Show Me Life
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It doesn't matter how successful you are, or how many times you have dyed your hair purple and walked out onto the stage of a local folk festival holding a note book and a banjolele. It makes no odds how many pairs of boots you own, or sex you have had with strangers. It doesn't even matter how many times you have scooped up the smashed up porridge of your heart and poured it back into the jelly mould of your ribs. What matters is that we keep moving forward, despite ourselves, despite everyone else… that we remember that life is not a hamster wheel but an ocean, a road, a dirt track; or wha...
It doesn't matter how successful you are, or how many times you have dyed your hair purple and walked out onto the stage of a local folk festival holding a note book and a banjolele. It makes no odds how many pairs of boots you own, or sex you have had with strangers. It doesn't even matter how many times you have scooped up the smashed up porridge of your heart and poured it back into the jelly mould of your ribs. What matters is that we keep moving forward, despite ourselves, despite everyone else… that we remember that life is not a hamster wheel but an ocean, a road, a dirt track; or whatever crap metaphor you can think of which basically says: grow up and up and up and up. Get old with hunger, don't cling onto what was and starve. Show Me Life is all about that. It peers into dark corners of sexuality and strolls along Italian city streets. It free-falls into love and then tests that love over and over. It gets sad and thoughtful, pregnant and angry and then splinters into a billion pieces and becomes something quite different. Something with a lot more to lose.
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