Imaginary Keith is tied in a chair being force fed numbers.  One hand is loose, barely, so that he can sketch a concept for an arbor and gate.  Every five minutes I walk over and flick him on the back of the ear, then remind him that he’s had more then two months to get this done.  It’s his own fault.  His own doing.

I took out the gag once, but immediately put it back in when he began to compare me to a visit to the dentist.

Do you see the abuse I have to put up with?

Finish the damn sketch, I tell him.  I’m waiting, a customer is waiting, and even worse, Thor is waiting.

Thor!  Did you hear me?  Thor!  Finish your work before you really piss him off.

Imaginary Keith’s hand wiggled around when I said that, but I’m not sure if he was reaching for the pen or just twitching as I tightened the ropes.  His eyes look a little jumpy, but then he’s such a coffee freak.

Mongolian horde seekers have arrived here in large numbers today.  Great forces are obviously at work somewhere in the world.

But I fear your journey has been in vain.  A lemming crusade.  Here we wait patiently for Thor.  Here we fear no Khans.

They say that Thor will soon appear on the horizon and that the sun reflecting off of his helmet will be blinding.  They also say that the Khan brothers, having put down their weapons, will arrive only minutes ahead of Thor, and that they will have tiny, digital camcorders in their large, grimy, bloodstained hands so that they can capture the whole moment on film.

But then they say a lot of things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give me a moment.  I’m playing modern day millwright, busily shredding 15 years of accumulated paperwork into a fine paper grist.

In the morning I’ll bake a loaf of bread.  It’ll taste like $3,500 Packard Bell memories and will warm up extremely slow.  The first bite will remind me of the days of no frills, nothing fancy.  The second bite will remind me of eating organic food - good for you at the moment, but nice when it’s over.  The third bite I will spit out.

Just like I did the $3,500 Packard Bell, at a garage sale, three years after buying it, for something like $100.  I haggled over the price with very little enthusiasm and the blinking DOS cursor just sat there, watching the whole thing.

Or maybe it was cussing me out.  It was always hard to tell with DOS.  Not like today’s computers, who really know how to show you when they’re pissed off.

Anyway, back to the shredder.  I’ve almost worked my way into an exciting pile of late 80’s toaster oven receipts, or lifetime warranty muffler receipts for cars I don’t own, or some such nonsense.

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

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

Just me and my head.

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

Today’s spare time, if there is any, will be spent writing my first State of the Disunion Address, where I hope to resolve, once and for all, Oregon’s struggle with same sex marriages.  If all goes as planned, the nation itself will adopt my plan, and harmony and financial stability will reign throughout the land.  Eventually.  You’ll see.

But such a plan will require some careful thinking.  I’m thinking at least an hours worth.

Dedicated readers deserve a few insider hints:

1. Outlawing the use of private attorneys.
2. Adoption of a state-wide attorney base, resulting in soaring revenues.
3. Outlawing of ALL marriages within the state, resulting in multiple lawsuits and, because of the state-wide attorney system, even better revenues
4. Eight years of extremely profitable court battles
5. Reinstatement of marriage, same-sex as well as opposite-sex, now easily embraced after the grueling and tiring court battle simply for the “right” to be married.

I may even reveal the unbelievable influence of the hot shower on modern day America, expanding on a theory that all important policy decisions and beliefs are being mistakenly made by naked men in hot showers.  We’ve overlooked for too long now the power of the hot shower to disillusion men into false self-importance.

But first, a bit of work.  Work first, then fix the world.

That’s my motto.

The sphinx cat didn’t appear on the scene until 1966, popping up, I think, in Canada.  I’m also thinking nuclear radiation and the chapter that was nixed from James Harriot’s All Creatures Great and Small, where the young doctor encounters the ugly, hairless cat and has his belief in God questioned beyond all reason.

I popped up, I think, in 1961 somewhere in Minnesota.  Only a stones throw away from the birthplace of the hairless sphinx cat.  This makes me not only geographically related to the sphinx, but also mathematically older.  Older, of course, meaning wiser, making me, by default, a sphinx cat expert.

So it is with confidence that I reveal the startling similarities that I have found to exist between this odd creature and the equally odd creature - the human male.

My comparison is based on judging standards pulled straight from the pages of The Cat Fanciers’ Association webpage.  I make nothing up.  The only notable difference, it would seem, between the hairless sphinx and men would be the tail.  But then of course, suitable substitutions can easily be made.

So you be the judge.  Man or Sphinx?  Can you tell the difference?

HEAD:
The head is slightly longer than it is wide, with prominent cheekbones and a distinctive whisker break. The skull is slightly rounded with a flat plane in front of the ears. The nose is straight and there is a slight to moderate palpable stop at the bridge of the nose.

CHEEKS AND CHEEKBONES:
Prominent, rounded cheekbones which define the eye and form a curve above the whisker break.

MUZZLE AND CHIN:
Whisker break with prominent whisker pads. Strong, well developed chin forming perpendicular line with upper lip.

EARS:
Large to very large. Broad at the base, open and upright. When viewed from the front, the outer base of the ear should begin at the level of the eye, neither low set nor on top of the head.

EYES:
Large, lemon-shaped, with wide-open center while coming to a definite point on each side. Placement should be at a slight upward angle, aligning with the outer base of the ear. Eyes to be wide set apart with the distance between the eyes being a minimum of one eye width. Eye color immaterial.

BODY:
The body is medium length, hard and muscular with broad rounded chest and full round abdomen. The rump is well rounded and muscular.

NECK:
The neck is medium in length, rounded, well muscled, with a slight arch. Allowance to be made for heavy musculature in adult males.

