Friday, December 10, 2010

The Warpath of the Great Completer

A few years back I wrote this play called 'Alice Eat the Night Violet' and I actually completed the script properly and arranged to do a play reading in the wonderful, ancient cellar of the Récollets with all its ghosts and stonework and I asked seventeen of my favourite actors to read all the different parts and they agreed with gusto and we ate a big steaming pot of dhal which The Love and I made and it tasted wonderful and then we went down to the Cave and sat on tables with candles and fairy-lights and did the reading for thirty or so friends and the actors performed the text with all sorts of passion and madness and then the friends asked questions and made observations and we ate chips and cheese and got drunk on wine.  

It was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. 

The line on today's Artwork du Jour, which I painted on to a collage, was from that play.  It was said by a character called John, who was a taxi driver.  He passed a bowl to Alice around a bonfire and said:

Eat child, it's mild.

In times like these
When meat is rare
Even my true love will rejoice
In a good, fatty rabbit.

So she ate some of the rabbit.

The reason I bring up that play is that it was the first work I really, truly finished.  I did draft after draft and at one stage sat on the clic-clac with my face in my hands as The Love spread all the scenes out on the floor so we could see where the gaps were.

"I can't DO it!" I wailed.  "I just can't!  I don't have it in me to Complete!  I'm not a Completer!"

The Love shook his head.  "But of course you are!  Look, there are just two big gaps there.  You just need to fill them in.  And take this bit out."

"The bit about the Pissants?"

"Yes, it has no relevance to the narrative."

"But I love the Pissants."

"The Pissants need to go."

And just like they just did right now above, the Pissants, which had no relevance whatsoever to the unfolding of the narrative, were eliminated, two new scenes constructed, and over big round glasses of Affligem at Chez Prune The Love and I finally concluded that the play was, in fact, concluded.  

So I was a Completer after all.

Not to say that Alice Eat the Night Violet has gone on to be performed or published or anything - that's another step in the journey to become A Great Completer.

You see I've always been an excellent Starter.  That's my forte.  I can start and start and start, ask me anything, I can churn out ideas like a spewing cat, riaow, riaow, idea, idea.  But anyone can do that.  No, what counts is what you Complete.  That's the hard part.  Look at Woody.  Every year a film.  He doesn't care if his ideas work or not.  He says he's happy if 5% of his original idea is there by the end, once the machinations of collaboration have macerated his baby.  Woody completes, completes, completes.  Maybe not all his films are great.  But that doesn't matter.  They're Complete.  They exist.  They're not just drafts, not just an idea in his head that he tells to people at parties.  He's one of the world's Greatest Completers.

I spew this all up like a strung-out pukey cat because today I decided to take a little holiday from the Blog.  It's been such a wondrous thing to do up until now, and I can't wait to continue it next year, but for the remainder of this year I have decided to dedicate my entire bunny-self to the Completion of the Mammoth Task.  Now that I've Completed Alice and I've proven to myself I can Complete Smaller Daily Tasks such as the writing of a Blog (not that I consider that a Completed Task at all - I've only just begun), I feel that in this current state of house-boundedness, child-free-ness, and horizontalness, it is time to take on The Mammoth.  She has been waiting very patiently for this moment, years and years, and she is ready to be Born.  So I, still, constipated with the stubborn brick of her, will never forgive myself if I don't at least strap on the armor and take her on.  She's rough, she's twice my size and she requires complete focus.  So I'm going to surrender the joy of my daily mammalian musings to her Sigourney Weaver-like grip.  I hope you understand. 

Pray for me.

Thank you for reading.   

See you back here very soon.



ps - oh and guess what - I just completed something else as a warm-up to the Mammoth - a book of every blog and artwork from the beginning of The Bunny until this post.  I will put it on the site so you can buy it from Blurb if you want to.  I Completed it today.  I'm very pleased with it.  Like a good, fatty rabbit.    

