Love it, Jim. Thanks. Jann In a message dated 5/21/2012 11:10:50 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time, jfwiegel@yahoo.com writes: Found this poem in the waiting area at the Episcopal Diocese office here in Arizona. Somehow it relates to this topic. To My Medial Prefrontal Cortex Isabel Galbraith People who have positive illusions are less likely to be depressed. . . . There are risks, however, in maintaining illusions that are too out of whack. – Timothy D, Wilson When I first heard of you, my scout, Spinning, glossing, scrubbing out Harsh facts about myself—the grout And plaque of melancholy— I welcomed you, my little sprout Of green and glossy holly. Within your songs, you troubadour, I'm Mark Twain, not James Fennimore, Kristin Wig, not Drew Barrymore, Marley, not Cheech or Chong; I’m touchable waves, not pompadour, Bikini, not sarong. But now I know you’re there I’m scared. What buried thoughts have not been bared? What temporary awarenesses aired Then were shut up in their towers? I don’t want to be unprepared For life’s cold thundershowers. So don’t puff me up to astronaut, Or Guinevere of Camelot, Or world’s best boss, Sir Michael Scott— The let-down’s suicidal As Dangle and his banjo not Making American Idol. And so, tonight, I try to view Myself as all outsiders do. I shut you off; now I’m see-through As a window in the dark, And in the mirror I’m 32 And what is soft is stark: Dumb jokes my friends indulge me in, New wrinkles in my oily skin, The joie de vivre that I trade in For grouchiness at home, Lost time that I could have spent Working on a poem, Dumb poems about the slightest things, A pen that’s lost and long-lost flings – They hurt, but what really stings Is when I add it up: No roommates and no wedding ring, No money, book, or cup. . . . I’m definitely glad you’re there, Protecting me from this despair, The bruises my ego would otherwise wear, Believing it deserved them. You help me function, help me dare, Steel nerves when life unnerves them. The trouble is, we must – like flowers – Receive the right amount of showers And sun to pull new blooms from bowers. To help us be us The inner eye’s more sweet than sour: Ourselves as loved ones see us