Sinister: X0

[Kieran Devaney]

Dear Sinister,

I write now as one compelled to do so - not by inspiration or anything 
equally crude or vulgar, but more by a sense of internal guilt which is 
probably more proof of my neurosis than anything to actually be guilty 
about, but nonetheless. It’s two twenty in the morning (why do I say that 
with some semblance of pride, as if me writing now is proof of my mettle or 
something) and tiredness plus a slight head cold has melded everything 
together into a kind of sensory miasma, so I hope you’ll excuse any (or more 
than usual) ramblings and non-sequiturs. But what, I hear yon reader gasp, 
has so drawn me from my bed well past the witching hour? Well. I was going 
over it in my mind and I thought that in the little story I told about being 
on the bus a few years ago I made the man who had a go at me and my mates at 
the time to be a bit of a villain of the piece, which wasn’t quite my 
intention. See, I sympathise, I deeply sympathise with his feelings really. 
I know how aggravating getting the bus can be, how pointlessly aggravating 
too. It kind of got me down last year especially, all the little annoyances 
there on offer every day so that sometimes you so did want to just shout at 
someone, just vent. But at the same time you’re critically aware of the 
pettiness, the insignificance of those annoyances, you know that they’ll be 
forgotten once you reach wherever it is you’re going – perhaps only to be 
replaced with a new set of niggling irritations, but still. I was aware of 
it at the time, and aware of the futility of what he was saying because, 
like I said before, nobody really cared at all. In fact this man, trying to 
make a scene, to gain some support even was just another annoyance, another 
thing in the way slowing us down. Oh do shut up etc. So I sort of felt for 
him even then because it was a lose/lose situation anyway, though maybe he 
felt a bit better afterwards for having said something. Yeah, buses. It was 
always – why don’t you move into the shelter, if we’re all inside then maybe 
it’ll generate a bit of warmth and oh god it’s fucking packed again and ok I 
was going to sit there but and then no don’t stand there right in front of 
me, no don’t let anyone else on driver, I wont be able to get off and then 
sorry excuse me sorry sorry scuse me, thanks. And how run down it all 
seemed, the ugliness of everywhere – some days you could’ve written your 
name in the filth on the windows, or hilariously daubed ‘clean me’ with soon 
blackened fingertips, could’ve made a game of avoiding the globules of thick 
sputle around the shelters. And shivering at bus stops amongst the drab 
clothed, hard set habitual bus riders. Never any *attractive* people. I know 
that’s an odd thing to have wanted, since I’m hardly that myself and am now 
vaguely irritated by glaecit, pristine, vacant clothes horses at every turn, 
but better, I guess, to sit next to them, to be surrounded by them than by 
the eternally nondescript, plain, the bland. Unfair I know. Unfair. But I do 
sympathise, I can imagine myself thinking just as he must’ve ‘why didn’t 
those fucking kids give up that seat to someone else’ and ok it was pretty 
low and cheap to act on that impulse and try to make a show of it, but we 
all have our off moments don’t we?

There. I feel a bit better now. I wont send this till tomorrow though. Bit 
late now.

Well. Ok. As Henry Miller sez: “I have made a silent compact with myself not 
to change a line of what I write. I am not interested in perfecting my 
thoughts, nor my actions.” Right on.

Bis bald.
- Kieran





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