My Iranian Film Class

My favorite class I ever took was called
Iranian Film and it’s Filmmakers, or
something like that. My classmates and I 
turned into cows and rugs and oceans and vampires and taxi drivers and celebrity impersonators and lovers and. The movies
are so different from Hollywood, so 
different from New York, and so different
from my childhood bedroom. 
O their food and their quirks. I've
watched five different Tahdig tutorials,
I cook it on my birthday, with real saffron. 
New ways to love. To love your friends, not just
love them but love them. To forgive your enemies, and
feed them. To be arrested for
making films and to never stop making them.

Who are we but artists? Who are you and I but 
children?

The Black Meditation

Swimming through the lights
I saw as a child with thumbs
pressed hard against my
frightened eyes, foreshadowing
the journey.

I'm not convinced I can return,
although, who can say why the
alphabet backwards is?

Knowing is the only battle, knowing
will ruin it; the sex is in the delusions
of the romantic, not
the treasure chest. 

A poet with the same name as me
who looks a lot like me, in fact, he
looks identical to me despite what looks
like a tattoo of a red hammer
on his forehead. Although it's not a
hammer. It's a saxophone. 

The Poet

A poet with a tattoo of a red saxophone
which looks a lot like a hammer speaks:

"The poet is a fool whomst poetry is
constantly thought and shat out," 

and thus, an untitled poem is written:

Untitled Poem #8,097

The poet is
a fool whomst
poetry is constantly
thought and shat out.

Fucking Pencils

There are pencils everywhere and I cannot escape them no matter 
how hard I try.

The pencils are regenerative like a hydra; if I break one 
(snap!) right in half, led grows from the side with the eraser and an eraser
grows from the side with the led.

There are pencils fucking everywhere!

Pencils fucking, now that would be a whole new set of problems because 
then I would surely have to worry about pencil pregnancies, then pencil
pubescents (which, god forbid, may include pencil puberty). Then THOSE
pencils will fuck each other and become even more pencils. SO,

allow me to rephrase:

There are fucking pencils everywhere!

Well, now, I suppose a fucking pencil could still fuck another pencil, and, more shockingly, this may propose that the fucking pencil can fuck anything it wants, like a dog that won't stop humping a leg, you call that a fucking dog, it just wants to keep on fucking.

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The Return of Mr. Trenchcoat

The dog jumped into the pond, that's
all she said in a language nobody in
the room could understand. What she was going through,
I never figured out. How to see
the fourth dimension, but sometimes,
I can hear it. Calling out to the void,
screaming, she tries her best to reawaken
communication. 

Gallons upon gallons of milk is being
wasted, she screamed for the fifteenth
time in a language nobody in her "inner
circle" could understand. Why she kept
them around, I never asked.

We studied soul-centered astrology, she
whispered to her younger self in a language
she hadn't yet learned. As I listened, I
became a victim of my own ambition.

I am who I am because I chose not to be,
she said aloud to nobody in an empty room
in a language she was quickly forgetting. That
metaphysical tormentor relentlessly gnawed
her to bits. My vicarious tasted her.

I'm sitting on a tower in my mind's
eye, she thought in no language at all. 

I'm the one who was wasting all that milk.

I recently spent way too much money on a tiny key-chain camera and I’ve been taking it around with me taking pictures. The camera is easy to use but also very difficult to use and what I mean by that, is that it’s pretty easy for anyone with articulate fingers to press a small button three times, but the camera has no image stabilization, nor a mounting screw-hole thing (camera people know what I’m talking about) thus making taking a clear image difficult. These are some of my favorites:

The quality of the images [in a technical sense] is bad.

The quality of the images [in an emotional sense] is good.

I enjoy them. I hope you do too.

Commerce - My Kodak ‘Charmera’ Key-Chain Camera

The Kodak Charmera is an overpriced toy sold under the oh so common marketing strategy of gambling. The Kodak key-chain-charm camera, or, Charmera, is sold in blind-boxes, lootcrate style, with different color options available, hidden behind the packaging. I can admit, I love gambling. I also felt myself wanting the more rare ‘color’ option, the clear Charmera, more than any other.

I paid $50 for this camera on Amazon.com. I didn’t want to buy it from Amazon but I also wanted to take it with me to the Billy Strings concerts in Asheville, and it was the only place that didn’t look like a scam. Note, the only pictures I liked enough to share here from Asheville are the ones of the shitty hotel room coffee maker and the decent hotel room clothes hangers. I think I had to pay for shipping since I don’t have Amazon Prime, and before shipping, I think it was $37 which is still ridiculous for this gimmicky toy. But, it’s fun. I’m glad I wasted that money.

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Food - IN & OUT PIZZA SLICES NY STYLE

A few weeks ago my coworker Bryan and I were trying to find new places to eat lunch near the laboratory. Bryan asked if I’d heard of “In and out slices” over by the Food Lion on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, to which I replied that I had, “Yeah, I’ve seen that place,” I said to Bryan. And so we decided that we would try “In and out slices” (upon further research, we discovered that it’s full name was IN & OUT PIZZA SLICES NY STYLE as we would refer to it going further, as we should). My boss and another coworker ended up joining us.

It turned out, IN & OUT PIZZA SLICES NY STYLE was not really a sit-down and enjoy your pizza type of place, it was a little bit different than we expected. We weren’t greeted upon entering, in fact, we got weird looks as we walked through the strip mall parking lot, and even weirder looks from the cashier, cook, and patron waiting on their order.

After ordering our slices, we sat down at the two high-top tables with two seats each and waited on our pizza. It seemed as though these tables were meant to wait for your takeout order, as three or four other customers came and went (in and out) as we ate. Also, while we waited, a different cook walked in and mean-mugged our table, straight beaming his eyes at us like extendable telescopes, each lens molesting each of us up and down, smothering us in eye-ball juices. We left soon after that.

Bryan and I returned with a new coworker and everything was pleasant. They smiled at us, we received our pizza quickly and it was delicious (not that it wasn’t the first time), and the cashier even gave us a couple of free slices. We were not mean-mugged. Perhaps it was my boss’s fault. I give IN & OUT PIZZA SLICES NY STYLE on MLK Jr. Dr. a 17.4 out of 23.

