I'm sitting here befuddled. Before me is a blank white screen waiting for words to form in my tired brain and find their way down my arms, through my fingers and onto this electronic void. What could I possibly write at 11:56 P.M. on a Friday night that you would find interesting?
I feel a few thoughts taking shape but nothing is congealing. They are just vague ideas popping back and forth between the rational and irrational parts of my consciousness like electrons transitioning between dimensions of space time.
Wait, something is taking shape......I'm thinking of the awesome campers we're hosting from Ridgeline Elementary. Great kids with positive attitudes and intelligence beyond their years......
... and there the thought goes - disappearing into the Aether like a vapor from a boiling pot.
I'm seeing something else through the fog of a midnight's delirium. It's a young volunteer stretched out on one of our ancient cots procured from the War Department after the Spanish American War (well, not really but you'd think so if you ever tried to find a comfortable sleeping position on one of them). He's giving me a thumbs up. Yes, perhaps I could write about the new job I've created for our young Connor J. He is our newly appointed Chief of Cot Quality and Comfort (CCQC). The CCQC was created in a response to years of complaints from our campers regarding the Overnight Camp's sleeping cots. Connor tolerably completed his assignment this evening. He stretched out on each of our older cots, rolled about a bit to simulate a night's unconscious motion, and sat up, putting all his weight on the center of the cot where the unforgiving support bar is found.
"These cots pass," he said with a pride only found in someone who knows he has put in a days work for a day's pay. "The campers should have no problem with them. They aren't comfortable in the classical sense of the word but not so uncomfortable a camper couldn't find at least a few hours sleep."
I told him his job rested entirely on the comments made by the campers on the post camp survey. If the cots aren't mentioned at all, then he keeps his title and position. If there are complaints, then its back to where I found him in the Center's boiler room shoveling coal into the massive boilers which provide the power to drive our ship's powerful Warp Drive Engines. Connor gulped down a powerful urge to sob uncontrollably while nervously rubbing his calloused hands together.
I could write about Connor and the cots, but the thought is disappearing as quickly as it appeared. Besides, I doubt anyone out there would find our troubles with cots an interesting read when compared with the problems Greece is having with the Euro.
Wait, there is something else in the mist. And its gone before I could make out a shape.
I think I'll put up the white flag and call this post a complete failure. I'm relieved to a certain extent. I can stop typing. I can turn off the light and try to get some sleep on the pad in front of my desk. I'll tell the staff to stop talking in the Odyssey before going to bed . I'll also have to ignore the sleeping dock's creaking in the Voyager's Captain's Quarter's . Every time the boys turn or move, the boards in the sleeping dock squeak. I'll talk to our builder about fixing that when he comes in next.
It's 12:23 A.M. Time for bed.
Goodnight from the Space Center.