(for details of birmingham picnics and other spraffle, see the bottom of this mail) ------------------------------------------------------------- the air is a curious mixture of vanilla and diesel. i am crouching in the base of a long-disused newspaper stand, trying, against the advice of toy stephen and madeleine mcneil, to avoid looking up. usually, i like to take time to regard the sky, or at least the distance of blue between one row of buildings and another that birmingham will allow one to see. not today. instead, i look at the small dog that sniffs around my feet.. 'toto, i don't think we're in the west midlands any more' 'no, ian, you're lost in an allegory of your own making, the narrative power of which is greatly tempered by the confusion of imagery and the lack of any definable underlying meaning.' oh... 'toto' the dog sighs. it clearly doesn't want to talk 'YES, ian' 'fuck off' the deep, sorrowful canine pupils regard me with disgust. ' my pleasure. i didn't ASK to be in this e-mail'. and toto is gone, leaving me with nothing to concentrate upon but the danger all around me. the pterodactyl regarding me from a nearby roof-top, the fleet of helicopters dropping undefinable items from the sky, the sleek grey missiles soaring only feet above the skyscrapers, threatening to crash around me at any moment. 'have you got any cigarettes?' now i'm hearing voices 'don't ignore me, ian... if you haven't got any cigarettes, at least bung me a fiver so i can get some. and get out of that newspaper stand. it smells' reluctantly, i pull myself to my feet and force myself to smile into the soft, masculine, sleek, pale, weathered, tanned, young-yet-chronologically-advanced face of my old friend. the sinister list looks at me curiously. 'you're in a mess' i smile ' i had a dream i was king of all the hipsters..' 'no, i'm not in the mood for that. let's find an off-licence and go somewhere better. and, for fuck's sake, get rid of those pterodactyls. they unnerve me' they look like bats, from down here... circling around the pinnacles of the sky scrapers. from time to time, they swoop towards us as we stumble up the centre of the road. cars swerve, attempting to hit us, and then away again as they collide head-on with the winged creatures. the skyline ahead of us is dominated by a row of mushroom clouds. soon, the sun will set, and the whole earth will glow like the fire that accompanied those clouds. 'fucking hell, ian.. you've been watching too many 'b' movies. i'm not meeting you inside your head again.' the list clicks its long, thin, pleasingly adrogynous fingers and our surroundings disappear. we are floating. we drift high above a city, yet even from this height we can hear the chattering, the moaning, the screams of ecstasy and fear that pour up from it. a column of numbers flys past my head, narrowly missing me. 'where are we?' 'collective mind of sinister. look, there's kirsten kenyon!' 'where?' i squint through the darkness. 'oh, sorry, i forgot' a wave of the sinister hand and an area of the glowing city below me is transformed. i can see flagstones, a woman playing a mandolin, ash from a cigarette and long, emerald sports car trundling towards a sunset. 'so that's what she looks like'.. 'no, that's the inside of her mind, at this precise moment. its got the edge on yours, you'll notice. not that that comes as any suprise to - we are interrupted by another flying column of numbers. my friend mutters 'sarah fucking clarke....' and doesn't offer to expand on this. 'what's that flashing?' it looks like lightning, from up here. but it can't be. lightning should come from above, where i presume the sky must be - although i can't see it. my friend smiles 'another heart has made the trade' 'pardon' 'somehow, a vital connection is made. you want to look closer?' the sinister list waves its hand again, and we float down towards the city below. to the north, a cloud hangs, delivering a flurry of snow. to the south, i can dimly perceive a thousand deckchairs, an arse in each one. to the east, the tide laps ceaselessly against a new england facade, running through the sea-front buildings, and into the row of bubble-houses behind. we float to the west, towards the desert, and the mountains, and i can hear somebody laughing. a short, deep chuckle. the voice sounds familiar. 'that's you..' the list smiles 'somebody amused you today'... the noise is gone, and is replaced by a bar of song, an intake of breath, a tapping, tapping of computer keys. 'you're playing a bar down there tonight. don't expect anyone to turn up. they've gone across town to see ken chu strip.' can't say i blame them. we touch down in a deserted plaza. a couple of pigeons peck disinterestedly at long-forgotten crumbs: 'hmm... they did leave, then.' i follow that slender-yet-pendulous arse across to an empty cafe, and park myself on the garden furniture outside. the sinister list vanishes into the building, and reappears with a bottle of tequila ('let's just say i know the owner'). he pours us a glass each, and a herd of gazelle sweep across the square. an old woman sits down by me. she offers me a malteser, but i don't accept. from an unseen window, somewhere, a burt bacharach song is playing. the last rays of sun fade from the sky, and we are left, in the darkness, watching the city manifest itself above us, in the darkness, some sort of parade is taking place. ghosts, glowing electric blue as they hovver above our heads. 'the souls of the departed. they'll be back. they always are. until then, there will be others. this part of town will fill up before you know it'. and, with that, a long black limousine pulls up, and a woman in a flamenco dress runs up a staircase to a wooden front door. a fluorescent light shines across the square, and a window opens to let out a burst of latin music. 'she seems like fun' 'oh, she WILL be' i sip my tequila. the flavour of the lime has started to ooze into the liquid, and the hot, sour taste warms my spirits as it has since the first sip... 'does this place ever stop changing?' 'never. the day it does is the day it dies. when the last person leaves, and there are no more encounters to be had. until then, it is always here, for those that want it' i think of the state my mind was in... i prefer it here, watching the elvis impersonators driving their tractors along the street, listening to the Stephen Hewitt Marching Band as it belts out hefner melodies, drinking tequila and knowing that, if i want to, i don't have to think at all, i can just enjoy this world as it unfolds around me. 'can i stay here for a while?' ' as long as you want.. i've got to be going, but you'll find company soon enough. have a good night. oh, and ian?....' '?' 'you got that cigarette money? its not for me, you understand. i have a mission of mercy to attend to. there's a broken-hearted girl in canada and she needs nicotine' 'no, sorry, no change' 'bastard' and my friend is gone. i pour myself another glass, enjoy the warm breeze against my skin and wonder what one has to do to get laid in this place.. ---------------------------------------------- so, from the Sinister City to birmingham. i reckon we'd better do this picnic before the end of march, if we're going to. if its left till april, i'll get all caught up in b&s gigs, and atps and the like. 30th march? sound good? if anybody has an opinion, feel free to share it with me. preferably one about the picnic, but any opinion will do. as long as it isn't 'you're a tosspot' or 'your e-mails are crap', cos i've heard those before. you've all entertained me lately. a couple of replies: madeleine talked about swimming, and the mental space it gives you. she's right. if anybody knows of a good way to avoid filling such space with crap, i'd be keen to hear it. personally, i find myself thinking all sorts of shite, whilst simultaneously trying to clear my head and 'just be'. amazing, how trying to clear your head creates so much clutter. rachel playforth was spot on, as ever, when she said: the japanese have a word 'amae' which describes that warm feeling of being accepted, included and understood by a group of peers. so rare, so amazing when it happens. sinister at its best moments can produce 'amae', i suspect." well, full amae to you, my dear. i'm afraid that quote is partly to blame for the e-mail above. you and yer bloody inspirational thoughts.. and, finally, david hewitt said 'earnest is the new irony' and i really hope that is true. no i do. i mean it. earnestly. au revoir, mon petite salle des bains, and as the buddha once said 'it aint what you do, its the way that you do it, that's what gets results' fuck knows what he meant by that. he was a funny blerk. xx 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 +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+