So yesterday the toast maker exploded and I haven’t eaten properly ever since. It’s amazing how much I had come to depend on toast. Toast and honey for breakfast, toast sandwich of tomato, onion, roasted red pepper, basil, cheese and mustard for lunch/dinner. It was quite a dramatic demise. I was washing dishes a foot away when suddenly there was an enormous spark - a mini-firecracker, really - and then all the electricity in the whole house went off. An autopsy revealed the power cord had been sandwiched in with the bread and melted through in two separate sections. Dinner was not the only thing that died with the toast maker, but also an informal ritual, or way of life, that had somehow revolved around it. My days consist of long periods of writing in my bedroom, interrupted only by the occasional trip to the bathroom or toast maker. I’m usually too pre-occupied or lazy to make a proper meal, at least not until late in the evening, so the toast maker was truly an essential appliance, more so than the television or even the radio. After I laid it to rest on the little garbage rug next to the door, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stared at the refrigerator for what seemed like hours. I spent the rest of the evening pacing around my room in circles, dipping my finger in maple syrup. Before the incident, I had spent the morning telling my new roommate Jane all my secrets. I don’t know how it happened. And afterwards I was quite embarrassed. I always do this. I withhold so much from my so-called friends, but blab to strangers. My relationship with Jane began as expected. She moved in Thursday and I timidly showed her around the apartment, retreating into my room rather quickly as she went out to buy some groceries. Then we floated around the apartment, seeking each other out occasionally to ask questions or point something out, like the water boiler switch or the garlic press. We gradually began to speak about other things. But it wasn’t until we had our first drunken “family meal” that I became loquacious. This is another thing that has dramatically altered my little insular world, even more so than the untimely demise of the toast maker (after all, I will likely buy a new one tomorrow). The apartment is suddenly social. Cause and effect. New roommate means we had to clear out our “office” and consolidate our living room. Our enormous, open apartment once had two adjoining front rooms the size of an art gallery (and almost as empty). Now that space has been cut in half, and there is only one common area. We acquired a table and television and a lamp and started decorating the naked walls in an attempt to make the place more comfortable now that the cold weather has forced us indoors and off the balcony. On Friday, I ran into Joan of Dark and she came over to escape the dreary cold and rain. Coral was home, and Jane, and for the first time we had enough people for an impromptu dinner party. We squeezed into the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine and chatted as we watched Coral throw ingredients together for a huge quiche. It was great fun. When the meal was ready an hour later, we sat around the new living room table and had a long dinner, finishing off two more bottles of wine and a few bottles of Amstel. I walked Joanna to the bus stop and returned home to find that Coral’s boyfriend Peter had arrived. So the party continued, well into the night. The next morning, Jane, Coral and Peter were sitting in the living room, watching television and discussing Greek slang. I can’t get over it. There are people in my living room now. All the time. I had gotten used to not seeing another person in my apartment for weeks on end, or seeing Coral for 15-minute intervals as we bumped into each other on the way in or out. I suppose this is really not that big of a deal. In fact, I feel quite silly getting so worked up about it. But it’s disconcerting to realize one day that the entire nature of your home has changed dramatically. And it’s probably a good thing that I will be forced to be social. But. But. But. I dunno. I’ve been listening to the same two granddaddy songs on repeat for 40 minutes. I must stop. I’ve begun to need music all the time. Silence disturbs me. I wonder why this is. Coral has this theory about sinister. She believes that Belle and Sebastian somehow appeals to our deep, child-like sensibilities. That the music is warm and comforting, a salve to soothe whatever wounds we may have. She thinks we are all either wounded in some way or have a basic desire to return to a child-like existence. She points to those of us who are depressed, forlorn, confused, twee. Mind you, she has formed this theory of hers based largely on me and my descriptions of friends and tales of picnics and two or three forays into chat. I’m not sure how accurate it is at all - it does not account for those music snobs among us, for instance - but there you have it. Today was a good day to snuggle up with hot cocoa and a good book or bad film. It was cold and rainy and dark and dismal. But instead I tread half the city in search of a good café. I ended up at one halfway between the ritzy shops and student hangouts. It was very bright and proper, with waiters who wore black bowties. The clientele was old, well-dressed and perfumed. They were all paired off, or in groups of three or four, and they eyed me suspiciously as I sat alone by a window, writing and staring outside, dressed in pale blue corduroys, an old worn plaid shirt and a black sweater. It made me feel… good. I feel like perhaps I should begin referring to other listees and posts. My posts are always so self-involved. I never thought I’d turn into such a public navel-gazer. How pathetic. I feel guilty about this, a little. But I don’t know what to say, really, except that kirsten’s last post was so fabulous I almost printed it out. I’ve never done that before. I’ve noticed my anti-crush stance has not been received with open arms. Ah well. I haven’t changed my opinion, but I have enjoyed some of the pro-crush posts nonetheless. Hmm. You are all fab anyway, however misguided. Ha! Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Entirely. I’m going to read a smart, thick, depressing book now, maybe to catch a glimpse at the meaning of life. Or at least a few words that force me to use a dictionary. I think I am ready. “My name will be Money but you can call me Change.” ~dahling _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+