies, but then, you already know that.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that when it comes to women’s breasts, I don’t think there’s anything new that can be said.  Certainly not from me.

But what I can tell you is that when I reached out for those shriveled balloons, they slipped away from my fingers as easily as any breast I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

When I stepped outside this morning, I was met by a small delegation of chickens, claiming to represent the collective interest of all of the farm’s animals.  If I understand them correctly, and I believe I do, they are petitioning for better living conditions and more representation within the farm’s governing bodies.  They went on to say that they were prepared to take action against me, should I prove unwilling to entertain their ideas.

The delegation took me completely by surprise.  First of all, I was under the impression that my small farm was more of an anarchy, with everyone off doing their own thing.  I couldn’t even begin to imagine what conditions the chickens were referring to, but it was clear they had me pegged as some sort of dictator.  It was disturbing, to say the least.

“Our first demand is that you tear down the chicken coop fence,” one hen said.  “We want to walk with the cows.”

The other delegates all piped in.  “Yes!  Walk with the cows!  Free range!  Free range!”

It was easy to see that this would get out of hand much too easily.  These chickens were clearly agitated.

“Now hold on a second,” I said.  “The fence is for your own protection.  Have you forgotten about the dogs?”

“You let us worry about the dogs,” the lead hen said.  “We can handle them.”

“Well, let’s say you do.  What then?  The cows are inside their own fence.”

The four hens leaned in close and clucked something low that I couldn’t hear, which doesn’t matter anyway.  I don’t speak chicken.  After a few seconds, they looked back up.

“The cows didn’t mention this other fence.” They were fishing for information.  I had them on the defensive now.

“Sure there’s another fence.  Go ask them yourselves.”

“We will.” I thought they were about to leave when the leader tilted her head to one side and glared at me out of one of those cold glassy eyes.  I had to look away.

“We’ve heard you’re writing a book.  Is this true?”

I couldn’t see any harm in telling the hens the truth.  Not about the book anyway.

“Yes.  I might.”

“Well, let me say this.  Don’t fuck with us.  Not at this conjuncture.” With that, all the hens turned and walked away, their fat feathery butts moving back across the yard towards the coop.

I’ll tell you, that hen has always been trouble.  But conjuncture?  Where’d she pick up language like that?  Not around this farm, that’s for sure.  I’d have to keep an eye on her.  A real close eye.

The boy has gone to visit his grandparents.  Three days and two nights without interruption, leaving me at the moment with that feeling you get when you’ve just lost your balance from the top of a tall ladder.

Weightless with consequences.  A desperate need to know what to do next.  Arms waving, wild eyes, and a queasy stomach.

The first day is like losing your grip.  The second like the fall.  The third the inevitability of the hard landing.

I should tell the dramatic, exciting version of the raccoon attack story.  The one where I barely escape alive and the boy is in the background, fearing for his father’s safety.  The story where the raccoon pounces on me like a angry wolverine and the two of us tumble down a long hill, my arms bleeding and ripped, my jacket torn to shreds as we plunge into the freezing waters of the Little Pudding River.  I should tell that story, but I won’t. 

Instead, let’s try a true story for once.  How’s that for excitement and drama?  Yes, let’s pull some truth out of the closet and see how that fits for a change.  About as well as an old high school prom suit jacket, I imagine, but I’ll give it a shot.  There’s room for a small dose of truth around here once in awhile.  A little truth will be good.  I can’t, after all, continue to fill everyone’s head with nothing but nonsense and not expect decay in return.  We need truth like teeth need brushing.  Like a house occasionally needs roofing.  Maybe that’s how we need truth.  Yes, this morning I feel like we could all use a little truth.  Like my gun needed bullets last night, that’s how we need truth this morning.  But let’s get back to that one.  As far as truth is concerned, we’re not even close to needing the gun just yet.  The gun may very well be in the past, but as far as truth is concerned, and as far as this story is concerned, that gun is still out there in the shed, just waiting for us to catch up.  The gun is way ahead of us.  We’re not even close yet.

But it’s a busy Monday, and I’m afraid I’ll have to dish out my truth in small bits and pieces.  Which is just as well, come to think of it, because I don’t think I know how to speak truth any other way.

I’ve been attacked by a desperate raccoon!  In the dark!

The only bullets I could find in the house contained no gunpowder!  Serious.  Bullets with no gunpowder.  Useless!

I backpedaled and tripped.  The raccoon closed in.  The dogs circled and snapped.  They boy yelled from somewhere off in the dark.  “Do something, Dad!  Do something!”

