I’m taking a break from listening to The Birthday Party and am hanging with Johnny Cash and your 11-year-old self by the Wangaratta River for a bit. Did you really jump off that bridge? The water looks so shallow!

My brother once told me that my little gang waterboarded a kid to get crucial information about the whereabouts of their gang’s headquarters. I only remember the scene vaguely—the bound child on a chair in an attic, the smell of wood and dust in the sunlight, our whispers, and the determination to play the game properly. Poor kid! I don’t remember who you were, and I don’t remember exactly what we did, but I’m so sorry we did that to you!

Mind you, we were also throwing knives around and fighting with swords made of sticks, and nothing bad ever happened. Once someone got hit on the knuckles and screamed loud enough, we stopped whatever we were doing because you don’t hurt on purpose. Things happen when you play, but you don’t set out to cause harm. At least that’s how it used to be around my woods by the old castle.

The painting is coming along nicely, the horse is particularly impressive, but the boy, the boy. The more I stare at the blurry black and white reference photo of your younger self, the more I try to make him look like you, the more people I ask for advice to get the expression ‘right’, the more I turn and spin around lines that aren’t quite there and a nose I can’t see clearly. I don’t know how to resolve this at present, but I like my boy and I gave him a little blue bird from one of your songs for protection. He is about to chose a path in life, maybe a warpath? Play will turn more serious and things will soon spin out of control. The hand of god is placed firmly on the horse's back, but the boy doesn’t know it yet.

So—it's you, me, and Johnny Cash by the river. It’s raining today—bring a raincoat.

Cordula