People with two lives, plus a goatmonger and one his charge; Futnuckery.

the life one has v. the life one wants.   Invariably to attend to one, does no service to the other, as of the sunflowers and the Christogenic inner sunshine--these need our mental energies, our attention, in order to thrive, but we have to choose between the two over and over again, and choose wisely, at that.  

"The Life One Wants" is as much a thirsty little plant that calls us away from the ordinary, the things in front of us everyday, and it can become a demon, in its hunger, being in the balance a full, heart-felt love letter of negligence to our regular lives.

A good dream can make us vital, can push it and we can use it as a fuel, a tonic, that helps us in our real lives.  A pain that verges on pleasure that keeps us awake, it could be, or something that makes us cognizant of not, The Way Things Are, but The Way Things Should Be(as of the dreams of inventors, civil rights pioneers, and hobbyist bloggers).

But.  The Life One Has, is it as changeable, is it as easy to form or re-form as it is the dream?  Can we just imagine something new in to that world?  Dare we?

Dare we not just suffer along in the everyday world, while wasting our best spiritual energies on daydreams, idling away in impossibility, rather than churning the cream, doing our knitting work, to manifest the thing, The Way It Might Aught To Be?

One of my various personalities was that of a fledgling bluesman, Fatfish, picker of the acoustic blues, owing nothing in particular to any subset of the genre, and likewise finding himself unclaimed on the part of any of those others.  There was a thing, an artistic expression, "The Goat Farmer".  

Read on, if you have the sand to read on.

One of those "goats" was an alcoholic.  A man of public schooling, a tradesman, skilled labor, and an alcoholic.  Mind, so many would say, "oh, that's the alcoholic" as if he were a lost cause, a lost soul; and yet I knew him to be not quite dead in his own time, having spirit and vitality.  What others dismiss as something to be ignored, I could find a sort of level of friendship.  He could even make human-like sounds in conversation, and we would sometimes trade cigarettes, and variously give a ride to the convenience store.  It might shock the Pharisee to realize he was as much as almost human.

At home, his friend was a wandering neighborhood mutt, but his pride was a bought pure-bred, some Alaskan species.  Beer and Louis L'Amour novels, and on the best occasions, to pamper himself beyond servicing his alcoholism, cooking a batch of fried chicken and biscuits for himself and his purebred.

He was unmarried, actually divorced, with several children, and it was the thing of Jesus broadcasting the mustard seed transposed into the real world: that some of his seed fell on fertile ground and thrived, while yet other was carried away by predatory birds, and finally some dried upon stony soil, never becoming much of anything.

We come to the point where we realize that if we could not extract some sort of lessons from our past, then it was lost time, neutered, and useless in pushing forward.  Both the Daily Life and the Daydream of old could be a sort of data that we put through the sieve of our own intellects in producing something yet more ugly than those dull hours, something of a horrid blueprint, of something wretched that we idealistically and romantically refer to as "a blueprint of the future".

That past dataset and the dubious, incredible agenda of the future, I sometimes refer to as "futnuckery".