If it weren't funny I'd not float on my back but let little fishes pick me clean. Consider that I spent nine years preparing for this job and was born to consult. Thoroughly bred in the ways of underdevelopment, carried by Mother—who was dragged by Father—throughout West Africa, flown round Southeast Asia, I traveled to Japan and sailed my little boat twixt the Scylla of language, Charybdis (companies). It fell apart in the calm open sea. It isn't so much that I've a bone to pick—if I did it'd be big and I'd raft onto it—but since you're treating me you'll want good company. Besides, there often comes a time, in contemplative lives, when we squat, pick toe nails, wink at the good old days, reminisce God knows what, and forget what the world is about. Let me then scream it out and have you hear the shout before my time is out. Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! Got it? That's all it boils down to. Now then, what was that all about? (1987)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
