I am eating a peanut butter sandwich. It is in my face, so I can't intellectualize and say its existence is in doubt. It is called Skimpy because it contains cottonseed, rapeseed, soybeans and a few peanuts for flavor. It is a mixed bag. So is Skimpy real peanut butter? Or are the words peanut butter just symbols for smashed peanuts?

Believe an object or idea is real, and it enters into that giant circle that is bursting at the seams with adamant avowals of "I know what is real!" You may feel "this real" in your heart, kidney, big toe, or some other body part that allegedly excels at communication with the NASA of your brain.

The brain is a scanning system. It detects the stool pigeon that informs on the truth. For example, it will tell you that a daffodil is not a daisy, but it is not truthful when it waxes poetic and says, "a rose is a rose is a rose."

Roses differ. Some originate in the soil. Some are plastic, some silk. But all are called a rose. Whatever is real to you, may seem unreal to me because I don't see it or believe it.

Often we exclaim, "This is unreal!" Usually, it is an event that shocks us. We judge it unreal because it doesn't conform to expectations or accepted rules of logic.

Intellectualizing is like having lunch at a buffet spread of pictures. "Real" arrives with the crock pot, preferably containing food.  

I left my consciousness in the sixth dimension. It was crowded with science fiction. I couldn't find a seat. Because my thoughts were conventional, I was thrown out. Nonetheless, I was contaminated by dragons, trolls, and pet cemeteries. So I went back with a twisted ankle and a toothless grin. Amazing! I fit right in. Did I mention that I had a seeing-eye dog? He had conventional habits like crapping where he ought not. I barely escaped the collective ire.

Now I'm back at my desk. My mind is half here, half there. My dog is howling at the moon, but I'll tell you straight. I don't travel on a broom.  

Rascal or saint?

Middle ground is safe.

Rascal dances

With a knife-step.

Saint dances in a soft shoe.

When they mate,

You get Shakespeare.

As for me,

I wait for summer's vigor

Past time suddenly touchable and close,

pooling like a seasonal sign

that my devotion to your arose

during the bloom of summertime.

     I was talking my collie in the park when I came upon this woman. I stopped and stared and she stared back at me. How could there be a carbon copy of me? Impossible.

    "Why are you staring?" she asked.

    Should I tell her she is as beautiful as my dog? Hesitating, I said, "Have you always been a honey blond?"

    "Skip the honey," she said and drew an object from her pocket. She pointed a pistol. "Hand over the dog," she said.

     That's how I lost my pedigreed pup. 

      I told the police. "She shouldn't be hard to find. She is the spitting image of me."

      So I'm in the psycho ward, and the shrink is asking me, "Why do you want to get arrested?"

      I weep and pull my hair. To escape this hellish inquisition, I tell the shrink. "I was walking in the park. Alone. I don't have a dog."

     The shrink whispered something to the officer. I was released, but warned "not to walk in the park."

      Should he meet my spitting image, I hope he throws the book at her.