hey-lo sinisters. caleb ben here. i just read this. its an excerpt from an essay that a friend of mine wrote awhile back. it has no b&s content, but you'll still like it. or at least i hope you will. :) if you do like it drop the author a line at pleasenoalarms@aol.com her name is danielle. ttfn! .caleb ben p.s. a big hug to my shy & shimmering kallis ulla :) *** Sometimes just the way someone�s voice comes across on a radio or cd player can encapsulate the way your heart feels at the exact moment. Their built up years of misery, rough childhoods, broken families, experimentation�s with chemicals and those of the opposite sex that left them feeling more empty than they did before, listening to laments of other singers that they thought expressed the same writhing pain they hid in their lanky bodies. Tormented teens planning their escape, either through ending their misery (I�ll show them all!) or running off to a life where they could immerse themselves in the only thing that they loved and loved them back, the one thing that never judged or asked about future plans or criticized the wearing of tacky retro jeans, all loving music. The weakness and yearning in David Bowie, the confidence and smartness regardless of suicidal lyrics and unrequited love for self of the Smiths. Ethereal highs and lows as Elizabeth Fraser wrapped us in clouds of voice carrying us along a ride we knew nothing about, nor could discern through lyrics we couldn�t interpret, or didn�t want to interpret, dreaming of a song created for us, no matter what she said. The upbeat, progressive and self pitying songs of New Order and Pet Shop Boys. Dancing and flailing our arms, smiling even though they were talking about the roughness of life, in perfect candor. We were sycophants addicted to their music, even though we were the lowly they sang about, but we danced, lost and convinced ourselves for that 5:30 minutes we were on the same plain, only to have it crash as they played the melancholy, dark and haunting �Love Will Tear Us Apart� by Joy Division. We can all relate, even if we were never loved or kissed or had never even loved another. The voice of a dead man seems to be even more poignant as he sings and wails about lost love and how he would bleed himself just to hear her sweet laughter once more, or how he would sell his soul to be adored. Even in the depths of our candlelit rooms, with our pretentious books in full display, Q magazines always abundant and water stained from when we read them in every bathroom in the house, we sobbed and cried as Brett Anderson asked us to come to his arms and be there under a nuclear sky. Or even indulging ourselves as far as to run away from our sad homes and streets to that of an English one just to accept that we truly are common people�and admit that it was ok. Commuting to our work and home and running our errands, living out a fantasy that we weren�t really here, that we could walk through walls or float down a liffy or elevator as it were. Smiling our painful smiles, the ones that made your heart feel that it could actually break. Saying hellos as though they weren�t forced, making meaningless conversation with people who never thought or felt the things we did. Choosing tea over the mechanical rhythm of coffee and the chic nature of it. Repeating lyrics whilst making copies, with every flash of light of the machine reciting �The corporate hands� �flash�. �grab all they can�� flash� �all for themselves� �.flash�� after all� it�s a competitive world�SING IT�. No more flashes except the one to change the toner and return to a desk and chair. Disbelief, acceptance, panic attacks, obsession and then questioning which just led us to where we were before. Reading dark books to the ambient sounds that sent us into a trance where we knew not what time it was just that it was time and there was nothing we could do to stop this clock. Our days were jumbled, first going too slow and now as we look at ourselves and pray we aren�t Gen-Xer�s we feel so different inside then when we first discovered that wild horses could never take us away, or that all we ever wanted was everything just to wonder what have we become, my sweetest friend, fearing that everyone we know goes away in the end. Even a US band could have touched us in our fragile youthful states, a state where we couldn�t decide if the Smashing Pumpkins were cool or not, but with the lights off and the door closed hearing Billy singing like a hand on a chalkboard, words we thought or emotions we felt. We were running to tell someone, but then we didn�t have anyone to go except parents who spoke of his voice as too annoying to bother to interpret what he was saying. But, before we even sent one dollar American for lyrics, we knew he was singing it to us� calling us hipsters and uniting for the big fight to rock for us. We were hipsters, more than we knew. We are the hipster generation. Or we thought� and just as our affirmations felt clear and settled we were told an album later that he too feared he was ordinary and the sadness of a death rock boy, who like us was mascara sure and lipstick lost. We retreated once more. Skinny boys, boys who wished they possessed the same frame as Brett, Bernard and Jarvis. Who daydreamed they had the passion and frightening allure of Dave Gahan. But, all they were were less accomplished Trents, with their self loathing and hurting themselves just to see if they could still feel. Taking too much time in showers just to lip sync, shouting out with no voice to slow down, cos we were taking them over. Walking with a bravado of ultra cool. Wearing skinny sunglasses indoors, trying as hard as it was not to become too emotional in any way. Growing their limp hair just to toss it back as though we would swoon as ask to be their girls, not that they would know what to do with us once they had us. Thinking and having convinced themselves that if they acted aloof or disinterested we would do anything to find out the mystery. We have to admit some of us did fall into the trap of a boy trying to be uber cool. Thinking it was the closest we would get to Thom, Jonny, Ed (oh Ed), Colin or even Phil, just to be disappointed in finding that he was mortal and didn�t really have a mystery. Feeling a let down that he wanted to know about us, that he did care, that he did want to love. Disappointment, since what we craved was the non-committal almost loathing disregard we were used to with our fantasy lover who either thought they would never marry, or just didn�t feel that we had earned it yet baby. Girls who wanted to be the girls of Lush, with a darkness that appealed to even us, with their tiny voices that sang so loud. Wanting to possess their strength of how they could tell a boy that they werent offended with things that he said cos it was just too fine a day. Their faces hidden in shadows made us reach conclusions that they could be nothing but perfection. But, after all our primping and after going through all the black clothes ever made, we seemed to be bargain basement versions of Elasticas numerous bass players, who like us had come and gone. We, boy and girl alike, sat in smoky rooms, not only inhaling the toxic air of spilt beer and clove cigarrettes but also the pulsating music. It ran in our veins, and we often thought if we ran out of blood they could just run an ivy to our cd players right to our heart and we could go on living in our asphalt worlds, dancing around like europe was our playground, going to marvelous parties, stepping out of our cages and on to stages, and having a lust for life like never before. ===== "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle." ~Plato "Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction." -Antoine de Saint-Exupery __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Try FREE Yahoo! Mail - the world's greatest free email! http://mail.yahoo.com/ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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. 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