everything is fine

I thought, at first, that it was dead. It was just laying there in the grass. Even when my dog almost stepped on it, it didn't move. Even when she almost pooped directly on top of it, it didn't move. Even when she started kicking dirt all over the place, it didn't move. I was also surprised she didn't notice it. But there in the grass was a huge horned lizard. As I stared down at it, an ant crawled across its eye. I squatted down to get a closer look and, indeed, there crawled a tiny black ant across the lizard's eye. I was sure, then, that it was dead but then its eyelid moved, trying to squeeze the ant's prying mandibles away. Still, my dog didn't notice it laying there. But I was fascinated. It blinked a few more times before the ant finally gave up trying to get into its eye and crawled across the lizard's scaly face toward its nostril. The lizard opened its eye and we both watched the ant try and crawl its way into the lizard's nose, but the...

I was young, then, with a vivid imagination and marked dedication to playing make believe. We walked down the row, scattering rocks and dusting off the silhouettes. I tossed aside a chipped, white stone. Years later I would recognize it as limestone and even develop a certain fondness for it. When all of the iron silhouettes were standing again, we made our way back across the field through the brush. It was something between a tradition and a routine, lost in the limbo of recurring events. Almost an hour of driving into what seemed like void desert terrain that somehow escaped suburbanization outside of the city. I grabbed a handful of bullets and loaded the rifle. My rifle. A gift my father had given me, a .22 long rifle. I set the rifle down on the table, safety on, and stepped away. We always had fun, but there was a very serious undertone about the whole ordeal. It was unspoken, simply understood. It's fun, but it's not play time. Respect the weapon for what it is. A w...

"You know," she continued. "That one thing that your family always has for Thanksgiving. That whenever you don't have it, the whole thing just feels wrong." She went back to eating her burrito bowl and I sat quietly for a moment. "No." I said. "We don't have anything like that." We always made the pumpkin pie together. It was just a tradition that started before I was aware of traditions. It was just an absolute of the holidays. It was never Thanksgiving without us getting together one evening and making a pumpkin pie. As a child, I used to love doing it. I felt so grown up. This was something my dad was doing. There were so many things to do, so many ways to help. Cutting open the pumpkin. Pulling out all the innards. Separating the seeds for later. Cutting the pumpkin. Steaming it. Mashing it. Mixing it. As I grew older, I learned to hate doing it. My time was too valuable to waste making a pumpkin pie. If it was something my d...

"I recognized you from way over there." She said. We traversed the last few steps between us. I could hardly wipe the smile from my face. "Your face got wider," she added. "Whiter?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious. "Wider." She said. We embraced, again. "It's good to see you," she said. "How's it going?" I asked. "Good." She said, releasing me. She smiles again. I return the smile. "How are you?" I'm five years ago. "I'm great." As I walked away from the studio, through the abandoned construction site, I thought about it. The tower of the Children's Hospital I'd become so familiar with loomed in the distance. I'm tired of losing friends, especially the ones that really matter. It was the only thought that crossed my mind as I walked home.

Spontaneous pneumothorax is a collection of air or gas in the space between the lungs and the chest that "collapses" the lung and prevents it from inflating completely.  Spontaneous means there is no traumatic injury to the chest or lung.   There are two types of spontaneous pneumothorax: primary and secondary. Primary spontaneous pneumothorax occurs in people without lung disease. It occurs most often in tall, thin, young people. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket but I can't answer it. We are in the middle of rehearsal. It is not an uncommon event. We continue to play. The strap of my saxophone cuts into my neck. The nylon is rough against my skin. I look out of place. Everyone else is dressed casually; shorts, shirts, shoes optional. There I stand, a button down shirt and slacks. I'm entitled to dress up a little. It's my birthday. My phone vibrates again. I always used to roll my eyes whenever I saw those scenes in movies. The phone call. The bad news....

