As exhausted as I am you’d think I just played a full concert. Got my 90 minutes worth out of room 12 at Astoria Soundworks. I remember a ew years after playing my first real gig in a long time I slept until 5PM. Nothing so extreme this time, I don’t think, though I guess you never know. <p.
I thought of letting the dude know that the low B-flat and the topmost C did not work but I doubt he was in a position to do anything about it. Man his job looked boring as all hell.

The Chopin 10/1 sounded like ass at first, and almost passable by the end. Muscle memory comes back.

Thinking again about Sandra’s mother, having just looked at her e-mail again. She said she had plenty of things to ten to pre- and post-Irma but that she might also have been “afraid” to look at the photos. That sounds about right. Those two loved each other. That sort of love is the stuff of envy for me. For some reason I thought from a young age that my mother did not really love me, and that she resented my sister and me. She knew about my thoughts about the love, though I wouldn’t know if she detected that I sensed resentment toward us or even that I think she might have been happier as a lesbian. There just was not a lot of loving in our house, nor was there much comfort. To me the two are almost synonymous. In fact they are synonymous in that you can’t have one without the other.

I have not listened to more than the beginning seconds of most of the tapes I’ve digitized but I happened to listen in on one where the therapist I saw over 20 years ago called, and called, and called… She must have called forty times a month. I forgot how our relationship became a little tortured toward the end. I wasn’t trusting her motives or her apparent excess of interest in me. Listening in on her exhausting answering machine messages again reminds me why I felt that way. She really was over the top, I think.

Bah, I’m going home. Ghetto coffee shop is noisy as hell today.