If someone could read your thoughts, would you be frightened?  If they knew you inside and out, would you think of them as a soul mate?

And does this mean that we refer to half-assed telepathic ability as love, but full-fledged telepathic ability as scary and just plain freaky?

Does this bother anyone other then me?

And I wonder how two telepathic people would argue.  Would any of us “normal” people even know, or would we just think it was a stare contest?

I have no idea what it is or where it came from, but it looks like giving up coffee makes me the stuff lead stories are made of.  Or so The World Star Gazette would have us believe.

In other news:  my blog entries are popping up all over the place on surrounding community Co-op bulletin boards.  Farmers throughout the county seem to embrace my philosophical moodiness.  Many of my entries have been translated in Spanish, and the migrant population, beginning to swell with the spring’s warmer weather, have embraced me as their new Cesar Chavez.

And all because I gave up drinking coffee fourteen days ago.  Who could imagine such a thing.

Imaginary Keith still lives here.  It’s a fact.  And I’m as curious as everyone as to why he hasn’t been talking.  Could it be his dreams?  Can dreams have the power to silence? 

This morning I sat on the edge of the bed, watching my friend as he dreamt about hitting someone on the head with what looked like a bowling pin.  The sound of the pin connecting solidly with the stranger’s head made me wince.  But whoever it was he was hitting just kept coming on strong, and it was then that I saw that Imaginary Keith was trying to protect someone.  He was giving it his best, swinging away with that bowling pin, and as I looked closer, I could see Imaginary Keith cringe each time the pin made contact.  My friend has never been much of a fighter.

Eventually Imaginary Keith just grabbed the hand of the mysterious someone (a woman at this point) and took off running, dropping the bowling pin so he can concentrate on both escaping and some serious mathematical computations that he has begun to perform in his head.  Just what are the odds that they will escape, he thinks.  And what are the odds that the woman would actually have been attacked?  As they race through the streets, dodging people and jumping in and out of buildings, Imaginary Keith does the math.  He arrives at an answer just as the two of them jump a second story balcony rail and fall into a grassy area.

.25%, he thinks.  Not even a 1% chance that this will end badly.  Why are they running?  Why was he hitting someone on the head?

Imaginary Keith stops dreaming after that.  My friend may dream randomly, but he usually wakes like clockwork.  It’s 6:00 a.m.

“Keith?  Was I dreaming?”

“Yes you were Imaginary Keith.  You were on the run.”

“I can barely remember.  Did I get away?”

“You didn’t have to.  There was nothing to run from in the first place.”

“But I think I was scared.  I can still feel it.”

“Yes.  But it’ll pass.”

“Keith?”

“Yes?”

“I wish she wasn’t dead.”

When I picked up the phone the other night and reached back across twenty five years of silence, I had no idea what waited for me on the other end.  Time moves so slowly we cannot see ourselves growing grey, yet passes so quickly that the transformation is almost sudden.  It is one of the paradoxes that makes time such a mystery, and one of the reasons that life can feel like a dream.  I sometimes think it is my own mind, an uncrossable bridge, that spans the gap of this paradox.  That it is only in thinking that we lose sight of understanding.  In a dream, time is meaningless, and it is only after we awake that things become confusing and we find ourselves trapped on one side of the paradox.

“Keith, do you think it was an accident?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“She was too smart.  I think she knew what she was doing.”

“I know.”

I just wish I could have seen her.  I had something I always wanted to tell her.”

“I know.”

A list was made of the people who I might have called that night.  The night I began poking at things with sticks.  It was a good list, made by a friend, that somehow added to the mystery and the fun.  Life, let’s admit it, is a guessing game.  Everything from mindless entertainment to higher education revolves around the concept of learning or relearning something hidden from us.  Babies play peek-a-boo at the same moment that scientists try to unravel the universe, but take away time and they are surprisingly the same game, a way to lose ourselves in the excitement and complexity of discovery.

“Imaginary Keith, what would you have said to her?  It’s been so long.”

“I know.  But I always thought that the moment I saw her I would know exactly what to say and how to say it.  That it would all come to me when we were face to face.  I don’t know.  I think I wanted to apologize to her for being the way I was back then.”

“Oh.”

“But I don’t know what I would have said.  How does one even begin to apologize for being a boy?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think you have to.”

“You don’t have to.  But maybe sometimes you should.”

If I ever decide to attend a high school reunion, it would be to visit with three people.  In my mind, the others might only be a distraction.  Everyone except the three seem to have had little meaning to my life, and it is hard to imagine how this could have changed in twenty five years.  Maybe I am wrong.  But of all the people in my class there were three who did have meaning.  Three who had an enduring impact.  Cindy S. and Scott W., both of whose names made it to the list, and another girl, Valerie, whose name did not. 

