Oh Me of Little Faith

In my rush to produce a better motorcycle in my life, as bitched about in a pervious post, I recently sold one of the 3 guitars that ever made me sound better--my own personal yardstick of which to keep.

Today, I got an email from the guy who got it--he hates it and wants to return it.

Ha!!

Oh, and I got an offer for a bit of a windfall that would otherwise cover the bike I was thinking of then.

The more I learn, the more it seems to be a question of how much I can consume--how much I can belive and take.

That the feeling or state of wealth truly does proceed the actual material condition.

And when I feel I have to produce--sell something, make something happen, blow my wad (and it is sexual--that's maybe the more important component than cash)--that's when I find I've sold myself short.

Bigger questions immediately arise--will I possibly get the now $15+ grand that I want for the new, new bike? (As pictured to the right). Can results deliver as fast as desires grow?

I've been looking for an apartment with the same results--getting tired of everything I can even remotely currently afford. (And that's with generous augmentation).

But I'm undaunted.

It either is or it ain't.

I can't go back.

The places I can afford look like the shoeboxes I holed up in while editing/releasing The Love Artist.

I belive that was under 400 square feet.

Lord, here's the deal.

If you give me even the room to make the down payment, I'm off to the races. Can I count on you for the rest?

How high can I shoot? Do I go for what I "could do with" or what I want, want?

How perfect is perfect?

[Ed Note/Reality Check: he never returned it.}