lesson 43 (the sound of dying frogs)
And so it goes that these three unlikely characters move into the audotorium and face its BIGness with O-mouths and feet on steps so studied so as not to stumble on anything so much as a grain of sand and inevitably topple to the General Admission bullring with a broken leg to be carted off by ambulance, missing Radiohead.
Again they are at once real and unreal as they conquer the stage. The hint of a finger, the stretch of a wave heralded by excited anticipatory roars, of thousands of eyes who are seeing them living and moving before them for the first time (not me. SNOB.). And in the quiet moments, then you know you are the space with an awesome band of talent, when softened, spooked electric guitar cuts through everyone's bones: when cheering stops just to hear it.
And I am sucked down to the other side. Unceremoniously and sickeningly drawn to the smooth blackmetal barrier, grabbed from the bottom of my stomach and pulled below my knees. Over my shins, stretched like a pair of cheap intestinally shaped stockings (dripping garter). I can feel it separate and melt into the floor. I hold on and worry about not having a job to return to in Auckland.
There is utter sex in those hands, and the one next to me can vouch for that. Can vouch for the looking away from his intimidating gaze, made even more surreally heightened by the fact that he's staring from the stage, that we are bodies and creatures of insignificance (to him), we are mere ticket holders cuffed with limegreen paper wristbands. There is sex in those hands as they make their gravelly accompaniment, as the dark shadows fall on his face as though it were smooth stone. Smooth stone with straight hair that sweated. I watch his neck. I watch his shoulders (and how the neck of his t shirt shapes them) as he moves across the stage and then back. I think if he propositioned me I would accept. I think of propositioning him myself.
His voice dies. Is dying. It is a Frog Prince waiting to piss on this concert shaped parade. It pisses on Tuesday nights concert shaped parade. But still he sings all of Paranoid Android with venom, No Surprises with unbroken delicacy, Planet Telex. He sings Planet Telex.
It is raining in pimple sized drops as we chase the darkness, as we follow strangers heels across zebra crossings. Here are these three people shaped pixies traipsing over wet pavements. Longlonglong Tall Pixie, Medium Pixie and Tiny Pixie. Christopher RnR Star, Monkey. Fionapher. Jess, LittleJess, LittleMelbourne Jess; DorkyJessie. She is so determined with the way she walks her soft unleather shoes through Deep puddles without fear or visible discomfort. And we follow her. And a tear of rain trickles from my hairline and I am afraid of the clearblack puddles and dampness, the increasing wetness I can feel around the edges of my feet, wetness that cannot be escaped by any modified walking style or arching of the soles.
Again they are at once real and unreal as they conquer the stage. The hint of a finger, the stretch of a wave heralded by excited anticipatory roars, of thousands of eyes who are seeing them living and moving before them for the first time (not me. SNOB.). And in the quiet moments, then you know you are the space with an awesome band of talent, when softened, spooked electric guitar cuts through everyone's bones: when cheering stops just to hear it.
And I am sucked down to the other side. Unceremoniously and sickeningly drawn to the smooth blackmetal barrier, grabbed from the bottom of my stomach and pulled below my knees. Over my shins, stretched like a pair of cheap intestinally shaped stockings (dripping garter). I can feel it separate and melt into the floor. I hold on and worry about not having a job to return to in Auckland.
There is utter sex in those hands, and the one next to me can vouch for that. Can vouch for the looking away from his intimidating gaze, made even more surreally heightened by the fact that he's staring from the stage, that we are bodies and creatures of insignificance (to him), we are mere ticket holders cuffed with limegreen paper wristbands. There is sex in those hands as they make their gravelly accompaniment, as the dark shadows fall on his face as though it were smooth stone. Smooth stone with straight hair that sweated. I watch his neck. I watch his shoulders (and how the neck of his t shirt shapes them) as he moves across the stage and then back. I think if he propositioned me I would accept. I think of propositioning him myself.
His voice dies. Is dying. It is a Frog Prince waiting to piss on this concert shaped parade. It pisses on Tuesday nights concert shaped parade. But still he sings all of Paranoid Android with venom, No Surprises with unbroken delicacy, Planet Telex. He sings Planet Telex.
It is raining in pimple sized drops as we chase the darkness, as we follow strangers heels across zebra crossings. Here are these three people shaped pixies traipsing over wet pavements. Longlonglong Tall Pixie, Medium Pixie and Tiny Pixie. Christopher RnR Star, Monkey. Fionapher. Jess, LittleJess, LittleMelbourne Jess; DorkyJessie. She is so determined with the way she walks her soft unleather shoes through Deep puddles without fear or visible discomfort. And we follow her. And a tear of rain trickles from my hairline and I am afraid of the clearblack puddles and dampness, the increasing wetness I can feel around the edges of my feet, wetness that cannot be escaped by any modified walking style or arching of the soles.