I learned the next morning why they call it “IN & OUT.” It definitely does both.

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Ugly Pink Noises

Crossed winds blow tired clouds across a dull highway 
town. The Wendy’s didn’t know what it had.

We matched on Tinder three times two years ago and 
here we are, reciting TV quotes while doing a Walmart puzzle. 

I talk and walk it the right way to pacify tired old people.

Something tells me my neighbor doesn’t like the smell of weed. 

It’s warm enough for a bonfire that we’ll enjoy for thirty minutes 
then go inside to eat pre-packaged meatloaf and Spaghetti-Os. 


That unfinished Walmart puzzle sat on my roommate’s kitchen table for 59 days.


I’ll find a new girl, I tell her. One who will appreciate
my sculptures.

“He recently got into sculpting,” said the narrator. “He
then sprinted to the library to pick up chicks.”

I need an apartment big enough to hold them. Some of my sculptures
can be over 37 and a half feet long. Some of them
have to be looked over and carefully watched or else
they will come to life (if not kept a careful eye on). Some
of them require daily oil changes, stainings and sandings,
weekly pressure washes, daily drainings of their auxiliary 
water ports, etc.

There’s a lot of work in being a sculptor. Even one who 
only deals in forging famous sculptors' sculptures. 

I’ve got three of those stupid giant balloon dogs in
a storage unit. Who wants one?

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Untitled Poem #300

107 vinyl records but
no record player.
No recorder either.

4 electric guitars,
white, black, red, and yella,
no strings to string 'em.

13 bottles of warm light
lager and no corkscrew.

A pen with no ink.

A 56 gram bottle of
Norwegian hand cream.
No hands.

It looks like
a million tangled-up iPhone
chargers all causing
those bad headaches
cured by pinching
the inside of the hand,
between the pollex and
index lies just the word you're
looking for.

Everyone has dry hands
all of a sudden.

Winter Goldfish Pond

Goldfish Pond, goldfish pond. 
What have I done! That 

good ol' goldfish pond behind
my folk's mossy white adirondacks.

Disarray! Dead, or hibernating; 
those chilly willy cattails and

brown pickerels? The fish are
still there. Maybe. I see one or
two.

Thank you, they might say
if they could. You're welcome,
and I'm sorry, I would reply.

It's okay, I hope they'd say
back. 

Bubbles and bubbles. A second 

fish returns. 

Some shrimp-flavored mush
pellets should do it. I smile
and leave.

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This is a fortune teller that I made recently. I had to search the internet for a tutorial because I couldn’t remember from middle school. The suggested prompts I received in my research for the inner flaps of the fortune teller were god awful, so I created my own, adding misfortunes as well.

1 - “I beg you to take things slower.”

2 - “Wisdom comes with open ears. Pain follows an open mouth.”

3 - “Your shadow needs work.”

4 - “Sleep when you can.”

5 - “Deliver yourself. Now!”

6 - “You will die honorably.”

7 - THE TESSERACT. (Fortune 7 is an image of a four dimensional hyper-cube, or tesseract. See image 2.)

8 - “Read more.”

I’m not sure if I have the power to make the fortunes come true, but maybe I don’t need the power as the creator. Perhaps the creation itself is what draws on the power. Who is lady fortune? Does she possess that power? How can I meet her? Is she sexy? Probably.

What’s the deal with fortune cookies? Why are they seemingly becoming worse? Did the fortune factory run out of new ideas? Did they fire lady fortune during covid layoffs? I imagine private equity is to blame, I fucking hate private equity. Divest. Think of the children! If you got a fortune cookie that said “I think, therefore I am” would you start to think that the fortune cookie is alive and wrote that itself? If so, would you then start to think that every fortune cookie fortune is written that way? '

Sports - Car Camping in Public

Finding somewhere to park your car overnight can be the worst thing in the whole world, especially if you want to find somewhere somewhat quiet. You never want to car camp on the street unless you want to have more fun than camping. I’ve found that you can get by in some hotel parking lots, especially shittier looking ones that have big lots, half-crumbled walls with wet stains, and lots of shitty looking cars already. They are risky but can be effective when in a pinch. My original plan was to stay in the hotel parking lot that I stayed in for the last two nights but I decided not to push my luck and move somewhere safe.

Some Walmart parking lots are worthy, but none in the greater area according the RV forums (these are the best places to conduct research when car camping. (I conducted my research while sitting in the very Walmart parking lot that was being warned against. (Something about security tapping on your windows until you leave.)))

Some Cracker Barrels will allow you to sleep overnight, I was hoping the one closest to downtown would be a good choice, but I read on another forum that employees will “shine flashlights into car windows” looking to stop overnight car campers or RVers. Luckily, that same forum inforumed me that there is a different cracker barrel that would host my Mazda ‘BNB’CX-5.

I’m sitting in that parking lot now, drinking a beer. I bought two philosophy books today while killing time and an untitled “manifesto” with no author, no cover, no barcode, no ISBN, no nothing to identify other than the piece of paper next to it in the bookstore which read “Manifesto, by: Anonymous”. I’m also reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami and it’s relatable and topical.

I ate a Lunchables pizza for dinner. It was good. The Cracker Barrel closes at 9:00, once all the workers leave I will feel safe. Until then.

Music - White Noise, Static, etc.

I don’t really know if this is considered music to more than just me but I really like listening to white noise and it’s varieties. My favorite is brown noise I think. According to Wikipedia.com, “white noise is a random signal having equal intensity at different frequencies, giving it a constant power spectral density.”1

What I really want to know is what makes brown noise and pink noise and green noise(??) different from white noise?

It turns out it was as simple as clicking a few more links on Wikipedia.com, brown noise, or Brownian noise(referring to the nerd who discovered it) is some physics theory about motion. From Wikipedia.com, “As Brownian noise contains infinite spectral power…. A leaky integrator might be used.”

