Last month I spoke with Henry Rollins, the world’s most ambitious man. Not content with his contribution to the 80’s punk movement with band Black Flag, he has tried his hand at acting, writing, publishing and spoken word. Basically, he’s a big deal, and his die-hard determination, makes Rollins — trademark buzz cut, bulging biceps and numerous tatts — a force to be reckoned with.

Even to this day, he follows punk rock ideology, something I wish I was more apt at embracing. For example, when I speak with him, he says things like, 
“I’m trying to run at it as best I can. My philosophy can be summed up in two words: Fuck It.”

Seriously, he said that. That should be on a tee shirt. Except it would be too long. Since meeting him though I have found it empowering to ask myself, in certain situations — what would Henry do?

I have just finished reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Mary. It’s just a short story, but is a great example of the way in which his descriptions capture the mood of a character perfectly. It’s done so that the reader feels as though they are the character, and he has us sympathising with characters like Humbert Humbert in Lolita , and Ganin in this piece of work – neither of whom is all that appealing.

This is a passage that stood out for me.

He was in the kind of mood that he called “dispersion of the will.” He sat motionless at his table unable to decide what to do: to shift the position of his body, to get up and wash his hand, or to open the window, outside which the bleak day was fading into twilight. It was a dreadful, agonizing state rather like that dull sense of unease when we wake up but at first cannot open our eyelids, as though they were stuck together for good. Ganin felt that the murky twilight which was gradually seeping into the room was also slowly penetrating his body, transforming his blood into fog, and that he was powerless to stop the spell that was being cast on him by the twilight.
He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.

My grandma Noddy is something of a legend. I don’t mean in an awesome, slap on the back, high five, “you’re a legend” kind of way; I mean that her reputation precedes her.

Often people who I have just met – through mutual friends – say to me, “Oh so and so was just telling me about your Grandma, she sounds hilarious.” It’s kind of weird, but it’s also completely warranted: after all, she’s 5 foot 10, in possession of a serious bosom (read overweight) and has narcolepsy (which is how she got her name). Plus she’s also a total riot.

So I have decided to start recording our conversations.

Noddy: What are you doing darling?
Me: Just doing some writing.
Noddy: That’s nice… why?
Me: I really like writing, you know that… I wish I could just do it full time (Author note: I was seeking a confidence boost, some sort of live and die by your dreams type speech).
Noddy (incredulous): Why would you want to do that?
Me: What do you mean?
Noddy (voice gets louder): Well, where on earth did you get the urge to do that?

Being based in Australia means that most interviews need to be done over the phone. It’s a great disadvantage for a writer: profiles read best when keen observations can be made, physical characteristics described, and nuances intimated.

However, recently I had the pleasure of interviewing Laurie Anderson – the pixie like, performance artist spouse of Lou Reed – and despite being 10000 miles apart (Anderson was in New York) I didn’t experience the usual two-dimensional interview that I have had to become accustomed to. Instead speaking with Anderson was an inspiration, and her rhetoric had me so enraptured it felt as though we were two life long friends catching up on everything.

Anderson – along with Reed – has been put in charge of this year’s Vivid Festival at the Opera House, for which they have assembled a stellar line up. Although we did discuss the program, I waylaid her with more general questions about her life and work to date, and what ensued was an almost sermonic like interaction, whereby she had me hanging off her every word.

Anderson grew up one of eight children and says of her childhood, “It was anarchic rather than artistic. I wasn’t particularly encouraged to do one thing or another. Whatever you wanted to do was fine with them (her parents).”

She attended New York’s Barnard College in the late 60s, and whilst this was an interesting time in history – this was when the anti-war movement really picked up speed – it was also an interesting time for women, particularly those who attended that college. At that time students were not allowed to “cohabitate” (love that term) with the opposite sex, nor were they allowed to wear pants or shorts. These are regulations that are almost laughable for someone of my generation – but ignorantly so; the women of Anderson’s generation had to fight for many of the simple things that are taken for granted today. I asked her about the role she played at this point in time.

“I was very involved as a speaker, as a demonstrator, and as a political cartoonist. Recently a friend said to me, ‘Hey I was just in Washington, and you don’t know this – and I’m not supposed to tell you this – but you were nominated to be the head of the NEA (National Endowment for the Arts). The problem is though that you have quite a file.’ I said ‘really?’ It goes back to when you were in college. First of all I was so proud of that; but also I can’t believe that they’re bothering to keep this kind of record of people. It was pretty shocking to realise that they were writing that kind of stuff down.”

The remainder of the interview will be in the next issue of Russh Magazine (out May 27). Vivid Live Sydney starts the same day.