I am standing on the edge of a cliff face. A breeze whips past me as I stare out into the darkness. It's a familiar sight, comforting. The river bends below me. It stretches out, away from me at both ends. The arch of the bridge traverses the river, silhouetted by the house lights and golf course below us. So far away from us. The highway reaches out before us, straight into the hills and disappears on the horizon. It is silent. There are no cars. No planes. No animals. It is just us standing on top of the cliff. As it should be. It's late. A late weeknight. Just a normal Tuesday night to the world. I step away from the edge. In 5 minutes, I will be 22 years old. It's a turning point in my life. A fixed checkpoint. I'm only 21 years old, I'm not an actual adult yet. Maybe legally. But I'm still a child. I'm immature, I laugh at fart jokes. I laugh at everything. Why would I take anything seriously? 21 years old and we still have no responsibilities. We c...

I am running with a purpose. I have a mission. The pavement is unforgiving under my heels. There is no comfortable roll in my stride, only a dull thud and a rebound. I ignore it. These shoes are not made for running. In fact, as I understand it, they are not made for many things beyond walking and fashionably lounging. These shoes were designed with limitations. I can't help but cringe at the word. Limitations. I hate the word. No, the concept. The idea of it. A limit. A boundary. An innate disadvantage. I am sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. It seems to be the same spot every time. Light from the window strikes the floor just beyond my feet. I stare ahead at the opposite wall. It is familiar. Not too much so, though. I can almost see the exact spot I always start staring at. He sits at his desk, staring at the computer. A mix of work and personal indulgences litters his screens. There is constant white noise. The scrolling of the mouse. The steady clack of the keyboa...

"Well," he said. "I had an idea and you just totally shot it down." I sighed. I was suddenly exhausted. Too many similar, circular arguments in too short of a span of time. "You didn't give me an idea," I replied. "You just got upset and defensive." He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he said. "You can just be the only innovator. " "Was your idea communicating?" I asked. "Because that's not an idea. That's not a suggestion. That's something I'm actually trying to do with you and you keep fighting me." I had been so excited to play music with him , too. "Yeah," he said. "I'm in a band but..." "But what?" I asked. "I don't know," he replied. "They just aren't on my level. They're good but just not as good." "Is that frustrating?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "I have to write out music...

I make what I consider, given my vocal propensity to do the opposite, a marked effort to abstain from writing about particularly vulgar or insensitive things. It has been, I think, a good policy so far. Certain experiences, however, simply beg to be shared. Especially when they involve restroom visits. It was a routine procedure, using the urinal. One that really requires no thought. The restroom was empty, at least as far as I could tell. I didn't really expect anyone to be using it so late at night, though. It was a stuffy, mostly unventilated room. The air was especially thick, given the frequent visitation by Barton Springs swimmers. I approached the urinal and began. It began to dawn on me how exhausted I actually was. A long day after a long series of days. A man and his son entered and shuffled behind me, making their way to a stall. "Do you have to pee, daddy?" The boy asked. "Uh," the man said. "No, but I think you do?" They entered the stall ...

We laughed as we drove. The road stretched out in front of us, silence punctuated with green fireflies floating overhead. The music carried on quietly in the background, just audible over the steady rumble of the car. I tried to remember the last time we'd spoken so frankly but nothing came to mind. It was a simple realization. We'd never really spoken before. So many similar and even shared experiences that we had never tried to connect over. So many opportunities for bonding squandered. We were entirely different people yet somehow almost exactly the same. "So, five or six months, right?" I asked. "How serious are you and Kara?" He paused for a moment. "What do you mean, serious?" I kept my eyes on the road. The streetlights whipped past like slow motion strobe flashes. "What do you think I mean, serious?" I could see him turn to look at me in my peripheral vision. "I mean," he said. His voice suddenly had gravity. "We...

