Because nah, I’m dreaming hard about the imprecations of diving in
too deep.
He did a version of it on the teevee. It was about people turning away from people.
You’ve a talent for a sneer; living in a van down by the river, that Farley thing,
I say to you: Nah. You have motivational speaking all wrong, mate; it is, rather:
I have a talent too. For waiting, slipping up, and playing the fool. Where no one is screaming …
(In the moment I have more Kombis than I can pilot alone and none of them is one I can be taken into, much less given breakfast.)
Where no one is. The place called helloutta. It has always been my guiding metaphor. Turning away from people because they are too much to deal with, and yet I dream of
she took me in
and gave me breakfast
more and more.
I have a portrait for you, of the artist as an old man. Several of them posted now, but another one, about a guy eight years older than even me.
Colin Hay: Waiting For My Real Life
In it you will also meet Cecilia Noël: Peruvian, breakfast chef, and a sort of ghostly imprint of what I feel the lack of now.
What will I do this year?
In it you will also hear someone say:
People that are committed to telling their stories and having their expression irrespective of the number of people in front of them is a very powerful thing.
You have to follow that path.
You have to follow your vision.
You can’t shortcut your vision if you’re searching for truth, through art
I hope I can do that, and not
Well you must gonna be play cricket this year then are you John?
Nah. Nah. Nah.
The number of people in front of me is probably about two, and that counts myself.
You must be the other.
I know that must feel like a thankless job a lot of the time.
So thank you twice over
For being my other.