Z.

One may never feel more vulnerable and untethered as your first day of high school.  Maybe your first night in prison comes close. First day of freshman year, at the teacher's instruction, the class drew our chairs into a great big circle, all of us facing inward. Some 20-30 of us all around, looking at one another, with the "get to know you" assignment of telling the class our name, our favorite school subject, and one story about ourselves.  "It can be a funny story," the teacher advised, "Or, if you're brave, it can even be a sad story. It's up to you." One by one, we each had our turn. Of course, new incoming high school students on their first days of their freshmen years, in a room full of their peers-- most of us strangers, still trying to establish where we would fit in the hierarchy of popularity-- would never dare to share a sad story about ourselves.  Like almost everyone else in class that morning, I must've told a "funny...

Beethoven's Rage Over a Lost Penny What one has thought so often yet never said so well. From Wikipedia : The "Rondo alla ingharese quasi un capriccio" in G major, Op. 129 (Italian for "Rondo in the Hungarian [i.e. gypsy] style, almost a caprice"), is a rondo for piano written by Ludwig van Beethoven. It is better known by the title Rage Over a Lost Penny, Vented in a Caprice (from "German: Die Wut über den verlorenen Groschen, ausgetobt in einer Caprice)". This title appears on the autograph manuscript, but not in Beethoven's hand, and has been attributed to his friend Anton Schindler. It is a favourite with audiences and is frequently performed as a showpiece. Despite the late opus number, the work's composition has been dated to between 1795 and 1798. Beethoven left the piece unpublished and incomplete; it was published in 1828 by Anton Diabelli, who obscured the fact that it had been left unfinished. The performance time runs between five a...

Shannon and I watched as the tribe of hobos filled their car with containers of loose change.  There were four of them working together, unburying holes in the ground or moving makeshift covers made out of wooden pallets to the side, exposing crates full of bottles, sacks, bags and jars full of coins of all sorts.  One by one they'd extract these containers and move them to the trunk of the car. It wasn't a make or a model I recognized, the name long faded from the car's rear end. It looked old, though. Something from the early 90s, perhaps.  But it ran. It was maintained, even if it wasn't luxurious.  Occasionally the four hobos, led by the main figure who we quickly identified as answering to the name "Virgil", would mutter incoherencies to themselves.  "Those who know nothing know something about things that those who know something know nothing about," they repeated off and on, with other similar-sounding but equally cryptic credos mixed in.  Fro...

In a language-driven world, there can scarcely be any greater relief than allowing your words to fail. "Words, words, words."  —William Shakespeare.  The relentless emphasis on communication has revealed an even greater attraction to the ambiguous, the subtle, and the unsaid.  One can be starved for speechlessness.  Especially when confronted with what language falls furthest short of capturing. I could deign to describe, at length, every part of you I'm fascinated by. Yet, the endeavor only approaches—never arrives. A description of that which arrests me—a look, or glance—a gesture, a nod—would still fail to capture the captivation.  Better, then, to simply allow those moments to slip on by—unremarked upon, but not unmarked.  "Words fail me." What a relief. Refusing to wrestle those fleeting moments into clumsy verbiage chisels them even deeper into the mind's eye. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" said some dude, once. Should I sew so...

There was a knock at the door yesterday. I got up to open it. I wondered, is it a delivery? Perhaps Mormons on a mission? I briefly reflected on one particularly memorable conversation I had with two Mormon missionaries years ago. I wondered silently how they were doing—when I reached out to grab my front door handle. I opened my door and to my complete surprise, standing on my porch was neither Mormon, deliveryman, or deliverywoman. It was an alien. A fucking alien.  I gawked. Its hand was still raised upright from having knocked on my door. "Hey," it said, nervously. In utter shock, I stepped backwards. Its realness was unmistakable. It wasn't a man in a suit. It wasn't a hologram. It wasn't AI or a hallucination. It was a real alien. As sure as seeing you or whoever else at my front door. I could do little to disguise my bewilderment. It sighed in resignation at my reaction. "That's right," it said. "I'm an alien." I stammered, tryin...

Accursed be thee, yon white nose hair! Ne'er seen a strand in color so long and fair.      A wretched pale spire of thy damned kin,      Thou hast grown too far o'er mine own chin,     To belie  the youthful mirth of thy wearer's face,     Flaunting thy thread-like wisp in mock disgrace. Bereft of merit and void of charm art thou, A ghastly figure now waves unfurled upon my prow.      Thy wind-blown sprawls o'erreach thy nostril's tomb,      Clutching like a phantom from thy cavernous womb.      O! w hat vile purpose dost thy girded ivory will intend?      What quarry seek’st thou, that heaven dare not send? Would'st thou not resign to dress in shadow? Prithee, diminish thyself in my beard's dark meadow.     Shroud thy weedy form in concealment's strength,     Spare my neighbor's glance thy twisted, gnarled length.     Do not tempt to steal a ...

I once had a job balancing the daily income and pooled tips of a saloon. At the time, it was the earliest morning job I'd ever had.  They gave me a key and the entry code, and I would let myself into the bar, sometimes when it was still dark outside.  Kind of an old-timey place. "Wild west" ambiance. Not unearned, either. There was some legitimate history, there. I'd go and turn on the kitchen lights. Get things going. The place had a menu. "Buffalo" burger. "Rattlesnake" wings. "Prickly pear" potato skins. That sort of thing. Every morning when I'd turn on those kitchen lights, the walls would run away from me. It was incredible how efficient cockroaches are at running away. Top-tier scattering skills.  It was a historic building on the national registry. It makes it hard to renovate and properly exterminate pests in old buildings like that. Expensive. Especially in a facility serving food and beverages.  Being a "historic build...

CECIL wanders in a harsh, empty desert—stretching out around him for untold miles into the horizon.  He's been walking a long time. VOICE OVER:  Ancient people associated the desert with God. Or gods. They would go to look for him. Or her. Them. It. Out there, without food or water or shelter. Depriving themselves of all life giving necessities until God, or the gods, made itself known to the believer. Sacrifice. Sacrifice of self. This is what you needed to give, just for the chance to have an encounter with the All. Cecil collapses in the dust.  VOICE OVER:   Lots of people have died in the desert.  Cecil's open mouth opens and closes like a gasping fish on land, dust sticking to his lips. VOICE OVER:   But at the crucial moment. Right before death. People would find God. Or God would find them. Communion. Cecil looks up one last time to see a WHITE VAN at the crest of a sand dune in the distance. Is it a hallucination? Are there people there—looking back...