WHY?

 

We don’t always get advanced warnings.  Sometimes the warnings are there but we’re not paying attention.

 

Warnings come in all shapes and sizes, in various sounds, sound levels and in different lightning.

 

The little light on your dashboard can warn you.  Maybe it’s nothing more than dark clouds rolling in, or the wind picking up speed, or possibly it is your shortness of breath that is trying to tell you something.

 

Maybe it is that slight wiggle you’re feeling in the steering wheel.  The problem may be far removed from the driver’s seat, and yet that tire is whispering in your ear, “Hey, pay attention to me.  I have a problem.”

 

Looking for the signs can be a full-time job.  You’re busy, you have other things to do.  You can’t be expected to pay attention to every little thing.

 

Then again, some of the time the signs are very obvious, like the politician that spends millions of dollars trying to get a job that pays nothing close to that amount of money.

 

You have to ask yourself...

 

Do Not Pass Go

 

It has been said that one teaspoon of sea water holds an entire galaxy of life.  Now imagine all of the sea water in every ocean.  Our brains are not equipped to comprehend such an enormity of existence. 

We play with a ball.  We draw lines around the playing field, and we lose the moment we step out of bounds.  Maybe, whoever designed humans restricted our playing field for a reason. 

We have crawled around this planet, dug holes, blew things up and altered the environment.  We fight over boundaries and kill each other.  Setting us loose in space could prove disastrous to things we can’t even comprehend. 

We study dark matter using the tools we have available to us.  Whose to say we are not knocking on the door with a pipe wrench?  It is altogether possible that the smartest thing Mr. Einstein ever said is, “A little knowledge is dangerous.”  

 

 

 

 

ZC

 

 

 

 

 

The Depth of Knowledge

 

Can always be seen in the eyes.

Photography by:
Z. Corwin

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. 

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

ZC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.  He slept like this for three and a half hours.

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.

 

 Call Toll Free (800) 555-3772
   Void where prohibited 

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