Homage

Hom"age, n. [OF. homage, homenage, F. hommage, LL. hominaticum, homenaticum, from L. homo a man, LL. also, a client, servant, vassal; akin to L. humus earth, Gr.? on the ground, and E. groom in bridegroom. Cf. Bridegroom, Human.] 1. (Feud. Law) A symbolical acknowledgment made by a feudal tenant to, and in the presence of, his lord, on receiving investiture of fee, or coming to it by succession, that he was his man, or vassal; profession of fealty to a sovereign.

2. Respect or reverential regard; deference; especially, respect paid by external action; obeisance.

All things in heaven and earth do her [Law] homage. --Hooker.

The givers of gifts unsought deserve homage like no other. --Ecklund

3. Reverence directed to the Supreme Being; reverential worship; devout affection. --Chaucer.

Syn: Fealty; submission; reverence; honor; respect.

Usage: Homage, Fealty. Homage was originally the act of a feudal tenant by which he declared himself, on his knees, to be the hommage or bondman of the lord; hence the term is used to denote reverential submission or respect. Fealty was originally the fidelity of such a tenant to his lord, and hence the term denotes a faithful and solemn adherence to the obligations we owe to superior power or authority. We pay our homage to men of pre["e]minent usefulness and virtue, and profess our fealty to the principles by which they have been guided.

Go, go with homage yon proud victors meet! Go, lie like dogs beneath your masters’ feet! --Dryden.

On one knee, with great respect and thankfulness, Imaginary Keith thanks Lady E of Purple Pen for her kind and generous invitation to Gmail.  When he offered up a prayer to the great and powerful Technical god, he had no way of imagining that it would instead be answered by a caring and friendly mortal.

The world is indeed a strange and wonderful place.  Gifts from strangers.  Email for imaginary people.

Sometimes, mostly at night, when he thinks I am not looking, I will catch Imaginary Keith with a faraway look in his eyes that tells me he is thinking of them.  Maybe the days are too busy, or there’s something about them that I don’t know, but it is almost always at night when I see his thoughts begin to drift.  I know very little about them, really, except that they wore little or no clothes and kept mostly to themselves, somewhere deep in a forest that apparently no one seems to know about.  I know that when Imaginary Keith says anything, he says both “he” and “she”, so I know there were both men and women.  I also know that there were exactly 23 children, because once in a rare moment of confession, he told me.  “There are 23 children,” he said, “and I can see everyone of their faces, right now, like they were standing here in front of me.” His eyes were closed, his face soft and relaxed as he said the words, and I knew right away that it was true.

I asked him once what they all did, all day, running around like that in the forest with no clothes on, and he just smiled and told me that it was no different then anywhere else.  “We just went about the business of living,” he said.  The business of living? What business could that be?  What business do naked people have, flopping around the forest together?  Sometimes I would ask more questions, but the answer was always the same.

I’d almost stopped thinking about Imaginary Keith’s time with them, until one day, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You know what we did?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.  Not at first.  But then I saw his face go slack and smooth, sort of quiet and peaceful, and I knew it was about them.  About his time with them.  I waited, silently, hoping there was more.

“Every morning we would gather together and predict the future.  We would give each other dates and then listen to what everyone had to say.  Some of us would have a year, some maybe a month.  Some only a week or a day, maybe even an hour.  Everyone would be given a time in the future, then a moment to think, and then the time to tell everyone their prediction.  That’s what we did every morning.  That was our business.”

“You mean to tell me you ran around naked, predicting the future?  You could do that?”

“Of course we could.”

“That’s incredible.  Really.  That’s really incredible.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“And that’s why you look so faraway, isn’t it?  You miss the predicting.  You miss knowing the future.”

“No.  That’s not it at all.  I miss the evenings.  I miss the evenings when we would all gather back together.  That’s what I miss.”

“The evenings?  What happened then?”

“Why, that’s when we would all gather together and laugh.  That’s when we would all laugh so hard that it felt like it would never end.  That’s what I miss.  The laughter.”

“It sounds fun.  What were you laughing at?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“It makes me smile, even now, just thinking about it.”

“Come on, tell me.  What were you all laughing about?”

“Ourselves, of course.  Only a bunch of fools would gather together each morning to predict the future.  You can’t do that.”

I awoke this morning to the phone ringing.  It was 5:00 a.m. sharp and I was still tired.

“Let’s get a move on!” the voice on the other end of the line barked.  The voice was unmistakable - Headless Lawn Man.

“Did you know it was only five?” I asked.

“Of course I know it’s five.  Why do you think I called?  Now up and at ‘em.  We have work to do!  You don’t take the White House lazing around all day long!”

