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It was like an irrigation system, each person a sprinkler, all watering the room with their tears. I felt drenched, soggy. I wanted everyone to be stronger, to embrace the stoicism I was perfecting.
If he wasn’t himself during my childhood, then what was my childhood? What was I? When someone says, “That wasn’t me, this is me,” then I wonder how was I myself around a you who wasn’t?
It had nothing to do with volume. It was about surprise. It was about knowing you were going to be underestimated by everyone and then punishing them for those very thoughts.
A music career, especially for a woman, is so at odds with the assumed normative path toward maturity and aging.
By the time we’d reached Brussels, my body felt like a bag my brain was carrying with me: heavy, the weight unevenly distributed, the contents mashed and scrambled. I felt raw and scraped, like a human crayon, dragging myself across surfaces, leaving a foamy smudge.
You start in a tiny room and you end in one, too. Just me and Corin and Janet and a decade of songs between us.
When we finished the show, there wasn’t any real closure; it just felt like it always does, the three of us trying to pass something on to the crowd, hoping it was good enough.
The house lights went off and I wished I could sit in that blackness, that I could make everything and everyone disappear with a slow-moving blink.
