Life at the Waiten Sea

          We are headed into the five Wednesdays of January.  It is a bleak, bone-chilling and dismal span of time, void of tinsel, grog and good cheer.  It is the stark reminder that Life goes on.

          A sea of humming computers, clacking keyboards, and the exchange of vacant pleasantries slowly fills each of these days until we find ourselves searching desperately for an escape hatch.  

           The daily paper fails us as it only peers into the dregs of humanity.  Television provides a barrage of blathering pitchmen interrupted by feeble one-liners and canned laughter.

  

          Throughout these vast stretches of boredom a few of us reach out, if only briefly and hold hands.  Not, of course in the physical sense but by means of letters, e-mails and phone calls.  We momentarily lock fingers with a few words, placing our own little stepping-stones across the calendar.  

           Others opt to join organizations or to live vicariously through the exploits of their children.  Some of us simply dive head first into diets and focus upon self-improvement.  

          In the past I have chosen to tell stories; fabricated adventures in fictional places such as Oak Valley and Putrid Sound.  I have dabbled with ideas involving sock puppets and magistrates and have sometimes blended reality with fiction that I might solicit responses from those too long quiet. 

          I am thinking that 2020 should not just be another stretch of empty Wednesdays.  We should grind it up and form it into a rich, usable work of art.  It should come alive with laughter and music and nonsensical chaos.  

         We should roll it out before us like a new carpet and run through it with bare feet - giving carpet shocks to everyone who thinks life is to be taken seriously. 

Zobostic Corwin