I also possess infinite spectral power and it’s telling me……………. a leaky integrator is a sign of infection.

Scrolling further throughout the white noise Wikipedia.com article, I discovered the math involved with white noise and it gave me a headache trying to understand so I’ll just leave you with this:

General TV static is nice to listen to too.

Culture - The Career Aptitude Test

This week, I was asked, “Why do you like to write?”

We used to have these things called The Guidance Counselor and they were for the kids who were in trouble a lot, poor, or had some other kind of issue that I couldn’t understand as a kid. I wanted to understand why these kids got to go sit in a different room on a big comfy couch. I thought they were lucky.

My mom drove me to school every morning. I wasn’t cutting myself. I ate. I guess I had it lucky enough to not have to go talk with The Guidance Counselor. I felt incredibly left out.

Every day I saw the The Guidance Counselor walking throughout the hallways, teleporting through secret passageways, and talking to the kids I thought she liked. I thought she didn’t like me. I was undeserving. I wanted an adult who I could be cool with, be myself with. I was supposed to already have that, elsewhere. I don’t know if that’s who they were to those kids, but that’s how it seemed.

The only time I remember talking to The Guidance Counselor was when it was time to take The Career Aptitude Test.

The Career Aptitude Test would tell me what my life was going to be like. It was going to tell me that I indeed was going to become an archeologist like my hero at the time, Indiana Jones. It didn’t.

Author - It told me. Author? Seriously? What kind of nerd shit is that?? - Was how 12 year old me reacted.

And that is why I like to write.

Music - Techno

I’ve been exploring music genres that I used to think were cringe. I’m finding that the feeling of cringe has ruined my life in many ways in which I’m trying to refurbish. I allow myself to not care if other people cringe.

Really, it’s cringe to cringe; a paradox that knowing cringe is cringe.

Techno, Jungle, Breakbeat - Is so much fun to listen to and pretend you’re having a dance party in your head when in reality you’re sitting at a bench stripping wires. I’ve recently gotten obsessed with watching DJ sets online (on the famous video website which shall not be named (named YouTube)) and while I’m certain that part of my enjoyment of these videos is that I’m choosing the videos with the most gorgeous and sexiest DJs. (A coworker recommended that I search “DJ Big Rack” to find good DJ sets (He might be one of the most sane people I’ve ever met and/or interacted with. (He always wears the same green pants and green jacket to work, sometimes putting on another green jacket overtop the first green jacket. I’ve (maybe creepily) noticed that he almost never uses the bathroom. And I think I will ask him if he’d like to be interviewed for this blog.))) My favorite techno DJ so far is Andre Dancekowski. A close second is Nikolina. They are both excellent.

At work we have this little TV that we take turns playing music from while we work. We started watching livestreams and playbacks of livestreams of techno DJ sets from a place in Berlin called “Hoer” or “Hor”1 I’m not really sure which is correct or if either is more correct than the other. It’s this white little tile room that my coworkers and I refer to as “the bathroom” or “the techno tile room”. I love it. I want to visit it. I’ve never left America. I love techno.

Sports - Ghost Hunting

Every night this past week I’ve gotten drunk and tried making a techno beat using my Korg Volca Sample 2 (image 4) but I’ve also been playing this ghost hunting video game with Jackson, Ben, Graham, The Chloes, and sometimes others. It’s fun. I enjoy hunting ghosts and I miss doing it in real life. There are many a times when I’ve been pretty sure that I succesfully witnessed a ghost while on a hunt. The abandoned hospital, the demon dog, the graveyard on Appalachian State’s campus, and my childhood home have all shown me things that I could only explain as the work of ghosts. In the ghost hunting video game we get to use in-game technology to try and figure out what kind of ghost is haunting a house.

I wish I had some of that technology for real life ghost hunts.

Does anyone want to go ghost hunting with me sometime soon? It’s cold out now but that might add to the ghosts abilities, or something, it seems like ghosts would prefer the cold, but that’s based on my knowledge from TV and movies, or maybe it’s not that the ghosts prefer cold, but that they create the cold. I’m not really sure.

Poem 40

What could or couldn't of
the holy moment? is of not
the only encroachment? of
what all she loves or knows
or understands or blows away
into moments of indifferent
suffering; Hell to come, Hell
hath come. and fun and Sukha
and sex and bazookas that
blow away into meaningless
zombies lying still in a purple
petri dish. it should be
spelled peetree.

p e e t r e e

Petri is a funny word. pulverize is a funny word too
and it sounds a little like poltergeist
and it sounds even less like Gatorade.

g a t o r a d e

Throw her, throw her, throw her
nicely. "excuse them," is what she kept on
saying. "excuse them" is what she 
kept on saying to herself in the
mirror. "excuse them" is what she
kept on saying to herself in the 
mirror that morning. "excuse them"
is what she kept on saying to herself
in the mirror that morning while she 
was getting herself ready. and those monkeys
kept on pushing her. and those monkeys
just kept on pushing her. and those monkeys
just kept on pushing her and pushing
her and pushing her and smushing her.

WWYBWTPTLOTW

Where will you be when they
purge the liars of the world?

Out of Heaven

Sinking mirrored meadows patiently 
tan. A boy abducts a catfish and
the sky congratulates. His father 
waited one thousand
years for that moment.

Grassy pokes break the horizon
swimming across nebula; searching
for sky-blue and yellow. 

His grandfather's ashes mixed
well with the island sand.

Sun-beat, his wife docks and moors. 

"Goodnight," that old lab barks.

I Hate Garrett Langley

Let me ask you something,
buddy, could I see your 
genitals? Tell me something, 
whose can you see? Rats eat what jungle
tigers shred into tiny,
little, itty-bitty pieces, and bombs
do what bombs do. Mushrooms
eat everything. Mold, mold,
mold. That's what Garrett
Langley is, mold. So what
can we do, Jeff? What choice
do we have? Three-hund-red
for-ty-two-dumb-
foun-ded-dip-shits and counting while 
Garrett's piss rains
on Gary's parade; Nirvana is
gone, all because he didn't
know what Syria is. And
let me ask you something else, 
did you ever fucking read George
Huxley? Do you see me
breathing down your 
neck? You get off to it, I know
worms like you whose mommies
were whores and daddies a
fist. And you have the balls
to call me a terrorist? Remember, 
remember, the fifth time 
you were rejected, remember, 
remember, how it made you feel, 
remember, remember, you wanted to show
them, remember, remember, you
wanted to kill. What will it
fucking take for you to be 
satisfied?

