Fear

 

If I were to collect and bottle fear, I’d gather it from stage fright.  It is there in abundance.  I could sell it in increments.  How much sweating do you want?  What do you want your pulse to be, and what about breathing?

 

***

 

You’ve just invented a whole back‑alley apothecary of human panic, ZC — a boutique distillery of dread, specializing in small‑batch, artisanal stage fright.

And the beauty is: stage fright is the most renewable resource on earth. You don’t even have to harvest it; it volunteers. It seeps out of dressing rooms, pools in the wings, condenses on microphones. You could run a pipeline straight from the green room to your bottling plant.

🧪 The product line of your fear‑distillery

Each bottle would have its own tasting notes, like a sommelier of nerves:

• Sweat No. 3 — “The Cold Bead” A light, forehead‑forward perspiration with hints of clammy palms. Best for beginners.
• Pulse 160 — “The Hummingbird Reserve” A sharp, fluttering blend that makes the ribcage feel like a birdcage. Popular with public speakers and best men at weddings.
• Breathless Batch — “The Paper Bag Special” Short, shallow inhalations with a finish of “I forgot how lungs work.” A favorite among first‑time performers.
• Full Stage Fright Concentrate — “The Spotlight Vintage” One drop and your knees go on strike. Not recommended for operating heavy machinery or making eye contact.

🎭 The customer experience

You could run it like a perfume counter:

“Are you looking for a mild tremble today, or something with more… existential panic?” “Would you like your fear to come with a side of dry mouth?” “This one pairs nicely with forgetting your lines.”

People would sample it on little paper strips, hold them up to the light, and say things like, “Oh yes, that’s the one — the one that makes my voice crack on the second syllable.”

🌡️ The deeper truth you’re playing with

Stage fright is one of the purest, most distilled forms of human vulnerability. It’s fear with no predator, panic with no cliff edge — just the terror of being seen. That’s why it’s so potent. It’s not about danger; it’s about exposure.

You’re bottling the moment the curtain rises and the body says, “Absolutely not.”

And that’s why it’s funny, and theatrical, and a little bit holy.

What kind of bottle would you put your strongest batch in — something elegant and glassy, or something that looks like it should have a skull-and-crossbones on it?

 

 

Shake hands and come out searching for Middle C

 

The agonizing sounds coming out of Mrs. Sherman’s music room were unworldly.  Hideously tortured instruments crying out for mercy.  Children oblivious to their own actions.  Even several rooms down the hall, students as well as faculty were cringing.  If ever there was a need for a Geneva Convention for musical instruments it was now. 

Violins sounding like they were being stretched across the rack.  Trumpets being forced to inflate as if they were a pool toy, flutes huddled in the corner, sobbing at a high pitch.  And Mrs. Sherman looking on from ringside, as if watching a terribly mismatched boxing match, praying for the bell that would stop the carnage.

 

 

 

 

Remember

 

Not all stories end on the last page.  

 

  

The Sound of Windmills

 

The unfortunate aspect of the windmill was the annoying squeak as the blades slowly turned in the wind.  The birds simply had to fly away, but the chipmunks, ground squirrels and rabbits living in the area were going nuts, and last Saturday night a meeting was called.   

Everyone in attendance was voicing their opinion but no one seemed to have the answer as to how to stop the squeak.  It was keeping them up at night and it was affecting the dreams of those who did get to sleep.   The thing was, it wasn’t a soft pleasant squeak, it was a long, drawn-out scrapping sound, like claws being dragged across a chipmunk-sized chalkboard.

Finally, one squirrel stood up and cleared his throat.  “Excuse me, but I’d like to make a suggestion.”  Silence fell across the group and everyone waited for the squirrel’s plan.  “I know two things, Owls are wise and capable of thinking of a solution to our problem, and two, some of us might get eaten in the process, but I think we should invite an owl to our next meeting.” 

Suddenly the room was a buzz with chatter.  Most thought Mr. Squirrel was completely nuts.  A few thought he was joking, even though his humor was usually restricted to knock, knock jokes.  Then came a voice from the back of the room.  Nobody had noticed it before, but a turtle had been sitting quietly, listening to everyone’s suggestions and ideas. 

“I think Mr. Squirrel is right, but I should be the one to invite the owl.  None of you are equipped to protect yourselves from owl claws like I am.” 

Linda Rabbit, with her nose twitching a mile a minute spoke up.  “But the minute you bring an owl into our meeting, we are all in danger. There could be fur flying everywhere.”

        The noise level of the group rose greatly.  Everyone was talking at once.  It was almost a panic, as if the owl was already there, even though it had only been the suggestion of an owl.

        Turtle again spoke up.  “I wouldn’t bring the owl into our meeting. I would take him right to the windmill and get his opinion there.  He’d never have to see any of you.”  The room was quiet as everyone thought about that plan.

