I feel broken today. My spirit has plum ebbed out of me, and, not surprisingly, I discover it has the flavor and consistency of flat cola. How did it come to this? From adolescence on, I have made a series of decisions, based on a varied set of circumstances, that have lead me 1-2-3 to where I am now: spiritually bankrupt, pre-middle aged, out of favor with most of the still-active, universe manipulating deities, and in need of a sponge bath and a cigar. These two last items seemingly within reach but, due to my lagging spirits, my lack of said tub and 7 year abstinence from tobacky, in fact, are not.There is nothing to sponge off anyway, as untold years of shame and compromise and regret and laziness have reduced my physical frame to an ultra thin strip of jerky. In a few moments, I will be scattered by the breeze.

On the way to the wedding after my trip To Egypt, I savored being “someone recently returned from Egypt” a more exotic prospect than actually being in the country itself. As if the din of Cairo, its spice markets & balmy African sun still wafted off of me like so much Old Spice. It seems a post-modern condition, to anticipate a memory, or the record of a moment, more than the moment itself. Or is the awareness of this condition, not the condition itself, what is post-modern? Or is that simply moving it to the Ironic? Or am I now sauntering into Post-Ironic territory?

I never went to the wedding, anyway: after my plane touched down In DC, exhausted, I caught a train home and immediately fell asleep for the entire 2 hour trip. No one met me at the the outpost of a train station in Richmond when I arrived. Though groggy and jet-lagged, I managed to pretend I was still traveling, and had arrived in another mysterious and ancient village, and had to find a taxi, a donkey, a rickshaw, anything–to get me to town.

I know the symptom–frequent, burning urination–but I can’t seem to recall what it is a symptom of.