As my hair grows long, I try to recall the term for thinking two things at once.

Loren shows me a little box on the floor that serves as a sort of AutoTune for the baroque musician. After setting the key and pitch, one can chose from a dozen kinds of tuning: just intonation, Pythagorean intonation, equal temperament, wolf temperament, etc. Then when you plug your electric viol into the box, he explains, no matter how out of tune you play, what comes out is purely consonant. Brilliant, I say.

At the art cult, which I assure my friend Jesse we are just visiting for the evening, everyone is paired up and made to look identical, then set loose on the dinner party. Jesse drives back up the hill to his recording studio, while I am swept up in the action. I stay for several weeks, becoming more and more curious about the ultimate aims of this band of gypsies, and worrying that my straight demeanor will cause the the others to assume I am planning to betray them to the public. When Jesse returns, restless to get back to his final mix on the hill, I can tell that I have already been converted.

Hiking back out with my parents and brother, who explains his theory of natural selection in meticulous detail, until I get it. Wearing only my undershirt in the trailhead parking lot, I spot a cop car.

Driving a city bus home along mountain roads. I'm the only passenger, sitting about halfway back on the left, but I'm also the driver. It's an exhausting task, this backseat driving. After taking the wrong fork I am forced to stop at a steep rest area. That's where I see a long and knobby beaver, exhausted, splayed out in front of the coach. He fidgets, not quite dead from exhaustion. This is my pack animal, I think, as the other buses gather below.

Step away from a marathon art party to join my brother at a well-lighted ATM. It's actually more of a slot machine, with a deck of old cards stashed where the deposit envelopes should be. As he locks in a solid win, I wander past a storefront that has been rented to promote a forthcoming novel by a Salvadoran writer. I pay it the highest tribute I can muster at that moment: urine.

The only passenger in a silent jet that must circle around the block hundreds of times to burn off fuel before it lands. On each circuit we pass through the breezeway of a white mansion where a conference is underway. I have been invited to speak.

Sitting on a top bunk listening to the desert stories of a group of travelers who seem to know one another. I stay silent for lack of context. During a lull, I finally squeeze out a question about the terms of engagement in this group. And the red-haired leader, a married woman just a few years older than me, climbs on top of me so that her hair brushes my lips. Our eyes locked, she tells the group to take a short break.

An exhaustive self-inventory, muttered into the eternal dictaphone.

Man leaps down from the balcony of the theater, climbs over rows and rows of occupied seats, to bring an accusation to the stage. But the ceremony is already breaking up. Repeat.

After a harrowing walk on the seaside hills, I don't want to venture out again, even in the armored terrain vehicle. But someone has to go foraging for provisions. The next morning I want to play keys with the full summer camp band. But to truly feel rhythm, I'm told by Bjorn, I must learn to breastfeed a child—or at least a piglet. Convinced I'm working at a disadvantage, I resolve to suck an egg—or at least a kiwi.

Perched on the roof of our barn, working through a twelve-course tasting menu, slightly worried about the fall, while the chef's children deliberately perch on the gutter and slip themselves down.

Visiting my old elementary school, I tell a ten-year-old girl that her method of inquiry is much like mine. She seems bored. We are marched into the hall and lined up single file to watch a group of children eat their lunches. Evidently our own needs have been neglected. On the way to the bathroom, which is nothing more than a ceramic urinal, I complain about the headmistress to my mother.

Perched on a billboard, the editor and the intern perform a one-act riddle about homemade explosives at the hospice. It ends with not one bang but two: BANG, BOOM.

Ramon and Jessica ask me to play a short solo on a many-colored glockenspiel. My heart lifts.

Stepping off the company plane, I must park a Volkswagen Golf.

There are two ways to use a crowbar. You can use the bent side to knock a person out, and you can use the forked side to puncture the skin and even the guts. To my horror, which I suppress, the man in the gray suit selects a homeless man and, behind his double-parked luxury car, does both.

On the airplane, we turn back just after liftoff. I blame the two young black men seated behind me, inexplicably and shamelessly.

Flashing back through the last thirty years of my life in five-year increments, until I vanish at the moment of birth. Then flashing forward through the rest of my life in five-year increments, until, at the great age of 85, I give up.

A red rubber ball moving through an invisible Rube Goldberg machine.