*******************************
*******************************
MONDAY 05 SEPTEMBER 2005
ONSTAGE, ALIVE
*******************************
*******************************

I am up here and they are all the way down there.

I am here. She is here (red hair). She is here (brown hair). She is here (yellow hair). We are in a line. We have things against our mouths. They are all the way down there, the other people who are not us. They are on the floor. We are on the stage. This means we are taller than them. Higher. The things against our mouths mean we are louder than them. There are hot bright lights shining into our faces that mean we are shinier than them. We are onstage, alive.

My hands clasp the stem of the thing in front of my mouth. There is a dent in it. I feel my face against it, my lips against the dent, brushing. My voice sings back into my right ear from a monitor. My hands move down the stalk, slidy down the chrome, then snagging on the black bit where you can make it taller or shorter. It feels good. I slide them up again, then lift my right hand up and clasp it round the stem again, forceful, like cupping a hand at the back of a person’s head, where the hair is soft and there is that dip, pulling him in.

She (yellow hair) makes a strum on the guitar and we all bounce back from the things in front of our mouths like an electric shock. I can see: green dress (red hair) pattern dress (brown hair). We are whirling our hips and hands like Egyptian dancers. We are back at the microphones, cutting the air with our fingers, doing crosses in the air. We are making scoubidous out of our voices, weaving the strips of sound together to form something new. Out there in the blackness, what do they think, of the circles and scoubiedous of sound? I do not know what they think. I am up here and they are all the way down there.


: : : close : : :