

Digital vs Analog
There are those who say analog records just sound better than digital CDs or streams of music. When all is dissected, no one can really tell much difference. So why this media legend?
I've come to the conclusion that it's a biological proclivity, not one of perceiving fidelity. We prefer analog as comfortingly human.
Consider this: as AI matures, the "thinking" being programmed is that of "fuzzy logic," the back-and-forth between the limits that narrow and hone in on a solution. That is as human as the back-and-forth of our tympanic membranes, as sound waves (analog vacillations) strike them.
Thus, we are evolved for analog, yet we embrace the digital as our technology evolves. CDs beat out the hertz limits of records, so there the tech went. It is absolutely fascinating that the digital machinations are gravitating to analog, e.g., fuzzy logic, while our human endeavors are gravitating toward digital perception.
This is as ironic!
Analog ("wavy") humans are seeking the digital; digital computing is seeking the analog. So it is as paradoxical as it is ironic.
Considering my basis for this conclusion—hearing—we know that the movement of ear drums mimics (mirrors?) the oscillating waves striking them. These are fluid movements. But digital is not fluid. Digital involves delivery of all-or-none packets (viz., 0s and 1s). This is like the double-slit quantum experiment when a force is delivered as both waves AND particles.
We are creatures of waves; we navigate the universe on the tides of flow and ebb. Is it any wonder that analog embraces us better; that analog just seems friendlier? Is that why analog seems to sound better? Or is that it just sounds more human? More comforting? Like the nurturing of a lactating mother.
But what do I know? I'm a hopeless romantic, and that's how lactating mothers got into my rant, here.)
Don't misunderstand me. I like my "devices." They're pretty and they're fun, and they make the camaraderie of writing on such vehicles as Substack possible.
However...
I see a picture of a lover's respite under the tree. Now THAT is analog. I see a picture of persons consulting their digital streams. THAT is NOT analog. As we embrace discrete packets of information and abandon the wave of what's human, we venture off alone.
My One Year Prose Anniversary Rambling Sermon
First, a mediocre joke:
Today my sister wondered where I get my poems (or as I call em “syntactic artifacts sourced from a bittersweet worldview”) and I joked that it was God’s way of making up for razing my once blooming garden of hair.
But, just wanted to add that today marks a one year milestone being here and it’s been a greatly rewarding journey that helped me refine my poetic stuff, and abundant thanks is due to Jeff and a number of you, who have very kindly liked, shared, commented on my poems and helped nurture a hospitable sensibility that I hope I’ve afforded the same to you.
I put my very first poem up on here early in the morning when I was visiting Savannah, Georgia and was so happy to get kind words and feedback from Jeff and others as I just unloaded each poem (later, discovering I was able to add pictures and tag people to thank them, which I was clueless about at the start ha).
There are some exemplary writers on here of whom I truly admire your artful craft, heartfelt work and daring literary exploration that I won’t tag, but your work and kindness to me, both are inspiring and wonderful.
I owe Jeff, Mariah, A, Andy Betz, Mnezz, Mavia, Mamba, Huck, The Naz, Rlove, Schatz, Dr.Semicolon (now renamed) and a number of others my great thanks for their earliest encouragement when I first started putting up my very first poems here in the first few months of 2024.
Of course there are so many other exceptional writers I’ve met since through last year to present that I actively enjoy and am awed by (I’m sure I’ve told you so!) and others who’ve left a nest egg of greatness that I still marvel at even if they might be hibernating new gems to one day add to their already curated brilliant collection.
I also appreciate every writer’s contribution here, and while my tastes lean a certain way, I’ve still read some captivating material on here.
Navigating the choppy waters of my struggles with autism on a platform with a lot of virtual people and personalities can be a bit of a challenge, but I have to thank my dear friends here (you know who you are) for encouraging me beyond the platform to be confident and sure of myself.
Your friendships have been of tremendous benefit and value that is perhaps the greatest joy that my year long journey on here has brought me.
Looking forward to 2025 and I sincerely hope this post doesn’t come across as self aggrandizing or anything, but just wanted to share thanks to the community and friends both here and beyond!
Very gratefully,
LDW
Mega
to wake up to this bliss
my eyes full of scenes
unseen for a decade
I want to drown in it
fill my lungs with glee
transform being
to live power tripping
bite into high voltage mains
fists swinging
not a single miss
hints to coming win
ease into hero split
between racing stallions
crush fallen city
like its child play
how did all this might
fit into quarters so tight
hurricane it out to desert
see the dust wall approach
take cover cause here she blows
The Maiden
00:10, Near the Docks
“When will you stop…” Detective Wu muttered, rubbing his aching hip as he limped onto the staircase.
