Marilyn was a lovely antidote to the effects left by the self-confessed, used-to-be, Coca-Cola kid at the prawn factory. A fill in mask, for some individual who tells people what to do for a living and gets everything they want, usually. Instead of absurdly knowing ones previous hair colour; wearing a prosegur costume; telling of the week to himself; pro-creating harmonies with stick kung-fu, and, has a three- year- old the size of me (apparently) at home, Marilyn just greeted with tired eyes and some dialogue. The initial dialogue completely reluctant to memory. Perhaps she was just over it.
As a gift for standing in front of the How to Pack a Bag class, as the petrified versatile human scarf -the now- overly tired Marilyn, handed over a rather heavy book titled ‘A Life of Colour’. There is something about holding a heavy book, knowing its worth and receiving gifts in general. All feel deep. Deep end pool, where Band-Aids, loose toe nails and stray hairs lie.
It was also the first time, in a long time, when asked what takes most space in life, I said ‘I am a painter’ in the seafood shop top, and not ‘I work at a fish factory’ in still, the seafood fish shop top. Which actually was specified, by Marilyn as my colour. Mouth proceeded to loose itself to colour talk, and a poor cranial stated Marilyn, fetching tea after a day of telling people their colour season, did the ‘I don’t care, but Ill pretend I am listening –uhm’. Those polite uhums are the best, because mirror has been constructed and mouth can reflect a while. These ears need a rest.
Thanks Marilyn Little, you are bigger than your last name suggests.