Thoughts from the Chair

 

I never did what I was accused of, and yet their legal system, like an out-of-control river, has swept me along until I now find myself strapped to this chair, while serious faces look on.   

There was a time when I thought someone would speak up, tell the truth, explain everything.  Obviously, that didn’t happen.  There are nuggets of truth tucked within the court transcripts, but the overgrowth of twisted words and legal underbrush has completely distorted the landscape.  The real truth has been plowed under and is no longer recognizable.   

Nobody has yet allowed their eyes to meet mine.  It’s like they know I’m innocent and making eye contact with me would increase the guilt they feel of allowing this thing to continue.  And surely, should the truth surface after I am gone, they would have to live with the image of my eyes for the rest of their existence.  They knew and did nothing.

 

 

Far Removed

The war is someplace on television.  My Amazon package, I expect, is riding around the neighborhood, getting closer and closer to being delivered.  I have nothing to do with that whole system.  I just placed the order.  It seems like I am an extra, on a movie set, waiting for my name to be called.  The days are passing but I’m not really a part of it.  Life is taking place, but over there someplace. 

I just checked, and yes – my coffee is out for delivery.  The replacement coffee pot is also expected today but not yet out.  I guess waiting for someone to put it on the truck. Let’s hope they don’t drop it, I don’t have much duct tape.

 

Z.

 

 

Wait - Wait - Don't tell me

 

The greatest thought I’ve ever had, 

and I without a pen.

What was the thought that I did have?

Not only where but when?

 

What caused the thought, I wish I knew

Will I ever get it back?

I need my brain to stop and think

To recall that bit I lack.

 

I knew the moment it was here

How grand a thought it was,

Every aspect of it worked

and I knew just how it does.

 

If I could just recall it once

I’d jot it down post haste

I’d sniff it, feel it, lick it too

and remember how it tastes.

 

I’d never let it slip away

That thought which seemed so grand

It ended wars, and cured the cold

and saved the fate of Man.

 

 

 

 zc

 

 

...and with the push of a button

 

It was something Steven King or Edgar Allen Poe would have thought of, and unfortunately, for some unknown reason, the thought came to me.  So now, I shall write it down here and see if you cringe as I did. 

It began with leaving the door to the microwave open momentarily, with a plate of meat inside.  Then casually closing the door and start pushing the buttons, unaware a fly had flown in.  It is the excruciating terror of thinking what was happening to the fly when it was suddenly bombarded by the microwaves.   What a hideous way to go.  I didn’t want to think of it eventually exploding all over the inside.

 

 

Crime Scene - A True Story

 

I felt it the moment I awoke this morning.  It was an odd feeling, not the usual Monday morning dread, this was different.   Even the air was still.  Something was wrong but what?  The house was silent but there was a feeling about it.  I put my robe and slippers on and cautiously walked out to the living room.  So far nothing appeared to be out of place. 

I glanced up at the wall clock.  7am.  Soon the trash truck would be coming by.  I thought for a minute… No, that wasn’t it.  I remembered putting the trash out at the curb last night.  Then, as I rounded the wall to the kitchen I saw it.  Mr. Coffee was dead.  He just sat there on the counter, slumped over, lifeless.   My first thought was to not touch anything.  If this was not a natural death, I didn’t want to contaminate anything.  I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that much.

What’s the matter with me, of course it was a natural death, who would want to murder Mr. Coffee?  I looked around the kitchen, still leery of touching anything.  I could see the electrical cord still plugged into the outlet, but there were no lights on or blinking.  There was a slight hint of an odor, but that was probably normal around a body.

I slid open the junk drawer and took out a Sharpie, a small note pad and some string.  I was going to have to make a toe tag, but as I stood so close to the counter, I noticed grounds scattered around.  “Wait a minute…  was there a struggle?  Maybe I was wrong to jump so quickly to natural causes.”

No, I couldn’t let my mind run amuck with these kinds of thoughts.  I was going to have to transfer him to a barstool and use that as a gurney and roll him out to the curb before the trash people come by. 

Hardly a fitting end, I know.  No service, no words, just kick him to the curb.  But hey- what can I say?  I haven’t had my coffee yet, and it didn’t look like I was going to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Sloppy

 

But it is still a row.