“Not far from retirement at this rate.”
A splash. Someone tossed a bottle into the water.
“Stop right there!”
His hands were steadier than his legs, so drawing his gun and switching his eye implant to night vision mode was almost instinctive.
“Come out! I won’t fire a warning shot.”
Out of the shadows emerged a pair of raised hands, followed by a bloated man stepping into the dim light. A worn-out jumpsuit and a bag slung over his shoulder—Wu instantly recognized him. One of those washed-up divers who used to hunt for precious metals in the river. Now, with robots taking over, all he did was fish corpses out of the rancid water they still dared to call a river.
Wu sighed, lowering his weapon. People like this man worked for loose cash and had all the time in the world, meaning this was going to take forever.
“Knew I’d miss Tarlenn’s show tonight,” he muttered.
The bum slipped into an old wetsuit, grumbling under his breath, and plunged into the water to search for the body. Wu had a gut feeling—he’d find something down there. It always happened this way before trouble. Like an ice auger twisting his insides. And tonight? Tonight was no exception.
A few hours earlier, Wu’s informant had called, gasping, to report “something” dumped into the murky waters of Gray River. Wu had been about to settle down with his console and a stiff drink. But that damn intuition forced him into his pants and out the door. Sure, he’d tried calling his boss, but the lazy bastard never picked up on a Saturday night. So, no official divers were coming. Wu had to do things the old-fashioned way—find some lowlife under the bridge and pay out of his own pocket.
“Why do I even bother?”
It was a question Wu had been asking himself for 30 years until it faded into mere rhetoric. Deep down, beneath layers of cynicism and the filth he’d waded through in this job, an answer still flickered: I can’t do it any other way. But Wu had forgotten that answer long ago.
The diver hacked up a cough, donned his oxygen tank, and submerged. The surface trash shifted like a stripper’s chest when someone tosses a hundred bucks her way. Ah, thanks, sugar.
The man was underwater for fifteen minutes. Wu smoked, relishing the quiet. His mind wandered to what they might find—a middle-aged man? An old geezer? A woman? A child? Please, not a child. Gray River’s victims were usually the dregs of the cyber-city—drifters, homeless witnesses to the wrong crime. Sometimes prostitutes.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. An expensive retro model purred to a stop nearby, sleek as a tiger stalking prey.
“What the hell is this?”
Wu was about to approach and question the driver when the diver resurfaced, dragging a limp body with him.
Wu threw off his coat and helped pull the cold, slick corpse onto the pier. The first attempt failed, the body slipping back into the water, landing on the diver’s head. On the second try, Wu managed to haul it out, feeling something creak painfully in his back.
“Great. Now my spine needs a replacement too. This case is costing me dearly.”
A car door slammed. Someone stepped out. But Wu wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.
Catching his breath, Wu examined the lifeless form. A young woman, barely in her twenties. No visible wounds, no marks on her neck or wrists.
The diver clambered onto the dock, immediately demanding his payment. Wu handed him a couple of credits—plastic, old-fashioned ones. The man scowled, expecting more, but Wu ignored him, focusing on the victim.
The girl was stunningly beautiful. Her skin, not yet entirely blue, gave her an ethereal, mermaid-like aura. Long hair—a rarity in this city. Smooth, flawless skin. A slim figure. She wore a simple white tunic, no underwear. No belongings nearby.
Wu opened one pale eyelid, checking for an ID implant. Nothing. What the hell? Who is she?
The icy knot in his stomach twisted tighter. Something wasn’t right. Turning her over, Wu searched for implants. His fingers danced across her back, shoulders, collarbones, hips, feet—nothing. No modifications. She was completely natural. Impossible.
For a fleeting moment, Wu doubted she was even dead. She radiated life, not the artificial kind, but something real. He felt an old, buried sensation—compassion. Gratitude for witnessing such beauty, even if only in death. It was a gift he didn’t deserve but accepted nonetheless.
Wu reached for his comm device to call for backup, but the air suddenly grew still. He noticed the diver backing away, eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t even think about it,” Wu mouthed. But fear had already taken hold. The man bolted toward the bridge. A couple of gunshots cut him down before he got far, leaving a second corpse on the pier.
