Sinister: they fight fire but tho they burn they do not fight themselves

[stacey dahling]

So yesterday the toast maker exploded and I haven’t eaten properly ever 
since. It’s amazing how much I had come to depend on toast. Toast and honey 
for breakfast, toast sandwich of tomato, onion, roasted red pepper, basil, 
cheese and mustard for lunch/dinner. It was quite a dramatic demise. I was 
washing dishes a foot away when suddenly there was an enormous spark - a 
mini-firecracker, really - and then all the electricity in the whole house 
went off. An autopsy revealed the power cord had been sandwiched in with the 
bread and melted through in two separate sections.
Dinner was not the only thing that died with the toast maker, but also an 
informal ritual, or way of life, that had somehow revolved around it. My 
days consist of long periods of writing in my bedroom, interrupted only by 
the occasional trip to the bathroom or toast maker. I’m usually too 
pre-occupied or lazy to make a proper meal, at least not until late in the 
evening, so the toast maker was truly an essential appliance, more so than 
the television or even the radio. After I laid it to rest on the little 
garbage rug next to the door, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stared 
at the refrigerator for what seemed like hours. I spent the rest of the 
evening pacing around my room in circles, dipping my finger in maple syrup.
Before the incident, I had spent the morning telling my new roommate Jane 
all my secrets. I don’t know how it happened. And afterwards I was quite 
embarrassed. I always do this. I withhold so much from my so-called friends, 
but blab to strangers. My relationship with Jane began as expected. She 
moved in Thursday and I timidly showed her around the apartment, retreating 
into my room rather quickly as she went out to buy some groceries. Then we 
floated around the apartment, seeking each other out occasionally to ask 
questions or point something out, like the water boiler switch or the garlic 
press. We gradually began to speak about other things. But it wasn’t until 
we had our first drunken “family meal” that I became loquacious.
This is another thing that has dramatically altered my little insular world, 
even more so than the untimely demise of the toast maker (after all, I will 
likely buy a new one tomorrow). The apartment is suddenly social. Cause and 
effect. New roommate means we had to clear out our “office” and consolidate 
our living room. Our enormous, open apartment once had two adjoining front 
rooms the size of an art gallery (and almost as empty). Now that space has 
been cut in half, and there is only one common area. We acquired a table and 
television and a lamp and started decorating the naked walls in an attempt 
to make the place more comfortable now that the cold weather has forced us 
indoors and off the balcony.
On Friday, I ran into Joan of Dark and she came over to escape the dreary 
cold and rain. Coral was home, and Jane, and for the first time we had 
enough people for an impromptu dinner party. We squeezed into the kitchen, 
opened a bottle of wine and chatted as we watched Coral throw ingredients 
together for a huge quiche. It was great fun. When the meal was ready an 
hour later, we sat around the new living room table and had a long dinner, 
finishing off two more bottles of wine and a few bottles of Amstel. I walked 
Joanna to the bus stop and returned home to find that Coral’s boyfriend 
Peter had arrived. So the party continued, well into the night.
The next morning, Jane, Coral and Peter were sitting in the living room, 
watching television and discussing Greek slang. I can’t get over it. There 
are people in my living room now. All the time. I had gotten used to not 
seeing another person in my apartment for weeks on end, or seeing Coral for 
15-minute intervals as we bumped into each other on the way in or out.
I suppose this is really not that big of a deal. In fact, I feel quite silly 
getting so worked up about it. But it’s disconcerting to realize one day 
that the entire nature of your home has changed dramatically. And it’s 
probably a good thing that I will be forced to be social. But. But. But. I 
dunno.
I’ve been listening to the same two granddaddy songs on repeat for 40 
minutes. I must stop. I’ve begun to need music all the time. Silence 
disturbs me. I wonder why this is.
Coral has this theory about sinister.
She believes that Belle and Sebastian somehow appeals to our deep, 
child-like sensibilities. That the music is warm and comforting, a salve to 
soothe whatever wounds we may have. She thinks we are all either wounded in 
some way or have a basic desire to return to a child-like existence. She 
points to those of us who are depressed, forlorn, confused, twee. Mind you, 
she has formed this theory of hers based largely on me and my descriptions 
of friends and tales of picnics and two or three forays into chat. I’m not 
sure how accurate it is at all - it does not account for those music snobs 
among us, for instance - but there you have it.
Today was a good day to snuggle up with hot cocoa and a good book or bad 
film. It was cold and rainy and dark and dismal. But instead I tread half 
the city in search of a good café. I ended up at one halfway between the 
ritzy shops and student hangouts. It was very bright and proper, with 
waiters who wore black bowties. The clientele was old, well-dressed and 
perfumed. They were all paired off, or in groups of three or four, and they 
eyed me suspiciously as I sat alone by a window, writing and staring 
outside, dressed in pale blue corduroys, an old worn plaid shirt and a black 
sweater. It made me feel… good.
I feel like perhaps I should begin referring to other listees and posts. My 
posts are always so self-involved. I never thought I’d turn into such a 
public navel-gazer. How pathetic. I feel guilty about this, a little. But I 
don’t know what to say, really, except that kirsten’s last post was so 
fabulous I almost printed it out. I’ve never done that before. I’ve noticed 
my anti-crush stance has not been received with open arms. Ah well. I 
haven’t changed my opinion, but I have enjoyed some of the pro-crush posts 
nonetheless. Hmm. You are all fab anyway, however misguided. Ha! Sorry. I 
didn’t mean that. Entirely.
I’m going to read a smart, thick, depressing book now, maybe to catch a 
glimpse at the meaning of life. Or at least a few words that force me to use 
a dictionary. I think I am ready.

“My name will be Money but you can call me Change.”

~dahling


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