Jet lagged at 1642

Have you ever noticed how jet lag is a sympton of the modern condition (whatever thats supposed to be)? Take me today or, for that matter, take me yesterday. I flew 8 hours to Chicago and did not sleep in the plane - neglecting to account for the fact that Chicago is 7 hours behind Amsterdam. So, every hour spent reading the history of the Peloponnesian war (and what a history it is - full of intrigue, politics, betrayal, alliances, honour and acts of despair) was an hour that was in physical fact, only 8 minutes long, proving that time is not only bent but twisted in humour as well. So when I landed at O'Hare, only one hour of real time had elapsed, whilst my body was convinced 8 hours had slipped through my hourglass. To cut a short story shorter, I ended up in bed at 9pm, crammed and crowded with coke and coffee, unable to sleep. When I finally slipped my neck into Morpheus' noose it was only to wake to vivid dreams at 2345, 0221, 0356, 0440 and finally at 0545. The dreamscapes were surreal, full of pain, loathing, misfortune and other, less pleasant things. For a while I suspected I was losing my mind, until I realised that all that had happened was I had lost my location in time and space. My mind may well have known it was in Chicago, but my body disagreed, and my soul was still lost somewhere in that 7 hour time lag. Suspecting that all I needed was a brisk run I ventured out into the strange and unfamiliar metropolis that I was in, and joined the herd performing it's daily migration along the shores of lake Michigan. My lungs apparently also no longer felt any need to co-operate with my body, as they wheezed and lowed there way through the miles, doing their level best to convince my fellow sycophants of health that I was not part of the pack, not one of the herd. Still, eventually they calmed down to a dull rasp like that made by my grandfathers bellows when I was a child and he would stoke his barbeque to a white hot heat that would have Alberich crying with envy, and they decided to service my oxygen depleted body, allowing me to complete my 7 mile run in a time that could only be considered superb by a geriatric paraplegic. As a reward I took a rest on the beach, where some considerate soul had left an anonymous sharp shiny and steel something in the sand, just waiting to prick my leg and draw a bright bead of blood, giving me the gift of excitement and anticipation as I go back to Amsterdam on Sunday where a small blood test will be in order.

So, punctured in flesh and wounded in spirit I made my way back to the hotel to perform the daily drudgery that defines us all, washing in tandem with the other 400 guests with the branded soap and named shampoos that so enrich our exterior, whilst carefully adding nothing to our interior. Ablutions completed I followed up with a breakfast bar of protein, and bowls of fruit accompanied by zero fat yoghurt, as image is all when you have no imagination, and left with a spring in my step, and an autumn in my heart for a work which was but a $15 ride across town.

And so dear reader, I sit here, on the 17th floor of a building that has a view that Helios would have given up his chariot and team for, and lament the fact that today, life is indeed a bowl of peaches. I just wish that someone had told me that the beaches had been dropped, bruised and left out in the sun to become blown and wasp ridden. Much like Cayce Pollard (Pattern Recognition, William Gibson) I am waiting for my soul to transmigrate the atlantic and find me in Chicago. I find myself hoping that when it arrives I have not left for NYC, for I fear that if it seeks me there it will surely miss me, and will have to cross the ocean again to find me in London, or possibly Canterbury, where I am will be visiting my ill, and suddenly old Grandmother. Don't mistake this post as sad, or even pretensious - for it is neither. It is just soulless.