“Well, I . . . “

“Put Imaginary Keith on.  I have some things I need to run by him.”

I look around for Imaginary Keith, thinking that I would like to fall back asleep.  I’m not sure I’m quite ready for all this shaking up that’s promised ahead.  I have enough to do already, bossing Imaginary Keith around and all that business.

“You should see this,” Headless Lawn Man yells into the phone.  I can hear the wind whistling past, and I imagine his headless body, dangling around the side of the train car, his stiff arm hanging onto the rail for dear life.

“You should see this.  The country is beautiful but the people lack spirit.  Hardly anyone is up at five.  Did you know that?  But I told the engineer to go heavy on the horn.  Let them know we’re coming!”

“That’s good.  That’s real good.  Okay, here he is.” I hand Imaginary Keith the phone and let my head fall back into the pillow, where I will dream about the months ahead, chasing a headless man around the country as he pumps hands and wins hearts.

Every once in awhile Imaginary Keith will get on the computer and make his way to one of the dating service sites, where about a year ago he set up a profile of himself, complete with picture and several important facts.  I’m not quite sure what he’s up to, because he hasn’t once met anyone from the service.  But like I said, every once in awhile he’ll head to the site and hit the button that not only lines up a series of female mug shots for him to look at, but also rates each and every one of them with a percentage.

This never fails to amuse my friend.

“Keith, come over here and see this,” he said this morning.  I was hoping it would be something interesting.  Maybe a heart-wrenching story of a journalist at the hands of American homeland security, or something like that.  Something that would stir me up and make me roar.  But no, it was another jaunt down the rabbit hole of dating.

“Look at this.  It says I am 87% compatible with this woman.  87%!  Ha!  Read this,” he said, his finger poking away at the screen.

Allow me to make this really simple. I am a professional christian business woman.

“Do you see why I don’t date?  Hell, where’s the 13% woman?  Where’s she at?  She’s the one who wouldn’t scare me half to death!”

“Why do you get yourself so worked up over this?  Don’t you have better things to do?” I ask.

“I’m relaxing.”

“Relaxing?  Wait a second, didn’t Headless Lawn Man fax over a list of things for you to do this morning?  I’m pretty sure this was not on it.”

“Really, it’s fine.  I called him back and we had a discussion about public image.  We weren’t sure the country was ready for a non-married president.  I told him I could fix him right up.”

“From what I’ve been reading, he now has about four firm votes.  Let’s not marry him away quite yet.  Besides, if Headless Lawn Man wants to get married he’ll find his own wife.  You’re not the king of matchmaking, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m . . .”

“Now shut that thing down before I email the 87% woman and tell her you’re interested.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

“How can you treat an imaginary friend like this and live with yourself?  Huh?  Tell me that?”

“Get over it, we have work to do.  Presidential work.  Today we double our votes.  We do that every day and we’ll be in the White House in no time.  Do the math.  It’ll work.”

“Why does becoming president suddenly sound a lot like an Amway get rich quick sales pitch?  Are we sure about this thing?”

“Sure?  Are you kidding?  Does a professional christian business woman shit in the woods?”

“No.”

“Exactly.  Now get to work.”

Imaginary Keith draws information and confessions out of people with no apparent effort.  I sometimes call him the giant confusion magnet.  It’s sort of like being a babe magnet, only with confusion sticking all over you, rather then women. 

He’s always been a confusion magnet, even when he was young.  Once in grade school, his best friend returned a trinket to him that Imaginary Keith had thought he had given to a girl only the night before.  His friend’s confusion blurted out, sticking to Imaginary Keith’s young chest.  Apparently the friend had snuck out during the night and stolen Imaginary Keith’s girl.  But being friends, it only seemed right to return the trinket.  And since Imaginary Keith was the neighborhood confusion magnet, it only seemed right to tell the whole uneasy truth to him.

In college, Imaginary Keith’s mother would write a long, detailed letter whenever anything went wrong back at home.  The problems would be listed, along with facts about the weather and how the chickens were laying.  Imaginary Keith would read the letters and wonder what to do with them.  He would always shake the envelope upside down, hoping that some money would fall out, maybe a twenty, or even a ten, but it never happened.

Imaginary Keith would grow used to his role as the confusion magnet.  If he dated, it would be with someone who had something to offer.  They would go to a movie, or maybe dinner, and the girl would start talking until there was nothing more to say and every little possibly confusing thing was out in the open.  Then they would drive to her home and he would drop her off.  Maybe he would meet her parents, or maybe he wouldn’t, but it didn’t really matter.  Either way, he would be polite and friendly.  Maybe they would kiss, or maybe they wouldn’t, but that too, didn’t really matter.  He would get in the car and drive, thinking about how quiet it was, imagining the moment when he would finally get home and take off his shirt, dropping it to the floor, where for the first time that night he would get a good look at everything that had stuck to him all night long.

