JR notes: Tori fans, be warned that this piece is much more about me than Tori. If you want to read some of my writing on Tori, check out my Tori Amos liner notes, volumes 1 and 2.

Tori Amos released Little Earthquakes in 1991; I met her in 1992. We were both on the rise - she was on her way to becoming one of the rare modern artists who finds a comfortable level of fame; I was finally writing things that counted, not to mention dating the best girlfriend I'd ever had.

It was an inconsequential and laughably brief meeting. I don't know if shoving an article into Tori's hands backstage was good journalistic form or not, I suspect not. It wasn't my best work; readers will note it's not included on this web site. Maybe I'll put it up someday when I launch my "fawning praise" section.

I've thought a lot about Tori in the years since. It always comes back to this question: what happens when we set the bar too high, too young?

During the years when I arrogantly waited for Tori to deliver a better album than Earthquakes, I didn't hold myself to the same standard. I don't know if I lost my way; what I know is that it wasn't enough. My life is littered with things that could be put in the "accomplishments" column, but it would be dishonest to put them there.

One of the great consolation prizes for those with unrealized ambitions is that internal sing-song: "at least I'm a good person." I think about that a lot. I don't know if I'm a good person, but it's a pretty tempting rationalization. I'm not alone: most of my friends are mired in mid-life difficulties. The best do not inflict their disappointment. They've found a rare form of self-acceptance I like to call "being comfortable in your own skin."

Tori is like that. She had an all-time moment, but didn't put it in a shrine like I did. By moving in new directions, she also did a sleight-of-hand on direct (and unfair) comparisons. I haven't been able to do it. I'm a bit of a freak: things that come easy for me others find elusive (making money for example), whereas when it comes to finding a sense of family or home in the world, I am inept. Love is a riddle I can't solve, and in that respect, I tip my hat to Tori as well. In 1998, she married British boyfriend and sound engineer Mark Hawley. Her work lost a certain urgency after that, but you can't begrudge her.

Perhaps it's easier for those raising families to adapt to a new phase. When kids tug on your ankles, you head into the moment. Those moments fill a day; dreams turn into hobbies, hobbies get boxed up and stored in the garage.

I tend to elevate perseverance over self-acceptance; I haven't packed up many boxes. That's probably why I avoided taking Tori to task as she put out albums more and more distant from the primal emotions that made Earthquakes a naked masterpiece. So am I abandoning the treacherous high ground of the critic? Not exactly: there's always room for mocking the mediocre, especially when it achieves alarming levels of success. But I wear the critic's hat with an appropriate awe for the arduous journey from imagination to result. Walking around with too many unpublished books in your head will do that to you.

On good days, the percolating books are enough. On bad ones, they haunt me. I might even admit to a grudging admiration for those who packed up their boxes and took their place in the circle of dependence. The ones I respect did that with sadness but no regret. Some put their boxes too far out of reach; we can all sense their resentment.

My problem is not that of resentment so much as that of someone trying to fill a container with a hole in the bottom. I've gained a reluctant respect for the Gods that removed the bottom, but I'm no less determined to fill it. That hopeless and stupid mentality is pretty much what defines me now.

You might expect that this struggle would make me frantic, but oddly enough, I feel very peaceful. The friction from this absurd process has brought a peace of mind that all my years of searching for happiness in others did not.

There is a difference between peace of mind and happiness after all. I know, because I remember the last time I was happy. The last time I was happy was in 1992. Tori put on a show for the ages; I shoved an embarrassingly flawed article into her hands without hesitation, and ran home to the girl I was sure I would marry.

Maybe the trick to overcoming the legend of youth is not bothering to try. Tori raised the bar, all right, but never made the mistake of trying to jump over it. I've been trying to make that same jump all these years. Like the aging Olympic athlete who can't top their own record, I'm determined to hit a mark my youth put into the stratosphere. The only thing that's changed: I no longer take those failures personally.

Now there is something else in the works. It has to do with the forging of character, a mysterious and grueling process I can't take any credit for. If you ever run into me, you can judge the success of that undertaking. I remember how bright I used to shine; now I know something different: something inside me will not go out. I haven't lost everything, but I've lost enough to know that I will never abandon myself. Perhaps that is somebody's definition of success; perhaps it should be mine.

I'm comforted that my friends don't share my fate; we all face this differently. I used to judge people on what they accomplished; now I judge them by what they have endured.