Artwork du Jour 90

In Times like These, when Meat is Rare, even my True Love will Rejoice in a Good, Fatty Rabbit

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Something about Snow

Yesterday there was Real Snow.  Big fluffy flakes blew about our window about like a trillion baby bird feathers.  It was cool to watch.  And even cooler to stand and watch the poor people trying to negotiate their way up and down the snow-thick hill of the Rue des Saules.  Gosh humans are funny.  It was a very thrilling and perverse sport to watch them clinging to each other for dear life as they slipped and slid, all sugared umbrellas and coconut collars and frosted ear-muffs and flushed cheeks with stupid grins from each little stumble.  It’s nice to see people overpowered by nature and watch the ways they try to take control back.  A man came with a plastic door-like sled for his daughter to ride on, slipped, felt foolish, and gave up.  Another man tried to roll his car down the ski-slope of a hill, sliding constantly into the gutter, but continuing to try.  Hysterical.  It was just irresistible to watch the disempowerment.  And then The Love went out looking for a baguette but all the boulangeries were shut and he came back looking very pale saying he’d just about lost his life several times for all the slipping and sliding on his smart black dress shoes.  That wasn’t funny.  So it made us laugh.  I told him I would try to construct some snow shoes with twigs. 

And when we woke today the sun was shining and all the magic white had turned to grimy sludge.   

Artwork du Jour 89

The Shell

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Nothingness and Isabella Blow

It’s good to be Nothing sometimes; get foetal and stay in your apartment for weeks on end watching the snowflakes fall, just being – eating, sleeping, breathing, watching Entourage.  Getting Bland.  Letting the exterior of yourself fade into nothingness, just looking Out, reading books, incubating, ingesting.  Existing in a uniform of pj bottoms and alternating tops, having a shower, putting on no make-up, forgetting what shoes feel like, letting your hair pouf naturally like Poochie.

Getting all human and Nothing.  It’s good.  You really start to smell yourself.

The occasion to Get Nothinged, to Get all Zero, seldom arises in life.  That’s why it’s good to take opportunities such as being under house-arrest to get as Nothing as you can. 

I’m so Nothing this morning and so expertly Bland you wouldn’t be able to see me if you looked – I’m one of those see-through lizards on the wall in Bali that just sits there stuck to the wall above your reading lamp, its gummy outlines barely visible.  Just sitting there, sticky, lizardy, not thinking or trying to be anything at all.  It’s not a bad feeling at all, being Nothing, it’s fine.  Just kind of… nothing. 
Isabella Blow was as far from a Balinese see-through lizard above a reading lamp as you can get and I was thinking about Brilliance and the Opposite of Nothingness this morning so I looked up lots of photos of her on google images.  It’s true, she may be Nothing now, and I’ve read the reason she’s not with us any more is that she felt Nothing, which makes me sad, but the thing is, she will never be Nothing because we’ve got all these photos of her in incredible hats.  But what a shame she’s disparu, she certainly was a Something.  A breathing Artwork.  Maybe she got tired and needed some time to be Nothing and watch Snow, like me right now, and didn't know how.  It must be hard for superstars, always having to be Something.

Still, how fun it must be to be a live Artwork.  Someone’s Muse.  A real anti-Nothing.  

Artwork du Jour 88


Monday, December 6, 2010

Big Paris Houses and an Owl called Wikileaks

I knew it would be a funny night’s sleep because my head was full of Conspiracy and funk from a full day of being horizontal and looking at too much Wikileaks and Rubicon.   

There was this huge, sprawling old house that we had been to see before.  It was still for rent.  The woman had gone overseas in a hurry and had left the house full of her stuff.  I loved the house – I couldn’t believe a house so big could exist right in the heart of Paris.  It had a huge front yard and a big back lawn that I imagined playing Kiki on.  The rooms inside were enormous and there were two giant bathrooms big enough to fit hairdressing salons inside.  The bathrooms had cement floors and lots of power points, which thrilled me for some reason.  The house was great, but we’d refused it as it was too full of the old lady’s furniture and junk.  There were piles of op-shop clothes everywhere and big, heavy tables and masses and masses of piled-up couches and chairs and desks and heavy, heavy things.  Hanging from a wire coathanger was the woman’s handbag.  It was a lovely handbag and it was full of her stuff – her wallet, tissues, tictacs, etc. 

I turned to the real-estate agent and said,

“If we lived here, could I use this handbag?  I’d take her stuff out of course.”

And the real-estate agent said,

“Yes, you could use the handbag.”

He really wanted us to rent the house.  You could see it in his eyes.

And there was no doubt it was a wonderful, enormous house.  I started to get interested.

“So, if we rented it, could we have all that heavy stuff taken out?  Those big vases and urns and stuff for starters?”

