Z.

I loved the game of chess as a kid. [? - Inaccuracy.] I loved the idea of the game of chess as a kid. Even more accurately: I wished that I was better at chess than I really was. I still do. The problem was that I didn't have the patience, or the emotional fortitude, to withstand the many necessary defeats that are needed in order to improve my game.  Chess is a series of incremental lessons born out of multiple defeats. Many of them are just absolutely crushing. And if you've played chess, and if you cared about winning, you may have an inkling as to how painful these losses can be. (Though, couldn't this statement be true of anything?) But especially chess! Chessroach. Chess is a cerebral game—so losing can be a stark confrontation with the limits of your intellect and imagination. While I think it is a mistake to equate chess ability with raw intelligence, (or vice-versa), intelligence has a part to play. One does not need to be smart to be successful at chess, but it do...

"What's so great about birds?"  "They can fly."  "They can fly. Sure. But they always have to land."  I like it when memories lapse into a state where you're suddenly OK with exhuming them and giving them proper thought, honestly and impartially. It's a sliding scale, that. Some memories, no matter how distant, remain too tender to touch. Other memories, recent by comparison, can be dragged out into the light almost immediately.  But sometimes you realize, like lightning out of a clear sky, that some memories you thought you'd never really be able to face can suddenly come to mind with the realization that—at last—something has changed. Now you can revisit them with some clarity. Maybe you can finally pick something up about them that you were just incapable of even a day earlier. I like it when that happens. Lately, I've wondered if memories are better than stories. Or maybe we go about it all wrong, writing stories in hopes they'l...

There's a moment that happens-- subtle and special and somehow magical in a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of way-- the moment when you both know, before even a word is spoken about it, what you both want. When he knows that she knows that he knows that she knows. At that moment, everything changes. Every interaction, no matter how subtle, is weighed with a gravity of intention. Every word, no matter how minute-- every glance, regardless how fleeting-- is laden with meaning. Innuendo dripping from every gesture. You notice it. She notices it. But, for now— (for how long?)— it remains in stasis. Unspoken. In thought only.  "Schrödinger's courtship." A kind of dance plays out as you both not-so-secretly maneuver to put intention into action. This is "the moment." It's delicate— and can even disappear if one or both participants lose interest before the moment is ever acknowledged out loud. In fact, speaking it turns "the moment" into something else— no...

I bought a can opener yesterday. I was at home and looked at the can opener I had. Poor thing. It stared up at me out of my kitchen utility drawer like those abandoned puppies you see in those ads that ask you for just ten cents a day. A faint voice came out from it— "Kill-- me!" it squealed, rustily. A tear came to my eye. It was time. How long had I kept the poor thing going, forcing it to endure far past its natural life? The teeth of its gears were ground to nubs. The handle, sticky and faded after the old rubber grip had worn away from the metal years ago. Rust and grime accumulated around its deep ridges and angled recesses. Disposing of this now ancient can opener wouldn't just be merciful, it was the sanitary thing to do. Holding it delicately, I took each of its arms in the palms of my hands. "I'm sorry--" I said. It closed its eyes. The sweet embrace of cold death had arrived. With one easy snap, I broke the can opener in two-- and promptly droppe...

Think of the afterlife of a leaf. You grow up, living your entire life stuck to one little tree branch with all your brothers and sisters. You have a beautiful view of the world around you, but can never touch it. Slowly, over the course of a season, you blossom, wither and die. In death, you fall from the tree that you've lived upon your entire life. Dead, but, for the first time, free. The wind guides your descent like you never experienced in life, before. Blows you away. Through the air. Over the ground. Down hills to who knows where. You collect amid other leaves you've never met, huddled together in ditches or curbs or hollows. A mouse gathers you up and carries you off to a hole in the ground. You're tucked away, inside, all winter. Your crackling, brittle lamina insulating the mother mouse's babies to keep them warm as they grow. Slowly, in that dark warm space, you crumble and dissolve into the soil. Piece by piece, until you are unrecognizable from the dirt an...

They don't show animals getting theirs in nature documentaries anymore. Anymore, the courting male is rejected. The hunting predator is evaded. Scene after scene of animals denied and deprived. I understand that in life, an individual experiences an outsized portion of failure compared to success. But let's not forget that life exists because of the success stories. Dwelling on failed hunting and reproduction efforts in these nature shows feels existentially perverse. Sometimes the most exciting and memorable things you can do in life is nothing. Think of all the opportunities you took. The ones that worked out for you, you don't even think about, because those are behind you now. Think about the ones you took that failed. You don't think of those because you've worked hard to move past your mistakes. The ones you think about are the opportunities you had but didn't take. Those are the ones that are actually useful to you, nowadays, because you can really think ...

"Hey, you feeling good?" "Yes, I am!" "Great. Because other people are suffering and dying while you're here feeling good." "Oh." "Yeah, 'Oh.' Don't feel so good now, do you?" "No, I don't." "Wanna help those people?" "Yes, but how?" "Destroy the entire system that makes you feel good." "Really?" "Yes." "How will that help them?" "First of all, how dare you ask questions. That's privilege. Second, dismantling the system will help them because the system that benefits you is also the same system that makes them feel bad." "Really?" "Yes, really. Frankly, I find it annoying you keep asking for clarification after everything I tell you. You really should just believe me-- it'll make this all much simpler for both of us." "But, how would destroying what makes me feel good help them?" "Okay, let me br...

Bathroom stalls. The men's bathroom, for the uninitiated, is a place in our culture where the essence of the masculine is simply and efficiently distilled down to its core characteristics. I've stood outside the women's bathroom, waiting for women I've known. In past lives, I've even been employed to clean and maintain restroom facilities, affording me a behind-the-curtain look at the defining features of both restrooms. Even when unoccupied, the women's bathroom, comparatively, is a warm and affectionate place. I've observed, with curiosity, that it isn't altogether uncommon to see two women enter as strangers but come out chatting like birds descending from a telephone wire. You can make friends in the women's restroom. There's understanding, there-- a mutual interest. It's a place where society has told women where they can go and feel safe long enough to relieve themselves, and that's a comfort in times such as these. The men's re...