Cajuns of the Middle Kingdom, Hallelujah, Hare Krishna, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

Doubtful, you were quickly converted to the odd fusion of Chao Cajun at Durham's Southpoint Mall. In exile, you found some respite at Cross Creek's Little Easy Cafe.

Beef and brocolli with mashed potatoes would have been all the postmodern rage, but lo mein, labelled simply "pasta," with blackened bourbon chicken was more your style.

Atavist.

Taken by a smiling young lass at the American Candy booth (no Commie juju beans here, no sir!), you walked on in endless cirlces, knowing the paths never change and the destinations were all the same. You were chased by the children of Yaldaboth, with their pitchforks and assumptions, but you could always lose them in an alleyway in Brussels, or a slow train to Siam.

Perhaps, you thought, some sect or other would read the signs and offer solace. "We know of your travails. We chained Melkor in the bowels of the Earth for you!" But you knew it was wishful thinking. They have trouble with traffic lights.

Did it even occur to you that you were living in a Van Morrison song? "Dig!," you might offer, after introspection.

You dreamed about Kris Kristofferson and George Harrison, and awoke thinking Dylan had died.

I wish I could play a banjo, and chamois clean all the windows, singing songs about Edith Piaf soul.