Meditations upon your arriving
to what we call "America" leave
me bitter and hopeless. Thầy 
would be disappointed. Thoughts
disjointed, I can do better. Let
me ask you one more thing,
would you accept my forgiveness?
I doubt it. 
I wouldn't accept yours.

Macray’s Poems

Heavy Sigh

Today is my sixth grade 
girlfriend's birthday. I remember the 
most least important 
dates and yet the most
important dates fly by until
next Saturday when it all comes
rushing back. 3 dream birds
in the sky: one red, one white,
one blue. A green dot in the sky:
one torch, one string, one shoe. The
alligator is the elephant in this room,
one room over from Houston and
rover and one room over from
one lonesome lover loser hearing
what lures and smelling rancid
cheese. I wonder if Hailey 
remembers me; last I heard
of a black haired freckled 
weird girl smoking rolled
up plastic "cigarettes" was
dreaming of birds. Birds
and bees and rancid
cheese.

Untitled Haiku #655

A cloud festival 
shines over the star forest
with sandy falls.

Macray Braxton, Burlington NC, October 2025

I. 

Paying quarterly sales taxes
is a lot more important than
discussing vintage Japanese

haiku translations. Groundhog-
daying that scribbled down routine
again. 

II. 

Another claim, who wants it? 

III.

Fixing what we can but not too much
so that the rest of the world notices.

Heckling as many comedians as possible
so that refugees and circus-freaks may
rest easy.

IV.

A billion bucks and another 
bite the dust.

Ace of cups and a continued
loss of lust. 

For all your face can long for.

V. 

Does a dog’s sigh mean the same 
as mine? Someone told me that 
when you sigh you

lose a little bit of time. If life is 
like a clock is yours stuck at
two thirty in the afternoon 
like mine?

VI.

to the tune of "Old MacDonald":

o n o m a t o

p o e i a

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Oak Island; Day of Paradise

That guy in his late 
40's sitting on the beach
with a remote control 
car and a bottle of wine.
I can't remember which one 
it was, maybe, Cat's Cradle, 
but that guy reminded me 
much of the main character 
in that book. If it was Cat's
Cradle, like I said, then it 
would make sense, since 
the main character in Cat's 
Cradle is just a chill guy 
who goes to an island in search 
of love, or something like that, 
it's been a while since I read 
it. That guy in his late 40's 
sitting on the beach with a 
remote control car and a bottle 
of wine was listening to Bob 
Marley's ninth studio album, 
"Exodus", and as soon as the 
title track, "Exodus", began to 
play, he stood up, walked to 
the edge of the water, and 
began to cry. He no longer 
reminded me of the main 
character from Cat's Cradle 
or whatever that novel I was 
thinking of was. He instead 
reminded me of an old, used 
candle, slowly dripping the 
last of it's wax. A bottle of 
some vintage Cabernet, probably 
cheese or something, music,
and a remote control dune-buggy 
which was making slight work of 
the sand. That woman whose 
little girl continuously screams
"VIOLET! VIOLET! VIOLET!" 
into the sky despite that woman's
continuous pleas for her little
girl to stop the screaming. At once,
she fell to her knees, wet sand 
sticking to her 98% polyester and 
scraping through it's squeezing
of her thighs. That woman's
little girl surlily screaming "VIOLET!
VIOLET! VIOLET!" into that woman's
dreadfully sullen expression. She
stands up and turns back. Her
little girl stopped screaming. That
inexperienced angler twosome 
launching steel plumbobs in tutus 
as far as they can swim. Plumb dry and
no bites as far as the eye can see
doesn't stop the super nor begs
for them to give up. Sea bilge seeps
flanking their phalanxes, the wahine 
angler twinkles broadly. A fond but 
secretive moment in a day by the deep. 

It Just Takes a While, That's All

The last word I Googled, which, I
should actually say Duck Duck Goed
because I don't use Google anymore,

was the word plenipotentiary. Sometimes
a stranger grabs me and pulls me
me outside and the more often

I give-in and let him, the happier my 
days tend to go. Mom killed all
the planets in her garden so that

the mosquito lady could spray
her mosquito poison everywhere
in the yard without tainting her 

planets; the planets that ain't there
anymore. Sundays and Mondays 
and Sundays and Mondays, the

schedule that tends our bar and
keeps me from drinking too
much on the weekends. Such like 

flaccid bacon and watery
scrambled eggs. I had a dream 
about that "This is your brain on 

drugs" commercial but the frying 
pan was instead a blank canvas.
The egg was still an egg. The egg's

slack whites slinked through the 
canvas and onto the floor and 
my bare feet. I still don't have a

clue what plenipotentiary means
but I think it has something to
do with that dream about the

egg. What do you do in your 
free time? In my free time? What
about it? Don't worry about me,

Kurt, I know what I'm doing. It
just takes a while, that's all.
That's just what I'll keep telling

myself. It just takes a while, that's
all. Woof! 

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Under goodhearted gales she lifts her hat, gracing us a glimpse.

Nestled between a moss-ridden Williamsburg-style brick wall and my mother’s cucumber garden, among mosquito bites and bee stings, and bordered in that same brick that stands the castle, a quaint square goldfish pond modestly absorbs the sun.

The smallest two goldfish nibble on the tarp lining the inside of the pond. A black sheet of plastic holds all that they know. Their troposphere. They scatter and sink beneath a lily pad. The rest of the pack spastically swarms a surplus of shmushed shrimp specs sloughed softly on the speckled surface. The tarp-eaters catch up and try to get in on the buffet. They’re like runts pushing and clawing at their mother’s teet.

