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)「For years, like when I would write under a sweaty desert moon in my twenties, imagining myself one day dawning a broadway title with Sam Shepard peppered on the marque with me in black up there somewhere, and I’d study those photographs that brought back my childhood even though, maybe at that point, it was a childhood I was still running from. William Albert Allard sat in the corner in piles of NatGeo magazines that I’d stolen from my parents home riddled with the likes of his bucolic American life. He was a drifter peeking in on that American culture that was in my veins, and I’d page though them and recall when I would rise each foot heavy morning to feed teams of horses from a green Chevrolet from the 70s whose steering wheel I could barely see over. It kept me connected to a drunk mother who drove a hundred miles an hour with one leg tucked under her butt, a Dr. Pepper in one hand, a wispy Kool King in the other. It kept me tied to something I could still taste and feel the burn of on my hands. There are certain people who you imagine represent you in what they do even though meeting them, like Cormac McCarthy, you know, because you are chiseling your way into your own identity, that you are as far away from their actual person as is the jack rabbit who you think just ran passed kicking up sand. You can’t imagine you will ever get to say hello, or, hey, thanks to for what they do and how they saved you in a way you’re still not yet sure of. Then a gift comes, prompted by my wife. Years have passed. Christmas. A print not usually printed from that same 70s when the wolf was staring at me from its cold yellows as I raked out its cage as an 8 year old. “This is for you. I’ve been talking with him”. You are the greatest wife. And you have access because no just doesn’t seem in the cards for you. You melt doubt with that heart of yours. You, my love, dawn awe. Oh, and thank you William. It’s me. Josh. @kathrynbrolin @williamalbertallard」1月19日 2時11分