Sinister: Tenderness atones for debauchery, or so I dearly hope.

[Ruvi Simmons]

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.


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