Funny, almost, that it is Valerie’s name that was left off of the list.  Valerie - the girl who returned to high school after leaving early and attending college for a time.  The girl who seemed to pass quietly through life, would become valedictorian, and who I would date for a time my senior year.  The same girl who once told me to stop the car in the middle of a desolate, backwoods road, so that she could push back against her rigid, moral Church of Christ upbringing.  So in the dim moonlight, on a small bridge above an even smaller creek, the two of us drew close and slowly danced.  An innocent but important act in my mind, a sin in hers.

“What was she thinking about as we danced that night?  Do you think she remembered it, Keith?”

“I’m sure she did.”

“For so long I was always sure it meant more to her, that dance in the moonlight.”

“I know.”

“But now that she’s gone, I’m not so sure anymore.  Now I’m the one left remembering.  I’m the one left to wonder.”

As I listened to the news of Valerie, and heard the story told as Valerie’s own mother had told it, I heard a story of sadness and mistake.  A woman who ended up, somehow, as a person who drank too much.  A woman who somehow made the mistake of drinking so much that she accidentally falls asleep in her car, parked in the garage with the motor running, before she has a chance to open the garage door.  But those are the mother’s words, repeated to me by yet another.  Words that seem to only say that there is no way for a mother to be able to understand what has happened to her only daughter.

But as I listened, I could only wonder.  How could she do it?  What turns had her life taken that led to that garage, where she sat looking for the strength to end?  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.

Night ended and morning began with a technicolor dream where small things like puppies and squirrels went wild, and inanimate objects came to life with the desire to kill.  The first to attack was the largest, starting off as a huge german shepherd / wolf dog mix, but ending up as a crazed woman with gnashing teeth and a machete.  With son in tow, I ran as far as I could before turning to fight off the inevitable attack.  My only weapon - a small jackknife I had in my pocket.  I killed the dog / wolf, only to discover after the act that it was really the woman.  I got up, took my son by the hand and began walking away, covered in blood.  People all around just sat and stared, like they couldn’t believe what they’d just seen.  No one said a word.

But then it began to progress.  First it was other animals.  Small dogs, cats, wild birds - they all began to snarl and become vicious.  And then other things began to come to life.  Things that shouldn’t, like balloons and pictures on the wall and stacks of paper.  The two of us ran, turning and fighting when there was no other choice.  Everything that attacked was small, but dangerous enough to inflict serious injury if ignored.  It was the sheer numbers of these things that was overwhelming.  They were everywhere.  It was as if everything ever created was somehow coming to life.  You could even hear it happening, as the objects sizzled and popped just before coming to life.  Everyone was screaming and running and being overtaken all around us.  As we passed through one building, I could see that it was a pre-school classroom.  A giant snake, one of those made out of colored, construction paper rings, had come to life and was slithering around the room, covering at least two, maybe three walls.  I stopped to cut off the head, releasing some children that were being squeezed in its coils.

We ran out the door . . .

Wait a second, did you show up expecting replies to your comments, only to find my own yesterday manifesting itself as sheer madness?  Oh.  So sorry.  But that’s later today.  Once I get rolling.

But you know, the dream wasn’t all that bad.  I mean, in the dream, my back wasn’t even one bit sore.  It was nothing like real life.  Getting out of bed this morning - now that was the nightmare.

Is he alive?

I don’t know.

Well, do something.  Poke at him.  See if he moves.

No way.  You poke at him.

Just do it.

No.  Let’s just wait a little.  If he’s alive he’ll move.

Look!  Look!  I think he’s breathing.

I didn’t see it.

Lean in.  Feel for his breath like they do in the movies.

Are you sure.

Yea.  Do it.

I don’t feel anything.

You gotta get in closer.

Okay, if you really think . . .  oh god!  That smells like old rotten pizza.

Then he’s still breathing, which means he’s alive.  No ghost here.  Come on.

Are you sure?

Yea, come on.  Maybe there’s some leftover pizza in the fridge.

Pizza?  After smelling that?  I’m pretty sure I’m not in the mood for pizza.

Not in the mood for pizza?  What kind of communist ghost hunter are you anyway?

Somewhere along the path I’ve taken a wrong turn.  From the looks of things, it would appear I am standing in a rubbish trap.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  Seems the only things I’ve been writing about are things you’d find in a person’s rubbish pile.  It’s a bad sign.