The real-estate agent scratched his chin.

“Ooh, I don’t know, she really wanted her stuff left here.  But maybe those heavy urns and vases.”

“And the big desks over there?”

“Maybe the desks too.”

I looked at The Love.  He smiled.  He loved the place and couldn’t understand why we hadn’t moved in there in the first place.

“And what about the Wikileaks?” I asked, fossicking my way through piles of boxes and old chairs to a back corner of the living room, where there stood a dusty upright birdcage.  In it was a dead owl on a perch, and the owl’s mouth was agape – stuffed with another dead animal – a furry one – perhaps a rat.  The dead-rat-eating dead owl had been embalmed in a sort of molasses-like sticky substance and insects were buzzing around it.  The sound of seething maggots.  It was revolting.  It didn’t smell.  But knowing it existed was a terrible feeling that I knew would not go away, now that I had seen it. 

“Oh no, the Wikileaks has to stay,” said the real-estate agent, shaking his head.  “Definitely not the Wikileaks.  She was specific about that.”

I sighed and the Love and I walked into one of the bathrooms together to discuss our options in private.

“We could make it work,” he said.  “We always do.  We’ll make it ours.”

“Yeah maybe,” I said, looking around the bathroom at all the wonderful power points.  “It’s just the Wikileaks.  I don’t know if I can live with it in the house.  It just gives me a bad vibe.”

“I’m sure we could move it out into the backyard or something.”

“But even then,” I said.  “I just don’t like knowing that it’s here.”

The Love sighed.  “It’s such a great place.  We could save money.”

I know, I said.  But I knew as long as that awful shiny black maggoty rat-owl was in the house there was no way I could live there.  The feeling was like when you think about people who do terrible things like murder for profit and you think – but how could they enjoy their money, when they’ve got a corpse buried in the garden and they're just waiting for the bad man to come and get them.  If the Wikileaks was there, even far down in the backyard, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy any of it.  Even those luscious power points. 

David Noonan 'Owl' 2009

Artwork du Jour 86

On the Way to Sleep

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Bash the Rabbit

This morning I looked at the stats on the blog which is a very naughty thing to do because that’s not why you write a blog – you write it to gain discipline and perspective and to reinforce your practise and to experiment and all that.  You don’t do it to be loved.  No-o.  Not for that.  So you don’t look at the stats page – no-o – you don’t - and you most certainly don’t look up to The Love with Glee when the little graph shows an upward momentum and turn the computer around and say ‘Look!  It went UP!’ and you most definitely don’t take it personally when after a week spent in hospital you come home and nobody has been reading and the blog's popularity hasn't EXPLODED for curiosity over your dramatic absence. 


Because you don’t do that.  You’re about the workNothing else.  You’re not looking for feedback.  It’s not about that.  No-o.

But I’m glad I did look at the stats page this morning and examine it in detail, because something caught my eye. 

If you scroll way down you can see the terms people have put in google to search for your blog.  You get all sorts of weird things.  It’s fascinating to see the ways people have arrived at your blog.  Not that you notice.  Because you’re not looking.  No-o.

But today when I looked, one of the keyword searches was this:

Now, I know I wrote a post last week called ‘I love you so much I wanna Bash you’ but I couldn’t help but feel a reader was sending me a personal message.  It made me giggle my head off. 

I wanna bash you rabbit.

It’s true, The Love and I have been watching the conspiracy series Rubicon until the early hours of the morning, and I’m completely enthralled by the Wikileaks scandal (go Julian, go World), so everywhere I look all I see is Signs.  Did the dude know I would be looking at my stats page today (because I don’t every day, no-o, no sir, I don’t, do I The Love, no-o…) and feel this was a clever, cryptic way to tell me his/her feelings? 

I wonder. 

Honestly, I could understand the desire to bash me.  Particularly this week, after reading back over my posts.  Some of the things I’ve written lately are definitely far-fetched and over-exaggerated and offensive and silly.  Some make me even make me want to bash myself.  If I was a basher and a googler and cryptically inclined, and had read some of my recent posts, I would probably find a clever way to communicate my disapproval.

