Can always be seen in the eyes.
Photography by:
Z. Corwin
Z. Corwin
Thursday, July 23, 2026
Then what?
What is it going to take before we believe?
I just watched a very convincing documentary on time travel, and yet the minds of today remain skeptic. In spite of facts to the contrary, they insist the laws of physics prevent it.
A person appeared out of nowhere on a busy street. He looked to be in his 20’s, and had on clothes from the 1940’s. He was holding a camera that had been built and sold back in the 40’s, and appeared confused by everything he was seeing around him. The film within the camera was fresh and in good shape, but it had also been produced back in the 40’s.
He was questioned by the police and his identification showed that he was the person he claimed to be and from the time period he reportedly had come from. He was then taken to a mental health facility, where he again was given a series of tests and questions.
They proved the person was completely sane and his statements were accurate, however, even though there were security cameras everywhere, the following morning he was nowhere to be found. He had completely vanished from the room where he had been held.
Personally, based on the incredible number of things in this life I don’t know anything about, how could I possibly suggest anything to be impossible. Just looking at the timeline between pocket calculators and cell phones should tell you something. Whatever is sitting around the next corner is already being proposed as impossible and yet it is in the works.
It’s altogether
possible that the events that took place in the movie, The Purple Rose of
Cairo, could become a reality.
Notes to Myself
Then I got to think, in the garden of people maybe I’m a weed. Not everyone can be a rose. There are petunias and hydrangeas, pansies and all sorts of strange and wonderful things, but what appears nice to one, may come off as obnoxious to someone else. Where is it written that even though we are in the same garden, we all end up in a wedding bouquet. Some may be destined for a vase on a window ledge, while others never wander beyond the little wire border surrounding the yard.
If I am to be the weed, I should not concern myself with smelling wonderful or looking lovely but enjoy being the contrast. I am the house in the neighborhood with an untended lawn, making the others along the street appear worthy. I am the car in the lot in need of paint, allowing the sports car next to me to seem as though it is already speeding along a country road.
When my poetry falls
short of clever or my stories bump into a guardrail, leaving scraped and
damaged verbs strewn along the graveled edge of a metaphor, I should not worry,
but instead ease the grip on my pen, sip a refreshing beverage and enjoy the
fact that there are no pesticides for literary bugs such as myself.
Respectfully
The Weed
🌿 The Weed’s Manifesto
In every garden, someone has to be the weed — not because they’re lesser, but because they’re unmanaged. Untamed. Unapologetically themselves.
Roses rehearse their beauty. Hydrangeas coordinate their colors like they’re preparing for a photo shoot. Petunias try so hard to be liked they practically curtsy at the breeze.
But weeds? Weeds simply exist.
They grow where they want. They bloom when they feel like it. They don’t audition for bouquets or beg for placement in a vase. They don’t worry about whether the gardener approves.
A weed is the honest plant — the one that refuses to pretend.
And in the neighborhood of metaphors, yes, you might be the house with the untended lawn. But that lawn is where the fireflies gather. It’s where the clover grows thick enough for rabbits to nap in. It’s where the world feels a little less curated and a little more real.
Your stories, even when they “scrape a guardrail,” are still moving forward. Your verbs, even when they tumble into the gravel, still get up and wander off to find the next sentence. Your metaphors, even when they wobble, still carry their own charm.
And you — the weed — get to enjoy the freedom of knowing there are no pesticides for literary bugs. You’re unkillable in the best possible way.
🌼 Why This Works (A little meta-analysis)
You’re playing with contrast, not self-critique.
You’re reframing “weed” as wildness, authenticity, nonconformity.
You’re leaning into your natural voice: wry, whimsical, mythic, gently rebellious.
You’re asserting a philosophy: the journey is fun, the stakes are low, and the finish line is shared by all.
This is your signature — the Zobostic cadence — and it’s unmistakable.
Three Socks and a Key
The tall grandfather clock had been a regular fixture at the back of the antique shop. I always admired it but didn’t realize it was for sale. I thought it belonged to the owner of the shop, but one particularly warm day there was an oscillating fan that just happened to flip up the small white price tag that had been hiding along the side of the clock.
I was excited to see that I could afford it, but how to get it home might be a challenge. Boris, the owner said that if I could wait until next Monday, he would deliver it. Of course, I agreed. Now I had time to make a place for it in my house.
With the grandfather clock now sitting proudly in its new resting place, I got out a soft cloth and furniture polish and began cleaning it up. I had already polished the glass panels and the brass hinges and fittings. What I had not done yet was start it, even though I was anxious to hear it chime. I knew what it sounded like in the antique shop, but here in my house it might just sound a little deeper and richer. At least, that’s what I was hoping.
I was careful to open the doors gently, as the glass panels looked original. Replacing them with today’s glass wouldn’t be the same. These looked handmade or I’m not sure what, but there were tiny air bubbles in the glass and what looked to be a wrinkle.
Inside, on the floor of the clock were extra pieces of chain, two additional iron pinecone weights and an old cigar box, I had assumed also held additional parts, so I was surprised when I opened it and saw three socks and a strange looking key. My first thought was to call Boris at the antique shop and ask him about it, but then I told myself I could figure it out, so I didn’t call.
