Sinister: Life is a melon cauliflower.

[Ruvi Simmons]

To whom it may concern,

As I write this, I am listening to Barber's adagio for strings. Is it
because of the awe-inspiring resonance of the piece, the way it seems to
contain its own language and logic, with which it speaks directly to the
deepest, noblest parts of the soul? Well, partly. Is it because every note
carries with it the silent echo of eternities, an ongoing, self-renewing
fusion of past, present and future? Closer. Or is it as a little tribute to
poor Robert Kennedy, dead with a bullet in the brain, and a lifetime's
political work condensed to a pool of blood on a hotel kitchen floor, at
whose funeral the piece was performed? No. It is because this is my last
post to Sinister, and if that is not an occasion which warrants a little bit
of melancholy, even a little bit of melodramatic melancholy, then I confess
I don't know what is.

It is to be my last post because, in exactly 2 hours, I am going to the
airport, where I shall board a plane and be spirited away into the clouds.
When I descend, I will be in Shanghai. For three months. It all makes me
feel like Scott of the Antarctic, standing with the flap of the tent open,
revealing a bitter blizzard raging across the frozen plains. Frost on the
moustache, barely supressed shivers, wild, emaciated look in the eyes. On
the verge of death. Then, the flicker of a smile. A human smile. The eyes
clear. "I may be some time." The smile dies, the face turns away, and the
body strides out to meet the storm.

The strings, having crescended and died away, are now resurging in one final
refrain. They are talking about death and tragedy. Not a tragedy fit for
weeping, but one so rich and beautiful that it thrills the spirit at the
same time that it reaps its devastation.

Sadness, as Jimmy Greaves would perhaps put it (segueing from classical
music to cockney wife-beating football pundits; enough to induce headaches!
Or, at least, mild motion sickness), is a funny old game. Why be sad at a
moment of positive, exciting change? Why be sad at the moments of greatest
happiness? Why this perpetual duality that paints the world in varying
shades of grey (though let us not forget red and yellow and pink and green,
orange and purple and blue; I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a
rainbow too: a world of greys would be a sad place indeed)? Because, I
think, gain always means loss. New experiences are garnered at the exclusion
of others, and to move on is to forever give up something of value. So, in
this constant process of decision-making, every choice is an exclusive one,
that is, it excludes the other possible options. So there is loss. An
infinity of choices and virtually no time in which to choose. No wonder the
world induces panic. Panic on the streets of London, panic on the streets of
Birmingham. And Paris. And Addis Ababa. And Adelaide. And Shanghai
(certainly while I'm in residence, mixing numberless worries with the beads
of sweat on my forehead).

I said time is running out. It always is, but particularly so now. I must
go: the storm awaits, as it does around every corner. I would like to say
that I have enjoyed reading the thoughts, feelings and experiences for which
this mailing list (surely a loftier terms is required? I, however, have not
the time to think of one) is a sort of astral, or perhaps just pixelated,
conduit, immensely. Maybe I will be back in three months. If anyone wants to
write to me, I will have access to my e-mail in Shanghai. But then, who
would want to contact a drug-addled poser, eh? If it were me, I wouldn't.

I may be some time.

Ruvi.

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