Throwing protocol to the wind I even joined the exhibitionists in standing and swaying in something akin to dancing.
Where I went to school, boys – men – didn’t dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity.
Occasionally the tensions in the house would boil over. Our mother would pick a fight over the dinner. Our father would try his best to be diplomatic, interpreting for each of the women as to what they may have meant. We would slink away, hiding in favourite places until things had simmered down.
I’ve been in the emergency psych ward for about 24 hours. There’s not much to do besides talking to other patients, and I’m feeling restless. I have three songs from Wave, the latest Patrick Watson album.
I went with my mum, Bonnie, to Chaddy (the shopping centre) to the record shop, trying to look cool with Amco jeans, granny shirt and hair as long as it would stretch and browsed ... seriously.
My brother Paul was into the Minneapolis/St. Paul punk scene at the time, complete with ripped jeans, jack boots and spiked hair. He loaned me his album Rocket To Russia.
The Neil Young collection of Stereo Stories is quite small – just seven pieces so far – but each sings its own tune, so to speak. And two of the contributions are from two of Australia’s finest writers.
I worried the distance would be a death sentence as I found myself alone in my best friend’s mostly empty new living room, 1681 miles from any possibility of weeknight concerts, impromptu G&Ts and sushi, Galentine’s Day, movie marathons, holiday gatherings, city adventures, beach birthdays, and drop-everything post-tragedy afternoons of comfort TV.
The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.