“It’s easy, being a confusion magnet,” Imaginary Keith once told me.  “There are more of us around then you’d think.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Sometimes two confusion magnets will even get married.  And then the confusion just jumps back and forth, over and over.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Well, not at first.  But it usually ends up hurting quite a bit.  But you don’t know that when it’s happening.  You just think of it as sparks flying.”

“Like love,” I say.

“You’re what?  Five, six years old?”

“I’m nearly eight.”

“Really?  Okay then.  Yes.  It’s just like love.”

“Oh.” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

Just yesterday, the philosophy professor from next door came over, knocking lightly.  “Is Imaginary Keith here?”

“Yes, just a moment.” He stepped outside with her for a few minutes, where I could see her talking fast and handing him papers to look over.  She was smiling, then frowning, then smiling again.  Imaginary Keith was studying the papers and making eye contact with her, all at once, a trait, I’ve discovered, that seems to come naturally to confusion magnets.  In the end, he handed her back her papers and came inside.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“She needed to know how to respond to her colleagues.  There seems to be some confusion among them about how to proceed with their book, and she needed to know how to handle questions with the guest writer for their book.”

“But you’re a gardener, not an editor, or philosopher, or whatever it is she thinks you are.”

“I know it,” he said, “but the problem is, no one else does.”

Last month, the Blockbuster girl stopped my friend at the counter on his way in to find a movie.

“Look at my prom pictures,” she said.  “This is me and my makeshift date.”

Before he could even look at them, the pictures flew off the counter and stuck to Imaginary Keith’s shirt, where they remained stuck the whole time we were in the store.  From a distance it almost looked fashionable.  But up close, it just wasn’t right.

Friday :: A Thursday Update

Imaginary Keith’s labor pains were false.  But in other exciting news, President Bush gave birth to an excellent sack of coins.  The child, upon closer inspection, appeared to be filled with mostly yen and riyals.  As of this morning, there has been no official statement issued from the White House.

This morning at roughly 6:30 a.m., Imaginary Keith went into labor.  Doctors have predicted the labor will last roughly fourteen hours, and have gone on to say that they expect to deliver a healthy, baby mortgage payment.  Imaginary Keith’s breathing is heavy and labored, but the doctor’s seem unconcerned.

“Just look at the weight he’s put on in the last year,” one doctor was overheard saying.

“Don’t you mean nine months?” another asked.

“No, I mean last year.  This has nothing to do with the baby.  How much do you think a new baby mortgage payment weighs, after all?”

“It might be born all in coins,” Imaginary Keith volunteered.  “Isn’t that a possibility?”

“A sack of coins?  No one has ever given birth to a sack of coins.”

“But it could happen.”

“Imaginary Keith, if you expect to make it through this day, I suggest a bit of realism on your part.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“That’s the spirit. Now get ready to push.”

“I’m going to be pushing for fourteen hours?”

“You have a problem with that?  Now . . . PUSH!”

One day Imaginary Keith stretched out his arm and showed me a new watch on his wrist.  It was nothing fancy, and I wouldn’t have even noticed it if he hadn’t pointed it out.

“So, what do you think about my new watch?” he said, holding out his wrist.

The thing didn’t look that great to me.  Most of the face was taken up by some sort of solar panel looking thing, and the actual numbers were tiny.  And it looked like a couple of tiny wires ran out of the watch and disappeared under the cuff of his shirt, but I couldn’t be sure because he kept sweeping his hand around, like moving it around in small circles was the proper way to model a new watch.  Nothing really seemed right.

“It looks good.” One small lie couldn’t hurt.

“This watch is going to change the way people live.” It was a bold statement, but nothing out of the ordinary.  Imaginary Keith makes bold statements all of the time.  I’d grown used to them over the years.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Ummm . . . let’s see . .” He held the watch up close to his face, tilting the face back and forth, apparently trying to catch the light or adjust the angle or read some secret code or something.  I couldn’t tell.  Apparently, neither could he.

“I don’t know.  I still have a few kinks to work out.”

“What you mean you don’t know?  What’s the watch say?”

“I can’t quite tell.  I told you, there are still a few quirks to work through.”

“Quirks?  You mean like numbers with a colon in the middle that you can actually see?  Oh, I know.  How about two thin sticks that circle around and point to numbers?  Maybe you could invent that?”

“There’s no need to be a smart-ass about it.  Telling time is just one of the things my new watch does.”

