It's not important. The barometer is when you start posting old records on Facebook and try to convince yourself or somebody, anybody that they were great. Once I start doing that, I want you to get your Dad's gun that's buried under the rose bushes and shoot me.
Your old records are great. They’re greater than most can claim. I’ll stand by that.
My father did everything with his bare hands. When I came here, I dug out four square metres of ivy that was half a metre deep. I took out all their roots. I planted roses, and underneath I put fertiliser. I’m having what I love and what will prosper. I keep it in check. That’s what I did with my bare hands.
I'll just keep posting chapels.
Wait. I remember knives. Not pistols though that I knew.
Too much loss. Too much sorrow. Too much distortion. Too much hope. Too much love that didn’t know how to express itself. Too much hunger. Too much fire. When you write your own rules conscience doesn’t play any more. That’s my line.
Pictures of beauty is another way to grow it. Knowing it and finding it is also the gift.
It's good to remember.
Some things are like blood in your mouth. You swallow it, but you had to hold it and taste it.
She planted roses in Melbourne
He sent her chapels from Spain
She wanted to forget all the bloodshed
He wanted to do it again.
Last week I saw Furiosa.
When art imitates life.
When you are stolen and forced to play with the debauched and the sick and the needy you have to speak their language to survive.
But it’s where you keep your roots. And though the sewers try and drag you from your home, and you watch the compromise of people you know float in them with their sick tales of justification, it’s difficult to hold your ground. There is a lot to lose.
And when I watched the last frames and people questioned the meaning and metaphor of the peach tree, I knew. Sometimes you have to walk out on people who don’t.
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