I’m almost to the point where I should finally go and make that About Me page, where the idea is to capture the essence of your life in a tidy little list.  I have a hard time thinking of anything fitting into a list.  The plots always seem too big and unknowable.

But I’ll begin working on it, so that everyone with

other things to do but no desire to do them can feel like they’ve laid their ear against my head and listened to the memories of my life click by like the sound from an old movie projector.

But I would encourage patience on your part.  The list is fragile and worn.  The film of my life, like all of yours, has been spliced and patched many times.  Memory is the tape that holds it all together, and like old scotch tape, my memories are also faded, brittle, yellowed things. 

But I’ll make the list, and it’ll seem like a new film of an old thing.  Everyone can pull out their screens and we’ll watch the movie together.  If we’re lucky, it’ll make sense.  If we’re really lucky, it won’t be a three blanket movie.  And if we’re really, really lucky, no one will fall asleep the moment the lights dim.

Living with machines is much easier then living with people.  I’ve done it both ways.  I know.  I suppose it isn’t really any big secret, just something that nobody really cares to think about or admit.  I mean, can you imagine the tension here last night if I’d actually invited a living, breathing human over to share a meal, which ends up being what a DVD is to a DVD player.  Something to snack on.  So, for imagination’s sake, let’s just say that I’ve invited over a machine I met, who we’ll call D - short, of course, for DVD Player.

First, the night’s cinematic torture session would have been like sitting down to a meal that looks good but tastes wrong from the very first bite.  D and I would have sat across the table from each other, smiling politely each time our eyes met, pretending to enjoy the meal when in fact we both knew it was the most vile thing ever to cross our lips.  We would both chew as slowly as humanly possible (or in my date’s case - machinely possible), hoping somehow that our tastebuds would be tricked into thinking that our mouth’s were empty and their work done.

Politeness is the real enemy, you see.  It’s the thing that keeps us smiling and chewing, and gives us all that look of being graciously entertained.  I would have no way of knowing (having not dated in many, many years), that politeness, a real compass when it comes to navigating the human world, is of little use when dining with a machine.  And D, the poor thing, having just arrived in this country and new to dating herself, would have no way of knowing that politeness can be a tool that humans switch on and off on a whim.

It’s politeness that keeps us in our seats for half the movie, squirming all the time.  And politeness again when I pretend to look away as D turns and spits the half-chewed disk into her napkin.  It’s an awkward moment.  I wonder if I should reach out for her hand, but think, What about the napkin?  What if I grab that instead?  My politeness has me cornered. 

“How’s your meal?” It’s the only thing I can think to say.  “Everything okay?”
“Oh perfect.  Everything is just perfect,” she’d say, hiding the napkin in her lap.
“Oh good.  Then how about a little desert?”
“No, no, no, no.  I think you’ve done quite enough tonight already.”
“It’s O Brother, Where Art Thou?,”  I say in my best teasing voice.
“Oh really?  Well okay.  How can I resist that?”

I get up to get the desert and catch a glimpse of her emptying her napkin into the case.  Suddenly, everything is just fine.  I’ll worry about what to tell Blockbuster later.

You see, with machines, unlike with people, the night can always be saved.

The time of being alone with my house of machines is about to end.  We’ve enjoyed each other’s silent company for two days, such as it is, and now it’s time to slip across town and retrieve the little man.  And I literally mean slip.  Our snow turned into two days of freezing rain.  It looks nice and glossy outside.

But writing about one machine made me think about another.  With my son on his way over, I couldn’t help but wonder if televisions enjoy playing one show over another, or if they’re just indifferent.  The television’s main job when I’m here alone is to balance a picture on it’s head and help maintain the barebones feng shui of the place.  In layman’s terms, this might sound like:  That big blank wall needs something big and blocky in front of it.  And it’d be nice if it held a picture.

But when the little man arrives, the television’s entire job changes.  One quick click and the house is filled with the sights and sounds of cartoons.

Maybe my television has two jobs.  Maybe with me it just moonlights.  Hanging out with me is like going to work as a night watchman, where it sits and stares at the back of my head like it’s a security monitor, playing a never changing view from a camera aimed at the lower levels of an empty parking garage.  It’s usually a two day shift, sometimes one, seldom three.  And then it’s over.  I imagine it sighs with relief. ahhhhhhh  In less then an hour, little hands will seek out the television’s remote, where the favorites button is preprogrammed with nothing but cartoon stations.  As far as televisions go, that has to border on dream job.

The two boys are back together, despite the combined efforts of Mother Nature and a slow-leak rear tire that is beginning to get on my nerves.  Call me demanding, but I like a tire that can hold its breath for 50,000 miles without whining.  This consistent I need air attitude is a bit much, forcing me to decide every two days whether to waste two minutes stopping for air or forty-five minutes seeking more thorough treatment.  So far, two minutes always wins.

