It's been a long time since I listened to Tori Amos. In high school, it was a daily thing. It fit perfectly with my emo/goth/friend o' the lesbians thing. I even got to see her perform at the Harrison Opera House - it was one of the first concerts I ever saw.
I remember singing these songs at the top of my lungs, shut up in my room with giant Koss headphones hooked up to my enormous (yet very cool at the time) bookshelf stereo system. Listening to them now is a bit different. My son sleeps upstairs and has no idea that Mommy is riding a piano down Amnesia Lane.
They're still amazing and intense, full of sadness and angst and quirkiness and sometimes rage. I still have the urge to sing at the top of my lungs, rocking back and forth, hammering my fingers on my desk like a piano keyboard. But that heart-wrenching teenage passion I felt is faded; it's given way to a sort of scarred sadness that hides underneath my daily self. The music's a stinging salve; memories burn, the scars pull taut, and sometimes I think what's hidden underneath will spill out and stain all the beauty that's in my life now.
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