What If, Would You?

"What if you were a prehistoric-looking bug on a gravestone. Would you jump?"

"No."

"What if you were thirsty?"

"Yes."

"Would you drink milk?"

"Yes."

"What if someone picked you up? Would you buzz?"

"Yes."

"What if you were invited to Hawaii? Would you jump for joy?"

"No."

"Would you fly first class?"

"No."

"Would you order a drink on the plane?"

"Yes."

"Would you order milk?"

"No."

"Would you drink milk when you landed?"

"Yes."

"What if you were a prehistoric-looking bug in Hawaii? Would you visit places?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on a volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on a volcanologist?"

"Yes."

"Would you land on the gravestone of a volcanologist?"

"No."

"Would you be a volcanologist?"

"No."

"A volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you be a volcanologist if it meant you got to be buried on a volcano?"

"No."

"Would you pour milk into a volcano?"

"Yes."

"Would you pour milk on a volcanologist?"

"No."

"Interesting...."

What If, Would You?

"What if you stole a truck, would you give it back?"

"No."

"Would you park it next to that one?"

"No."

"Do geese have feelings?"

"No."

"Have you ever looked a goose in the face to see if it had feelings?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever driven a truck?"

"No."

"Have you ever driven a goose?"

"No."

"What's the first thing that comes to your head?"

"Cement mixer."

"Would you rather drive a cement mixer?"

"No."

"Do you have any idea why I can't get geese out of my head?"

"No."

"So your mother's name is...."

"Beatrice."

"No it isn't. What if the truck smelled really bad. Would you give it back then?"

"No."

"Would you let the goose ride shotgun?"

"Yes."

"Awesome. I like the way you think."

The Third Floor

I dreamed about the house again. Especially, the third floor. Why is it always the third floor? The first floor has the door, that much is obvious. But it also is the beginning. The shake of inside versus outside. And the inside is wrong. And then there are stairs. So curious a thing. You might hesitate at the top of stairs before running down. If you need to run down. Stairs are so close to falling. Controlled falling, actually. One little freefall, and you catch yourself. Two little freefalls, and you catch yourself. What if you don't catch yourself? Because on the second floor there is fear. Thicker than the first floor. I feel it in the walls. Like something is sliding through the lumber. It might pour from the ceiling to block the door behind me. It might wet my terrors underfoot. It might bleed into the frame of any window I choose to see. But most of all, I feel the almost. The evil not yet here, but close. The watching. Just a few short steps from now. Like my razor's edge of control is a mercy it can rip away. And because it doesn't rip it away, it laughs. But on the third floor, it's different. So very different. The third floor is inside the inside. So not the door. The outside world no longer coherent, far from the maze to the meat grinder door where reality is bloodied and pulped. My heart is beating on the third floor. Hard. The almost is so close. No farther than a neck kiss when you already feel the breath. The walls breathe with something not insane. Something trapped and tired and stewed to tranquil hate. But only while it sleeps. And it doesn't want to sleep anymore. Two sets of stairs from the third floor are no escape. A cliff is no escape. It's just a trade of deaths, one for another. A slivery hot death smashing into ground. A howling, scrambling death when your mind can no longer stay. But I hold it together on the third floor. I endure. The gnawing terror stops just before bone. I walk and endure, and curiously often, I go back.