The ribbon is failing. The letters barely register on the paper despite the reassuring click-clack of the keys. The metal grinds and creaks. The letters are ghosts on my canvas, faint echoes of ideas and words struggling to overcome age and inherent neglect. Click-clack. The paper travels steadily across my field of view, accelerated by dedication and patience and a strange willingness to sort through feelings and thoughts. Two of the keys stick. I reach in and flip the arms back. Click-clack. Writing with a purpose. Ding. I push the carriage back and continue typing. It takes effort to press the keys down, there's a greater distance to travel before the letters swing up and strike the paper. You really have to want to write. The ribbon refuses to stay in place for any useful period of time. Most of what I write is lost as faint blemishes on the page. It does not discourage me. The sun sets quietly outside of my window but I am preoccupied. I am collected and focused. Finally, I fi...

"That's right! I remember now! His name is GAYMAN!!" I had to brace myself against the streetlight because I was laughing so hard. The more I thought about it, the funnier it got. "GAYMAN!? Let me think... Oh, right! I told you to come!" I couldn't help but snicker about it while we waited for the bus to arrive. And I couldn't help but giggle to myself on the bus. And I couldn't help but burst out laughing again on my way to work. I mean, come on. That's hilarious. I don't remember when I grew up, probably because I try so hard not to. I desperately don't want to accept the fact that I can't be eight forever. I remember when they took nap time away. Then they took snack time away. Then they took recess away. There was a time when I couldn't fathom spending my time anywhere besides the playground. Or not reading books for fun. Or spending my weekends working. And, yet, here I am. At work in my funny shirt and raggedy jeans, draggin...

I was surprised at how attached I was to the play when it ended. Or, at least, surprised at the realization of how attached I actually was compared to how attached I thought I was. Seeing all those people on the stage for the last time, it didn't really register. We were all still on such a high. Even with the final words and goodbyes. It didn't ever click. Monday came. And there I sat in my apartment, watching the digits on the clock blink in the dark. 8:00. 8:01. 8:02. And there it was. That restless feeling. Not like before. Not like finishing marching season. Not like finishing a movie. Not like finishing a song. Not like coming home after a long trip. A different restless. The bad kind. It was an empty feeling. Like I was supposed to be somewhere I wasn't. We sat down in the room on the side, away from the other people. The strangers. All the strange, strange people speaking loudly and singing songs in harmony. Acting strange and playing strange poison dart games an...

"You should be a voice actor," she said. "Seriously, do it. Promise me that you'll at least try to act." I smiled an empty smile and continued tying my shoes. "I promise." I said. "Pinky promise?" She asked. With some reluctance I hooked my pinky around hers. "Pinky promise." Then, I put on my jacket and walked out the door. As far as goodbyes go, the whole thing was so appropriate. In high school, I never particularly liked actors. Theater kids, I mean. Or theatre kids. It wasn't an active dislike, really. I'd never been slighted by them or wronged in any way. It was a tolerance for the most part punctuated with bouts of annoyance. Or not even that, really. I just never had any interest in being a part of it. I could never get myself to be quite so melodramatic about everything that ever happened. This was somewhat funny to me at the time because of how badly I wanted to make movies. I wanted to be a director. I also en...

When I was in high school, I had one of the best teachers ever. Not just because he was a fantastic teacher but because he was also a fantastic person. I've almost certainly talked about him before, but it bears repeating. He shared stories from his life during our classes. Told us about the mistakes he had made. Like going to college with his then-girlfriend instead of his friends. They had broken up, leaving him at a college away from all his close friends. "The lesson," he told us, "is that sometimes, yeah, bad things happen. But these can end up helping you in the long run." He paused, then, and let it sink it for a moment. "I guess sometimes shitty situations turn out well. I ended up focusing on my work and doing well." Then he paused again. "Alright, you know what, just forget it. But remember that good things can happen, okay?" "When you finish your assignment, turn it in on the schtool ." Just like he said would ...

