It’s brickells in your undies, in a cyclone, on Pot Rock at high tide. It’s life as art. It’s not conceding to the disease of convention. It’s bric-pics on the Desert Road and energy activated by pots jiggling and grinding together in the back of the van, energising you and your purpose as an outlier, an outlaw, a pirate!
It transcends everything you thought being an artist was. It transcends everything you thought you knew about anything. It transcends the need to transcend. It reinvents the art world so we can stop rubbing each other’s bumholes.
By late afternoon, the Phoenix is nearly at cone 10, while the Rollo stoking seems to have somehow slowed everything down. Laurie, finished with his chairman speeches and whirling in a blaze of profanities, takes the lead in an attempt to speed things up. To Paul he says, I hope you’re hungry, cause you’ll be chomping on my arsehole in a minute, mate.
Day 1: Thursday. A chicken dance AI agenda. Can you identify any risks? Let’s go build something with a nail gun. A giant chicken? A barricade? A raft? The palpable relief that comes with purpose. Holly is nailing it. The clouds move in all directions. A bit like us...