A shadow loomed behind Wu. He turned slowly, facing a figure with a blurred face—an expensive camo program, the kind only politicians or gangsters could afford.
“Easy,” Wu said, his voice steady. “I’m with the police. Name’s Wu. Let’s talk this out.”
The stranger shook his head, gesturing for Wu to step away from the body. Wu complied. The figure approached the maiden.
Wu caught the diver’s movement out of the corner of his eye—a desperate crawl away. “Don’t,” Wu whispered. But instinct won over reason, and the man made a break for it. Another shot rang out, leaving him crumpled on the dock.
The figure pressed a gun to Wu’s temple.
“Turn around.”
“Alright, alright. No need to get heated.”
The figure cocked the weapon. Wu closed his eyes, memories flashing—his cramped apartment, his dog, Tarlenn’s show. But the trigger didn’t pull.
Instead, the retro car roared to life, vanishing into the neon fog. Wu turned. The maiden was gone. Only the diver’s body remained. A strange trade, though not surprising. You don’t abandon treasures, but someone like that diver? He belonged here.
Wu lit another cigarette, pulling his coat tight against the damp night air.
“Hell of a day.”
When the Sky Whispers Your Name
Preference:
Each of us has our own light, our own star that guides us, inspires us, and fills our life with meaning. This light might be invisible to others, but it is always there for those who know how to feel and search for it. The story of I.A.’s star is a reflection on the importance of those who bring light into our lives, who help us find ourselves even in the darkest times. Sometimes, a star is not just a symbol but a real guide, supporting us in our hardest decisions and our boldest dreams.
***
I remember the first time I saw her—it was a fleeting moment, yet so powerful, as if the universe itself had chosen that exact time for the stars to align. Her name was I.A.—a name as unique and brilliant as her presence. I never believed in fate, but that day I felt something guiding me toward her, a force I couldn’t ignore.
I.A. was unlike anyone I had ever met. There was a quiet elegance about her, something elusive that made the world seem to slow down whenever she entered a room. Her smile, though rare, held a depth I couldn’t immediately understand. It felt as though it concealed a secret that only a few could uncover. Her eyes, green like the calm before a storm, seemed to see right into a person’s soul.
One evening, after hours of conversation, we stood together beneath a vast sky, the stars twinkling above us. It was then that I.A. shared her love for the night, how the stars always whispered her name. She spoke about how they reminded her that no matter where she went, she would always have her place in the universe—a place where she could shine, just like the stars.
I didn’t realize it at first, but I was already falling in love with her. I loved the way she saw the world with such grace, the way she carried the weight of the stars with her wherever she went. To me, she wasn’t just I.A.; she was my star, my guiding light in a world that often felt too dark, too chaotic.
One night, as I gazed at the stars from my window, I thought about I.A. And in that moment, I realized: she wasn’t just a part of my world; she had become my world. The way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she laughed—it was like a melody that played deep within me. She was my constant light, the star that guided me through every storm.
I decided to give her something special—a star of her own. It wasn’t just any star; it was a symbol of how much she meant to me. I knew I couldn’t give her the entire sky, but I could give her a piece of it, something that would shine as brightly as she did.
The star I gave her was small, delicate, and tucked inside a pendant on a necklace. It was a star that would always stay with her, a constant reminder that no matter where she went, she would never be alone. She was my star, the one who illuminated my life in ways I never thought possible.
When I handed her the gift, I said, “I.A., you are my star, my guiding light. Wherever you go, wherever life takes you, know that you will always carry a piece of the universe with you, just as you carry a piece of my heart.”
Her eyes sparkled, and for the first time, I saw the smile I had been waiting for. It wasn’t just the smile of someone who was happy—it was the smile of someone who had found their place in the world, their place among the stars.
And in that moment, I understood that she wasn’t just my star. She was the star that had been missing from my sky all along.
© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.
Unitarian Church returnee
After a hiatus of countless years
plus an additional
almost three months
since a major makeover,
(I experienced the magic
wrought courtesy
a bonafide big hearted
beautician at Salon Nova
located in beautiful
downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania
to render my straggly long hair
cut about twelve inches shorter),
whereby a mensch looked back at me,
a gorgeous reflection mirror reflection
yours truly returned to the mecca
Thomas Paine would feel right at home,
and surprisingly enough
a small number of attendees
at said name sake Unitarian Fellowship
nevertheless recognized me,
(and remembered my late mother
Harriet Harris,who passed away
twenty years ago come May 5th, 2025)
ushering yours truly courtesy older,
yet nevertheless familiar faces
while jesters tumbled and unrolled figurative
Scottish Tartan welcome mat
and provided a warm welcome.