Perhaps I’m being paranoid.  Reading too much into it like Anonymous said about my in-depth examination of Algy and the Bear.  I'm sure that's probably the case.  Maybe someone in a bar said ‘Hey – you should read this post a Bunny wrote.  Just google ‘I love you so much I wanna Bash you,’’ and the dude had a few too many and ended up going home and drink-and-googling. 

Anyway, in the interests of free speech, etc, I’m leaking the information here for you to decide for yourself. 

And no matter what, I’ll try and write better next week. 

Artwork du Jour 85

Transition Scene Midway Through the Dream

Saturday, December 4, 2010

The Craic and Bob Dylan

The Love and I talking last night about Bob Dylan and The Craic over dinner which raised a few questions/points about Craic that I’ll need you Irish to qualify. 

You see, when The Angel from the North was with us in Berlin a few weeks back, a Dylan song came on and The Love’s eyebrows were raised very high when she said:

“A few friends saw him play in Dublin a while back. Not the Craic.”

It took a moment for The Love to recover the power of speech.

“Ahem,” he said. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said, driving the knife in further. “He was amazing. But he wasn’t The Craic.”

Now if you know The Love, insinuating that Dylan is not The Craic or that Dylan is not anything – in fact, even using a negative in a sentence when referring to Dylan, is utterly sacrilegious. And I think he was especially hurt as not only had he not been witness to Dylan live himself, here we was being told that this man, this storyteller, this idol, the artist that inspired him to become a musician, this… character - was not The Craic?

“But have you heard his radio show?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s deadly,” said the Angel. “I know he’s brilliant. I love him too. But word from my friends was: Not the Craic.”

Cut to a few weeks later: The Love and I are listening to Dylan’s radio show over dinner, the one on the topic of mothers and we were laughing at the line when he reads a letter from a viewer,

“…I gave my mother-in-law a new chair, but she wouldn’t plug it in…”

and we were chuckling away when The Love shook his head and mumbled into his plate,

“Not the Craic...”

“What was that?” I probed.

“Not the Craic,” he repeated in mortal disappointment. “The philistines.”

“Hmmm,” I said, a little wary of where I was about to step. “But maybe at that concert he wasn’t The Craic. Maybe he was more straight, you know, maybe he just played.”

The Love looked at me, entirely unconvinced.

“Like, imagine Tom Waits, when we saw him in Paris. Maybe if he’d just come out and played the music straight…”

But The Love was shaking his head, and so was I. There was no way possible that Tom Waits could not be The Craic. Even if he tried. Even if he came out and played some songs completely straight he would still be The Craic as we would know he was taking the piss, or storytelling in some genius, surreptitious way.

“I don’t know Dylan as well,” I said to The Love. “But maybe you can’t suppose The Craic. Maybe it can’t be assumed. You probably can’t just decide that what they’re saying is wrong. You can’t cast aspersions on what is or isn’t The Craic. You have to be there. It is not something to be discussed or debated. It either is or isn’t, at that particular moment. It has no past or future. It is only in the present.”

“But there’s no way he could possibly have not been The Craic. Maybe he’s beyond The Craic. Ie, on an entirely other level of Craic.”

“Yeah,” I said, “But maybe being beyond The Craic is, effectively, Not the Craic.”

“I don’t want to talk about it any more,” said The Love, picking at the remnants of his risotto.

“Sorry,” I said.

Unfavourable conversations about Dylan: Not the Craic. 

Artwork du Jour 84

Beware of Words

Friday, December 3, 2010

Paris Rudeness or The Love’s Run-In with The Wench from the Rue Caulaincourt Boulangerie

The lady in the boulangerie was mean to The Love.  He came home last night with two delicious slices of apple pie for dessert and a flustered face.

“She grumped at me!” he said.  “I said morceau.  Isn’t that right?  Two morceaux de tarte aux pommes?” 

“Yes!” I said.  “She would have known what you meant.  It’s probably more of a tranche, a slice, but still, sounds like she was just being mean.”

“There were only two bits left!  I pointed to them and said “Les deux pièces and she still acted confused and did a whole huffy act in front of everyone!”

“The slut!” I said.

“Yeah she’s a big fat slut!”

It broke my heart to imagine anyone being rude to The Love, especially as he was such an Effort Maker when it comes to participating in every aspect of French life.  He didn’t speak a word of French before arriving here years ago, and that didn’t stop him getting straight out there, absorbing words and customs at a rapid rate, learning to tilt his head and pout his lips up to dramatically ponder his next thought when he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say next. 

