Living a Reverse Chronology

I have not been honest with myself.  My musical success does matter to me.  It matters, because of the oppressive boredom that ensues while not being musical.  Music is a double-edged sword.  In a nurturing and pristine environment music can provide emotional fulfillment, intellectual stimulation, and fun.  In a not conducive environment laced with dishonesty, vanity, and greed music becomes a step child, something to be degraded, beaten, and discarded.  This is because it is good.  I have experienced both things.  The latter part of my life has become the latter edge of the double-edged sword.  Music is a danger to me.  Like all things good, they become a target for the enemy.  This target is so coveted that each and every opportunity to excel at music must be destroyed.  Far it is easier to become a musical monk, and in ways this is what I have become.  It reduces the anxiety of trying to be musically successful.  My musical success only ever has been detrimental to me in one situation.  It is the situation I am in now.  Thus I am faced with the difficult decisions regulating my musical output.  For the most part, they are few, because they are not rewarded.  They, like my sexual appetite, are used by others.  It seems America has become a society of john's, and we use whores as our bitches.  We do not applaud and appreciate our artists.  This is why popular music has turned into one big selfish wonk.  (I want to use the word (w)ank, but the spell correction on Google Blogger will not allow me.)  View any current music awards show and horror will ensue.  It has become an atrocity.  Shallow music, shallow people, and vanity.  The message of the music and of the bands no longer is important.  We as Nottinghamshire have become deaf to the sound of uplifting sound.  Our brains are too diminished to accommodate something that is Christ-like.  Christianity demands sacrifice, knowledge, and humanity.  America no longer is capable of such things.  Instead we survive at the most primitive level unable to perceive our own meager existences.  I only can wonder if those Oxford-educated Harvard professors enjoy their lives, because it is the hippies that hold the key.