How turn a week of boredom
into a comedy in three acts,
or maybe five? When such
a fete is extra tough that’s
when it’s needed most. It’s
a quarter to two in the middle
of night and I sit aslant and
sidewise at my desk (which
I submit as basic evidence
that this life’s in need of
revving up by the humble
admission that by desk I
mean bed) and in such a
contorted anti-ergonomic
crumple I am typing. But
distinctly not revving, as
I—what?—I am at basics
just describing this ennui.
When one becomes so
practiced at shaking up
the system, at disturbing
status quo, then at what
lengths does one in
actuality need to go to
find it once again dis
turbed enough to spike
but even slightly the
adrenaline? Why must
there be this constantly
assessing, reevaluating,
so as to shift approp
riately with altered
velocity in a strange
or yet unknown
direction?