“Almost does.”

“Okay, yes, almost does.  But telling time is the easy part.  It’s the other thing this baby does that is so exciting.” Imaginary Keith now had the watch stretched out in front of my face, the index finger of his other hand frantically pecking at the glass.

“Did you just call your watch a baby?”

“No.”

“Yes you did.  You were tapping at it and said ‘this baby.’ I heard you.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Well, you did.  I know what I heard, and I heard the word ‘baby’.”

“Well, maybe I did.  But I’m just excited.  It’s inventor talk, you know.  And salesman talk.  All wrapped up in one.”

“I’m not so sure I could agree with that.” Imaginary Keith’s eyes were opening big and wide.  He was getting himself all worked up.

“Sweet Jesus!  Do you want to hear about this thing or not?”

“Of course I do.  I just never heard anyone call their watch a baby before, that’s all.”

“I swear, can’t you ever stay focused?  What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m eight years old.  What do you expect?  All I asked for was the time.”

I could see Imaginary Keith’s chest rise and fall as he sucked in a deep breath, calming himself down.  You’d think, being the adult and all, that he wouldn’t be so easily riled.  I could see him, focusing on the watch, thinking of what to say.

“This,” he began, “is no ordinary watch.”

“No, I know.  It’s your baby.” He ignored me.

“Not only does it tell time . . . well, eventually, but it also functions as a human stat counter.”

“Oh.  I see.” A human stat counter? I should have never asked for the time.

“Yes!  That’s the exciting part.  You just put this baby on and you can find out all kinds of things about the people around you.” I let it go, this time.

“Oh.  I see.” Can imaginary friends even be repaired? How important is time anyway?  And why would an eight year old need to know the time?

“I modeled it after the stat counters people put on their websites.  Just a little code that checks names and locations and IP addresses and all that stuff.  This watch is a lot like that, but way better.  Way better!  This baby’ll tell you everything!”

“Oh.  I see.” Baby’ll? I wonder if you can sell imaginary friends on Ebay.

“Oh yea!  This watch not only tells time . . . “

“Eventually.”

“But it let’s me know who is checking me out, and where they’re standing, and how long they checked me out for.”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you appreciate just how exciting this is.  This little watch right here is going to revolutionize the dating industry.  No, no, no!  This baby will revolutionize the relationship industry.  I’m telling you, it’ll change the world.”

“I’ve never really thought of relationships as an industry.  Now dating, on the other hand . . . “

“Will you listen?!  Once everyone gets one of these on their wrist . . . Wait!  Look!  Look!  Look!  It’s going off!  Someone’s checking me out!  Right now!  This very instant!  It’s working!”

“It is?”

“Yes!  Oh my god, this is exciting!  It’s working!”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know yet.  I’m having a hard time reading the results.”

“What are they thinking?”

“I told you, I can’t quite tell.  But I think they’re getting closer.”

“Closer?  You mean, close like in the same country, or close like here they come now?”

“I’m not sure.  I haven’t had a chance to calibrate the range yet.”

“Well, let’s hope when they get here, they just don’t ask you for the time.  That would definitely be a blow to the relationship industry.”

Imaginary Keith, did you . .

Ssshhh!  I’m trying to think!

I was just trying to tell you about the dream you had last night.

Ssshhhhh!  I’m redesigning our site.  I’m going to need some peace and quiet for a few days.  None of this makes any sense, you know?

Oh, I know.

I think I like this ExpressionEngine thing.  I think we might use it.

How can you know what you like if you don’t know how to even use it?

I just, ummm . . . I don’t know.  Just go away now.  I’m busy.

You know what’s funny?

If I answer, will you go away?

When kids get busy, they just run around screaming and laughing and having fun.  But when adults get busy, they’re usually holding real still and scrunching their brows and looking like they’re trying to absorb the world in through the pores of their skin.

Will you go away now?

You know, someday laptops will come alive and they’re going to be mad.  And they’ll all snap closed, all at once, and then all of the adults will be walking around town without any fingers or noses.  The laptops will snap them right off.

I really don’t have time for your foolishness.  I’m busy learning something here, if you haven’t noticed.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Go!

What about the dream?  Don’t you want to hear about that?

No!  Now get out of here before I chase you off.

Yelling and screaming like a kid?

Go!

Did you . . .

Everyday the neighborhood’s potential must be inspected and reevaluated.  Scrutiny is the key word here.  Everything must be scrutinized by the keen eye of my imaginary friend, then reported back to me.

“There’s a girl at the back door, crying,” Imaginary Keith reported the other day.  “She’s been stung by a yellow jacket.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know.  But I think she may have just come from Mardi Gras.”

