Below is a riff I scribbled last June, when I was sitting in the Hard Rock cafe. I was accompanying some kids, and I'd thought the adjacent village of shops would be covered. Nope! But I'd brought along my notebooks, and before tackling the current p, wrote these notes, which I just rediscovered while clearing my desk
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I have many painful memories of my own parents' remarks about artistic instability and whatnot that, while on the surface were clearly impersonal observations, were by tone and other signals clearly intended as directives for me to make fundamental changes, even at the cost of my essential self. And never hearing the phrase "we love you" except as a means of inducing guilt, of making me feel like a total ingrate for not making the changes they wanted me to, for not giving up my dreams and learning to love the prosaic, the ordinary.
And there was no way to get them to understand that giving it up would be losing me, and that the thought of having my body walking around working and whatnot but me dead inside was far more horrifying than the thought of true death.
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