Is fear directly proportional to the size of an animal’s head?  Insects, for instance, seem to have very little fear, while I, on the other hand, might be startled by a shirt hanging over the edge of a door. 

The boy and I have decided to conduct an experiment.  We will measure fear.

We’ve attached 100 helium-filled balloons to a small cage, complete with food, water, and a small nesting box for egg laying, and plan on putting a chicken in this cage first thing in the morning and floating her off.  A video camera, strapped to the top of the cage, will record the chicken’s movements, which we will analyze later back at the house, hoping to discover something about fear in chickens.  This, we think, will shed some light on the condition of fear in general, which we will be more then happy to share with the rest of the world.

The balloons are bright red, which we should easily be able to spot from the ground, allowing us to follow our chicken from the car below.  We have a good pair of binoculars, as well as a BB gun to shoot the balloons, so that we can bring our hen safely back down again.  It’s important to note that we intend to violate no animal cruelty laws, and that of our four hens, this particular hen was the only one who volunteered for the experiment.  This fact alone suggests that chickens, or at least 25% of them, are quite fearless.

Tomorrow morning’s wind report shows a light breeze from the south, blowing 5-7 mph.  If my calculations are correct, the chicken should have no problem clearing the row of cedar just to the north of the launch site.  The boy and I are very exciting for tomorrow, and if I’m not mistaken, it looks like even the chickens are heading to bed early this evening.

Tomorrow we measure fear.

There are many reasons to throw away the cat.  Perhaps as many reasons as there are cats.

The fact that it’s meow sounds just like the boy repeating, “Daaaaad” a million times a day is just one of the reasons.

“It’s the boy’s fault,” it pleads, dangling by her scruff.  “Throw him away.”

“I can’t,” I tell the cat.

“Why?  Because it’s illegal?”

“Yes,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie, but isn’t exactly the truth either.  How do you explain to a cat that a boy has no scruff?  Besides, who has the energy?

If you can’t have silence, then the next best thing is a big, roaring fire.  Something you can stare into and lose yourself while everyone else talks the day away.  Fire has a way of drawing part of you in while leaving the rest of you out.  You can carry on a conversation when you’re staring into a fire without really even being there in your body, and no one suspects a thing.  If you do seem withdrawn, they mistake it for concern, thinking that you’re worried about the fire.

But the fire yesterday was beyond worry.  The pile of brush was as big as a small house and had been drying there for two years, just waiting for me and my match.  If there was a heaven, this one was going to warm the floor boards all right.  Angels would be hopping; believers would drop to their knees and praise the miracle of God’s radiant heat.

One match was all it took, and the pile of dead limbs leaped to life.

* * * * *

“Imaginary Keith, what do you think a tree likes best?  Being a tree or a flame?”

“I’m not really sure.  You’d have to ask it.”

“I’ve never really heard a tree talk.  I wouldn’t know what to listen for.”

“Oh, you’ve heard them talk alright.  You probably just didn’t know what you were hearing.”

“Are they talking now?”

“You tell me.”

* * * * *

Solid wood or ash?  Life breathing or a pile of dirt?  Cold, gnarled bark or red hot coals giving birth to flame?

But is it really just one or the other?  Or is that just me, thinking that life is that simple?  Applying the rules that I’ve somehow been led to believe are true?  Does it really come down to just those two choices?  Is there no place between the two?  No place all around them?

* * * * *

“It’s raining this morning.  I’m afraid the fire will go out.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we do something?”

“You’d have to ask the tree that question.”

“But all I see is smoke.”

“Well, I guess you have your answer then.  More coffee?”

“How can you sit there and drink coffee as the fire goes out?”

“The same way you can sit there and worry about the rain.  The same way the tree goes from wood to flame, flame to ash, and then ash to soil and smoke.  If you’re going to sit here worrying so much, I might as well go out and have coffee with the tree.”

When I turned 44, I realized that my house was very messy, so I decided to spent some time cleaning up.  There was no telling what was in store for me, now that I was 44, and it would be good, I thought, to meet this unknown head on, and do so from the comfort of a clean house.

As I cleaned, I discovered that Molly, the cat who came with my house, had eaten something disagreeable, and left it for me neatly piled near the couch.  I was forced to clean it up when I was 44, knowing full well that it had happened when I was only 43. 