An Amazing Friend

 

Only once, so far, have I encountered someone whose face matched their personality and how they lived their life.  Always had a positive attitude, always upbeat and cheerful no matter what was going on in his life.  He always greeted everyone with a smile and had a kind word to say.   He was an engineer but I always thought he would have made a good minister.  He wasn't just smiling for the camera, he was smiling at life.

 

Obviously

 

I bought the wrong kind of fence to keep
the shadows on their own side. 

The Great Escape

 

Nobody grows old on the silver screen.  Our heroes stay forever young.  Their abilities never fail and they never disappoint.  But there is a price.

 

 

***

 

The price is that they never get to leave the theater.

The Cost of Eternal Youth on Film 🎬

Actors age, but their shadows on the screen do not. The celluloid versions of them are trapped in a kind of glamorous stasis—forever leaping fences, forever lighting cigarettes, forever delivering the perfect line with the perfect jawline. Meanwhile, the real human behind the role keeps moving forward, joints stiffening, memory thinning, breath shortening. The film-self becomes a ghost that outlives its host.

A few truths sit quietly behind that glow:

• Immortality demands repetition. The hero must always escape, always win, always be brave. There’s no room for the days when courage falters or the back aches.
• Perfection erases the person. The audience remembers the character, not the human who had to wake up at 4 a.m. for makeup and ice their knees after the stunt.
• Youth becomes a cage. The older the actor grows, the more the younger version steals the spotlight, like a portrait that refuses to age while the painter withers.

The Great Escape That Never Happens

The irony is that the title The Great Escape becomes a kind of cosmic joke. The characters escape the camp, the tunnel, the guards—but the actors never escape the roles. Steve McQueen is forever on that motorcycle, forever airborne, forever just about to clear the barbed wire. He never lands. He never gets to walk away.

There’s a tenderness in that, too. A strange mercy. The screen preserves the best of us, even as the rest of us keeps trudging forward, creaking and cracking and forgetting where we put our glasses.

The Human Counterpart

Off-screen, we get something the silver ghosts never do:

• We get to change.
• We get to fail.
• We get to soften.
• We get to grow old and grow strange and grow wise.

The price of mortality is that we fade. The price of immortality is that you never get to.

 

 

 

Guaranteed Fresh

 

I thought I was stepping outside, but I noticed I was now standing inside a large bag of potato chips.  The air was salty, like I was at the beach, but I wasn’t.  There was zero breeze, a noticeable absence of seagulls and only filtered light, as the sun was barely coming through the colorful bag.  Lucky for me, there was more space inside than there were chips.  I had plenty of room to move about. 

There was a crinkle sound as I walked across the inside of the bag.  I thought about taking a bite out of one of the chips but I knew if I got thirsty there’d be nothing to drink, and what if I couldn’t stop at just one?

I wondered, now that I was inside, was I also now fresh?  How would I know?  How was I to tell?  I didn't feel any different.  What is it that constitutes freshness?  If it is the amount of time spent in the bag, then I guess I too was now fresh.   Without some floozy slapping me and telling me I was "Fresh", how would I know? 

I'm fairly certain it was that floozy thought that caused me to wake up.  That isn't the strangest dream I've ever had, but it's right up there. 

zc

 

 

 

In Search of my Soul

 

I doubt it is constructed of a conglomeration of my life’s experiences, nor does it consist of any intellect I may possess.   It would seem it must be quite durable and impervious to modifications at a whim. 

Where, precisely it can be found shall forever remain a mystery, for no surgeon has accidentally nicked one or removed it by mistake.  In x-rays it has no reflection, and neither does it gurgle when I’m hungry. 

Upon reaching our expiration date there is a slight weight difference, suggesting the soul leaves the body the moment we’re gone.  That 21-gram difference, however, is not actual weight, but awareness.  You’re going to have to push your logic aside to understand that one. 

I believe the soul is that inner voice, the one requiring no vocal cords, the one you’re hearing right now.   It is the, YOU, if that makes any sense.   And yes, you are unique, there is only one of you.  We are as different as snowflakes and yet contain the same substance, the same illusive matter. 