They’re fed every other day, sometimes every other other day. Usually every other day. They’re tossed a handful of TETRA Pond Spring & Fall Diet Transitional Fish Food from a 3.08-lb bag. A curious german shepherd watches and whines, wanting to wet-lick a waterlogged wallop of fish food for himself.

“No, not for you,” I remind him.

Sometimes they’re hidden from me. They’re woven among pickerel stalks and twig debris, sheltered by algaeified lily pads. Their homes are as green as they are cramped.

Sometimes they gang up in the back corner of the pond. A clearing in their murky forest. The ‘clean corner.’ They seem to be in a more comfortable mood when they’re in the clean corner. Less nervous and more spry.

Of course, the clean corner is also the furthest corner from where I like to watch, so they could be even more scared than normal, running, or rather, swimming as far away from me as they can. Their neighborhood under attack by some giant. I keep watching.

I tiptoe along the brick border to the pond’s rear. The fish scatter back to their fortress; leading the way was the smallest of the tarp-eaters, a pinkish-colored runt named Princess.

Princess is the easiest to spot because of how strikingly different she looks from the rest.

I walk back around the pond and stand back and wait, expecting them to return. They don’t. I leave and come back a few minutes later with a handful of fish food and could see one fish. One of the gold goldfish. It was nibbling on the lining. A tarp-eater. When it's cloudier and later in the day, they like to come out and hunt, but in the hot sun they like to sink into the shade.

At one time, there was a black goldfish, and I called him Phineas. I haven’t seen him since last summer. I don’t know any of these fish’s genders, but Princess seems like a girl fish, and Phineas seemed like a boy fish. I don’t name them anymore. Nowadays, with the exception of Princess, I only call them “fish” or “fishy” if I’m in a conversation with the german shepherd.

I think two things must’ve happened to Phineas: 

He either changed colors overtime and turned into a gold goldfish, or he was killed and eaten. If he was killed and eaten, he was either cannibalized by the other goldfish, or eaten by a larger animal.

The german shepherd has never seemed to show much interest in the goldfish and has only once stepped into the pond. He was quite embarrassed that day and doesn’t stand too close to the edge anymore.

There is a soaring hawk. I think it's a red-shouldered hawk. It can be occasionally seen circling the yard and is a likely candidate, but it's usually shooed away by the blue jays and house wrens protecting their babies. The hawk doesn’t hunt here often.

Then there are the crows. There’s a murder of 3-4 crows that hang out in the backyard. It's possible that Phineas died and floated to the surface, from which a crow could’ve easily snagged him. I occasionally leave the murder gifts in exchange for spiritual guidance.

My favorite pond visitors are the dragonflies. They love to hang out at the pond. I’ve noticed that they often dip the end of their tails onto the flooded surface of the lily pads.

Wasps occasionally come to collect pollen from the purple flowers, but lately they have been more focused on constructing a nest.

Chunky horseflies attend to their own business around the pond. The business of ramming into my face and shoulders. I jump when their loud buzzing hits my ear.

On particularly fortunate mornings when I’m careful and quiet enough, I can hear a ‘clicking’ or ‘popping’ sound. A fish can be seen popping its head up between the petals of a lily pad, and each time it falls back down, it ‘pops.’ I think it is the sound of the fish’s mouth smacking the water and creating a sort of vacuum.

On particularly unfortunate mornings, there are no goldfish swimming about. I could stand around for a few minutes expecting one to shoot out from beneath the lilies, but it won’t happen. I edge across the brick border, nearly tripping myself into the pond, and squat by the clean corner to see if I could get a better angle beneath the lilies. Still nothing. Particularly unfortunate. It's only when I go inside for a few minutes and come back out that the fish return. It was as though they confused me for some type of predator instead of their dad, OR they were just sleeping, and when I came back out, it might’ve woken them up, OR there was a recent predator alarm sounded, sending them to the lilies before the german shepherd and I could come watch the party.

The fish love the rain. They come out more when it rains, and they attack each raindrop rippling above the reef. They suck on the ripples like they’re food, sinking after each peck. Perhaps they are getting a drink of the rainwater. Perhaps they like the flavor.

My parents moved to this house while I was in college. House prices were low in the winter of 2020, and they wanted to find somewhere new. I visited infrequently during this time, maybe once every couple of months, watching as the new backyard transformed.

The goldfish pond was built by whoever lived in the house before, and originally, with my support, there was consideration towards removing the pond in place of another garden. That never happened, and instead four white Adirondack chairs were set up next to the pond, the fish were dropped in, and one by one each invitee arrived to the party. Today, it's my absolute favorite place to be on a cool summer night, drinking an ice-cold beer with my folks.

Bonus dragonfly pictures:

Man o' Man o' Man

"Maaaaannn, I ain't too sure
of nothing," Pa
would say & then
Mrs. Miles would say, "You 
need to fix your 
attitude." And then later,
while looking in the 
mirror, "What do
you say, dude?" 

Look yourself in the eyes and scream!

Maaaaannn, be 100% certain
whatever you're
eating is good food &
don't look down
for nothing or
nobody. OH! and
lay your painter's tape
even, for Christ's sake.

Go on, tell the moon, "Goodnight, moon."

Maaaaannn, how many
more times do you
have to do that? "Get
it right the first time 
and take a nap," Pa would
say, and then Mrs. Miles
would ask, "What's the biggest
fish you ever caught, Johnny?"

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Untitled Love Poem

You
loved Sugarland &
Doja Cat & you
were starting to
like fast ass Blue
Grass too.
Led
Zeppelin track #9
& Led Zeppelin
track #22. You,
me,
two horridly drunk
friends who loved
you & killed you
too.

I miss you.

Untitled Haiku #876

The tortured muse waits,
Augustulus dies quickly,
and here, I watch.

Don’t get me wrong, when I told Maddie that I wanted to take her to Carowinds for her 30^th birthday, it was really only so that I could have someone to talk to in the lines, and since I forgot to get her anything back in March, I figured revisiting a childhood tradition would make up for it.