LEGS AND FEET:
Legs are medium in proportion to the body. They are sturdy and well muscled.

TAIL:
Slender, flexible, and long while maintaining proportion to body length. Whip-like, tapering to a fine point.

COAT/SKIN:
The appearance is one of hairlessness. However, short, fine hair may be present on the feet, outer edges of the ears, the tail, and the scrotum. The bridge of the nose should be normally coated. The remainder of the body can range from completely hairless to a covering of soft peach-like fuzz, no longer than 1/8th of an inch (two millimeters) in length.

COLOR:
Color and pattern are difficult to distinguish and should not affect the judging. White lockets, buttons, or belly spots are allowed.

PENALIZE:
Hair other than described. Delicate or frail appearance. Thin abdomen, thin rump, or narrow chest. Bowed legs.

DISQUALIFY:
Kinked or abnormal tail. Structural abnormalities. Aggressive behavior endangering the judge.

All questions, comments, and opposing arguments will, of course, be entertained.  Curiously, I am not quite sure whether I myself would make a good hairless cat.

The beautiful thing with imaginary friends is that when they disappear for awhile, no one asks questions.  No one wonders where they’ve gone or when they’ll be back.  When an imaginary friend goes missing, it never becomes a federal case.

That’s the difference between imaginary friends and family.  With family, everything is a federal case.  There are no little problems.  No little disagreements, no little differences, no little solutions.  In a family, headaches hang on coat hooks just like hats, and everyone walking by is expected to reach out and grab one.  No one walks out the door without one.

Hey!  Hold on!  You forgot this!

What was I thinking?  Thanks.  Oh wait, I already have one.

That’s okay.  Have another.

Aspirin, it’s sometimes forgotten, was invented because of family. 

My own imaginary friend, Imaginary Keith, has been presiding over a Supreme Family case involving three goose eggs in an incubator.  Two African geese eggs, to be exact.  The proceedings seem to have gone on forever over the custody of the soon-to-hatch goslings, and until a decision is made, emotions in the courtroom run high.  It is almost positive that repurcussions from the decision will be felt for years, and Imaginary Keith’s head throbs from the hours and hours of arguments presented to him.  Every headache hat in the place has been taken off of its hook and pulled down tight onto his head. 

All eyes are on him as everyone anxiously awaits the exact moment his resolve will break.  Bets have been hedged.  Caution thrown to the wind.  Anything that will snap the old man.

Facts of the case (as Imaginary Keith understands them):

1. A certain person (Grammy) receives three unwanted African goose eggs from a friend.
2. Grammy then places the eggs in incubator, even though it is known she doesn’t want any geese.
3. Grammy begins the enticement of animal-lover grandson with stories of cute baby goslings.
4. Overly excited son pushes case quickly through wishy-washy Mother courts
5. Same son passionately argues goose egg case with Imaginary Keith
6. Imaginary Keith retreats to chambers in search of aspirin.
7. Imaginary Keith returns to court to deliver eloquent speech on family problems
8. Court is adjourned.  Further arguments are promised every 20 to 30 minutes until eggs hatch.  Fifteen minute spacing once hatched.

A reading from this morning’s goose egg hearing transcript reads:

Son: Dad, no one wants the geese except me.  African geese are very mean and lonely.  That’s why you have to have more then one.

Imaginary Keith: Why would you want three mean geese wandering around the farm?

Son: They wouldn’t be mean to me because I’d raise them.

Imaginary Keith: Here’s the deal.  Why do three goose eggs have to become my problem?
Imaginary Keith: Why would Grammy hatch three eggs that she doesn’t want?
Imaginary Keith: Why do I have to have the same discussion day after day about the same three eggs?

Son: Dad!  She saved them.  They’re eggs from a mom AND dad goose with babies already inside!  You can’t just throw eggs like that away.  You can’t just kill baby geese.

Imaginary Keith (losing ground): well, no, I suppose . . .

Son: Throwing those eggs away would be like standing around with a spear killing puppies.

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son: You wouldn’t do that, would you?

Imaginary Keith: What?!

Son:  I didn’t think so.

Imaginary Keith: I really don’t think . . .

Son:  Approach the bench?

Imaginary Keith: You’re already leaning on it.  Let’s hear it.

Son:  Three geese dad.  Three little geese.  What’s the big deal?  And you don’t even live there, so I don’t see why . . .

Imaginary Keith: Careful.  I’m still the dad.  Remember that?

Son: Dad?

Imaginary Keith: Yes

Son:  Why are you wearing so many hats?

Imaginary Keith:  Recess!  Five minute recess!

It would appear I am much too busy for clear reflection.  But even busy people get hungry, so close your eyes and imagine me standing in the meat aisle of the local grocery store, face to face with a shelf of buffalo meat.  A sale: $5.49 per pound, wrapped up nicely in roughly one pound packages, which makes me think that this one buffalo would have served the entire population of almost every small town I ever lived in growing up.  This one buffalo would have made an entire week of lunches at every small little high school I ever attended.

It seems like one buffalo would fill a big void in anyone’s life.

But I’m not eating buffalo tonight.  I’m waiting for an Indian to shoot one and then hand me the heart so I can take a big bite and then pass it around with a bunch of new found friends.  You know, just like Kevin Costner did with the Indians in that movie where he danced around in the prairie all by himself.  Or maybe he danced with the Indians.  Or was it coyotes?  Oh yea, wolves.  Dances With Wolves. 

Well, I’m waiting for that kind of moment to eat buffalo.  A moment that will stand out.

And I already know that I don’t apply this same logic to the other kinds of animals I eat, so there is no need to brow beat me.  Just remember that life is filled with flawed logic, and that mine is no exception.