Friends are a difficult thing to balance, I've found. Groups of friends, I mean. That also seems to be a universal phenomenon. Associating with several different groups of people. Different interests, different personalities. All just representative of different aspects of your own. And, naturally, these do not mix. It's like old friends and new friends. But, instead, it's just friends who don't mesh. Maybe one group is very mellow and tends to fall into routines. Maybe another is lively and energetic. And fun. These people would never have fun with each other. Or, maybe they would. But the catch is that you wouldn't be able to balance between being the mellow friend and the energetic friend. Things just don't work like that. If only. And, so, decisions are made. Tough, often. Who do you snub tonight? Tomorrow? Next weekend? And then, who gets snubbed more frequently? Eventually you just sort of fall in with one group of friends. That's really all anyone can...

I think I have writer's block. Probably. That or I'm just fabulously uninspired these days. That's a thing that happens, I guess, with some cyclicity. I tried to sit down and write about zombies the other day. It didn't go quite as well as I hoped it would. Lots of writing, erasing, rewriting, and erasing. I remember when I sat down and wrote fifteen pages in one sitting. Now I'm under the impression that it's a good night if I can sit down and write fifteen words that stick. All of the ideas are bouncing around up there, it's just that I can't get them to precipitate the way I want them to. My sounding board has up and left. I've lost my ground. Which, I guess, means it's time to start a different project. Maybe I'm just working too much. Too much work, not enough outlet. We made $150 playing the street corner on Saturday night. Just an hour of playing. And I busted the drumhead. Split it wide open after the first song. And ye...

When it comes down to it, I really don't have much to say about Valentine's Day, I guess. I certainly have some acquaintances who seem to have their hearts set on condemning the holiday. It is apparently the most painful day for them to endure whether in or out of a relationship. No pleasing some people, I suppose. I admit to some pleasure from instigating Valentine's rants. In the end, though, it's just another day that slips by. Like weekends and birthdays. My original plan was to stay in and catch up on assignments and do more writing. My friend, however, insisted that we go out. And so, somewhat reluctantly, we set out to the pub on a Monday afternoon. We'd been friends for some time by that point, but not particularly close ones. Simply nature, I suppose. Small talk here and there. But we spent a few hours together and talked about all sorts of things. Life directions, how great it was to be a kid, plans. And then we bonded over some mild vandalism...

I finally got my bike fixed the other day. It wasn't terribly expensive. There were a lot of things that needed fixing. And now, fixed. It was a fantastic feeling, riding it again. Such elegant machines. Such graceful transportation. It's a fluid exercise, really. You move and it answers, moves with you. Complementary elements. Riding a bike is a lot like dancing. That would be me being clever. It snowed the other day. There was ice, too, I guess. So the city put gravel out on the roads to help college students drive poorly. And so, since it's not icy anymore, the roads are covered in loose gravel. And so, I crashed my bike. I hit the patch of loose gravel at a very manageable speed and my tires slid out from under me. There's still some gravel and such in my palms that I can't quite get out. I had to get John's help with my knee. This picture really makes it look not that bad at all, but there was a surprising amount of dirt and gravel and tar i...

I hope I never get tired of hearing the sound of snow under my feet. It's a unique sound, really. Those crackles, those staccato crackles like walking on sand or gravel or broken glass. So familiar. Predictable. Typical, almost. It's a sound we hear all the time. But underneath it there's another sound. This constant munch. Difficult to describe, but it's always there. The sound of snow compacting under your shoes. This cartoon-ish squeezing noise. Not quite a squish. Just a steady munch. Persistent and reliable. It always sounds the same. Comforting, almost. Munch, munch, munch. It snowed here, like it so rarely does. A precious occasion that finds everyone roaming the streets at three in the morning, bleary-eyed and absolutely giddy. Mature young adults when they go to bed but rowdy children the second they're roused from their beds. Laundry basket sleds, miniature snowmen, and names scrawled on the windshields of uncovered cars. It's amazin...