Z.

I'm driving to work this morning and suddenly I'm transported to an unexpected scenario: I wake up in a strange place with my entire head wrapped up in a gigantic ball of duct tape. No eyeholes, just two narrow tubes to my nostrils poking out through the duct tape ball around my head so I can breathe.  Everything is dark, and in my panicked scramble to sit up and search blindly for something—anything around me that I can use to pull the thousands of layers of duct tape off of my head—I'm confounded by my surroundings. Using only my sense of touch—the outside world a dull hum and utterly dark to my tape-entombed senses—nothing I touch conjures any sense of familiarity about where I am. What happened to me , I wonder, my heart pounding, the tubes stuck to my nostrils billowing like furnaces as I suck little streams of acrid air from the outside world into my lungs.  Who has done this to me?  Why?  Where am I and how can I escape?  I scour blindly, motivated by fea...

Beyond sunset. The sun has quit the sky. Night stands upon the edge of fullness. I push myself along upon my belly. Down the rigid concrete sidewalk. Built over a rippling, meandering creek below. My body grinds against the hard cement. Scraping over the paved path. To look over the edge. And peer down at the whispering eddies of water beneath. Flowing around and over stones. I gaze upon the waters.  The dark reflection of dying light on its surface. Shadows curl around edges of rock. My mind perceives the shape of Her face. Dark eyes. Flowing hair. Regal beauty. Has it been constructed this way by design? No.  It is only an accident of the natural world. The river water and the night sky's reflection. Should look like You. "For all of time, the struggle to resist death has only been: Vanity." Pull back from the edge of the sidewalk. Push myself further along, with my feet. On my stomach. Carefully up concrete steps. Slowly down paved ramps. The sound of trickling rivulet...

In no particular order: STONER MEMORY 1: "FUCK YOU, Z!"  In the absolute depths of stoned bewilderment.  My two friends, laughing with each other, turn to me suddenly and begin telling me, repeatedly, emphatically, to go fuck myself. AFI's The Art of Drowning "Yeah, you know what? You should go fuck yourself!"  "Yeah, Z, fuck you. Seriously, fuck you."  I don't remember saying anything. In fact, I barely ever manage to say a single word when I'm this far gone. Is that why they're suddenly so hostile?  Does my stoned silence come off as rudeness?  "Seriously, go fuck yourself. I mean it." "Z. I'm telling you. Fuck you, dude. Seriously. Fuck you." They are so insistent, and focusing on me so singularly during this time, that the only thing I can think to do is get up and leave. They pursue me. Is it a joke? In my state, I can't tell. But I struggle to think of what a measured response might be. "Where are you ...

"Hi!"  "Hi, good to see you!" "You too. Thanks for setting this up." "Absolutely! It's always good to connect."  "That's right." "And, by the way, I'm sorry I was late—I was caught up in something right before coming here and it caught me off guard." "Yeah, sure, no problem at all. And, actually, Jennifer said she couldn't make it for this, so she won't be joining us." "Oh! Okay, well that's okay." "I told her I'd sit in and cover as best I could but that we could possibly revisit this if there are still some action items we can't circle back to fully without her." "Of course. Absolutely." "And she may have some questions as well that I can't get to." "Yeah, well, you know, I'm always available. Either you, or Jennifer, you can reach out to me anytime." "Likewise. So, this was—I was brought into the email discussion over th...

A return to form, write-from-the-hip, no editing, in-the-moment lambast of words that probably should have all been edited, second-guessed and scrutinized into something easier to read, but you know what? Fuck it. Sometimes shit's just gotta hit the fan.  How else are you going to get the shit to splat in all the hard to reach places?  Tired this week. Woke up so exhausted I felt drunk. After a long, hot lean against the shower wall (after the requisite washing had taken place), I was awake enough to actually enjoy that sensation a little, actually—since I'm a few years removed from my 'getting fucked up' era. Being 'tired-drunk' is a little bit more fun than being 'alcohol-drunk,' because being 'tired-drunk' doesn't come with the other unsavory side effects of alcoholism. Throbbing headache for one. Being 'tired-drunk' has other trademark 'drunken' characteristics. Euphoria. Delirium. Lowered inhibitions. Easier access to rep...

"Tell me you brought the pail." "The pail?" "The pail." "What pail?" "You didn't bring it?" "You mean the bucket?" "It's a pail." "'Pail?'" "You didn't bring it." "I thought you were." "I told you to bring it." "You said, 'Bring the pale,'" "Oh my god." "It's a bucket. 'Pail'?" "Well go back and get it." "No." "We came all this way and you didn't bring it?" "I'm not going all the way back down." "Oh my god." "Why didn't you bring it?" "I would have but I asked you so I thought you were." "I would have if I knew what you were talking about." "I asked you, and you didn't. So go get it." "I'm not going." "It's your fault. You should go." "It's not my fault. You're the...

You receive a notice in the mail. You know the kind. The official looking ones. They're a little heavy, and the return address at the top indicates the notice originates from a high level bureaucratic agency. There's a long barcode along the bottom, and a serial number for tracking purposes.  This is a notice of import and significance, and you weren't expecting it. You're a little worried to open it. But you do. The fear of the consequences of ignoring a notice of this gravity outweighs the consequences of knowing what it contains. When you open it, it does not disappoint. You withdraw a series of folded pages, documents, and a return envelope, addressed to the same bureaucratic agency that sent it. You aren't sure where to begin. But one of the pages catches your eye. "NOTICE OF COMPULSORY TERMINAL DEPARTURE." Below that ominous-looking heading is a diatribe of jargon and legalese. The typeface gets smaller and smaller the further down the page it goes. ...

Do you know?  Do you think so, too? When you're up,  Late at night, Do you wonder who? Do you remember when? Does it fill your dreams? The way it does, for me? Do you get carried away With thoughts Of how it may have been? Guessing questions,  Answers posed, And seeing Where your imagination goes? Do you talk out loud? Telling me things When I'm not there to oppose? Do you sing songs You think I'd like to hear? I do. Don't I? In a way. For you. I know. I think so, too. When I'm up, Late at night, I wander through Memories of when. They fill my dreams, The way it might for you.  I get carried away With thoughts Of how it might have been.  Guessing questions,  Giving answers, And stop When my imagination goes too far.  I talk out loud. I tell you things, Taking my chances.   Singing you songs, I think you'd like to hear.  Do you? Don't you? In a way. You do.