I just watched Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Review documentary by two filmmakers and many artists.
I caught a glimpse of myself many times standing alongside the singers or sometimes standing beneath them in the crowd. At a Joni Mitchell concert I attended in Austin in 1977, Dylan made a surprise appearance and made a magical evening even more memorable.
In the songs that stirred my memory of those awkward, questioning, blossoming-of-me, dangerous and defining early years, I tasted once again the metallic bitter cruelty of my self loathing. Not being anything like a slim white hippie chick was such a failure back then and in the way I used to think.
When did I finally let myself out of that jail of fashion and mainstream imposition? It wasn’t that long ago.
Can I forgive myself for such a long delay in opening my arms to my tender self, so imperfect, so original, so authentic, so adoring and needing of affection?
Can I delay another moment? Can I afford to?
In this listening to music and looking back over these 40 years or longer, all I can do is accept the two of me. The punishing perfectionist along with the guileless girl, and carry-on alongside them now, carving out a harmony with the past, the present, and the future.
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