I went to see Sophie last week. She was incredible, despite technical difficulties. I wanted to write something about the experience – About her. – so here we are.
There is a boy with a red beret. “Can I walk with you?” he asks us. We say he can. He has on a blousy white shirt, leather matchstick pants. “I hope I can get in. I bought these tickets off Twitter,” he confesses. He gives us mints and there is a flash of concern that this is a drug but, no, they are just mints. He works at an Apple store, the oldest one in the world. He just got back from Spain. “Bye,” he says as his ticket confirms its reality. He stands two feet in front of us but doesn’t acknowledge us again.
We all stand behind a railing. We look at a pool of teens.
Two large men lurk behind me, silent sentries slightly swaying. They are islands in the darkness.
Girl in thin strapped shirt. Her boyfriend has long hair that he drapes on her along with his shoulders along with his long head.
“We have to go,” a drunk person says to another. They are on things. They talk about these things. They leave. We all, a group, agree in silence to never let them back in.
There is a security guard in a statement t-shirt. He has thick black glasses on. He looks like he could kick me and I would like it.
There are old me. Old men. They all stand with their arms crossed. Arms crossed. They are happy to be here but they do not smile. Happy. They are nerds of music. Nerds. I am one of them of them but I pass. Pass. They are straight and awkward. Straight and awkward.
My friend Lynn is wearing a nurse costume. She looks like Daryl Hannah. It is very cute. “No one here would ever think it was a costume,” my boyfriend says.
There is a woman wearing only sequins. A pants suit of quarter sized reflective discs. She dances like a spider and it sounds like someone is shuffling a deck of cards made out of those plastic things that you use to close a bread bag.
Who is that person at the end of the bar? They have a curly red bob. Is that Sophie? No, it is a little boy. He is not very cute.
A mirage woman is under a white veil. She turns in small circles on stage. She takes off what little clothes she has on. She talks about Dubai over computerized screeches.
Women in neon mini skirts. Robert Palmer girls gone queer. They touch each other and look around. Do they know we are here?
She reaches for a cigarette from behind her. She is wearing all latex. Nude. She looks like she could break. Please, do not let her break. She is led around by hand, as if she is blind, her long and latex clear-ish pencil skirt only allowing her to shuffle. Don’t let her break. She lays down on the stage with her girlfriend. They exchange cigarettes. They kiss.
Men with flashlights look around her. The look all around. They touch things. They do not touch her but it feels like they are as they finger her machines.
Her brother comes out and he looks like her. They have the same hair but his seems browner, straighter.
Two rappers with neon shoes. They jump around and it is even more of a party.
She walks out and in and out and in. Is she real? She may be a ghost, a projection.
The men with flashlights set up a table, unfolding it and unfolding boxes like they are hatching strange techno-eggs of various sizes.
A girl in a sweatshirt. She starts to DJ. We look at each other. This isn’t right.
“Thank you,” she says, warbling. “Goodnight.“