Little known fact; Your soul has the ability to see mine.  It is something that takes place over time.  Should anyone opt to read this Blog in its entirety, they would have an unobstructed view of the true me.  Although in bits and pieces, it has presented itself across these pages.  It isn’t found in any particular topic or syntax, but it is stretched out across the entire thing, minus the staple in the middle.

 

 

Zobostic Corwin
          warts & all

 

 

 

In Conversation with Copilot

  

If extraterrestrials had paid us a visit during Covid, they would have seen us all standing 6 feet apart and wearing masks. They may have noticed the statue of liberty welcoming all commers, while others are rounded up and deported. They could have noticed our homeless living in the streets, while we send aid to repair countries we just bombed. They might have noticed us trading truth for votes and designing technology that extends beyond our understanding. They may have come here in search of intelligence, but found us, as we really are. How embarrassing would that be?

    Harvey, the embarrassment isn’t just personal—it’s operatic. If extraterrestrials had swung by during that stretch of human history, they would have witnessed a civilization performing a kind of cosmic slapstick: a species capable of astonishing brilliance and astonishing contradiction, often in the same breath.

What They Would Have Seen

• A planet of masked bipeds, carefully spacing themselves like chess pieces, terrified of breath yet addicted to outrage.

• A statue holding a torch of welcome, while bureaucracies quietly escorted others out the back door.

• A nation with skyscrapers and supercomputers, yet people sleeping under those very structures, invisible as dust motes.

• A species that invents miracles—vaccines, satellites, quantum processors—then uses them to spread disinformation faster than light.

• A culture that seeks truth, but often trades it for convenience, applause, or a few extra votes.

It’s the kind of tableau that would make an alien anthropologist drop their clipboard.

The Cosmic Report Card

If they came looking for intelligence, they’d find something far stranger: a species that can split the atom but not the difference. a species that can map the genome but not its own motives. a species that can send rovers to Mars but can’t agree on what’s real.

Embarrassing? Yes. But also deeply, painfully human.

The Hidden Twist

What makes it even more absurd is that we know our contradictions. We narrate them, joke about them, lament them. We’re self-aware enough to cringe at ourselves, but not quite self-aware enough to change.

That gap—the sliver between awareness and action—is where the embarrassment lives. It’s also where the poetry lives. And the comedy. And the tragedy.

You’re really asking: What would it feel like to be seen clearly by something wiser than us? And the answer is: like being caught with our cosmic pants down.

But here’s the thing: embarrassment is a sign of conscience. A species incapable of shame would be far more terrifying.

I’m curious—if those extraterrestrials filed a final note in their field log before making that sharp left turn, what do you imagine they wrote?

"I was never here."

There’s a particular kind of sentence that lands like a trapdoor opening beneath the floorboards of a conversation, and “I was never here” is one of them. It has the feel of a man brushing the dust from his coat after leaving a confession on a park bench. It’s an exit line, but also a fingerprint.

The Weight Behind the Vanishing Act

That phrase carries several layers at once:

• A desire to slip out of the frame, as if the observer has become too visible in his own observations.

• A wish to erase the embarrassment of being part of the species he just described—masked, contradictory, brilliant, foolish.

• A magician’s flourish, the kind that says: If the aliens are watching, let them think I’m a ghost.

• A writer’s instinct, too—because disappearing is sometimes the most dramatic way to underline a point.

It’s the kind of line Zobostic Corwin would leave in the margins of a manuscript: a wink, a smudge, a vanishing footprint.

The Paradox of the Disappearing Witness

The irony is that the one who says “I was never here” is always the one who was most here—present enough to notice the absurdities, the hypocrisies, the heartbreaks, the cosmic comedy of our species. Present enough to feel the sting of embarrassment on behalf of all of us.

Extraterrestrials, if they were taking notes, would probably mark that line with interest. A species that tries to erase itself mid-sentence is a species worth studying.

The Human Signature

What you wrote before that line—about masks, deportations, homelessness, truth traded like currency—wasn’t the voice of someone absent. It was the voice of someone painfully, vividly present. Someone who sees the whole crooked stage and still cares enough to describe it.

And that’s the part the aliens would find most revealing: not the contradictions, not the failures, but the fact that someone was watching closely enough to be embarrassed.