At first I thought this would be an important fact simply for historical reference.  But later, when I’d had time to reflect upon my morning, I realized the importance of this discovery.  In spite of our best efforts, shit just has a mysterious way of following us from year to year.

Other things happened when I turned 44, but I can’t remember them all.  And some things, believe it or not, are about to happen.  I think a cake is arriving and the boy will sing Happy Birthday, complete with cha-cha-cha’s and everything.  I may even get a present.  And my brother sent me a text message that said only: Geezer!

My secret birthday wish is that someday I can spend as long as I want being completely silent.  Actually, it’s not so much a birthday wish as it is a daily wish, that’s how much I want it to come true.  Maybe that sounds like a strange wish to you, to want to be silent, but to me it sounds great.  I get so tired of talking and listening, that each time I find myself blowing out some birthday candles, I end up closing my eyes and wishing for silence.

It’s an odd wish to make when you’re surrounded by the people who love you, all clapping and singing and carrying on.  There’s really no good way to make people understand that you love them, but that you wish they’d just shut up and leave you alone for awhile.  But for most people, these two things just don’t go together.

But I sometimes wish they did.

The flip side of the one-man show is that something is forever getting lost in that crack that never quite goes away.  You can burn the candle on both ends, but during the run of any one-man show there is never enough light.  A darkness grabs at your edges, in spite of the holy day planner clutched in your shaking hand.  Time slips past in chunks and clocks are worthless decorations, their hands jerking around the face like some epileptic dog trying to lie down for a nap. 

The one-man show is about forgetting as much as it is about remembering.  You pencil things in, trying to remember not to forget, and then spend the rest of the night trying to forget what you you’ve remembered too late.  The clock jerks, the dog spins, the earth whips around the sun faster then you can lift your eyes, and then it is tomorrow. 

Or is it the next day, or the day after that?  In the one-man show, it’s so hard to tell.  Without others around to bump up against, there is no perspective.  You lose all sense of proportion and reality.  You find yourself talking to shadows of people that aren’t even there.  In the night, you might hear the sound of a mouse, chewing somewhere inside the walls, and get out of bed to answer the door.  You swear you heard knocking, but with no one there to confess your mistake to, it races back down the hall and climbs into bed ahead of you, keeping the sheets warm, smiling to itself as it slowly becomes the reality in your head.

Face to face with what seems will be an endless supply of reality television ideas, I took it upon myself to form a new advertising agency last weekend.  The way I see it, the old commercials just aren’t working anymore, and I’m proof positive.  I don’t think I’ve gone out and bought anything in days, maybe even weeks.  Imagine if commercials just stop working, and we all stop buying things.  What would happen then?  What would become of us?  Just the idea of it was enough to frighten me into a whole new line of business.

So let me present to you Reality Advertising.  An agency with it’s eye on the future and it’s finger on the pulse of current day America.  We hear what you want, we feel what makes you tick, and we’re here to tell you that we will deliver.

Reality Advertising kicked things off late last Saturday night with a small brainstorming session.  To get things headed in the right direction, I’ve hired a small army of reality experts who just happen to also be excellent beer drinkers, and we sat around pounding them down as we came up with our first big campaign.  I’m telling you, you’re going to want to keep your eyes on these people.  They’re the next big hitters in the world of advertising.  I’m not saying they’re going to change the way you live, but I can promise you they’ll change the way you think.  Give us a year, and you’re going to be wondering how you ever went out shopping without our help.

As our name suggests, we’re all about reality, and with so much reality television coming your way, it’s only natural that you’re begging for some reality advertising to go along with it.  So we asked ourselves, as we sat around drinking beer - just what is the heart and soul of reality television?  What is it that people really want?  What drives them?  What makes them tick?

Well, it seems that at the core of every person is something petty and small, and dangling a little money or fame or food or sex in front of this thing, and having your cameras and scripts ready to go, result in what we call reality television.  Hours and hours of pure enjoyment, watching people maneuver around each other, trying their best to feed the hunger of the small, petty thing inside of them, while at the same time trying to poke each other in the eyes.

But I don’t care about that.  What I’m interested in is the advertising.  Reality advertising.

Our first client just happens to be a condom company, which suits us just fine.  Condoms, after all, are a hard sell (yes, yes, I know, after so many beers, we sat around and laughed about that one too).  What other product out there is designed for something that you can’t even show on television?  The way we look at it, condoms are begging for a little touch of reality.

