Three sketches of Amanda Palmer.

Photo by Michael Bleggi.

One. We carried her on our hands in a wide circle, and in her wake, like a thank-you, was a long gossamer veil trailing across our heads, and we reached up to feel it slide over our fingertips, all of us brides.

Two. We lifted her above our heads, up against a red pole, while she sang us a song on her ukelele, and when she asked for more support from those below, we gave willingly, as generous as she’d been to us, and she groaned with happiness at the new strength buoying her up.

Three. She hit a high note on the word night, not so much hitting it as hurling to heaven, and I thought, if I wanted one sound to announce the human race, to catapult out to the edges of the universe to catch the pulsars and race alongside them til the end of time, this is it.

I left the concert feeling like an exhausted lover.

I’m so glad to be walking the earth and sharing the air with this woman. Let the future of art come.