"Don't confront me with my failures, I have not forgotten them…" - from "These Days," - Jackson Browne (1967)
Amazing, Jackson wrote that line and that song at age 16.
Lately, all my dreams have been surreal scenes where I am unprepared, lost, scrambling, unable to locate my guitar, or capo, can't find the room where I am supposed be doing something important: a speech, a song, some kind of performance. A large, expectant audience waiting for me to deliver the goods. I never quite get there.
Clueless, flailing, at wit's end. It all seems so foolish.
Why does my consciousness enjoy confronting me with my failures, with surreal, imaginary scenes of futility? What of all my successes, small and large? Who knows?! My failures do seem to loom so much larger than any of my successes that I have ever had. Why does it work like that? I have to think hard to remember that time in Little League when I hit that Grand Slam home run to win the game. Almost seems like a false myth. A brief flash of light in a field of gray.
Anyway, wake up in a bit of a fog of failure. Sunny morning. I mean, totally glorious sunshine. First sip of coffee and bit of light and clarity lights up inside. I can push those clouds away. Yes. I can.
