Thursday, 21 February 2019

The BRIT Awards

Hello again. I don't think I will write about music now. I've just watched the BRIT Awards on TV, and it was enough to put me off music for life.

However, I am listening to Brian Eno's Apollo because ... it's traditional, you dig? I always play this album when I write at night.

...

Those two trillion galaxies I mentioned on Tuesday. In twenty or thirty years, when I'm just fragments of energy, or spirit, I'll be able to explore them. I'm not saying I'm looking forward to it, particularly, but a change is as good as a rest. If that makes any sense.

I'll tell you what doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any sense that Picasso is dead. Not to me. Not when I think of all the people who are alive.

Oh, take my advice, dear kook(s). Never, never, never ... read Rimbaud's letters at the end of his life when he was having his leg amputated and all the rest of it.

I often think of the scene in Lawrence of Arabia where Peter O'Toole, I mean, T.E. Lawrence, is right in the middle of a battle, shooting people with gay abandon, and he doesn't get a scratch. But, of course, he died much later in a motorcycle accident, which could have been avoided if he hadn't been so reckless.

On the day he died at the age of ninety-one, Picasso didn't go to bed until six in the morning because he was working on a new painting. He wanted to keep going.

Rimbaud wanted a normal career. He wanted to get married. But everything turned to shit for him.

T.E. Lawrence wanted to lose his legendary status in total obscurity after the First World War. But it was an impossible desire. He was a warrior in the mould of Alexander the Great. His Arab army would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

You can embrace your destiny, or you can run away from it.

...

Anyway, back to the BRIT Awards, the "artists". These people have no fucking idea that there's a storm coming.