The roads were nothing more then a spiderweb of ice rinks, and the van, even after thirty minutes of warming up and shaking the ice from its windows, was proving to be no skater.  The trip had mishap written all over it, so I just kept my mouth shut as we began a wild slide that only ended when the two of us were sitting side by side in a restaurant, eating greasy hamburgers for lunch.  Who am I to argue with destiny?

“The fries need more salt,” my son says.  I almost tell him to just rub them around on his greasy fingers, which already have enough salt stuck on them to season every spud in Idaho.  But I see he’s smiling.  He’s only joking, attempting to hone his budding sarcasm skills.

I did have an opportunity, while we were ordering, to come up with a new theory.  Or maybe it’s no theory at all, but just a reflection.  I’ll let others decide.

While I waited for my son to make up his mind, I found my gaze drifting away from the gigantic hamburger pictures and the faux shakes, spinning on strings all around my head.  And then, through the slightly hazy fog of grease, I spotted a monitor near the end of the counter.  It seems I’m on television.

And suddenly it’s time for theory.  Or reflection.  It’s simple.  If you take any unshaven man in a bulky jacket and ski cap, lean him on the counter of any restuarant, convenience store, or gas station, and then play this image on a television mounted from a ceiling, you will reduce that man into looking exactly like a desperate, potentially armed felon.

It must be some sort of translation error that happens along the way.  Something must get distorted somewhere between here and there.  I don’t think I look like a felon in real life, but I sure did just then.  Was it the clothing?  No, they seemed normal.  My facial appearance?  Couldn’t be, you could hardly see my face at all (which did seem cleverly felon-like of me, I thought, and a possible flaw in my theory).  Maybe it was based purely on location.  Hmmmm.  I wanted to take off my coat and hat and stick them on the next guy in line, just to give it a test.  In the name of science and learning and higher understanding.  All that stuff.  But I held back, not wanting the challenge of having to explain myself to not only the man, but my son, who would surely wonder what the hell?  Or whatever the eight year old equivalent is.

Yesterday is much clearer to me, now that I’ve had a night’s sleep.  The house is quiet except for the few machines who sort of sneak around the room like servants, making sure that I’m comfortable and all is well.  The coffee machine clears its throat one final time, either announcing that its work is done or its about to make a speech.  I can’t imagine it would ruin the perfect silence with words.

This morning I can see that yesterday consisted mainly of a series of life lessons.  Reaffirmations, really, because most of it’d already learned many times over.  You’ll see what I mean.

Reaffirming Life

You can write more in a silent house then a noisy house.
Eight year old boys prefer a constant playmate.
Frozen butter will form quite a lake if microwaved for 30 seconds on high.
The line inside the coffee maker does not represent the “high water” level.
Coffee makers can also form small lakes.
Important work papers, left on the kitchen counter, will sink to the bottom of a coffee lake.
Ice storms look beautiful but make life difficult.
People who are bored will call you on the phone the most often.
They will have nothing to say.
They will always call at the wrong moment.
You will always wonder why you picked up the phone.
Despite cordless phones, the spaghetti will still boil over.

I wonder what I’ll relearn today.

I hear the sound of papers behind me, sliding and moving around.  It’s a threatening sound, and I’m not sure whether I should turn and look or continue on, here at the fun desk.  How can a pile of papers rubbing against each other sound so ominous?  It makes no sense.  But that is exactly what the pile of toppled mail has become - an ominous, rumbling pile of work that now threatens to break completely loose from my work desk and wash me out the door and over some embankment like a California mudslide.  It may sound ludicrous, but I can’t help but think that it also sounds crazy enough to work.  We have mudslides here in Oregon too, you know.  They’re just not very well publicized.

Time may in fact push all men into their graves.  I guess I can accept that.  But to think about being buried under a big pile of mail.  Now that’s just stupid.

What’s so scary about this?  The trick to a two month old pile of work and mail is to search through your closet for a magician’s hat and cape.  The whole thing is nothing more then a magic trick.  If it’s the clothes that make the man, then this calls for the proper hat!

A Simple Magic Trick

With two hands, pick up your deck of mail carefully.
The order may very well be important for the trick to work successfully.
Split the pile into two stacks - personal on the right, business on the left.
Any jokers remaining in the deck should be discarded at this time.
Jokers include all credit card applications, advertisements, magazines, and coupons.
Old, unopened Christmas cards should be placed in a separate pile.
These will be opened next year, when it feels “Christmasy” again.
Make your checkbook appear with a flourish of exotic hand movements.
Note:  a cape will only get in the way if you keep your checkbook in your back pocket.
Write checks for all credit card statements.
Pay only the oldest utility and telephone bills.
Don’t worry:  they need you more then you need them.
Say, “Are they crazy?” as you look over a threatening non-compliance letter from the Census Bureau.
Place it on the bottom of the stack, being careful to remember it’s location, so that you are fined not more than $5,000 or imprisoned not more then five years, or both.
Pay any insurance bills if you or anyone in your family recently totaled a vehicle.
Now, you should have three piles: one personal, one unopened business, and one outgoing with checks written.
Return the first two piles to the inbox.
Mail the third pile, saying (and here’s the important part)  “abracadabra”.  This must be said the exact moment the mail disappears from sight.  Don’t worry if you don’t have enough money in the bank.  That’s why you say the magic words.
Return to writing.

