Where have I gone? Where did my life go? Where is my face? I used to be happy. I used to be a singer. I used to get free meals and champagne. I was invited to parties and openings and closings. I was a size 4. I had cash in my pockets and bureau drawers. I wore pretty dresses. I performed with fabulous jazz musicians who wrote out charts in my key. I had a cheap apartment near a big-city library and big-city theaters and big-city art galleries. I had friends. I had plans. I had goals. I had hope. NOW, I am in Vermont. I have no hope, no plans, no goals. My friends are cows although I know one chicken. I have no gigs. I have no musicians. I have no new charts. I wear shit-kicker boots and flannel shirts. I have no money, no social life, no means of escape. I have no gas in my car. I have a serious clinical depression that medication can’t relieve. I have confusion, nightmares, dizzy spells, hang-overs. I have fears, dread, anxiety, pimples. I have no reason to complain. I have a house. I have a daughter. I have a dog. I have my health. I have friends. I have talent. I have lots of books. I have fresh strawberries. I have a garden. I have a dentist. Someday, I may get my mind back. Then I can find some gas to put in my car and I can drive the car somewhere else. I can move into a cheap apartment near a park in a city and sing again in a little club with jazz musicians. I can wear a pretty dress. I can go to a museum. I could have money in my pocket. I could maybe go to graduate school and become a nurse’s assistant or real estate agent. I could attend yoga classes. I could go out to dinner, or lunch. I could walk down a sidewalk. I could rehearse. I could make a CD. I could write about something besides cows. I could talk to someone besides a cow, or the chicken. I could find my face again.