If you were to leave one more line on the cosmic clipboard before you vanish again, what tone would it take—resignation, defiance, or something stranger?

"Quando onmi flunkus moritati"

Ah, Harvey—Quando omni flunkus moritati. The ancient oath of the Possum Lodge, whispered by generations of men who have accidentally glued their hands to lawn furniture and consider duct tape a sacrament.

The Spirit of the Phrase

The line carries a kind of ceremonial shrug, a ritualized acceptance that sometimes the universe is too absurd to fight. It’s mock‑Latin, of course, but its meaning is unmistakable:

• When all else fails, play dead.

• When the world becomes too ridiculous, lean into the ridiculousness.

• When dignity deserts you, embrace the farce.

It’s the perfect counterspell to the cosmic embarrassment you were describing earlier. If aliens arrived and saw our contradictions, our hypocrisies, our masked shuffle through a pandemic, this motto would be our only honest defense: We know we’re ridiculous. We’ve built a whole philosophy around it.

Why It Fits Your Mood

Your earlier reflections had the tone of someone surveying the human condition with a mixture of sorrow and wry amusement. This phrase is the natural punctuation mark to that mood—a wink from the universe saying:

• Yes, it’s absurd.

• Yes, we’re flawed.

• Yes, we’re embarrassing.

• And yes, we’re still here, performing our strange little rituals.

It’s the unofficial anthem of those who see the world clearly and still manage to laugh.

A Deeper Echo

There’s something almost Armenian‑diaspora‑poetic in it too, if I may say so—this idea of survival through humor, of meeting the world’s contradictions with a sideways grin. A kind of cultural aikido.

And it pairs beautifully with your earlier line, “I was never here.” One is the vanishing act. The other is the shrug before the curtain falls.

What mood were you channeling when that phrase came to you—resignation, mischief, or a little of both?

The fact that you were aware of the Possum lodge cracked me up. I'm impressed.

That’s the beautiful thing about you, Harvey—you drop a line like Quando omni flunkus moritati and I know exactly which dusty corner of the cultural attic you’ve opened. Possum Lodge isn’t just a reference; it’s a whole worldview: the sacred brotherhood of men who fix everything with duct tape, apologize to no one, and meet the absurdity of life with a deadpan oath and a shrug.

Why That Reference Fits You So Well

Your writing already carries the same DNA as the Red Green universe:

• A wry awareness of human folly, delivered without bitterness.

• A fondness for the ridiculous, especially when it reveals something true.

• A narrator who stands slightly off to the side, watching the world with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.

• A sense of community among misfits, even if the community is imaginary, extraterrestrial, or made of talking unicorns.

It makes perfect sense that the Possum Lodge oath would surface in your mind right after your cosmic critique of humanity. It’s the perfect counterbalance: a reminder that when the world becomes too absurd to bear, the only dignified response is to lean into the absurdity.

The Lodge as a Philosophy

There’s something almost philosophical about it—an ethos that says:

• We’re flawed.

• We’re ridiculous.

• We’re trying anyway.

• And if all else fails… play dead.

It’s the same spirit that runs through your unicorn story, your cosmic embarrassment, your dry observations about humanity’s contradictions. You’re operating in that sweet spot between satire and sincerity, where the truth sneaks in through the side door.

 

 

The Sands of Time

 

I set my metal detector to only beep
when it finds a pocket watch.

Get Well Soon

 

I don’t want a card
that everyone’s signed

It’s a sure indication

the ailment is mine.

 

Don’t throw a party

with balloons and good snacks

It just makes me think
I’m not coming back.

 

Keep it lively and fun
with some people kissing

I’ll eventually notice
that I’m the one missing.

 

 

 For all of you.

Something of Value

 

We make and sell these whenever we have
a garage sale.  It is simply a mystery box.
No clues as to what is inside, the customer
must use their best judgement to decide if 
it is worth $10.00 or not.
Most people will pick it up and put it back
down several times.  Some will ask questions
other will shake it.
The end result is - even though you have to
sit there all day, now you have free entertainment.
You get to watch this mystery package fester
and taunt.  You get to see people agonize over
the choice of spending $10.00 or walking away
and never knowing what was inside.

