In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

37 F e b r u a r y i n S y d n e y Dexter Gordon’s tenor sax plays “April in Paris” inside my head all the way back on the bus from Double Bay. Round Midnight, the ’50s, cool cobblestone streets resound footsteps of Bebop musicians with whiskey-laced voices from a boundless dream in French. Bud, Prez, Webster, & The Hawk, their names run together riffs. Painful gods jive talk through bloodstained reeds & shiny brass where music is an anesthetic. Unreadable faces float like torn pages across the windshield. An old anger drips into my throat, & I try thinking something good, letting the precious bad settle to the salty bottom. Another scene keeps repeating itself: I emerge from the dark theatre, passing a woman who grabs her red purse & hugs it to her like a heart attack. Tremolo. Dexter comes back to rest behind my eyelids. A loneliness lingers like a silver needle under my black skin, as I try to feel how it is to scream for help through a horn. ...

Share