Sinister: Birthday boys don't remember.

[Ruvi Simmons]

Hello. It's been a while.

It's been three months, in fact, since I last found myself sitting between
the right angles of my two desks in the early hours of the morning, writing
to strangers. I like strangers, probably more than I like the people I know.
Which probably means I like myself. Or the promise of unknowns.

I found out a few things during the three months I spent teaching English in
China. First was that it was possible to speak for several uninterrupted
hours on the rudiments of English grammar. Second was that comedians who die
on stage to silent audiences persevere because of the ongoing hope for
improvement. Third was that people are silly and sad the world over. I knew
that one before. In fact, I'm making it all up as I go along, but that isn't
an argument not to trust everything you read. It isn't an argument for
anything.

I still haven't learnt how to be entertaining, I'm afraid. Although I
managed to polish up my karoake versions of Send in the Clowns and Puff the
Magic Dragon. That, however, is most decidedly not entertainment.

There is a touch of surrealism to finding myself in such a familiar
scenario. It's the same surprise as when, earlier today, on one of the rare
occasions I saw some television, I passively absorbed an advert for Have I
Got News For You. They were all there: Angus Deyton, Ian Hislop and Paul
Merton, smugly ribbing one another under the kind auspices of Auntie, to the
delight of another TV centre audience. The fact that they were still alive
was quite a shock. They had been dead to me for so long. But why shouldn't
they be? And if they were going to be anywhere, wouldn't they be on
television, doing what they always do? And why should my desk be anywhere
other than where it has been ever since I bought it from a Bermondsey
antiques dealer who sat behind his faux-Chippendale desk puffing Mayfair
fags like the Sheik of Tower Bridge? For that matter, why should I be
anywhere other than in front of my desk, where I've been so many times
before. If I was a betting man, my current position would be odds-on
favourite against the other possibilities.

Since returning to England, I and some friends have started an arts
magazine. That is the real reason I am writing. The preceeding paragraphs
were just sweetening preamble. If anyone reading this has any
poetry/stories/comments in whose quality they believe, we are welcoming
contributions. We have no agenda except that the work must be sincere and
serious. We are interested in acting positively against current-day trends
of cynicism and media/self-obsession in art and literature. In spite of what
I said earlier, that's entertainment, folks. As W.H. Auden put it, don't the
darlings have cold hearts? We want to warm them. If anyone is interested,
contact me.

Tomorrow, art. Today, bed. In between, dreams. Goodnight.

Ruvi.




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