Sinister: a castle is not a home

[PKHINTZ]

	During the week a package arrived for me from the United Kingdom.  In the
upper right hand corner was a stamp with a picture of Edinburgh Castle.  My
mother assumed that meant the package was from Scotland, but it was from
somewhere south and west and by the sea.  Mothers can be wrong, though they
admit that infrequently.  I have my own picture of the castle.  When I visited
Endinburgh in December I sat in the park below the castle.  I took out of my
bag my black blank book and my felt-tipped pen.  The drawing became more of
the castle wall and the hill, due to the size limitations of the page.  Think
of cross-hatched blacks lines loosely composed into the idea of a mass of
rocks and the idea of a streak of a wall cutting across that, and you nearly
have the drawing of mine.  Holiday shoppers walked past me as I sat on the
bench and drew; I noticed how they tried to look over my shoulder without my
noticing--but they did not do a good job at that feat.  My hands became numb
from the cold.  This morning I showed my father my drawing and the stamp; he
told me that it looked great.  I can never tell if he is lying or not.  Unlike
him, I do not take to the pushing of lines across a page; I push words around
the page instead.  
	Trapped on the train back to London from Edinburgh, I listened to my cassette
of _Tigermilk_.  From the window I saw mountains, the sea, and occasionally
history's relic of a castle or an abbey.  I wanted to know if being in
Scotland enhanced listening to Belle and Sebastian, but it does not.  Whatever
those songs are about is all the world over.  

					Living and loving
							Matthew  
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.             Listen, this is pish, I think I'll leave
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