Every now and then, a novice prompts a breakthrough, discovers something previously unknown to a professional community, and provokes a significant leap in our knowledge of our universe. That’s me: an aged version of the bozo who could make neither heads nor tails of physics, and who barfed when trying dissect the fetal pig in high school biology class.
And now, I’m going down in the books as a groundbreaking researcher!
I discovered PTRD.
My laboratory? A rectangular commercial space located in a tacky shopette in southeast Denver. My lab assistant? My brother, Kurt.
PTRD? Post Traumatic Restaurant Disorder. Continue reading
I wake one morning a week ago, and realize I have few clues as to who or what I am, other than present, old, and anatomically male. I’ve been busy with other things, for a very long time.
I turn on the bedside lamp and attempt to locate my self in order to plumb my depths, reckon with my character, assess my qualities both fine and foul. I realize I’m trapped in a bizarre, bifurcated scheme in which the self attempts to contact itself, but I don’t care. Neither am I troubled by the idea that a “self” might not exist. I once taught philosophy; nonsense is my specialty.
Nothing lights up the brain screen after a few minutes labor; I draw a blank. I sense nothing but the furnace coming on in the basement, prompted by the timer on the thermostat. Continue reading
Laura and I meet in front of the cheese case at the market; we hug, she smiles, she holds the smile for effect.
The huntress casts her net, asking: “How about writing a play for us?”
I respond immediately: “Will you pay me?”
Laura pauses, clears her throat, and in a hushed tone says: “Of course.” She strokes a wedge of Manchego as she speaks.
I respond immediately: “OK.”
Caught off guard by the prospect of obtaining some cash, I fail to inquire about the amount of money I will receive or, for that matter, about any pertinent details.
Because, suddenly, I am a playwrite. Or is that a playright? Or, maybe, a playwright? Destitute and desperate, we prisoners locked in the theater dungeon are set atilt by the prospect of gain. Continue reading
I try not to go out at night this time of year.
I attempt to be home by the time the sun sets, inside the house with shades drawn. Preferably, in the basement. If I’m not, the anxiety is overwhelming.
From Thanksgiving to a week or two into the new year, I am a nocturnal prisoner in my own home.
It’s the Christmas lights. Continue reading