In the beginning:

My relationship with rollercoasters1 has been one. When I was eight, I rode Space Mountain at Disney’s Magic Kingdom and was instantly hooked. The next day, I rode The Rockin’ Rollercoaster and needed to ride more so badly that I begged my parents to let us stay another day. For my birthday that summer, we would go to Carowinds for the first time. From then on, my interest fluctuated— but today, I’m left with nothing but love and admiration for all things rollercoaster.

Carowinds (2009):

I had just turned nine and was riding in the backseat of a hot and sticky Volkswagen Passat. I saw the cresting of bright multicolored steel towering over the interstate treetops, bending, twisting, and warping through the sky. It was the first time I’d ever seen an outdoor rollercoaster. I was amazed and bewildered at how something so tall and apparently flimsy could safely hold me and my cart. My first impression from the magnifyingly hot car window wasn’t a good one. I wasn’t sure I liked rollercoasters anymore.

***

When my dad and Maddie ran up to the front gate of the park, I hesitated. I was scared. My mom asked if I was coming, and something in her voice pushed me onward and into the park.

The height of The Intimidator is what scared me the most as a kid. Previously, I had only experienced indoor coasters, and being able to see how high up I could go meant that if something went wrong, it meant that I would die. Of course, I would probably die if something went wrong outdoors, indoors, or wherever, but there was something about seeing the actual structure that terrified me. Space Mountain was hidden beneath a carnival tent shaped, well, space mountain, and I guess because I couldn’t see the danger, it meant that there was no danger.

I told my mom that I was afraid, and Maddie quickly made fun of me for this. I was teased, called a baby, and told that I would regret not riding it. This time, my mom’s words of encouragement failed, but she was happy enough to wait with me while Maddie and my dad rode The Intimidator. I felt small and disappointed.

My mom questioned my newfound anxiety, saying that she thought that I had liked rollercoasters, to which I defended myself, saying that I do like rollercoasters, just not the ones that go straight down or upside-down. And with that, I was washed with relief; I could qualify my anxiety, be made fun of less, and enjoy my time more.

For the rest of the trip, I rode only the “kiddie rides” and smaller coasters like Runaway Reptar or Ricochet. I was certainly still made fun of, and I was certainly still disappointed in myself for not riding the more intense rollercoasters.

READING BREAK: This video was recorded in January 2024 during a month long Roller Coaster Tycoon obsession.

Disney World (2013):

We returned to Disney World a few years later; I must’ve been 12 or so. I don’t remember much of the trip, but there are two distinct memories:

1. I used some money my grandmother gave me to buy not only a sombrero in the EPCOT Mexico gift shop but also a ‘rice hat’2 from EPCOT Japan.

2. I decided at the very last second not to ride The Rockin’ Rollercoaster after waiting in line for 2 hours.

This time, not only my evil teenage sister, but mom and dad made fun of me for being scared too, and once again they told me that I would regret not riding it. My mom graciously sat out with me, and we walked to the exit to wait for my dad and Maddie once again.

I don’t remember exactly the reason for not wanting to ride The Rockin’ Rollercoaster, especially since I had not only ridden it once before when I was much younger, but I had also ridden Space Mountain the day before my Rockin’-Chickening-Out, just like the trip from when I was eight, and I loved it! It was one of those bad-gut-feeling moments, I guess. And I did regret not riding it, about thirteen seconds after leaving the park that day.

Carowinds (mid 2010s):

A couple of years later, a friend from school invited me to join his family trip to Carowinds after I boasted in 7th band class that I loved rollercoasters, probably to make myself seem more interesting,3 but I also think I was unconsciously pushing myself to like them again. I accepted the invitation and rode every rollercoaster that was open that day. It turned out, I not only liked rollercoasters, I loved rollercoasters and was hooked once again.

That same friend4 and I would repeat this plan for the next three birthdays, returning to Carowinds each June and July not really to celebrate our birthdays, but to celebrate rollercoasters.

What’s your favorite rollercoaster? Message me.

Carowinds (2019):

During my senior year of high school, I took my first ever girlfriend to Carowinds while on Spring Break, and it was probably my favorite time ever going; it was a Monday, so there was nobody there, and we rode Fury 325, Carowinds’ baddest, fastest, and sexiest new giga-coaster back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back, I don’t know, something like 12 or 13 times. That time was the last time I went to Carowinds since taking Maddie last week.

Disney World (2020):

In February 2020, my mom, dad, and I returned to Disney’s Hollywood Studios, and boy did I ride every ride. I was finally one of the cool kids; my dad and I rode The Rockin’ Rollercoaster four times in a row, each time in the front row5.

Carowinds (2025):

I’d been mentioning wanting to go ride rollercoasters to literally everyone in my life recently, but I’d especially been pestering Maddie and my dad6 for a while now. Finally finding a good time this spring, I asked Maddie if she would like to go for her birthday; tickets on me, of course. She agreed, and we settled for a day in early May.7

It was probably the single worst day to go in terms of avoiding kids, as there was a middle school music competition happening, which we didn’t realize until we saw dozens of school buses pouring into the parking lot just before we got there.

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The line for The Intimidator was nonexistent because The Intimidator has been renamed to Thunder Strike8 or something like that. We eventually got on and were successful in getting to wait to sit in the front seat, the best seat, the only seat. The ride was fantastic. Everything I remembered it being and more (other than the name, of course).

We were disappointed to find that two of our favorite rollercoasters, Carolina Cyclone and Vortex, were both unexpectedly closed, and we couldn’t figure out anything other than that it was unplanned maintenance.

Most disappointing was the deletion of my beloved Nighthawk, a “flying coaster”9 developed by Vekoma in 2004, in which you lie down on your back in the cart, and it soared you through the sky like Batman gliding through Gotham. I knew that it would be shutdown; someone (I forget who) told me it was closed, as it had been on 75% of previous trips, but I didn’t know that it was permanently removed10 and that there would be nothing to replace it; nothing but a temporary “slingshot” bungee launching ride that isn’t even included in regular ticket prices.

I’ll never forget you, Nighthawk.

