Um, this isn't from me, so don't reply to my address. This post is from Miss Dahling [dahling@ismydarling.co.uk], who is (a) stuck in the nursery and (b) stuck in Athens. She would be out of the nursery by now because she's a previously-mature listee who has returned from beyond the seas; but she's not because Honey is on holiday. Honey: I hope you don't mind me doing this, but she promised she'd make up for it by being *extra* nice to you when she comes to visit. (oh, I had to think up the subject. Sorry, dahl, if you think it's crap. bye everyone, will) -------------------------------------------------------------------------- [start reading here] Whatever happened to those verbal photographs? Mine would look like this, I suppose: There is a heat wave, and I defy it, going into the streets to escape the insufferable closeness of my fifth-floor apartment. Everything is closed. The shopkeepers are inside, huddled with their children around air conditioners like ovens. I pass a park where old men gather. They line up and jeer and I clench my fists and jaw in anger. I'm not particularly pretty, but it doesn't matter, because I am so obviously a foreigner, and therefore easy in their eyes. Water drips on the sidewalk from air conditioners overhead. Instead of avoiding the shower, I purposefully get wet. The droplets seem to sizzle for a second on my burning shoulders before evaporating. The heat, so loathsome before, now seems cozy. It tickles my skin and enfolds me in its embrace. Any embrace is welcome about now. Why am I here, where everyone is a stranger, where every glance is potentially lecherous and completely unwelcome? Once so full of ambition, I now spend my days in bed, my nights playing solitaire until my eyes hurt. And when I close them, I dream of people I have never met, but who would undoubtedly change my life forever. I head for the shade of a cafe. All around me, the cacophony of foreign sounds clouds my hearing. I imagine they are having very important conversations that I will never understand. Maybe they are exploring the meaning of life and, discovering it, will turn to share it with me, but it will fall on ignorant ears. But no, I understand some words. They are only discussing dinner, and the weather. The cafe is placed irreverently atop a metro stop. The tables shake as a train passes underneath and I wonder how this place became so popular. All the tables are full. People strain to be heard over the noise of the station. The sun beats down on the pavement, sending up heat waves that make everyone look hazy. I watch as couples meet, as parties take out their backgammon boards and teen girls try to mask their furtive glances. The men don't bother. They stare openly and plan their attacks. The waiters hang about listlessly and I imagine they are playing little games, trying to determine where everyone is from. A starving kitten sways under a table, unnoticed, except by an old man who clicks away on his beads and does not seem to care. A crazy man wearing only a pair of shorts and a two-prong beard runs down the street, attacking cars, and holds up two fingers at me. There is an accident and the old man is hit. He lies there, a little stunned, dead perhaps. No, he jumps up and resumes his ranting. I cry a little, despite myself. Maybe he's just trying to be understood but is not using the right words, like me. Maybe he is also lost, looking for love, or even a friend, in a foreign, uninviting land. Maybe he sees something others do not. Sometimes I think there is nothing more glorious in the Athenian summer than rain. I have never known such rain - so pure and cleansing. It comes in unexpected bursts, after weeks of searingly hot, sweaty dinginess, and gently rubs away all the filth. It pulls down the pollution and runs yellow from the sidewalks, collecting in the slick streets in great pools. People run outside to briefly take it all in, then run back inside a little wet, and laughing. It is over almost as suddenly as it began, leaving behind a freshness hard to describe - like breaking free from the inside of a car that has been collecting heat, ozone and a little exhaust for hours. You gasp in quick breaths and feel your pores opening to suck it all in. Okay, enough of that already. I hope you are all keeping yourself well-fed and slept and free of disease. Hospitals are no fun, especially for sensitive people who find themselves in foreign lands. I like seeing all these skinny sensitive boys transformed into sinister studs. I am too poor to buy Jonathan David. I am falling behind. But it doesn't bother me as much as it used to. I've been relating more and more lately to Aden's ``Scooby Doo.'' I suppose that makes me old, doesn't it? Hmm... Love and other indoor sports, Dahling +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+