Where’s the news and current weather?  Where’s my spin on world events?  Where’s my ability to describe yesterday’s shopping trip - my first clothes shopping in roughly two years - where I discovered I felt lost and unprepared to make fashion decisions?  Buried under a huge pile of rubbish, that’s where it’s at.  Somewhere under that heap of woe is me crap lies a small pile of fresh thoughts and ideas.  I’m just hoping I had the sense seal them up tight in some sort of ziploc contraption before everything went rubbish on me.

I did have one idea yesterday, while I was wandering around lost among the racks of clothes.  It occurred to me that stores are missing out on a great opportunity to boost sales by ignoring shoppers just like me.  I am surely not the only man in town who has lost his sense of fashion direction.  I imagine there are great numbers of us.  We are a force to be reckoned with.  We are a potential cash crop.  And the technology to harvest us is already in place.

First, there are cameras everywhere, already watching our every move.  Someone, somewhere already possesses the ability to know when I am lost.  The problem, it would seem, is that they aren’t watching me to help me, but rather to make sure I am not trying to steal anything.  Steal?  For god’s sake, I can’t even decide what it is I would buy!  The eyes behind the cameras are missing the whole point.  The vast majority of people like me aren’t looking to steal something.  Far from it.  We’re just looking for direction.  We need reassurance.  We need suggestion.  We need, like it or not, a woman’s opinion.

And that’s my idea.  Undercover women employees who seek out the lost and confused male shopper to help him with his purchase.  Women with little, invisible microphones tucked into one of their ears so that the person behind the hidden cameras, who watches all and sees everything like a great and powerful Oz, can whisper to the secret, undercover woman employee, “Lost man.  Early 40’s.  Appears to be having minor trouble making a shorts decision and major trouble picking out a short sleeved shirt.  Seems to lean towards blues and greens.

And then the woman, who looks nothing like a store employee at all, no smock or cheap plastic name badge or attitude that she’d rather be anywhere else in the world, would casually approach, looking like she is doing some shopping herself.  She would glance at the racks of men’s clothes, pretending to look for something special.  Maybe for her father, maybe her husband.  Or it might be for a small boy or even a lover.  This would all depend on what has been whispered into her ear and how it pertains to your apparent shopping trouble.

The undercover woman would move into your life so slowly that you wouldn’t even know what was happening.  Even if you knew about the undercover women sales force you would be taken off guard because, let’s face it, we want to be.  Lost shopping men are like this.  We’re desperate for advice.  Like I said, we’re a cash crop, just ripe for the picking.

I don’t need to give you a detailed play by play about how this thing pans out.  You know how it works.  She makes eye contact while he has a particular shirt or pair of pants or shoes in his hands, then says something innocent and subtle, like ”Oh, those are nice,” then moves away for a bit, leaving the lost shopping man to ponder his next move.  Maybe she says more, maybe not.  Maybe she doesn’t have to.  Maybe she only has to pick up certain shirts and smile approvingly to sway the lost shopping man.  Or maybe she moves in close and strikes up a conversation, and the lost shopping man ends up with a whole shopping cart of clothes that he now knows are perfect.

And the undercover woman, when she begins to sense that the lost shopping man has been pushed as far as he can go, simply looks up into one of the hidden cameras, gives an almost imperceptible thumbs up, and waits for the whisper in her ear - her next assignment.  The earpiece is rarely silent.

Shoe aisle 3.  Single father with rambunctious eight year old son.  Let me check the tapes . . . yes, just as I thought.  He’s already survived the sock and underwear department, as well as convinced the boy the try on four different pairs of pants.  The two have argued briefly, but the father looks like a pushover.  The boy does most of the talking.  Both the father and the boy look hungry and may have grocery shopping still to do.  The father is obviously tired and may be getting cranky.  Approach with caution.

“Nothing I haven’t handled a million times,” the undercover woman thinks to herself as she calculates commissions in her head and begins her innocent-looking approach towards the shoe department.

The biggest baby ever born weighed in at over 100 pounds, and according to my eight year old source, left the mother’s vagina ripped and infected for the rest of her life.  A baby so big - surprising.  That my son has such intimate knowledge of the birth - even more surprising.  But it’s what happened to the baby next that is the icing on the cake.  Stay tuned.  Details soon to follow.

And on a kinder, less gruesome note (well, sort of), find out how it feels to shop with a young boy as he seeks out the polka section at the local Borders.  Find out what it’s like to have a child possessed by oddness.  Read the thoughts of a father as one employee yells loudly across the store to another, “Hey, this guy wants some polka!  Can you help him find the polka section?!”

Everyone polka!  Well, maybe not the infected mother of the 100 lb. baby.  She probably needs her rest.