The only other complaint for the day was that of a seemingly common new phenomenon in which children will hold spots in line for one another. Repeatedly the same group of little girls would cut in front of me and Maddie in some fashion, and repeatedly Maddie got (slightly hilariously) upset by it. I only reciprocated her anger when an adult woman joined their gaggle and cut us while waiting for Fury 325.

Fury 325-- I mean, what can I say? No words. It’s my favorite rollercoaster. I go to Carowinds for Fury 325. Ride in the very front, very back11, or not at all.

Maddie and I ended our trip with a back-to-back ride of Copperhead-Strike, which for some reason, had the shortest line of any ride that day, clocking out at a rapid 10-15 minutes, and one last ride of After Burn, which also had an oddly short line for how great of a rollercoaster it is.

On our way out of the park, I wanted to buy a Nighthawk commemoration t-shirt that I saw while in the gift shop for The Intimidator Thunder Strike, but Thunder Strike and its gift shop were closed, and the other gift shops didn’t have it, so we left.

What I love About Rollercoasters:

While nothing quite compares to the feeling of my organs rising and falling as gravity loses its grip on my insides, my favorite thing about a rollercoaster is the laughing. I don’t exactly know why it happens, but when I’m flying through the air, letting my arms and legs flail, gasping at the wind flapping into my cheeks, I look over at the person sitting next to me, and I laugh. I don’t know whether it’s the thought that we are both at the mercy of this massive fun machine capable of swiftly ripping off limbs or launching us across the parking lot, or the adrenaline pumping into my brain, but it happens every time. I giggle and buffoon with uncontrollable giddy. The only other thing that happens every time is that right before getting to the top of the first ‘big drop’ I close my eyes and think to myself, “If this is it, I wouldn’t want it to be any other way.”

I love rollercoasters.12

Refer a friend

Abbreviations of a Conversation

A man and his granddaughter are at the farmer's market.

He said:

Now are you talking 
choppers, or 'copters? 

And then:

That's a really big jar
o' crunchy pea-nut-butter;
how're you gonna swalla'
that much pea-nut-butter?

And at the same time, his 
granddaughter said:

The Beatles are in perfect
synchronization with Claire's
cat food idea, I mean,
word for word, oh, and the 
beer and wine are almost all gone,  
and the moon, oh the moon, oh
th-- wait a minute, is that 
waxing, or waning? I can't ever 
remember which is which.

And then:

Are you missing the cats yet?

And her granddaddy could be heard
saying:

Synch-ro-niz-ation.
I'll drive, then pee again. I am a man, of course.
I have nowhere to go, and I keep seeing 
abbreviations I've never heard of 
in an industry I've 
never worked in. I 
never worked in a restaurant,
but all my friends did. That
doesn't make me any less of a man.

Then The Beatles said:

Ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh, ahhhhh, ahhh, 
Dum-bum-bom-bum, one sweet dream,
a nightmare, or two, is it sherry? or is it vermouth?

And raising her voice, his granddaughter said:

Oh, no!
Count to seven too fast and life will 
wither away! He's in a volunteer 
position and won't have the
credentials to access any proprietary
accounting software, so there's 
nothing to worry about!

And then:

Like, I hear you, but like, also,
do you know how churches work?
I'd say I'm sort of like the woman-in-the-box;
the one who got re-neutered. And 
by-the-way, if I open the Girl Scout 
cookies, will you eat some? 

And so they ate Girl Scout cookies and listened to The Beatles.

While I’m sure you haven’t, I know you’ve been wondering greatly where I’ve been, what I’ve been writing, where the hell that one about the melatonin is, how I’m doing, what I had for breakfast yesterday, etc., etc., etc.. What I’m sure you haven’t been not wondering most of all is whether or not I’m going to ever come out with another monthly update.

“Where is the Macray’s Newsletter monthly update?!?! I’ve been waiting the whole month of March! and now April is almost overrr! C’moooon…”

-You to all of your friends

It’s probable that the majority of you subscribed to Macray’s Newsletter so that you would receive monthly updates about pieces of writing that seemingly never come out, or monthly updates about previous monthly updates, and definitely not for poems, peoms, and heartwarming essays about sweet uber drivers (of which I have plenty more (maybe God is some type of interconnected species of uber drivers all connected via telekinesis or some type of root in the ground like those tree networks1)) and so I promise that this will be the last monthly update of this type. Instead, I would prefer this substack newsletter to be for completed works that I’m happy or mostly happy with, I guess mostly happy is still happy, and instead of providing chit chat banter like updates such as this one, or funnier fiction pieces that I’m just attempting, I’m going to use Macray’s Newsletter as a place to release greater works of mine, similar to the I met god in an uber essay from the beginning, similar to the multi poem uploads, but the poems will be edited with more care and time. I also plan to finally finish the melatonin essay, which I’m going to restart entirely and just tell the whole story, perhaps trying melatonin again as an older adult and seeing how it might react differently.

I’ve been spending a little time working on getting my website back up and running, with a new form factor and plans to be used as a portfolio. Essentially, www.macraybraxton.com will be what this substack was, and I will be emailing you from a different email address moving forward, so keep a lookout for that.

The email newsletter will go back to how it was originally, with completed happy works released, rather than putting out anything I want just because I can. Please check out www.macraybraxton.com, and there you’ll be able to see all of my completed works in an easy to read list, including film and photography projects, daily blog, and more2.

I teased that I was working on a film in a previous update, that is still being worked on, but I’ve had to take a short break. I will return to my progress on that very soon, hopefully I can have it finished by the end of May. It will be uploaded either to my youtube channel or on vimeo with a link to stream it for free on www.macraybraxton.com.

Thank you for reading.

I love you always, cheers,

Talking Shop

Rprsnttiv.
Rprsnttiv.
Rprsnttiv.
Ys.
Oh my God!

DPul? Whr th fuck is DPul?

So, tht's still th corrct phon numbr?

Vorcity. Tht's wht you nd. Vorcity.

I lrdy ordrd th crd to b mild to m.
No, I don't wnt tht.
No, cncl, cncl. N-Ys. Ys.

