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In the old textiles factory, above the door where the sign says "Dance", they show films you've never heard of. It's cold; there's an ice-cream tub for the leak, and assorted nana blankets across the chairs. Mine's an Onkaparinga, childhood sleepover blue.
My note in the jar pays the rent, so the artists don't have to. The chunky soup is warm at my palms. And old linoleum scent. In the screen, a woman and man coolly haul the longest of ladders. Each location taller than the last, each steadying the teetering rungs and rails for the other as they ascend.
Onwards and upwards, till a suburban dusk.
Onwards and upwards, till the moviesend.
Milling, I accidentally ask the Director's girlfriend if she knows him. How well does anyone know, she offers, and, given world events, we get on to the topic of hubrile old men. Boomer Bombers, I think she says, taking out their terror of death on coming generations. The rain on our roof is a 5/8 syncopation. She taps her spoon to it. So, what did you make of it, "The Ladderists" premiere? I liked it. Despite all our expectations, they never fell.
Onwards and upwards, till a suburban dusk.
Onwards and upwards, till the moviesend.
Onwards and upwards...