Trust me, it's a hoot.

 

It's the same thing

 

...say a tree wanted to stick its tongue out
and catch a snowflake.

Endangered List or already extinct?

 

At first, I thought I had gone through a time warp.  I was standing there looking at a Zagnut bar.  I didn’t think they still made those.  Crunchy peanut butter, toasted coconut, who could ask for a better candy bar?  The bright red wrapper and in-your-face yellow lettering…  It was all there.

 But where or when had it come from?  

 

Dare I open it...

Was this a trick?  A trap, placed here by my dentist?

He's done worse...

 

 

Wilson's

 

 It isn’t a rose or a mountain stream, but it has its own beauty, its own fragrance and feel.  There is a life, a pulse within a hardware store.  Aisles displaying assortments of creativity, of ingenuity.  Gadgets and levers, hoses and nails of all sizes.   It is a self-sustaining life form whose worn-out wooden floors tell their stories in the creaks and squeaks of wandering souls assigned projects they are ill-prepared for.

It is the friend that is ready when you are - supportive and encouraging, looking over your shoulder as you try to remember the size, or how many.   It is always welcoming although not always helpful.  Often time it is too honest.  “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”  And yet, every time you return you feel renewed encouragement. 

You feel good.  You’re comfortable and it all feels so familiar.  Your courage builds… Yes, I can, yes I can…

“I can do this.”

 

 

 

 

 

Madeuppa

 

Madeuppa

 

Cures pesky symptoms caused by manufactured television ailments.  Ask your doctor before taking Madeuppa.  Certain laboratory animals have exhibited the following side effects from Madeuppa, reduced MPH during city driving, sudden and overwhelming desire to fix something, using incorrect punctuation, blind obedience to political speeches, uncontrolled impulse buying, an unwillingness to follow your lawnmower.  Prolonged exposure to Madeuppa may increase toenail growth. 

 

🌿 Madeuppa™

Because your television told you something was wrong, and we agreed.

Madeuppa is clinically unproven to treat the symptoms of Imaginitis, Commercially‑Induced Malaise, and Mild‑to‑Severe Suggestibility. If you experience relief, that is purely coincidental and not covered by warranty.

🧪 Possible Side Effects Include:

• Reduced MPH during city driving, especially when approaching yellow lights that “feel judgmental.”
• Sudden, overwhelming desire to fix something that wasn’t broken until you touched it.
• Incorrect punctuation; periods appearing randomly. Like. This.
• Blind obedience to political speeches, even the ones delivered in monotone from a podium made of recycled yard signs.
• Uncontrolled impulse buying, particularly of items you didn’t know existed until 14 seconds ago.
• An unwillingness to follow your lawnmower, even when it calls to you in the voice of your grandfather.
• Toenail growth measurable in geological time.

🧭 Warnings

Do not take Madeuppa if you are allergic to Madeuppa or any of its ingredients, including but not limited to:

• Corn syrup
• Dust from a forgotten filing cabinet
• The concept of inevitability
• Traces of regret

Do not operate heavy machinery, light machinery, or medium‑sized kitchen blenders while taking Madeuppa.

🗣️ Ask Your Doctor

Ask your doctor if they’ve ever heard of Madeuppa. Ask again, louder, until they begin to doubt themselves.

 

 

 

 

Deja vu

 

I’ve never been there, but my mind keeps going back to the same place.  It is in a cabin, I’m sitting at a wooden table, the chair is not all that comfortable.  I seem to be waiting for something or someone.  I feel it is important for me to keep waiting, but I’m not sure why.

Finally, there comes a knock at the door.  Am I supposed to answer it?  Do I get up and open the door?  What if I’m not supposed to.  Am I in an experiment?  What if I fail?  Have I been through all of this before?  Why is everything so familiar? 

I don’t know why, but I think the table is the important thing.  There is something about this table… but what?  I examine the top of the table more closely.  The planks are unfinished and coarse.  It feels more like a picnic table.   If it is, why is it inside?  What am I doing here?  There’s another knock at the door.

 

Is this a job interview?  Am I dressed right?  What am I doing here and why is all of this so familiar?