Remember, money management is just simple magic.  Keep in mind that the entertainment lies solely in the illusion.  Even the poorest fool can trick himself if he shows enough confidence.

Tonight I came across a box of old papers and letters.  Much of the box consists of old stories that would make excellent examples in the O.E.D. for the word feeble.  But I hang onto them.  I’m sure I have my reasons, but for the life of me can’t think of a single one.

But buried amongst the old stories were also some old letters, and it’s these that I found myself looking through.  Old letters nearly always tell the better story.  An old letter is a connection, because you know as you slide it from its smudged and worn envelope that it has been held and touched and cared for by both writer and reader.  Holding it in your hand is like looking into a mirror that reflects back both past and present, all at once.  In my letter, I am comforted by the image of a much younger me, sitting at a desk, writing about his struggle with an ending relationship.  But the comfort is short-lived when I wonder if the younger me may in fact be writing the letter not only to a friend, but to himself - to the older, present-day me.  Can the words of nearly twenty years ago still hold meaning for my life?  Have I grown so little it takes only one short letter per lifetime to sum me up?

The letter, dated September 4, 1986, was written for a friend.  Friends, it seems, are often put into impossible places when our own relationships fail.  The letter has some references to past letters that I will not even attempt to explain.

While many believe in the existence of ghosts, many more believe in the penning of an epistle to a distant friend.  A few, on the other hand, believe in both the ghost and the epistle.  And with a very few, it is the epistle itself that becomes the ghost.

This letter, when it is complete, will join all of my letters from the past, haunting the chambers of my mind with the thoughts and words that seem to live forever within me.  The thoughts and words which appear so harmless and meaningless when they first touch the paper.  Even now, the words of six months past begin their restless wandering, “and we are reminded that reality strikes at the heart of even the most foolish upon occasion.”

Oh, the reality of being yourself the most foolish.  It is this reality that is now the bludgeon that flails my heart.  I spoke of wonderful times tugging at my heart, as well as a man, Don Quixote, capable of living these wonderful times.  Now I find myself caught between worlds, and I yearn for the days of yore.  But I no longer find the courage to become a Don Quixote, and the swift and mighty sword lies silent before me.  Do I place my hands upon it, using it to severe all that is around me, or in another manner - to fix this weak and wandering heart?  Or has time moved on and tricked me?  Is the sword just another word, a ghost, that lies before me to tempt and taunt?

I remember the day that this same “Don Quixote cursed the day that he could not help a friend.”

I anxiously await your reply,

Keith

Whatever my friend’s reply was, I don’t know.  That letter doesn’t seem to have made it into the box.  I do know that in October of 1992, I found myself writing him yet again.  Life was not through bumping me around, it appeared.  In that letter, it is the last paragraph that is the best.

I’m basically the same man.  Keith - the man of promises unkept, words unwritten, lives unlived.  Pisces through and through.  Breath and dreams.  The moon seems to guide my heart.  I listen and try to follow, but the path is slippery, the stars moving beneath my feet at every step.

Why share this?  I’m not sure.  Maybe because the path has always been slippery.  Maybe because it is very nearly time to write my friend another letter.

Sunday morning sometimes means bowling.  At $1.50 per game (9:00 to 12:00 only) it’s the morning’s best deal.  The place is nearly empty, we eat nachos for breakfast without blinking an eye, and the biggest disagreement is whether or not to put the bumpers down or up.  This morning we go with “down”, but I somehow still end up scoring only 132.  I’m not sure which is more distracting/entertaining - the mother and daughter team bowling two lanes down, or my son, insisting on giving a 3-2-1 countdown each time I take a shot.  No excuse.  I often bowl well into the high 140’s.

Curiously, I see the name Richard Petty posted on the High Scorers board.  Richard Petty?  The racecar driver?  Seems Richard has bowled two perfect games here, but despite his fame, still doesn’t top the list of perfect bowlers.  I look around as we leave, but don’t see him.  He probably bowls Friday nights, with the regulars.

Some men can resist buying a frozen pizza for six weeks.  They won’t even realize they were avoiding frozen pizzas until their son asks to buy one while they are shopping together.  The man will, of course, purchase the pizza.  He might even buy three of them - just in case.  The man will then eat the pizza when his son his out of the house for a night.  The time from purchase to oven is approximately 28 hours.  Buying extra pizzas is always a good idea.