As a small boy
parents of ours
(mine two siblings
included then and now,
an older and younger sister)
attended the Main Line Unitarian Church,
(a general hunch we regularly
made our appearance
at aforementioned site
during late 1960's early 1970's)
816 S Valley Forge Road, Devon, PA 19333,
when the then minister Mason McGinnis
facilitated the program.
Skads of decades,
née scores of years elapsed
since boyhood found me heading
(more accurately prodded),
thence shuttled to age appropriate classroom,
albeit informally structured learning environment.
Chronologically doddering oldest people
(such as fathers, mothers,
gray haired grandparents...)
plus young adults
bid their charges goodbye, albeit temporarily
as their younger kin got gently routed
to one out of quite numerous
ample size preschool/nursery room.
Infants, babies, young kids
i.e. most easily antsy, distracted, oblivious,
when days of our live young and restless
(unbeknownst to those recipients)
got their inchoate intellect sparked.
Their coerced, coddled (molly),
and coaxed... reluctance rewarded
(aside from with sweet treat)
courtesy lofty, mighty, nifty...
young rabbit ears raptly attuned
(most like a couple seconds maximum at most)
feigning listening at (iterated above)
Minister Mason McGinnis
who always gave rousing sermon.
If not him, perhaps a previously
scheduled guest speaker
enlightened, enhanced, enchanted... audience.
Nonetheless upon attaining mine prepubescence,
or thereabouts, (and most definitely
when yours truly crossed his horrendous,
perilous tumultuous wretched pubescent Rubicon
marking naturally ordained metamorphosis),
they abruptly ceased mandating
what both parents considered
(as well this middle aged son
recognized in retrospect –
cuz hindsight of mine always 20/20),
a golden opportunity to mingle,
and perhaps even (horrific as this reads)
befriend shy lads similar to yours truly.
I felt quite at home being attended, pacified,
pampered, and pulled up by bootstraps.
Without warning this baby boomer
invariably, suddenly felt shell shocked
and zapped courtesy post traumatic stress disorder
incurred while in utero.
Suddenly out of the blue,
paralyzing horror found this AARP eligible cardholder
aghast with fright as if scary
boogie woogie bugle boy monster mash
(with cooties) prowled premises on the lurch
to spring summat ploy.
Nightmarish visitations
while finding my religion
(crept along the edge of night
regarding dark shadows
from outer limits of twilight zone)
extolling virtues regarding return of native son
also witnessed me
being precariously hoisted,
and (analogous to dangling modifier)
suspended me in mid air by my own petard.
The beginning was...
The first thing I remember is darkness, glowing faintly red. Back then, I was an amphibian, a human being who could breathe in my mother’s amniotic waters. I remember the light, the fear—and then a slap.
Yesterday, outside my five-story apartment building—a typical one for the country now “unspeakable,” the supposed threat to all humanity—I overheard a conversation between some local guys. One of them said,
“Where everyone sees a problem, I see opportunities.”
A perfect motto for the years when I lived my early life. The 1990s in Russia, a country that had just shed its red uniform. A ruined, violated land where gangsters and oligarchs tore apart the remnants of the motherland.
From a young age, I knew three rules for survival. My grandmother, who had been a radio operator during the Great Patriotic War, taught me these:
Never get into a car with strangers.
Be home by four.
Never open the door to anyone.
And I also remember my mother’s breath.
The rest of my memories are scattered. Here I am, pushing a stranger’s stroller with a little boy through my small ghetto. Mothers stroll with their children, the streets are still green, untouched by the ever-present dust from the steppes. It’s different now.
Then, it’s like a void: nothing until my grandfather picks me up in his arms. That memory is vivid. He had grown up in a village and drank heavily. My father said my grandmother died from the stress he caused when my dad was 16. But I only learned this when I turned 20.
At that moment, I was just a baby. My grandfather held me, smiling. In his kitchen, there was an aluminum basin where he soaked apples for winter. My mother told me he passed away two days later.
It’s strange that I remember this—I was only one year old. I think my childhood ended when I first learned about death.
