At this time last year, I was drinking. I was working during the day, but my life revolved mostly around drinking. Days and evenings were hot, even besides the pool, and the sun was too shiny too, even behind black glasses. Days were too hot even when I drove my Austin around, windows and roof opened. I spent my time between the ashtray, the fridge, and the water, smoking, drinking, and bathing naked, and the light ate my face while I grew bored.
I dreamt of Australia in the summer. I dreamt of Cairns, of the Rain Forest and the Great barrier reef, of heavenly beaches, and I dreamt of spending days locked up in a motel room to smoke, drink, and watch Nickelodeon. I could see myself go out and walk or swim under the tropical rain when the weight of the sky would melt down with a clocklike regularity, every day at the same time, and fall on my face. I’d swim in the kitsch bean-shaped pool with the amphora fountain, and rain would beat drums on the roofs and the grass will shine, and sometimes I’d hear thunder, and everything would be waterlogged and rain would stream everywhere and I’d be better, I’d be fine.
I dreamt of Australia but I only had Foster to swallow and cigarette butts to crash from the pool, before going to boring parties with a liberty shirt and docksides. The city was taunting me, dusted by light, splotted by heat, she was shining like mirrors in the August brightness, her roads whitened by the sun, when I looked like shit.
I did not want to be sober. I knew I’d be in hell, so I just drank to quiet my brain. I drank anything, but mostly gin, and my brother worried. I read Echine, and The Sun Also Rises, and Under the Volcano, and drank but went through hell still, under the burning sun of the Virgin’s day, burning in front of the calm water, and I was thankful for the ice cubes to imprison everything in my glass.
At that time, I was an outsider. It’s better than « imposter », it’s less pretentious since I did not write Pills and soap, and it really has a nice ring to it. I’m an eternal outsider, and we, at Dinosaur dog, are eternal outsiders. It means you could do real shit if you just cared enough to persevere. It means you could do real shit if you weren’t too lazy to do them after you started. One year ago, I was wasted and my talent was wasted. I was a wreck, but, hey, everybody has to hit rock bottom once in a while. Drinking was fine, there’s something appealing and comfortable in it, though I’m not too proud of that, but I got my shit together in the end. And, don’t worry, I got the girl.
One year ago, I listened to Kisses sunny disco pop, and well, their new track came out yesterday. It's produced by Pete Wiggs, from St Etienne. It’s already old, but we’re not doing it for the fame, we’re doing it out of love, and for the memories.