“Euhhh,” he would sigh in ultra-French mimicry before his signature go-to phrase, “C’est difficile pour moi.” 

But it wasn’t hard for him.  People found him utterly charming.  From the old dudes out at the racetrack, to café locals, to the tight clique of tall, intimidating street kids clad in hard-core NBA gear who commandeered the basketball court on the Canal St Martin.  Off he went to join them in his shorts and white socks pulled high, shiny new 10-euro basketball from Go Sport clasped in his long, white musician’s fingers.  Nobody dared approach that basketball court; it had a long heritage of ownership by a tight-knit homie league.  But within minutes The Love was doing their handshake and speaking verlan – French street slang – with them, as they sang ‘You’re Beautiful’ each time he made a charge.  For some hilarious, unfathomable reason they nicknamed him James Blunt.  He owned it. 

The Love was a Tryer, which was more than I could say for a lot of anglos who came to France.  He had no reservations about making mistakes or sounding bad, he was just interested to try and learn.  And so he did.  And the Frenchies adored him.  How could they not?

We always defend Parisians when people ask, ‘But aren’t the people there rude?’  It irritates me.  They’re not rude, in fact they’re the loveliest, warmest, most accommodating, generous people.  They’re honest, sure – if they don’t like you, you’ll know.  They just don’t put on a big act and then bitch behind your back. 

If you try to participate in their culture, then you’re much more likely to be welcomed.  The infuriating thing is that Anglophones think they own the world and expect to be able to walk into France and people will simply bend over and accommodate them.  So few people even learn Bonjour.  I would be rude too, if someone came into my shop in Melbourne and said hello to me in Slovenian, repeating it over and over loudly as though I was stupid, expecting me to understand.

HOWEVER, all this being said, the Parisians, like any group, can certainly be rude.  And for some reason, the Lady in the Boulangerie is the most common culprit.  I wrote a whole story about her in the newspaper years ago called The Burnt Baguette

And as an outsider, you have no choice but to take it.  In his article in the 1923 Toronto Star on ‘Paris Boorishness’, Hemingway wrote:

“No matter what the provocation, a foreigner must keep his temper in France.”

It’s true.  The Love and I have an expression we repeat often here, “He who smiles last wins.”  You can never let things get to you – traffic, rudeness, infuriating bureaucracy. You smile, be firm, take it, move on. 

So I’m sure the run-in with the Boulangerie Wench won’t dampen his spirits.  He knows.  He’s smiling.  And he’ll have to keep going back because their baguettes and sweet tarts are just too good.  And anyway, if she bites him, just a few doors down he’s got lovely Fouaid and his luscious fruits and veggies to chat with.  Fouaid, whom The Love thought initially was Fred, but it’s more Forehead said quickly with a speech impediment, is very different to the Fruit Shop Man we had back home.  He and The Love struck up a friendship in about two seconds.  Fouaid knows all about us and Kiki and sends me lots of messages of love every night via The Love.  Last night he explained to The Love how to make the perfect tagine. 

Which he did.  

Willy Ronis 'Petit Parisien'

Artwork du Jour 83

Winter in the Buttes Chaumont

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Oh Snow

Oh Snow.


I tried to photograph it falling.

But it wouldn’t be captured.

Ah Snow.  So fleeting.  So elusive.

I am a child when it comes to snow.  Probably because I didn’t know it until Europe, in my mid twenties.  So I’m effectively only about six or seven in snow-years.  When I was growing up the closest I got to snow was Snowball, the fluffy white cat next door.  I was so captivated by that cat I wanted to call everything white Snowball.  At Brownie Guides we knocked on doors and sold snowballs for charity.  Those snowballs were spongy mounds of white marshmallow dunked in a thin layer of cheap chocolate and then sprinkled with coconut flakes, an Australian staple.  I loathed them.  But they were sweet so I stole them anyway.  In Australia the closest thing you get to snow (in the cities) is when you spray some crappy foam over your Christmas tree or when you lean your fake-tan streaked, over-accessorised décolletage towards the mirrored top of the toilet paper dispenser in the ladies’ bathroom at Redheads nightclub when you’re 23.  It’s just not part of your life.  You can’t even fathom the real thing.

