This follows on from Five Years of Faking It: Part I. You can read that first or keep on reading here…

I Can’t Help It

When someone asks me why I do what I do, all I can say is: “I can’t help it.”

I can’t help it in the same way you can’t help writing, for those who feel the need to write, or calculating planetary orbits, if that’s what rocks your day, or teaching others how to do something, if that’s your heart starter, or meditating on mountain tops, if you dare.

Different things drive different people. Porches for some. Fame for Miss Hilton. Status for Mrs Becks. Creating for the Coen Brothers. And Danger for the Real Madrid goalie.

It’s the “helping” thing that gets my groove going.

But we need different types of passions. The helping people, the innovating people, the Barry Manilow people, the sensible people, the wordsmiths—and you don’t have to be one or the other, you can be many of these people at once.

For instance, did you know that the hunky, spunky Viggo Mortensen (best known as Aragorn from Lord of the Rings) is a published poet, writer, artist, painter and a musician too?

And if you’re a numbers person and a wordsmith, like the Australian comedian and braniac Adam Spencer, who graduated with a double major in law and pure maths, then buggar off. Over here. Where I can laugh and be in awe at once.

Nine to Five…

I am also awed by Dolly Parton. She might not be your cuppa, but you can’t question that infectious spirit and her passion and commitment. Decades of it. You could say the same of Leonard Cohen, commitment- and passion-wise. (I bet ya never seen those names in the same paragraph before?) Cos Leonard Cohen didn’t write brilliant song lyrics for the past forty odd years because he wanted to, but because he had to.

And to that we cannot but hum: Hallelujah!

And if you’re one of the seventeen people who’ve never listened to one of the 150 cover versions of Cohen’s original then please track at least one version down. Or listen to Hallelujah as performed by Mr Jeff Buckley.

I don’t miss a nine-to-five job, though, with a beginning and a Friday and a weekend. I like sitting on the floor on Saturday night figuring out solutions to problems for people who have virtually nothing—watching Sex & the City or The Godfather (because I’m still human). And I relish running around on the back of a motorbike in the mud on Sundays to meet people that must be met in order to help them.

I love exposing the potential in people who, through no fault of their own, never had a chance to realize it, and helping them realize it—in fact, that one particular element is the thing that drives me most: Helping others realize their potential. It’s extremely fulfilling. I love it. I’ll be happy doing that until I meet the devil for real. I’m hoping the devil plays a guitar.

I Don’t Want Anything Else

We all tend to be in awe of people who can do those things we struggle with. I am still awestruck by people who can do physics or run a marathon because, well, I never, ever could. And I’m in awe of Marta because I’m never going to be the world’s best female footballer. They probably think I’m retarded because, no doubt, it comes somewhat naturally to them.

And I get excited over American Idol. Hey, at least I’m honest.

Sadly, I can’t hold a note. I mean, if musical notes were solid, three- dimensional objects, you may as well chop off both my hands because that’s how awesomely I can hold a note. As a result, and just because it makes me smile on the inside, I adore watching someone open their mouth and just…sing. I get goose-bumps. They’d probably think I was a bit stupid too.

I also get a kick out of the self-deluded would-be singers whose parents or spouses or friends–or all of the above–are not kind enough to tell them the truth. My suggestion is that if you want to do the stuff you love to do, and it involves front of camera action, or front of people action, it’s not a bad idea to get a second opinion. And if you do get a second opinion, ask Randy. Just sayin’.

Of course, if the next American Idol wants to make a go of it, they’ll have to stick with it like Dolly. Not like Bros. (I never went to a Bros concert. Except once. Were they ever truly famous?) And they’ll have to make it past the detractors and the devil himself. Simon. They’ll need commitment and passion, Tina Turner style. And if they make it, well, it won’t be because they’re faking it. It will be because they’re committed and perhaps a bit lucky too.

But they’re just doing the stuff they love to do. The Waifs can’t help it. The Waifs aren’t exactly famous, but hell are they committed, passionate and fucking awesome. Hard to pigeon hole, you could say they’re a folk, rhythm and blues group originating from the great Western Australia who’ve been playing on the road in the US and Canada and Australia for almost two decades. Not like Bros. Or Milli Vanilli.

Of all my albums and CDs, and they’re quite diverse, the Waifs are what I choose over and over and over and over and never tire of listening to. Most days I kick off the stuff I do with Fisherman’s Daughter from the live albums A Brief History. I dare you not to get big, hot, goose bumps after the first thirty  seconds of that. And when you hear their version of Willow Tree you’ll understand why Keiffer Sutherland shouted them drinks after returning to watch them perform night after night and why Bob Dylan asked them to support.

No. I don’t want to be famous, but I do want to be The Waifs of the stuff I do. I’m just doing what I love to do. I can’t help it. And if I can strut my stuff the way Dame Judi Dench still struts hers when I’m where she is now, then I would have earned the second “M” in comMitment.

As I write this, Godwin is exhausted after a full day starting around 2 am this morning and every day for quite a few weeks—holding down three jobs. But right now he walked in the room and said, “I just have to cut a bit more.” (He means strips of cloth—for baskets.)

I gave him a look that said, “Dog, you’re awesome, but you need rest, man.” Not certain if he got the Randy in the look.

But he said, “You know when you’re tired but then you think about the people waiting for you and what it does for them and you get this energy and you can’t help it. It’s all I want. I don’t want any thing else.”

Bingo. I explained that that’s precisely what I’m writing about and that’s how I feel. And we didn’t even confer. Chuckles.

You can’t help it. It doesn’t feel like work. It’s the stuff you do.

After five years it’s so obvious.

I’m shutting the lap top to plant my bum on the floor—no sand or mountains in sight—and be the best damned problem solver in the world this Saturday night because the thought of how this will help others down the road gives me the itch. Even if I’m up all night.

What a way to make a living!

Are you committed and passionate about what you do? Is it obvious yet?

(Balloon photo by Ken Ballinger and nine-to-five typing woman by brutapesquisa)