for some time i've wanted to play in blue stage lights without a shirt. although in my mind's eye i have muscles.
then she finished and the next band came on and they were an interesting cello-drums combo but the cello/vocalist/frontperson was intolerably precious. i realized immediately i was reacting to a memories of artistic egos but i thought man am i glad i don't do this anymore. on the other hand she was getting all the attention she will probably get ever in her life and for that i shouldn't begrudge her. there were little dyke groupies.
the bar was crowded and b and i reminisced about not minding crowded bars and i remembered watching people onstage who were invariably at least a little older than i and i thought they are living the dream whereas this time around they were all younger than i and i wondered what dreary day job they had and what dreary day job they would probably always have.
because the possibilities may be endless but the probabilities are monotonously predictable.
on the other hand one can always write something. one can always write something that won't succeed in saving anyone but might succeed in drawing along a little living. or drawing after a little living. or both.