One month this way, the next another. I choose one form of reform, to retry the old accustomed ways after. Do I have a problem? Am I a misfit toy? I wonder even if I do put it together, I’ll still always be out of place. Just these questions living in my head, give off the real vibe of a woman on edge, a woman unsure, a woman you don’t really want to talk to, unless you’re one of Nick Cave’s characters from Murdar Ballads. The wild rose, or Henry lee or some such ballad. Or, “I’m not Ula May and I’m not Holli either, I don’t know who I am.” Do these songs, movies make me. Have I ever bothered with me. Well yeah, I remember, but, it’s been a while, and a memory is a cheap fix for a problem living in your subconscious. Dreams tell me secrets every night. I go between listening and growing and demolishing and ignoring in such incredible waves, I’m amazed I stand and smile and grit my teeth at times. Let’s see what happens to Holli in the end of the movie, or Kylie Monogue at the end of Wild Rose. Is it survival of the fittest, or a matter of luck, mixed with denial and semi-decent choices. You tell me, we’ll write a boring song about it and pretend the guts and blood aren’t interesting, or keep us up at night. Art and madness.