Sinister: The sun's been quite kind, when I wrote this song.

[Ruvi Simmons]

There has, of late, been considerable talk of Belle and Sebastian's
impending releases and tour, which is hardly surprising, and which I, too,
am excited by. In fact, excited is too listless a word; the sort one may use
to describe a fun fair atrtactions, a little one trill ride, an artificial
rub with death. Was it exciting for Siegfried Sassoon to go over the top,
deafened by the sound of machine guns and sickened by the smell of the blood
of his dying friends? I doubt it. Let us condemn the word excited to be used
to describe shallow, meaningless pleasure, and select another (I apologise
for using the Royal form of address, but I consider it to be the writer's
domain no less than that of an ill-educated so-called ruling family).
Paroxysms of delight. How's that? Yes, I think it shall suffice.
Nevertheless, despite all this talk of Belle and Sebastian, what about the
AC/DC concert at the Milton Keynes Bowl in June? How about that for
excitement? Angus in his schoolboy outfit, the chap who isn't Bon Scott in a
flat cap screeching about American thighs, the explosions, the Highway to
Hell! My heart flutters at the prospect.

There, that is my preamble out of the way. It is not without some
trepidation that I begin, you see. I was somewhat cowed by the rather
unpleasant response to my observation regarding pretty girls. I found it
interesting, however, that no one declared with pride that they weren't
blessed with good looks or other such intrinsic attributes, but have
striven, pained themselves, for a little shred of decency, intellectual
prowess and emotional sensitivity. Nobody declared that these are things far
more important than this flesh of ours, which is rotting even as we preen
and powder ourselves in vain attempts to retain its rosiness. But I do not
want to open yet another can of nasty little worms with more inflammatory
remarks. However, I shall thank Mr. Thatchez for his kind words and for
bothering to understand what I had written.

I fear that, once more, I have said too much. I should take Thomas Hardy's
advice and resolve to say no more but, I think, it was easier for him to do
so as a man in his eighties, regretting mistakes, enfeebled by the ravages
of time and unable to rage against the world he lived in with the vigour he
still felt beating in his old heart. Besides, people do not easily give up
on life, struggle and the weight of words still unsaid. I would like to tell
a little anecdote which bears far wider relevance than merely struggling to
evade the mantle of the apologist, that speaks about the depths of human
resolve. Henrik Ibsen, in his dotage, suffered a catastrophic stroke which
deprived him of the capacity to read and write. His son, who was also his
nurse of sorts, went in to see him one day, and found he was seated in the
conservatory, wrapped up in a blanket to protect his frail body from the
cold. Before him, on a tray, were pieces of paper and a text book intended
to teach children literacy. Henrik Ibsen, on the verge of death, robbed of
everything, reduced to the level of child, was beginning again. He was
trying to re-learn everything he had lost. He looked up at his son and said,
"I used to be a writer, you know".

Since suddenesss can be the breeding bround for ambiguity, and ambiguity
fuel for imagination, and imagination the gilt of life, I shall end with
leaving more unsaid than said,

Ruvi.

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