Sinister: Those First Impressions.

[Nick Horne]

The writer believes in common courtesy above most
other things and, as such, feels that he should
introduce himself to those listees to whom he remains
a stranger.  He is telling you the positions to which
reality has driven his own life, and he thinks you may
be interested enough to consider them.


He is a dandy and a do-gooder; a brick and a bohemian;
a fop but not, we’re told, a Fabian.

He enjoys inventing curiously-mixed similes and
installing them into the popular consciousness through
the medium of idle chatter.  His latest offering is
‘Gay as a bastard’ (eg. Of course they’re staring; you
look gay as a bastard in that blouse.)

He spends his spare time scanning internet diaries for
references to himself.  He may, eventually, find the
motivation to write his own web-journal, making such
vicarious affirmations unnecessary.  References to
himself in every entry!  Just *imagine*!  

He enjoys fine wine, dancing, and class warfare.

He has a habit of throwing odd references and quotes
into his sentences without acknowledging them, just to
see whether anyone will notice and interject in order
to appear learned.  Nobody notices.  As such, he has
not yet been prosecuted for plagiarism.

In the interest of balance, he also habitually
attributes his own words to random figures of greater
renown.  (If he's honest, this is about toying with
concepts of authorship and authority, and the blind
respect accorded to any words placed within
quote-marks.  A matter on which Rainer Maria Rilke, of
course, often wrote).

He can regularly be found preaching outside tube
stations, his medium being well-polished cufflinks.

He recently received three separate offers of sexual
congress within the space of five minutes.  This is
because he looks far wealthier than he really is.

He spends more money than he can afford on Christmas
records (Low’s Christmas, The Fortuna Pop!
Compilation, Spector things…) in the belief that this
will remind him of being young and feeling magical
again.  In fact, it simply reminds him of being young
and having no money and how you had to moan at your
parents until they relented and bought you things.

He doesn’t *do* girlfriends.

Recognising that we exist in motion, he struggles to
find the necessary distance from which to comment upon
himself.  He occasionally even feels the need, for
instance, to revert to using the Third Person. 
Ultimately, this all means that he quotes the words of
Others far too regularly, in order to pin himself down
in a suitably concise manner.  The words of six year
olds appear truer to him than many of his own
well-worn wonderings:

“I had a dream
 Not mean things this time.
 There was music crying last night
 I held a lot of things belonging to spring
 But when I woke up
 They would not come with me.”
    -   Jane Reis.

He is a member of the Baxendale 24-hour mini-Massive.

He was approached by a gypsy, two weeks before New
Year, who told him that he would be Very Lucky In Love
for the remainder of the year.  He spent the next two
weeks at home with only his parents for company.

He doesn’t *do* boyfriends.

Lairy men regularly hum to themselves upon passing him
in the street.  Goodness alone knows what that's all
about.

He goes to gigs and spends much of the time bemoaning
the fact that none of the sounds being played are
anywhere *near* as good as his own pop songs.

He has yet to complete a single one of his own pop
songs. 

That said, his latest creation is a gorgeous slice of
pun-pop, with synth cascades and overwhelmed lyrics of
meek betrayal.  The working-title?  ‘Numan, All Too
Numan’.

This week’s favourite quote is by Theodore Roethke:

“I’m someone else right now.
 Don’t tell my hands.”


Mme. Nicholas Passant x

Some would bemoan the lack of content.  But you must,
at least, enjoy the *form*.


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