Z.

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....