Sinister: I think I'm turning into one of you...

[Dahling]

usual introduction to a post by dahling: don't reply to me, reply to
dahling at ismydarling.co.uk . she's probably out of the nursery by now, but
for some obscure reasons she still can't post. she send it to me. I took
care of it. I made a post out of a word document. I read it. I thought of a
subject. I made her name appear up there. Finally, I wrote an introduction.
Now I'm leaving, leaving you alone with her. Take good care of her, bye from
me, Dimitra.
ps She's turning into one of us. That's for sure. But then Ally, and
Pinefox, say we are turning into lamposts... who knows what's going to
happen...

------------post starts here---------------

A ring of tea bags hang from the ceiling
their shadows creep toward the open window like spiders

leaving behind a faint scent of mint.

Maps scamper across the wall in circles, diamonds, swirls.

Blocked by the corners, they settle into the ebb and flow of a giant wave,

enclosing three portraits,

taking the blue man places he never thought he'd see.

My dingy grey sheets are saturated in sweat

and I lay upon them, twirling my oily hair into a mini pompadour,

wondering where you are

and if you will ever get here.

So I think I'm turning into one of you. Satisfied to lurk forever on the
list and titter about in #sinister only, I am now obsessed with the idea of
writing things for sinister people to read. I don't really understand it. It
seems a bit egocentric, or psychological in a therapeutic sort of way. Well,
really, it's a great cure for writer's block. When I can't stand trying to
find a new way to describe blue seas or am sick of reading quotes from dumb
basketball players, or when I am just plain LAZY, it's a nice change of
venue. And even better, since I write them in Word, it appears as if I might
actually be writing work-related things in some inspired, feverish frenzy.
Only you know the truth. And I know you won't tell.

Also, I'm having a slight career crisis. Shall I tell you about it? As
background, it is important to know that I spent the last two years slaving
away at a small newspaper (circ. 30,000) in New England. It was fabulous,
despite the shit wages, long hours and the scary way it consumed my entire
life, for I was hanging out with cops and criminals, with druggies and rape
victims and welfare mothers and inmates and everyone in between. Fantastic.
Being a crime reporter is not as glamorous as it seems, but it was still
damn cool. For although I am rather shy and naive, I got to witness the true
stuff of life in all its glaring reality. These people opened up to me in
ways I still don't completely understand, and I felt what I was doing,
telling their stories, was important in some way.

Somewhere along the line I decided to up and move to Greece with a
colleague. Crazy. Since I've arrived four months ago, I've spent the
majority of my days laying around our largely unfurnished apartment, doing
absolutely nothing and feeling damn guilty about it. Occasionally I travel.
Actually, I've traveled quite a bit this summer. And the only writing I've
done is in the form of really cheesy travel articles that I'm not really
proud of. Here's the rub - I used to enjoy travel immensely, but I'm
beginning to hate it. It's become all about going to a place, anxious to
analyze it and strip it of all it has to offer - in the most efficient
manner possible - until it's reduced to a product. And it is quite
unsatisfying, especially when traveling alone. How do you truly experience a
place by yourself? To me, the place only becomes important once it is
infused with experience of some sort. It can contribute to the experience,
but does not achieve significance until the experience is had. When you are
alone, all you do is observe other people's experience with the place and
reflect upon your own experiences elsewhere. At least, I do.

I realized all this while I was by myself in the Pelion Peninsula, after a
delightful visit with Miss Velocity Girl herself, who I should add here, is
the most gracious hostess and regaled me with sinister gossip and ice cream
and scary movies until I was ready to burst with comfort and joy. Anyway. my
first stop was a beautiful, if not a little touristy, village. I walked
around a bit and thought, "Aw, quaint. Must take photos." And the next half
hour was spent doing just that - exploring for the sake of photos, not for
the sake of discovering or enjoying the place, really. There were lots of
cute shops and cafes, and I briefly considered visiting them, but decided to
move on instead, and get as much done in one day as possible - as if it were
a chore! And it quickly became one. The bus ride to the next town was
breathtaking. Then I had no idea to get off the bus. I didn't much care,
since the whole point of the journey was to be somewhat adventurous and
random. I stopped at a town - it happened to be the right one. As I got off
the bus, I thought, "Now what?" I was planning to spend the night, so my
first task was to find a hotel. I couldn't find one. I could hardly find the
town center for that matter - it was impossibly spread out along the height
of a mountain. I trudged up and down the mountain with my pack in the
mid-day sun, feeling impatient and miserable. Eventually I found an
affordable room, took a shower, rushed out to get photos in the setting
sunlight, got dinner, and retired to my room for the evening, not caring to
"experience" the town any more. I was supposed to visit another town the
next day, but slept through my stop and ended up in Volos again, all too
happy for an excuse to curl up on a sofa again and watch films.

Isn't that awful? When I'm alone, traveling is reduced to work - the pursuit
of photos and product for an article I will undoubtedly hate and be ashamed
of because it is so fake. Of course I wrote the most topical, cheery article
about the "charming' villages of Pelion, and felt only a tinge of guilt
because they weren't really that charming for me. But I imagine what they
would be like if I was with someone else and write with that in mind.

So, I don't know how much longer this can go on. I want to write about drugs
and people on the fringes of society again. But my Greek is horrid. And it's
hard as hell finding people who will pay you on the basis of succinct little
query letters and insistences that you are THE person for the job.
Especially when you don't believe it yourself. I am secretly terrified of
talking to anyone, which is quite comical, considering my job. There were
days when it took me half an hour of bracing myself to make a phone call. Of
course, I was calling people who were just raped or charged with rape or
whose kid just died in a motorcycle accident. But you'd think these things
would become easier. They don't.

I was considering the summer as my grace period, my long-awaited and
deserved vacation of sorts, during which I would traipse about, writing a
few travel pieces here and there, learning Greek. As fall came along I would
buckle down and get a real job somehow. It's not happening. And the money is
slowly whittling away. Instead of doing something practical about it, like
getting a tutoring job on the side or just going onto the streets to meet
drug addicts, I'm doing something completely rash and expensive, flying to
the UK to join the lost list of sinister pilgrims who have made their way to
the Mecca of sinister, Glasgow, stopping at a few picnics and pubs for
listee meet-ups along the way. I think I am a bit mad sometimes. Then I
think I'd rather have a complete experience and spend the money while it's
still there and before I have to fly back to the States and take a real job,
much to the mockery and delight of my parents.

Some perceptive little listees have been noting lately how no one ever seems
to be satisfied with where they are - the whole grass is always greener
thing. And we are all such restless souls. I think dear Gavin is the only
person I know who is satisfied with his home, and I find that so wonderful.
What does it take to be satisfied? It's probably just as much about people
as it is the place. I travel to one place to escape the other, but realize
when I get there, it's impossible to escape myself and that was where the
problem lay in the first place. But, if anyone out there feels compelled to
escape to Greece for a bit, give me a ring.

My, this is getting on. One would think that with all my journalistic
training, I would learn to be succinct. Hmm. I wish I could contribute
something masterful to the lovely Runaway Thread series. But it is too good
and I am intimidated. Although I suspect a mysterious Mr. Trousers had
something to do with it. Or a crazed lurker who could not bear to sit
quietly in the shadows any longer. Or an Aussie.

Yours till Victoria falls,

dahling


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