It seems ridiculous to play the sleeping beauty card, but I don’t know what else to do.  My just a half an hour won’t hurt nap somehow turned into three hours.  How could that happen?  There aren’t any poison apples in the house.  I don’t even like apples.

Maybe it had something to do with the divorce conversation just prior to me falling into the recliner.  Those conversations are more tiring then any fairytale apple ever thought of being.  I should write a children’s story where the evil witch is a divorce attorney, and every time they cackle the mailbox rattles and notarized documents magically appear.  Now that would be scary.

So my normal twelve to fourteen hour work day, which I try very hard to cram into nine or ten, is now seriously behind schedule.  Three hours will be hard to make up.  Four hours if you count all of the stretching and yawning required to bring me back up to speed.

How does this effect you, the gentle reader?  Not much at all, really, except that you will now find yourself having to wait for the tale of the 100 lb. baby.  I know.  You were at the edge of your seats.  But come on, isn’t anticipation what stories are all about?  Isn’t half the fun not knowing what comes next, or at the very least, not knowing when it will arrive?

Like . . . will I ever wake up?  What if I fall asleep in my recliner one day and just never wake up?  What if I just sleep and sleep and sleep?  Would my body eventually shrink down really tiny so that it completely fits under the irritatingly small lap blanket?  How many years of sleeping would it take before I shrunk enough for my feet to stop poking out and getting cold?  And do you think someone would stop by with chapstick once in awhile, just to make sure my lips didn’t dry out?

I need to get to work!  Quick!  Someone kiss me!

No one kissed me but I still woke up.  Proof that there is no such thing as real life.  It’s all a fairytale.

But I still haven’t caught up with yesterday, even though a whole night has passed.  Maybe this is real life.  But just before going to bed it seemed different, as I walked through the park under the firs.  The path was so soft and springy, freshly covered with hogsfuel.  I sat and pushed down with my feet, watching them as they first sank into the path, then sprang back up.  Only a friend would know how much force to push back with.  It takes friends to push us in ways that make us feel good.  Last night the path felt good, like a friend.  It pushed me along beneath the firs and through the twilight, meandering through the park and along the creek, eventually ending somehow right alongside my bed.  I crawled in and went straight to sleep.

This morning I have the pleasure of accompanying my son and his class on a field trip to a pet store, where the focus is suppose to be on tropical fish.  I’ve been on this type of outing before (although not nearly enough), so I know that the magic number is 5.  The teacher divides the kids into groups of five and presents them to parents just like me for safekeeping.  I learned my lesson on the first field trip, so this time I am prepared.  A small piece of rope, wrapped tightly around my five should not only keep them all together, but together in a neat, tight bundle.  I imagine if I wrap the rope tight enough, I’ll be able to sit on the same bus seat with all five at once.  I’m sure they’ll think it’s fun.

I popped wide awake at 4:00 this morning, ready to go.  Yesterday’s nap still hard at work I imagine.  I’m drinking coffee, even though I made the claim that I quit, and it tastes perfect.  I did quit, but just not forever.  Nothing is forever.  But quitting for the time that I did made me realize that sex is much easier to go without then coffee.  Were you aware of this?  I know this sounds as improbable as the mysterious 100 pound baby, and it doesn’t even seem that things would work out this way, but it’s true.  But the last thing I would want anyone to do is to go out and test me on this one.  It would be much easier on everyone involved if you just went along with me for once.  Believe me.  Trust me.  Take my word for it.  Convince yourself that I speak the truth.  You won’t be sorry.  I can honestly say that I would hardly ever lie to you.  At least on purpose.  Or without a very good reason.

I feel like I’m beginning to jabber on like I did have sex last night, which I assure you I did not.  I didn’t even think about it.  No, it’s the coffee.  I swear.  But that’s my point.  Do you see it?  The two are nearly interchangeable.  As far as I can tell, their only difference lies in their timing.  At least for me.  One I prefer in the morning, and the other (if I remember correctly) was best anytime after lunch.  But I digress.

Anyway, the window above my desk is open, cool air blows in, and the birds are chirping up a storm.  What is it they sing about?  I wish I knew because it feels like I’m missing out on something.  Is it the exact same thing every single morning?  The same song?  The same easy message?  Can life really be that simple?

I’ve just been reminded that talking is certainly a tiresome business.  So much energy for such a small return. 

I may begin taking more naps, like yesterday’s.  I’ll call it an experiment in self-preservation.  I’ll hang a Do Not Disturb sign around my neck.  Anyone who stops by can scratch out their thoughts on the pad of post-it notes I’ll leave beside me, then just stick the note to my forehead.  When I wake up, all I’ll have to do is feel my head for messages. 

Very little movement and no talking.  Most efficient.