        “I like it.” Chipmunk said.  “Me too.” said Linda Rabbit.  And so, it was put to a vote.  Everyone voted yes, for turtle to get owl to the windmill to solve the squeak problem.  No one would have to be eaten and there’d be no fur flying.

        The next morning turtle headed out in search of Mr. Owl.

        Slowly he made his way along the edge of the river.  He had seen Mr. Owl there from time to time and it seemed like a good place to start looking.  Off to the left of Mr. Turtle was the forest, and along his right side was the river.  It was a beautiful warm day and turtle thought about taking a little dip in the river just to cool off, so that’s what he did.  He slipped into the water and swam down to the bottom, just watching the fish swim by and occasionally looking up towards the surface at the duck feet paddling along.  The river felt cool and refreshing and turtle closed his eyes and just took a little break for a while there on the bottom.

        Meanwhile, back at the windmill, two chipmunks stood looking up at the big blades that were slowly turning and making the awful squeaking sound.   “Maybe, one of them said, we could scamper up there and if enough of us sit along the edge of the blade, our weight will be enough to stop it from going around.”

        His friend raised an eyebrow and said, “Do you have any idea how many of us it would take?  I doubt there are enough chipmunks in the world to gather the weight needed to stop those blades.”

        “OK then, maybe not all chipmunks but forest creatures in general.  Rabbits, squirrels and anyone else we could get to go up there and sit along the edge of the blade would do.”

        “And how do we not get thrown off, smarty-pants?”

        “I hadn’t thought of getting thrown off.  Maybe we should just wait for turtle to get back.”

        “God idea.  Let’s go get some lunch.”

        It was three weeks later when turtle finally found Mr. Owl.  He was sleeping on the branch of an Oak tree.  Turtle yelled a few times before owl woke up.

        “What is it, turtle?  Why did you wake me?”

        “My friends and I need you to look at a problem and see if you can solve it for us.”

        “Why would I do that?  What’s in it for me?”

        Turtle didn’t know how to answer that.  He just sat there thinking about it, until owl finally said, “So what is this problem you want me to solve?”

        “We have a windmill that squeaks.  It keeps us awake at night and drives us batty during the day.  We want it stopped.”

        Owl looked at turtle and blinked his big owl eyes.  Then he said, “Do you know why you had to travel so far to find me?  It’s because that squeak was getting to me also.  That’s why I flew so far away and live over here now.  I suggest you and your friends do the same.”

        Eventually, turtle found his way back to all of his friends who had sent him on the journey to find owl.  He told them what owl had said that they should all just move away.  And everyone did, but before Mr. Squirrel left, he put a Post-it note on the door of the farmhouse.  

 

       The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZC - Center Stage

 

If I keep all the doors and windows closed, so there isn’t a breeze blowing through, then I have no problem balancing the checkbook.  That is an acrobatic kind of logic.  It is neither clever nor functional.  It is simply the kind of mind I’m stuck with.  I could easily imagine spreading door-jam on toast, or sheet music laying across the bed.   There’s apparently no end to it.  As a child I was labeled lazy and a daydreamer.  I know now that those were the shortcomings of the adults around me, the ones without immigration or spark.  The ones who found comfort in symmetry. 

This blog and my books are the frazzled end of a mis-spent life.  Should you read them backwards they will lead you through a garden of weeds and broken shoelaces.  This is not an apology for who I’ve become, for in comparison to most, I’m fine.  My walls are constructed of letters, words, paragraphs and random thoughts.  I have only enough pocket change to keep me from buying anything you’re selling.  My music is firmly stuck in the 60’s and my school colors are from Whatsmatter U.

 

 

Slow down or you'll miss it

 

Where we live there isn’t a cute town square.  There’s no very old tree in the center of town, no bakery or hardware store.  And of course there isn’t a Norman Rockwell displayed anywhere.  We’re missing the row of assorted buildings lining each side of the street, and no traffic light.

The original founders of this place didn’t plant a flag in the ground and have a ceremony.  One of them said, “How about here?” and apparently someone else said, “I guess so.” So here we all are, living together but without a town. 

If you drive to the far end of that road over there, you’ll see someone fly fishing, but don’t get excited.  It isn’t the artsy sportsman kind that comes to mind.

 

Without Numbers

 

I have set out to create the first algorithm that doesn’t use numbers.  There are only letters within this calculation.  Restricted by the limitation of twenty-six, many will appear more than once, however, I do not anticipate this restriction to alter the outcome.

How am I doing so far?  Yes, you are correct, I have used the number twenty-six, but that shouldn’t count, as it was only identifying the amount of available letters. 

Now, you’ve interrupted me.  I’m going to need to start over.  Oh, never mind.  I’ve lost interest.

 

 

 just forget it