Anyway, this condom company contacted us right away when they heard what we were all about.  You see, this is a new type of condom, yet unnamed, that will soon be released to the general public.  You’ll know the one I’m talking about right away when you see it.  It’s the new condom designed for the ever hopeful, yet unsuccessful man.  Yes, that’s right.  A new condom designed for the common man.  The man who never sees any action.  And believe me, it’s a large market. (yes, I know, more laughing around the brainstorming table.)

The secret behind the new condom is it’s longevity. (I know, I know) Made from a nearly indestructible, flexible polymer, the new condom will last nearly forever.  (We recommended to the manufacturer that they include a disclaimer stating that this referred to the unwrapped condom, and did not imply any type of improved sexual prowess.)

Our commercial so far is coming together nicely.  We’ve decided to go with what is known in the industry as The Tampon Approach, which basically means two people having an unbelievable conversation in an equally unbelievable situation.  You know, like two women oohing and ahhing over the incredible absorbency of just about anything.  (ooohhh . . . ahhhhh . . . that’s awesome . . . more comfortable? . . . . What?  With wings? . . . . Count me in!!! . . . blah, blah, blah)

Anyway, we’re pitching this new condom using The Tampon Approach.  Imagine these two guys standing around discussing condoms.  Let’s call them Bob and Dick, just for kicks.

Bob:  Hey Dick, what are you doing with all these old condoms in your underwear drawer?

Dick: Nothing.  Why do you ask?

Bob:  Are you crazy?  Look here! (pointing at the sides of a long string of condoms) These condoms are expired!

Dick:  You’re kidding me?  I just bought those!

Bob:  Yeah, in 1982.

(the two share a good laugh)

Bob:  What you need is a big box of Everlast Condoms.

Dick:  Everlast Condoms?  I’ve never heard of them.

Bob:  They’re new and improved, and designed for the common guy.  Like you and me Dick.

Dick:  That sounds good.

Bob:  And better yet, laboratory tests have shown that the new and improved Everlast Condom will last nearly 80% longer sitting around unused in a man’s underwear drawer.  It just makes sense.

Dick:  Count me in!  Now let’s go meet some ladies!  (Pulls out an early 80’s disco shirt from the closet.  More shared laughter.  Camera zooms in to dresser drawer and box of Everlast Condoms, nestled in between the underwear.

Voiceover:  For the man who might get lucky.  Someday.  Everlast.

Hey Michael.

Tell me the underwear in the woods story.

Oh yea.  This is God, speaking directly through Keith.  I’d stick around and say more, but he’s already starting to get scared and sweat. 

Gross.

I have waited nearly two years for the wireless connection between my laptop and printer to “take hold.” That’s how I imagine it, anyway.  Two electrical pulses reaching out for each other, searching for closure.  One emanating from my command at the laptop, the more pronounced of the pulses, and the other reaching back from the printer, searching for it’s exact opposite to make it whole.  I think of it as a kind of lightning strike, only instead of boiling trees into splinters or knocking the toes out of some unlucky man’s shoes, it produces a crisp, clean whirring sound and spits out a well-written letter or overdue invoice.

I’m telling you, my fortunes are turning.  After all this time the printer has whirred to life!  Even as I sit here, writing this, it spits out the guidelines for a better tomorrow.  And here come this month’s invoices!  And look!  Last year’s sad, sad journal!  It’s as if the printer has finally had enough of my crap and is vomiting all over the place.  Do my fingers really peck out such toxic waste?

There is no ceremony or exchange of words.  It is the same as last year and the same as the year before that.  It is the same as it has been for as long back as he can remember.  Business as usual.  Another day, another dollar.  An endless race against the sun.

Imaginary Keith, with his eyes focused clearly on the day ahead, sets down his coffee cup and strides out the door, the hinge in his back freshly oiled.

Something in the dark pecks at the glass of the back door!

The boy and I both jump.  We stare at the glass, but see nothing.  Is it watching us?  What is it?  Should we move?

Again!  tap tap tap

It is pitch black.  What could it be?  And then a small, quiet voice, saying only one word - “Fernando.”

It is Fernando! 

Long story short:  Two days broken down on the Texas/Mexico border with a broken off bolt and a worn out water pump, and then another three days and nights scrounging through L.A. junk yards, searching for a hard-to-find wheel bearing or something.  Total length of journey from Puebla, Puebla to Salem, Oregon: 13 days. 

We shake hands.  He apologizes profusely for being late and hands me handmade treats from his hometown.  Sweet little bread looking things with a pecan on top that taste like bread, cookies, and dried frosting all at the same time.  Delicious!