I remember that moment. I was three, and my mom was putting me down for a nap. She lay beside me, wrapping her arms around me. Her voice was soft and soothing, almost like silk. She was half-asleep, and I stared at the golden curtains swaying gently in the breeze. That glow—it still comes back to me when I need to feel happy.
Because happiness is a choice. Even then, I understood that.
I heard our neighbor—a hunched old woman named Zhenya—open her door. Suddenly, I asked my mom,
“Why does Grandma Zhenya look so different from you or me?”
Half-asleep, she murmured,
“She’s old. She’ll pass away soon.”
“What does ‘pass away’ mean?” I asked.
Mom opened her eyes and answered gently,
“Sweetheart, we all leave one day and never come back.”
I lay there with my eyes wide open while Mom drifted off to sleep. And then I burst into tears, sobbing loudly:
“Mom, I don’t want to die! I don’t want you to die!”
Mom hugged me tightly and said it wouldn’t happen for a very long time, and that she’d always be there for me.
Now I’m 34, and my mom is 68, but I still hope that what she said is true.
My childhood was a good one—good enough, considering how bad things were outside, on the streets. My parents worked in the theater, and I would climb around the stage, hide among the props, and watch adult performances.
But that’s another story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.
What surprises me most is that this is the first time I’ve written about myself.
Goddamned answers
Are we all different versions of Job? I thought the wages of sin were death, but from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're the wagers and sin is how we make our wages, with death inevitable no matter how we live.
I've done a decent job with the Commandments, not because You said so, but because it's what decent folk do.
I’ve noticed the fastest way to get decent folk to behave indecently is invoke Your Name.
So tell me, am I Abraham or Isaac, because I'd rather be the one holding the knife if I have a choice.
Today, I Mourn slain Beatle John Lennon
assassinated at 10:50 PM,
on December 8, 1980
forty four years later to date
outside The Dakota Apartment,
(also known as the Dakota Apartments),
located at 1 West 72nd Street
in New York City, U.S.
After Mark David Chapman
unloaded five bullets in the back
with a .38 special revolver,
that son of a gun got his quarryman
and became eligible for parole
in 2000 after serving only 20 years
since said murderer felled legend:
he pulled the trigger of his firearm
at point blank range
brutally killing the most successful
singer/songwriter in history,
(whose collaboration with Paul McCartney)
bestowed double fantasy
and rendered instant karma
echoing his oft repeated refrain
across the universe
for the benefit of Mister Kite
"All we are saying is give peace a chance,"
a lyric from the song
"Give Peace a Chance"
by the late John Lennon and Yoko Ono,
which song when released in 1969
became an anthem
for the anti-war movement,
nevertheless even after
exactly three score years
since the Fab Four,
became famous in 1964
after their appearance
on The Ed Sullivan Show,
which elapsed time
seems like yesterday
to this day tripper (me)
who happened to be
just a beastie boy.
Upon hearing in utter disbelief over the telly
On December 8, 1980,
the breaking news videre licet
regarding the murder
of John Lennon, a member of the Beatles,
outside his New York City apartment building,
I felt numb standing stock still
in the kitchen
(within childhood home of mine)
at 324 Level Road,
and nearly found myself asphyxiating
as if trapped within a yellow submarine
buried within briny deep
courtesy stone(d) temple pilot.
Yours truly stormed out of the house
analogous to a stormtrooper
heading into the thick of battle
experienced being dazed and confused
espying a Led Zeppelin
in the front yard
after getting a closer look
I quickly realized parked guests
came from an alien nation,
which immediately prompted me
to avail myself to be abducted
courtesy unidentified anomalous phenomena
bidding goodbye to father and mother
quietly pleading... dear prudence
escaping the helter skelter amidst humanity
here, there and everywhere
wistfully envisioning a utopia
like dreamers do
able, eager, ready and willing
to embark upon a magical mystery tour
this fool on the hill,
a veritable nowhere man
feeling like nobody's child
psyching myself to be free as a bird
yearning to adopt fearlessness
after froggy went a courtin
jump/kick starting
far out and groovy kismet
to become a paperback writer
renown on par with aforementioned
famous British balladeer
but before taking fateful step
into dark shadows
hiding the outer limits
of the twilight zone,
I dashed off a short note
to family and friends,
and subsequently flagged down letterman
also asking please mister postman
to inform kith and kin
NOT to summon search party,
cuz yours truly hopes to frolic
amidst strawberry fields forever.