So the first time you see real snow fall over rooftops, you melt into a pool of your former self.  You’re in a fairytale.  And the thrill never quite wears off.  You can’t help expressing your bewilderment in loud Ooohs and Wows and Ohmygoodnessit’sSNOWINGs.  For a normal bunny that might be embarrassing, or demonstrate a lack of sophistication.  But at a posh dinner party I will always fall to my knees in front of a window if snow begins to fall outside.  It’s just so breathtaking.  So… pure.

I mean, it turns the world white.  It erases all the browns and greys and sharp edges, turning everything to cake with sugar icing on top.  All is gingerbread.  You could eat houses, cars, bikes, entire streets. 

And it exists.  You can see it.  You can hold it.  You can make balls of it and hurl it really hard at the back of your friend’s head.  You can lie in it and make angels.  You can catch a tiny flake on its descent and watch it melt in your palm.  You can’t do that with dumb old rain.   

But it’s transient too, like all the most fascinating things.  It doesn’t hang around long enough for you to get bored of it.  Even if you live in Norway, you know at some stage it’s going to go.  So that makes it even more magical.

I suppose at the North Pole you’d get used to it all year round.  You probably get annoyed with it dumping overnight and blocking the driveway to your igloo.  But even then, all that pure white must still feel remarkable as you hoon around on your sled driven by huskies.  It must always feel like a dream.  Like Narnia.


And it feels heavenly on your head. 

And it sits on your hat and your gloves like those particular flakes have chosen you. 

And it’s dangerous to walk on, though it looks so soft and lovely and safe.

And you can eat it, even though it’s come from the filthy Paris sky.

I won’t have it fall on my head this winter because I’m under house-arrest.  But I’ll still watch it every day at the window like that creepy kid who wasn’t allowed out to play, standing there looking out over the neighbourhood in their nightgown.  And sometimes I will open the window and put my hand out and try and see the snowflake design in my palm before it melts.  And I will be grateful because aside from being in the snow the loveliest thing in the world is to watch it from a warm house, maybe with a fireplace crackling and probably with something red in a glass in your hand.  Jus de framboise in my case.   

Artwork du Jour 82


Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Paris Morning Melancholy

I woke up this morning with a little coup de blues.  I'm not sure why, maybe I had a sad dream.  Outside it was snowing miniature flakes. 

Maybe the twinge of melancholy is about being stuck inside.

For the next few months I get to look out over the lovely Montmartre street, but not touch it.  Looking is wonderful.  But perhaps this morning I had the first pang of realisation that just like Sartre's hell, there will be No Exit for quite some time.  The Huis are Clos.  There are lots of wonderful things about that, namely that not having the option to go out means you are relieved of the pressure of partaking all sorts of worldy things you can't really be bothered with.  The responsibilities.  You can just lie back, read, write, wonder... all the things that when in a normal life you start to do, you automatically think of all the things you should be doing and find yourself at Franprix puzzling over yoghurt or speaking shit with someone in a café or picking the dried edges around your fingernails in the eternal post-office queue.  

The only problem is that of course, with the bad bacteria out goes the good too: no poking around bookshops, no destinationless bike-rides, no just sitting at the bar drinking coffee with Omar.

No snow angels.

No witnessing the nuns sing in the Sacré Coeur on Christmas Eve, their ghostly voices dancing and gliding off the gothic interiors to sail out the big doors and over the Paris rooftops and into the night sky like flocks of dreamy birds.   

Maybe you'll hear it from your window if you can brave the cold and open it wide.  But you won't see the nun's faces, nor the faces of the blissed-out public, nor the golden lights over the city from the hill, nor all the twinkly guirlandes strung tastefully in the trees.

You won't drink a spicy vin chaud in a dim-lit bar.

You won't frock up and attend parties.

There are some things you'll miss out on. 

So maybe that's the twinge of blues.  

But it's going away now, with toast and jam and some excellent coffee.  The snow is still falling and it's cosy to watch it from under the covers.  It's nice to be bed-bound anyway, you can finish lots of little projects you haven't been able to sit still long enough to complete, ponder the future, pick over the past, draw some pictures, write lists of things to do in diaries that you wont do and sup on the fineries brought to your bedside by The Love, like a proud daddy lion.

And you can still, always fantasize about tearing up the Paris dawn streets in a Ferrari 275 GTB.

Artwork du Jour 81

Half Here