There are times, usually in the late morning, when I open the entrance to my cave and blink at the brightness. I wonder if there is a reason to venture beyond the cactus in my front yard. I see wisps of clouds and tumblers of blue in the sky. Noises from the other caves: machines and cars and conversations. Someone sawing wood. Nailing sawed wood to more wood. Mowing the lawn.

Birds frolic and chatter their back and forth about the availability of insects on the international market. Of supply and demand. Of vacationing in the South of Mexico.

I go back inside. It's slightly cooler in the cave, although the difference in the late afternoon between inside and outside is sometimes hard to discern. The swamp cooler (made for non-swamp caves like my own) will eventually fight to make a difference.

People are playing soccer in Europe. In Germany. They call it football. It has been said the U.S. team plays this football and should be able to play with these other teams from many other countries. The visions I've seen in my cave have not convinced me. I think the main problem may be because we still call it soccer, so as not to confuse ourselves with our great titties and beer soaked gladiator fests of the fall. Many times conflict can be diffused by a correct use of language.

Of course, I don't have definitive proof of this theory either. Other visions in my cave have shown me a split between realities. The realities on the ground. The realities in the heads of state. The realities in the cities. The realities of my cave. We all have differing thoughts about what is real. And none of us seem to be close to changing our own perspectives.

My cave is relatively peaceful. However, I do have random bursts of violence. Insurgencies from the insect world do, at times, disturb my peace. I have been using the bottom of the sandal approach. I don't think a message is getting across to any of the surviving insurgency--those who have evaded the bottom of the sandal. But I have no use for talk. Only action.

Bipedal visitors to the cave are not many. For the entrance, as it has been for a decade or more, is hard to find. The camouflage in the front area is formidable. I can imagine the uncertainty one might have when approaching the cave. What kind of animal is in there? How can I relate to such a creature? Will it be hostile or docile? Will it be wearing clothes? Does it have beer? What is that smell?

I do venture away from the cave on occasion. I have to procure nourishment. I am not self-sufficient in the production of food. When I leave, I wonder if I am wearing proper attire. If I look enough like a member of society. Enough to pass without much comment. Sometimes I am successful. Other times, I am not. However, failure only elicits casual comment from passersby. Thusly, it is easily dismissed.

I cash cave maintenance checks. I stock up on cave essentials. I look around and see other cave dwellers blinking in the bright light of the day. Everywhere I go, others are doing the same thing I am. They dress differently, but otherwise, we seem to be thinking similar things: why is gas so expensive? Is it going to get hotter outside this week? Is this apple too ripe? Will it rain again? Should I get the big or little bottle of gin? Why can't anyone else drive as good as I do?

I take everything back to the cave. A few trips to and from the car, and I am out of the sun. Soon my cave is stocked for another bit of time. And suddenly, the phone rings.

It is another cave dweller. They want to know if I take credit cards. In my cave? I ask.

Sometimes there are problems talking to other cave dwellers.

Matt Worley has been hiding in his cave lately.