Bruce Russell
:: The Chelsea Manifesto
He'd started combing his hair in a wave and pulling down a kiss-curl like Bill Haley and he was wearing winklepicker shoes and pegged trousers, part of a suit which he'd had made up at Finkelstein's. He seemed to be engaged in a dress rehearsal for what he wouldn't say.
I felt the same inferiority I used to get when Francis was warming up for one of his productions. I was sick of feeling that I was destined to spend my days in the engine compartment of other people's lives, the way my father had.
I discovered what it was like to be locked up, to be deprived of your freedom. It didn't matter if you cried or protested, whether you were big or small. People complain about not feeling free, but this was literal. Forget freedom. I was inside. There's no sidestepping it, no going back. It's like an enforced lesson in Zen, the real Zen. It sounds corny, but I learned acceptance.