Sinister: when she was five year old it was cake and bright lights

Same day, different years. And things remain the same, or came back in a recursive manner. From a point the story started, and the one who wrote the story knew how it was going to end. Worst then a soap opera, when the unexpected is what is actually expected. He went to dam on day. I’ve been there many times. Because the mountains are starring over the horizon and the pine woods reflects over the river, and there are not cars running over there, might be one from time to time, only, and is nice to feel the cold breeze, in December, waiting for the snow to fall, on lucky day. The dam was built in the late sixties, I think, or in the early seventies. It’s the light blue painting on the metal structure, and the glass-concrete bricks from which you can tell. Almost as is it where out one of those geography book full of picture of what were futuristic architectural designs, now a pale imagine of what could have look as ground-breaking, as much as ink of the fading semi gloss paper texture. There are several of these structures on the river, lighting up the bulbs and the television screens at night, or branching in channels which used to bring the water to the local city. There use to be water, in the city. Now it runs underground over traffic arteries and parking space. But they are only far away from the top of the dam, you could barley see the orange light of the nearest village when the wind blows the clouds away, just minutes before the sunset. But silence is not that bad, if you can handle it. I’ve been there, waiting for the sun to fade, before the people in the car arrived, then it was the time to get on the bike to climb the hill back home. My mother has always thought, and still thinks, I believe, that I was spending the afternoon in the library. I generally had a wonder in the red brick building to grab a book, and then spent the time remain on top of the barrier. My father has never given a dam about anything, no worries where I did spent my afternoons. At least I could nick some fags out of him, for he would have never have noticed. And smoke them, waiting to keep my act together and the right time to swim with Phoebes that one was taller and more handsome then you. For I am still waiting for the right time to come, he did get on top of the bridge on a day of November. And I wasn’t there, as a couple have been on any other day of the week, but not that Wednesday. And now is in the water, and he is now talking to the Phoenician prince, not me. How did he get the idea, I don’t know. We’ve never been there, not together. If not for a swim a few yard upstream, where the river bends, in the summer, when the air is too dense to handle. But not in the winter. And I’ve been silent; I’ve kept my place; if he’d done the same, for real. Loneliness is not that bad, they said, if you can handle it. If you can accept that walking over someone else’s feeling is perfectly fine. I start to learn that on these days. Did I ever manage to fully accept that? Is it there where all the problems are? So let’s the blood flow, then, someone is going to get hurt, isn’t it? But that’s fine. And that’s normal. I’ve been told. And I should listen to what all the people say, and everybody is telling me that I got to change: change! And that I should learn how to hate. I’ve been told. But they walk in line, and I walk in spirals. It takes quite a bit of time to get anywhere, but I’ve seen the people around the rocky shore, and the fireworks that strike eleven o’clock. As the church bells do for the Sunday mass. And have seen them again and again. And they all look the same, and they all sound the same. As doctors in the reception hall wearing an immaculate lab coat. They also walk in line and down the pale green corridors. All pretty much the same. Until one day, some ten years late, you also feel like you had more than enough of doctors, cars, rocky beaches, fireworks, football on the telly, books, records, telephones, dams, rivers and light bulbs which brightens the night. On a Wednesday of November, that should be the day. Sitting on your bad, listening to radio a bit too loud, not to listen to the people talking in the next room, and because you don’t want them to listen to you talking to yourself. They won’t listen anyway. They said you should sleep at night. And shouldn’t work that hard. But you don’t even realise if it Sunday, or Christmas, or New Year eve, because every day is the same, you know how it starts and can predict how it will finish. Still got a point to prove, but can you prove it? Doesn’t matter ‘till he sings on the radio, and talks to you, or you do believe so. But they, they will not understand however. And why not to sleep then? And you fall asleep and thinking that this time is the time, and didn’t took that much, after all. After all this waiting was it was just five minutes, and you’ll be sleeping calm and peacefully, and your heart is at quiet, hold in warm and silent cuddle. That simple. So damn simple that you’ll wake up the morning after as nothing had ever had happened, down to the train station, crossed the bridge and the river, the mountains at your back, thirteen station to your work place. As the day before, as the day that had to come, because every day was the same. Is, the bloody same. Still doctors in their candid coats, might be walking down a pale cyan alley this time, still people over rocky or sandy beaches, which will never remember your name or your face, even when you walk then home, five in the morning, in the steam of alcohol, and being offered a place on the coach, while her boyfriend is sleeping upstairs. The won’t remember your face, even though you’ve tried to put up your best smile and dig out all the irony of the circumstance, you’d rather walk home in the light rain of November. Thinking of Phoebes and the dam and the mountains \and the bulbs which makes endless day. Almost as a Scottish summer night, but not pleasant. If I were a spy, being invisible would have been a quality. S. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+