I’m kinda tired. I turned off the computer at midnight last night, and settled down in front of the bedroom TV for some X Files. I decided to stay up for a while because my dog was restless, wanting attention. Turns out she had a tummy ache.

I turned out the light at 2:00 (it was a double episode) but the doggie was still restless.

Wait a minute. Does anyone out there want to read about how my dog got diarrhea in the middle of the night, and I wound up getting sleep between 8am and noon? I don’t think so. Why would anyone want to read about that? Crazy @&($%^# writer.

How about this: “Nowhere can a man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul.” — Marcus Aurelius.

Well, that’s very idealistic, Marc, you old goombah. But it presupposes that one’s soul is in a certain requisite state of repair, that it’s been swept and dusted; a little Windex for circumspection and mildew killer in those pesky damp spots.

My own soul seems more like a leaky, creaky tree house than a chapel lately. The feng shui is all fenged up; my chi has been having too much cheese. Way down in my soul, someone is just beginning a short, unpromising career on the accordion. All of which reminds me of this poem by Frank Logan, which includes the following lines:

I have a friend named Frank–

the only one who ever dares to call

and ask me, “How’s your soul?”

I hadn’t thought about it for a while,

and was ashamed to say I didn’t know.

I have no priest for now.

Who will forgive me then. Will you?

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