A short train ride across the harbour. I rambled down to Luna Park and some sick making bar for wankers, I was there under duress for the birthday girl who is not a wanker despite her high rent. I would rather sit on the old boards of the pier in my good dress than hold out my palm and watch them take all my money. It was one glass of wine and then a taxi back to the other side.
Everybody knows the State Theatre is like a picture of itself. The Spatula and I with standing tickets to see Sufjan Stevens but three people were hit by lightning and failed to claim their seats in the very back row. We snuck around the railing and sat.
Earlier in the night, walking down the hill from Milson's Point station to the bar The Spatula said I was grinning like a chesire cat. I said "I am too happy, too many endorphins". My blood was thick like sunlight. It wasn't the harbour that did it, it wasn't the bottle green reflective salt smelling harbour, it wasn't that fuck ugly bridge, the opera house or the graceful arcs of the Anzac Bridge. It wasn't walking Sydney heat with my party dress on.
Sufjan Stevens stands small. His trumpet player blasts harmonics straight out of his open joyful chest. All had elastic limbs and out came the music, not from their instruments, not from there, that would have been too ordinary. They broadcast sound from their living molecules.
One moment the joy pulsed too brightly and I was pushed to the precipice but they fell, all of them, outside the melody and freedom reigned in unconnected noise. Sufjan walked away from the piano while those joyful others played his symphony for the expressway. He switched on the flashing lights in his hula hoop and danced an awkard unpracticed hoop dance. A small man, near the end of the night, walked calmly around attaching wings to the backs of their shirts. It was necessary.
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