I would like to begin with the admission that I do not normally, or, indeed, ever, pay attention to current events. They are, by turn, tedious, depressing, repetitive and unimportant in the grander ebb and flow of both an individual life and that of our not so sacred species. However, I feel I really ought to write a little bit about a recent item of news, although that term doesn't really do justice to the event. What I write is, more than anything else, an epitaph. I am speaking of the destruction of two statues of Buddha by Taleban rebels in Afghanistan. Do I hear a sigh of boredom escaping from fair lips? If you bare with me, I will explain my reasons for mentionting this. When I chanced upon the news items, I do not think it would be histrionic (well, perhaps slightly, but forgive me the for the sake of dramatic effect, please) to say that it impacted on me like a blow to the stomach. I consider these treasures, which represent the life and essence of our predessesors, not only as common property, but precious treasures, almost sacred remains, symbols of life, hope, mortality - the themes that cut to the core of our being, expressed in different ways throughout the epochs. Thus, whenever one such treasure is lost, the world and our pool of human resources grows a little poorer. The Afghani Taleban now claim to have destroyed two-thirds of the Buddhist icons in what is now their territory. I do not particularly hold them accountable for this destruction, since it would be grossly hypocritical to blame a group now for committing crimes that virtually every civilisation in the world has perpetrated, and continues to do today. In fact, perhaps I am wrong - I hold all civilisations accountable, but am powerless to stem the sad tide. It is simply a waste, a senseless, tragic waste, and I wanted to write this, alas (for I had intended it to be otherwise, I promise) lengthy, obituary for some precious things now lost. Moving on from such musings, I am, quite frankly, lost for words. I have been surveying my week in search of some interesting event from which to draw inspiration, but the only two things I can come up with are reading Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night off the back of a truck to a departing crowd at a club in Camden (it didn't quite have the inspirational effects I had envisioned in my vivid imagination) and a brief encounter I had at the shops earlier today. I think the latter is of more interesting - debauchery is a bore when one isn't being debauched, and even then I wonder. If you imbibe enough alcohol, drugs or whatever else your bag may be, then you are set on a course that doesn't end until the substances wear off or you pass out, but that doesn't mean it is engaging, it is simply inexorable. My poor little analytic mind tends to observe my body reeling around drunkenly with horror, yet remains utterly powerless to do anything, and simply observes proceedings, patiently waiting in the wings for it all to end. So nothing more about debauchery. Back to the girl at Marks and Spencer's, although I don't think this anecdote is going to have any point, except, perhaps, well, we shall see. She was a cashier (is it terribly base to long for cashiers? She did work at Marks and Spencers, at least), a slight, black-haired girl with long fingers and quick movements. She contrasted sharply with the usually morose, inattentive people employed by supermarkets, so I manoeuvered my trolley to her check-out (what words to describe brief spells, for spells they are, of romance! Oh the disparity between the modern world and deep feelings!) and fumbled my items onto the conveyor belt with rather trembling fingers. As I moved over to pack, she was kind enough to help me, deluged me with a variety of different shaped bags, and, as I was leaving, having handed over a fistful of change in a feeble attempt at prolonging the entire experience, she said, instead of goodbye of the usual mutterings, "take care". I do not, however, want you to think me in any way blessed by this response, for she had said it to the previous customer. However, I was touched; what a nice, simple and unexpected thing to have said while standing on the dirty linoleum and under the fluorescent lights of a supermarket. Take care indeed. And that, I'm afraid, was that. Read into what you may - my shaking hands and taking care are the key, I think. You may be surprised to know, judging by the quality of the above, that it was written over the course of several hours. Perhaps, next time, I shall wait and restrain myself until inspiration is kind enough to alight at my side to give me guidance, and thus afford whosoever may be kind enough the pleasure of reading something more beautiful that this rather lacklustre offering. Until then, well, my fondest and best wishes go out to you one and all. Ruvi. +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+