"Poor Van Gogh. During his life, he only ever sold one painting"
"And I think that was to his brother"
"Claude Monet was more successful. He figured out how to sell his stuff. In fact he was so good at it, they named selling stuff after him."
"Named it after him??"
"To this day! They call it Monetizing!"
She noticed that he started stealing the joke from her, at first when he was mad or wanted to get a rise out of her. She knew he first loved her when he used it onstage.
For the first few weeks, and for much longer than she suspected it would last, her heart would jump whenever he walked into the room. 2 months in, angry, annoyed and fed up with him, she'd still react like the 8 year old who fell in love with him on TV. No matter how awful he was, he could be incredible in new ways. He'd make a joke, a small kindness, in lieu of apology. And she'd feel blessed to be his sole audience. Inside those moments, she began to love him as a human. And it was this Love that surprised her the most. The residual glory day stuff, the second hand glamour, that was superficially easy.
But he was letting her IN. And for that, she'd always be grateful. To peer into spmeone's soul, a true gift. The Persona melted away, and he became Himself. And soon, that was the larger part of who she knew him to be. After that summer, her heart leap for the man who was playing the role, burdened with The Persona. Like living with the Grand Canyon. Soon you stop taking in the vastness, and focus on the crevices and path directly in front of you. But early on, that vastness took her breath away. And all he had to do was laugh at himself.
Later, during his "difficulties", she'd try to get back to this place.
He was delicate about how he reciprocated this worship, especially looking at her in later years. Her loyalty, his only sense of having made a lasting impact on the world. Not just an audience, not selling one album at a time. But someone who shared and stored his memories. She took his breath away by taking care of him.
That last Fall, that Lost Weekend, that Lost Year(s). She cooked for him. Went out of her way to find Tab, even after they stopped making it. When nobody else would. She was always kind to him, especially when he didn't deserve it. He took her for granted like the forest behind The Farmhouse. The oaks were Old Growth, and always seemed to tower over him. Unpredictably large, like a surreal dream. Strangely tall, he was surprised every time. She was there. Like the trees.
Frank Sinatra's All The Way
"And I think that was to his brother"
"Claude Monet was more successful. He figured out how to sell his stuff. In fact he was so good at it, they named selling stuff after him."
"Named it after him??"
"To this day! They call it Monetizing!"
She noticed that he started stealing the joke from her, at first when he was mad or wanted to get a rise out of her. She knew he first loved her when he used it onstage.
For the first few weeks, and for much longer than she suspected it would last, her heart would jump whenever he walked into the room. 2 months in, angry, annoyed and fed up with him, she'd still react like the 8 year old who fell in love with him on TV. No matter how awful he was, he could be incredible in new ways. He'd make a joke, a small kindness, in lieu of apology. And she'd feel blessed to be his sole audience. Inside those moments, she began to love him as a human. And it was this Love that surprised her the most. The residual glory day stuff, the second hand glamour, that was superficially easy.
But he was letting her IN. And for that, she'd always be grateful. To peer into spmeone's soul, a true gift. The Persona melted away, and he became Himself. And soon, that was the larger part of who she knew him to be. After that summer, her heart leap for the man who was playing the role, burdened with The Persona. Like living with the Grand Canyon. Soon you stop taking in the vastness, and focus on the crevices and path directly in front of you. But early on, that vastness took her breath away. And all he had to do was laugh at himself.
Later, during his "difficulties", she'd try to get back to this place.
He was delicate about how he reciprocated this worship, especially looking at her in later years. Her loyalty, his only sense of having made a lasting impact on the world. Not just an audience, not selling one album at a time. But someone who shared and stored his memories. She took his breath away by taking care of him.
That last Fall, that Lost Weekend, that Lost Year(s). She cooked for him. Went out of her way to find Tab, even after they stopped making it. When nobody else would. She was always kind to him, especially when he didn't deserve it. He took her for granted like the forest behind The Farmhouse. The oaks were Old Growth, and always seemed to tower over him. Unpredictably large, like a surreal dream. Strangely tall, he was surprised every time. She was there. Like the trees.
Frank Sinatra's All The Way
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