The Artist's Misaligned Priorities

The delirium has passed and been replaced with mismanaged idealism and a hope for a career as something I'll have to try hard at. Now that clearer and, dare I say, prettier heads prevail in the land of Ego and Id the combination of vanity and desire snuggle close once more and beg me to pursue the course ended with a red couch and addiction. Once a month these feelings surface and I never act on them. I never book a show, restring my guitar, write a new song or even consider taking a chance. This breaks my heart. Once a month my heart is broken. The mistakes recorded replay and it always strikes me that that part of me might only be on life-support but still has big lungs. Rembrandt reclining. Graham grousing. Folds folding. Jim jittering.

The Default Position

The mornings lately all seem melded, actually somehow regenerating nightly into the same amalgamated mess of bran muffins, bananas and a race for the shower, train and priority seating. Gather strength for the battle of brain-robbery. The suck-out of all will to press on wrapped up in the too-tightly bound pants I swore fit last week. Fluctuations of weight, ego and facial hair. Where is the supposition come from that I'm to do fine? What message does it send to the rest of the mind when the cortex can't keep us standing... Medulla Oblongata makes a stand in the evening hours before dreams end; wake to muffin-tipped tongue.