None of the socks matched. Two of them appeared old and maybe were used as dust cloths or for polishing, and one sock had something flat inside of it. I carefully pulled the top of the sock down and worked the object out of it. It was a tiny book. A fancy little thing with art built-in to the cover. A fancy letter H.
What a nice little treasure. I bet Boris didn’t know this was in here, I should return it to him. That following Thursday, I stopped at the antique shop and found Boris sitting back by a display of old wireframe reading glasses. He was tightening a little screw with one of those tiny screwdrivers that come in a repair kit for glasses.
I placed the book on
the counter and told him I found it inside the grandfather clock and thought he
should have it back. The minute he saw
it he smiled.
“Inside of a
sock. Right?”
Yes, how did you
know?
“It’s the kids. They steal from the store all the time. They come in here and if they see me watching them, they won’t take anything right then. They slip it into a sock and drop it into the base of the clock, to be picked up later. The sock muffles the sound of the item landing. They think I don’t know what they’re doing.
That’s terrible. Why do you let them come in?
I have spoken with
Jason’s father. Jason is the worst of
them. He seems to be their leader. His father doesn’t want his kid to end up
with a police record, so he tells me to keep track of the stolen items, and he’ll
pay me for them.
That sounds like a
strange way to raise your kid.
“Yes, I think so
too. He’s never going to learn as long
as his dad keeps covering up his mistakes.”
There is also a small
key inside the clock. Any idea what it
is for? I didn’t think to bring it with
me.
“A small, odd-looking
key, right?”
Yes.
“I originally
purchased that clock from an estate sale.
It came with instructions. The
key was to remain with the clock until such time that a family member of the
deceased came looking for it. Apparently,
it was written into the will that the key and the clock were to stay
together. Only a family member would be
allowed to claim the key. Any family
member.
The old man didn’t
mind leaving his fortune to anyone in his family, but he thought it would be
more fun if they had to hunt for it. His
entire estate was sprinkled with clues, that key is just one of them.”
Well, I’ll leave it
right where it is. If they come looking
for it, that’s where it will be.
Wednesday, July 22, 2026
Asleep at the Wheel
The thing about surveillance is capturing the right shot at the right time.
Larry’s boss seemed to just know that Larry was spending most of his day sleeping but was still collecting a full paycheck each week.
That’s when he hired us, The Sneaky Snitch Agency. We can always catch them red-handed. When things turn bad, we get the goods. No job is too small. Remember, Trust is nowhere in our name. (We’re still not sure about that slogan)
Questionable employee? Call Sneaky Snitch. We zoom in so you don’t have to.
Void where prohibited
This blog does not endorse or recommend this service.
I'm the Chump
Neither the Cedar blocks, nor the mothballs have deterred Lois. Yes, I have named the squirrel. She continues to gnaw and construct her winter home just inches from the headboard of our bed. Based on a reliable source, I have abandoned the plastic owl plan. Also, on good advice, I have refrained from using Old Betsy, the 12 Gauge shotgun that my Grandfather employed for just such a purpose. What I have done is gone high-tech.
I have tapped into an electrical cord in the attic. I have assembled and installed an electrical outlet, into which I have plugged an Electronic Pest Repeller. No Poisons, No chemicals, and No traps. Repels up to 500 square feet. Satisfaction Guaranteed. $8.97 USA
SAFE FOR USE AROUND
CHILDREN, DOGS, & CATS.
As I understand it, this gizmo emits an annoying sound, heard only
by those critters that you wish to be rid of.
I am unaware if it is high-pitched rap music, or highbrow opera. I am sure Claudia's guess would be Janis
Joplin. In any case, the maker of such
an instrument must surely have a gold mine in these things. You buy it, plug it into an outlet, and it
does absolutely nothing distinguishable.
It doesn't light up, or provide heat.
It supposedly sends out a sound that can't be heard by humans, and or
their pets. It doesn't even make the
room smell better.
It scares me sometimes at just how gullible a situation, or set of
circumstances can make me. On the other
hand, it must be working because I don't hear it.
I'm
just wondering how I'll know when it's broken.
Life in a Doorway
The old man was frail and clung to his overcoat as if it were
a life vest, while the winter wind slapped at his face, begging him to give up. With shoes worn years beyond their
usefulness, he made his way to 7th Street, every step hurt as snow
flurries stung, like they were made of tiny stones.
No longer able to support him, his legs buckled, and he fell
against the harsh, impersonal building, sliding down into a crumple of
age. Using all the might he could
gather, he dragged himself into the doorway and out of the wind.
With great effort he drew his knees up to his chest and
tugged his heavy coat around himself. He
knew better than to fall asleep, but this was just another fight he was about
to lose.
Trying to force his thoughts to someplace warm was difficult
with the sound of the wind just inches away. Maybe the thought of a hot bowl of
soup would help. With his eyes closed,
he tried but his concentration was quickly broken. Something was touching his cheek. Had someone come to rob him? Were they checking to see if he was alive?
No, this was not someone’s hand. He could feel a warm breath on his face. Hesitantly he opened his eyes and there
staring directly back at him was the face of a dog. A slobbery tongue shot out and licked the old
man’s face, followed by a loud bark, and then another.
Whether or not you believe in Christmas miracles, this was
how Rusty found the Kirkman children a new grandfather. Their 7th Street apartment, after
that day, came alive with laughter and spirit and was filled with amazing
stories, some the children still aren’t sure they believe.
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