This would make no sense whatsoever.  Oregon is a long way from Louisana.  Too far for a little girl to walk, no matter how sturdy of shoes she might be wearing.  Besides, the timing wasn’t right.

“She’s with the boys,” Imaginary Keith added.  “They’ve brought her here for help.”

Sure enough, there was a little girl just outside the back door, stung twice and crying.  The yellow jackets still flew around her head, and she swatted at them with her tiny little arms.  The boys were all inside, hooting and jumping around and telling the girl’s story in loud voices.

So Imaginary Keith swept the little girl through the open door and into the safety of the apartment.  He attended to her stings and asked her questions.  He tried his best to act adultish and serious.  He quizzed her about where she had come from, about her parents, where did she live, was she with anyone, did she need to get home, and things like that.  But she would have none of it, and as soon as the tears were dry she was ready to play.

I liked her immediately.  The neighborhood’s potential was on the rise.  Her presence alone was more then enough to trump the crazy man who worked on his RV in the street for 8 hours a day, constantly mumbling to himself.

So now, every day, this little Mardi Gras girl stops her bike, lays it down on the sidewalk, and comes to our front door, where she opens the mail slot and peers into the house, smiling and calling out ‘hello’ in her little Mardi Gras girl voice.  Like all kids, she is simply looking for someone to play with. 

“Hi Mackenzie,” Imaginary Keith will say, talking to the mail slot. Day by day, the girl disclosed small little facts about her life.  First it was her name.  Then it was that her dad needed to go to jail, but that nobody could find him.  And then it was that her bicycle helmet was getting too small.  Just yesterday, she told us through the mail slot that she was an Indian.

“I didn’t know you were part Indian,” Imaginary Keith said.

“I’m not,” the voice through the slot replied. “I’m full Indian.  My mom told me.”

But that was yesterday.  After telling us that she was full-blooded Indian, she hopped on her bike and disappeared around the corner, and we haven’t seen her since.

In the mornings, sometimes Imaginary Keith and I will just sit around saying nothing.  We enjoy the quiet.  We drink coffee and just think of nothing.

“I like hearing the sprinklers running across the street,” I say.

“I hope they’re looking both ways before crossing,” Imaginary Keith will almost always reply.

“That’s a stupid joke.  Every time.” We’ll go back to being quiet coffee drinkers, both of wondering when Imaginary Keith’s son will wake up.

“I wonder when your son will wake up,” I say.

“Hmmm.  He sure enjoys talking, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.  Eight year olds are seldom quiet.  Especially in the morning.  It takes time to appreciate quiet.”

“But you’re eight,” Imaginary Keith will say, “and you’re quiet.”

“Yes, but it’s easier when you’re sitting around drinking coffee with an imaginary friend.  Even for an eight year old.”

“Maybe I should see if my son wants some coffee.  When he wakes up, I mean.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Just a thought.”

With the windows open, trying to suck in as much cool air as possible before the day’s heat sets in, the sprinklers seem almost loud.  Impulse sprinklers, clicking back and forth, producing two clearly distinct sounds, Imaginary Keith and I have come to an agreement that they are the very best kind of sprinkler, simply for the sound alone.

“I wonder if it’ll go over 100 again today,” I say.

“I hope not.  I thought I was going to die yesterday.  As a matter of fact, I did die once, but somehow sprung back to life.”

“I must have missed that.”

“I would have told you right away but I was too hot.”

“I see.”

“I also lost four pounds yesterday.  I guess the sun just pulled it right out of me.”

“You better drink more water today.”

“Do you think I could market the sun as a diet plan?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Maybe I could work Apollo into the logo.  Might be good to have the sun god behind us.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“And maybe in the brochure we’ll mention that story where Marsyas challenged Apollo to a music contest, but that when he lost, was flayed by Apollo, signifying the incredible stripping power of light.  Strip Away The Pounds we’ll call it.

“That all sounds a bit harsh to me.  For a diet plan and all.”

“Oh, we’ll pretty-up the language a bit.  Besides, I think people are ready for something with a bit more bite to it.  Didn’t I just hear the other day that some show called Nip and Tuck won a bunch of awards.  People are loving the whole idea of radical alterations.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Yep.  Strip Away The Pounds will be an instant success.

“Maybe.  But I have a question about Apollo.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he fall in love with Daphne and chase her around for all eternity, only to be constantly rejected?  I don’t see how that little fact is going to help your diet plan.”

“Well, sure, but it wasn’t Apollo’s fault.  Besides, we don’t need to go and dig up every little detail.  It’s just a diet plan.  It’ll only be around for a few months, maybe a year.  Eternity has nothing to do with it.”