Z.

A man and a woman sit in a restaurant for breakfast. Waiting for their orders to arrive, they pass the time by talking to each other. A: "So tell me something about yourself."  B: "Okay, but let's talk about something else." A: "You don't want to talk about yourself?" B: "I don't mind that. But we can do that by talking about anything." A: "Okay--"  B: "Because if we talk about... this salt shaker, we'll learn more about each other than we could hope to by trying." A: "Alright. What about that vase over there?" B: "Vase? What vase?" A: "That one." B turns to look at the vase. A: "What do you think?" B: "I don't know. Do you think vases are made to be broken?" A: "Broken? Why would you break a vase?" B: "It's a trope. A cliché. You see it in cartoons and old movies."  A: "Like when someone bumps into a little table and the vase st...

Let him down gently.   (But let him down). 

I've decided on what I want done with my body after I die.  I've toyed with a lot of options over the years. For a long time, the Tibetan sky burial was my preferred choice. I asked an old friend at a restaurant I waited tables at in my 20s if he'd facilitate this for me. He became increasingly annoyed with me the more I asked, but he was good with a knife. Being an organ donor is absolutely out of the question. It's clear that doctors have no idea what they're doing. The only thing that would make their incompetence more unbelievable is if doctors were planning on placing this living man's organs inside of an already-dead cadaver.  For a while, another friend and colleague had asked if he could have my skull once I'm done with it. But I think if he knew what my recent plans were, he might reconsider. For, just the other day, when scrolling through YouTube, I had a eureka! moment. Yes. This is what I want done with my body. NOT to be eaten. For display purpo...

Drunk. Nighttime. Stagger into the bathroom. Urinate. Relief mixed with malaise. Unsteady, rocking on my heels as the sound of my outpouring splashes into the bowl. Look down. Motion.  The fluttering wings of a moth in its death throes, treading water in erratic circles in the toilet, swimming into mountains of bubbles created from my piss.  Suddenly, I feel overwhelming empathy for the moth. Its plight ripples. But what can be done? Go plunging into the can with my bare hands to fish the moth out, setting it on the toilet seat for its wings to dry?  Or acknowledge that life is suffering, and flush? This isn't even my house. "Sorry, buddy," I said, with one last drunken, baleful look. "I know how you feel."  Flush. Sitting in my car in a parking lot outside of a bar. I can't remember why I was there. I think meeting friends. But why am I waiting in my car? Sounds on-theme for me, actually. In any event-- I'm watching people coming out and going inside. T...

Do others see me try? I suspect that much of the effort goes unnoticed. Even if they see, do they care? Not until my lack of effort affects them. Do I care?  I do. But only so much. Do I want them to know that I'm trying? Or do I just want to appear as though I'm trying? Do I want them to know that I care? Or do I just want to look like I care? I don't know. So, how much am I actually trying? Am I trying my best? I could always try harder. Something always stops me. Then what stops me from trying my hardest? Myself. I am my most immediate limitation.  I am also the only real limitation I can control. But how much of myself can I actually control? How much effort can I squeeze out of me— —Even if it's not what I want? And is that really the only limitation?  Maybe not. But it's enough. How do I limit myself? How do I stop myself from trying the hardest I can? To clarify: How hard should I try?  (The hardest that I possibly can.) Oh, right. That's right. I forgot....

Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life? Either way, the writing on the wall bodes ill.  I've long believed that we are ankle-deep in a worldwide art crisis. Today, "art" is at an all-time low.  This was just an idle thought I had—an unmoored opinion I felt in my gut—until I stumbled upon something a few weeks ago. You may or may not be surprised to discover that not just one, but several YouTube "content creators" (what a sterile, unimaginative description) have used modern technology to isolate the previously, and intentionally inaudible audio of Bob Harris' (played by Bill Murray) final whisper into the ear of Charlotte (played by Scarlett Johansson) in Sophia Coppola's second directorial effort: Lost in Translation (2003) so that anyone and everyone can hear for themselves what he said to her in the final scene of the film. And, naturally, Friedrich Nietzsche sprang immediately to mind. Much has been made of Nietzsche's "Go...

  Whenever I'm feeling down, I try to remember this memorable quote from an artificial intelligence large language model generation that puts things into perspective. "Sometimes, sudden deel like betrayal, but after that, livfe, life in our fthairceno dst ths hannds. sudden decisions feel like betrayal lifnus in We move rerwain lorsur tuutltis huubnimmage is true lost. ...omme voiides always remam." I don't know who needed to hear this, but I hope it helped you like it's helped me.

Y O U R   N E W   D I G I T A L   H E A D CONNIE is a young woman—approx. 20s—freshly living on her own. (Old Irish:  conn  meaning "sense, reason," or  cenn  meaning "head, chief.") CONNIE is like most young women her age. Typical. Independent. Busy. CONNIE is reliant on her smartphone—as many of us are. CONNIE receives a text message from her mother. TEXT: "I hope you like your present." Present?  CONNIE thinks.  CONNIE's mother—DARINA.  (Slavic:  darŭ , meaning "gift") DARINA has had a strained relationship with her daughter in recent years. CONNIE's growing independence has left DARINA feeling unappreciated. While the two are still in touch, there's been an uncomfortable coldness between them. Hurt. This is why CONNIE is surprised by her Mom's text—and when she discovers a package waiting at her door when she arrives home. CONNIE brings the parcel inside. It's large, a roughly shoulder-width cube. What could it be...