ジョシュ・ブローリンさんのインスタグラム写真 - (ジョシュ・ブローリンInstagram)「It‘s on a wall somewhere; someone probably bought it years ago at a flea market. You took that photo of me from a car with your friend, another monsoon of a woman, then gave it to me as a gift and I let it go in a rage; I threw it in the garbage bin out back. The next day it was gone. A shaman mural. A symbol of unadulterated sensuality. What made me think of it though — back then, when we ended up in that dilapidated motel room dead in the fire of day, all turquoise green and hot headed orange, when I leaned back, naked, in that yellowed plastic bath tub against a left over razor, slid down, and it took a doublemint-thick slice off my right shoulder. I didn’t feel the sting right away, but I saw in the water the swirl of a cloudy red, a blood dance. I had a horrible album of ee cummings reading “i six non-lectures” playing that kept conjuring a vision of Richard Attenborough reading to a blow up doll about animals, knowing, no matter how hard he tried, that she would never really hear him. It just sounded too formal and lonely. And you sat next to me in that tub, on the toilet, with your brow furrowed, looking down toward my feet. That was the staple look back then of an artist in the making, that era when the desert wind was a perpetual furnace that heated our over active literalness and ignorance. And as tortured as we were, later is always a sadder story. We lived, for sure, but there was no way of knowing I would outlast you. There was no way of knowing. That look you gave me from the toilet was a mourning; it was thinking you knew I would live a short life, a tragic life, when it turned out that it was you who would. We had our time though, you and me, in wayward motel rooms and on long Harley Davidson pulls melting in that age old desert heat, avoiding anxious coyotes along the road, and passing red tailed hawks on fence posts at 90 miles per hour in the sexy blur of a brushstroke.」6月2日 19時24分