Twnty-fiv thousnd dollrs.
Wow, is it rlly?

Only two popl hv rgistrd.
Yh, I'm on.
M too.

Th division modifir is typiclly grtr
thn th dprtmnt modifir.
nd this qurtr?

Wll, it ll coms down to:
Should w py this?
Do w hv to py tht?

Must'v bn  powr-surg.
My monitor flickrd.
Is nyon hving phon issus?

Wht bout our docking sttions?

Do you hr  squking nois coming
from ovr hr?
Yh, no.
Lik n rr, rr, rr?
I think th job is gtting to you.

Do you know how mny tims h took
th brr?
No.
Four!

My DHD-brin rquirs this.
Do you hv DHD?
No.
My mom ws dignosd t 45.

I'm mor of  movi guy.
Oh, rlly? I'm mor of  TV guy.
Yh, sm.

Macray Braxton, Richmond, VA. March, 2025. Happy birthday, Maddie.

Look, I know that “Macray” is not the most common name, I’m no John Williams,

Michael Jordan or John Paul Jones, and I can recognize (and appreciate (most of the time)) that my name gets a double-take to make sure it’s being read right. Muh-Cray, McCray, MickRay, MacGravy, etc., hasn’t bothered me since my 9th birthday, it’s cool, I’ll know you’re talking to me and these are close enough. I also have three first names: Charles Macray Braxton, almost four if I stutter and say: Charles Mac Ray Braxton. And so this becomes “Charles’s Newsletter”1 anytime I go to the doctor’s office or vote.

The funniest move is when someone is writing my name down, say, for attendance purposes, or checking-in at an office, and they spell it wrong as I’m spelling it out loud.

“M, A, C, R, A, Y,” said I.

And the clerk wrote “MacCrae.”

And I go about my day. It’s funny that we shove our biases of how we think things are without listening to the things that are telling you how they are. Everyone does this, it’s human, it’s efficient.

Last night,

I was talking with my roommate, Jackson, about how so much of my time at work is spent “catching up on emails". Then, I realized, I spend almost my entire day in the office staring at an email inbox.

I receive a lot of emails from people who don’t know me personally, and they probably don’t care enough to read my full name, and instead just see my last name and assume it’s my first. You know what they say, when you assume— you are making a lazy experience-based inference to save four seconds of precious time.

I’m often addressed as “Braxton” in emails with strangers, which normally doesn’t bother me, because I know that people are generally pretty lazy when replying to emails, and that’s okay, I hate emails too.

I like to write letters. If you would like to receive a letter from me, please either reply to this email or DM me on Substack, and if you’re comfortable sharing your address, I will send you a letter with whatever name you’d like me to address it to. Also, please share Macray’s Newsletter:

Share

Instead of whining about people not calling me ‘Macray’ in emails, I posit instead, everyone should start addressing people by their full email address.

Here’s how my suggestion would play out:

If you’re writing an email to John.Smith01@googoo.com, instead of addressing the email, “Dear John,” or “Dear John Smith,” you would address it, “Dear John.Smith01@googoo.com.”

Dear John.Smith01@googoo.com,

I believe this will become a more efficient way of knowing what tone to use in an email, which should always be formal. Emails should always be as formal as possible, it’s important, for manners. Furthermore, if you are addressing an email “Dear princesskitty0830@yeehaw.com,”2 then I think you should receive a response from princesskitty0830@yeehaw.com, not, Alyssa or whoever the person is behind the email.

Dear John.Smith01@googoo.com,

I hope this finds you well, as well. Thank you so much for the email, it did find me well. Please see the attached attachment, for your viewing and pleasure.

Thanks again,

Princesskitty0830@yeehaw.com

You are not to be a human represented by an email address; you are to be an email address represented by a human.

I will be uploading the second part to My Journey With Melatonin, or whatever I called it, soon. The delay has come from wanting to be good, which I think is better than it being bad. A good and scientific essay about my melatonin usage a few years ago.

I have spent a lot of my time writing writing the screenplay for a film that I would like to make about a boy who vomits a lot. It’s going quite well so far and I’m itching to finish enough of it to begin filming.

I am revamping www.MacrayBraxton.com so that it will include my essays, poems, and other Substack posts.

I’m also almost done with a small short documentary project that I’ve been working on for which I will not give any hints —you’ll just have to wait for an announcement that it is on www.MacrayBraxton.com, and it will probably also be uploaded to my YouTube channel, although I’m considering getting rid of my YouTube channel and only having my films on www.MacrayBraxton.com. I’m slowly getting rid of almost all Google and Microsoft products from my day-to-day life. I just switched to Linux Mint Cinnamon and I enjoy using it.

One more thing, I’m planning on having some sort of print-form media that I can either mail out or sell or something to all who might like physical artwork. Things might include sculptures, paintings, books, DVDs of my movies and upcoming movies, etc. Please stay tuned.

I love you always,

macray

Missed Connection 

There she went, my dyad,
my peanut butter. My curly-
haired, no turn-signal,
maniac, crazy-person. 

Honda Fit, it fits her:
Beat up, but clean, 3-foot-
antenna, and an expired
ski-resort parking pass. 

There she went, my dyad,
my Ying. My curly-haired,
no turn-signal, maniac,
crazy-person.

The Tragedy That Is: A Shy Pee-er

Them, who ought not pee within
an ear's throw of a peer. Them, who
ought not relax with that relief of
their dam's release. Them, who might
not be accompanied by a "bathroom-buddy" in the bar.

For his comfort be dammed beyond his will, he cannot 
when he pleases. 

That shy pee-er then, on any fateful break,
might enter upon another, a fellow: 

"Fellow shy pee-er, how I yearn for a brother. For
nobody knows my woes, and sees me as 
less a man." 

That fellow shy pee-er; he then may not be inclined
to answer his requested brethren, for then he too
be dammed beyond his own will, for he too
ought not pee within an ear's throw of a peer, especially
a shy pee-er peer. Forth, two in never-ending agony--NAY, 
he will flush, wash his hands, and exit, as though satisfied.

monthly update to come out tomorrow.