scene: somewhere in the black mining hills of dakota there lived a young boy called... oh no, that wasn't it. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------- scene: a bar, somewhereintheworldperhaps i am wearing a basque and a rafia table mat. my friend is wearing corduroy trousers and a duffel coat. it is perfectly possible that there are clothes underneath said garment, but it seems rude to ask. we are seated at the end of a long chrome table. to our left, a band is striking up the opening chords of "islands in the stream". to our right, a woman is sitting open-legged on the table so her friends can admire her clitoral piercing. i pour my friend some more tequila, accidentally brushing against the messily manicured hand and staring into those ever-shifting eyes. my companion - the pleasingly adrogynous sinister list - thanks me, knocks back the drink, steals my cigarettes - "you're too old to start smoking, ian" - and starts singing quietly and tunelessly to the music which assaults our ears. "baby when i met you there was love un-known i set out to get you with a fine tooth-comb - you know, i never saw the point of trying to get someone with a fine tooth-comb. surely a big net would be better. a tuna-net perhaps. obviously, you'd let any stray dolphins go, but once you got your intended you'd wrap the net around them and never set them free" i'd forgotten my friend could talk like this, i love the way it makes perfect nonsense. but i'm still pondering the last thing it said to me:
"Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous. I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, 'Please - a little less love, and a little more common decency'"
"ian" "yes, sinister" "you aren't listening to me. i'm leaving. i have to meet stephen hewitt in a small bordello somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind" i open my mouth to protest, but i can't think of anything to say. visiting the darkest recesses of stephen hewitt's mind surely holds more interest than sitting in a bar with a dozy homosexual who's more interested in thinking about kurt vonnegut than talking to you. i close my mouth, then open it again, then close it again. best to keep it shut, you never know what you might swallow. "here, have this" the sinister list hands me a pebble. "err....thanks...errr.... yeah" "god! ian, must i explain everything. this pebble is the only present i can give you. it is your key to the Special Place. your escape, your hideaway when the world within you becomes too much like the world around you. keep it, and use it sparingly. you spend too much time escaping, you end up an existence refugee" "will i see you there?" "stupid question. i AM there" as so often before, i find myself wondering what the fuck my friend is talking about.... i thank the list and watch it work its slim, slinkly, almost sylph-like (though i don't know what a sylph is and probably never will) arse out of the bar. nobody looks at the sinister list. i suspect most of them can't see it. and, anyway, they're too busy chanting the song's chorus "sail away with me to another place" i've got to get out of here before they start line dancing. i take the pebble in my hand for a couple of seconds and ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- the tide is rushing over my trainers, in through the holes in the sole, soaking my socks and freezing my feet. behind me, a seagull is picking at some creature unfortunate to have been washed up on the sand. have i been here before? not this place, exactly, perhaps somewhere like it. some fifty yards away, a couple of about 150 combined years have set up a gramophone and are waltzing to a tune i vaguely know "...cos i looove you just the way you look tonight" they smile at me as i pass, and i wave to them. i can feel my skin beginning to turn to haagen-dans as the winds throws droplets of spray at it. oh, i WISH i'd dressed sensibly. i have so many long-sleeved basques that would have been more appropriate. suddenly, in-front of me, there is a beach-hut, bearing the sign "duffel-coats for sale". behind the counter, an improbably beautiful boy says the coat will cost me five pence. i dig into my rafia table-mat and am suprised to find exactly that amount residing there. i hold it out to him, just far enough so he has to stretch his skinny little body over the counter towards me, and i let my hand linger against his as i hand over the money. our eyes meet, he knows exactly what i'm thinking, and as he hands me my coat he says - "and if you want anything ELSE, it'll be fifty quid and a bag of maltesers". do i have fifty quid and a bag of maltesers? i search the pockets of my new coat and the special secret place under my basque and no, it seems i do not. i chuck him a couple of dolly mixtures and a smile and take my leave. and i go back to my thoughts..
"Love is where you find it. I think it is foolish to go looking for it, and I think it can often be poisonous. I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, 'Please - a little less love, and a little more common decency'"
as the dusk sky darkens, i can hear a thousand voices, maybe more, echoing along the sands to me. i try and listen to some of them as i walk away from the water, towards a welcoming looking cave in the cliff-side: "...said he wanted me, but the next morning..." "i wish... i wish i'd never met you!" "but you always say that, you always say never again...and..." "hold me, and touch me. and promise you won't go" "seven years. and i'm still discovering you. i feel like i take you with me when you leave, and i'm happy to share with you again when you return" "please....you've GOT to believe me. i never meant to hurt you" "the ref-er-ee's a wan-ker, the ref-er-ee's a wan-ker" brrrr...where did that last one come from? i resolve to stop listening. and i take my cover in the rocks, and i watch the couple dancing together in the distance. the way he holds her waist, firmly, but not seeking to control. the way she moulds her body to him, somehow retaining a shape all of her own. the way they touch each other. the music finishes. they stop dancing, and very slowly, he bows to her. she giggles and they hold hands and run off somewhere i can't see them. what am i looking for here? why did i come here? sure, the dancing couple were nice, but i'd rather be at home watching "swallow and - - that gull, that gull is back. i'm not keen on birds, and my first instinct is to wave it away, but it seems to have other ideas. as it gets closer, i can see something clasped within its beak. it struts up to me, drops its gift, caws once and flies away. it has left what appears to be a fortune cookie. i hate these things. the last one i opened said "you're in for a nasty shock". and i was, although the lotion cleared it up. still, when presented in this manner it seems churlish to refuse: "love is an essence. it is neither good or bad, although it can be both poisoned and purified, sometimes simultaneously. decency stems from respect. the beloved is revered, the beloved is trusted and, most of all, the beloved is appreciated. without this, love will not bring happiness." blimey. they didn't buy THAT one from poundstretcher. i put the piece of paper in the pocket of my brand new duffel coat, and walk towards the abandoned gramophone. i brush the sand from it, and attempt to work out how to start the thing. eventually.... "gee...gee i'd like to see you looking swell, b a b y baby diamond bracelets woolworth doesn't sell till that happy day you know darn well i can't give you anything but...." and the song whirls around my head, and i pull my coat closer to me and stare out at the waves. i feel as though, if i wait here long enough, someone might teach me how to waltz. ian ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tomorrow will bring happiness Or at least, another day Phil Ochs ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+