Sinister: He thrusts his fists against the ghosts and still insists he sees the posts...

[Jason McKinnon]

"The reports of my death has been greatly under-publicised. The tabloids has 
been curiously silent. Why bother bother faking one's death if no one 
notices?"

Ermm....Oh, You're here...who let you in? Well, no matter, now the damage is 
done...just sit down and listen. You are good at listening, aren't you 
Sinister One?

California is an odd place...one filled with all manner of uneven events. 
>From L.A. Cops investigations, to SF Pot decriminalization. I stare at this 
place in awe and some measure of horror. This SF, CA, USA. We have zip codes 
here, ya know...(like 90210). Mine's 94107...a slight bit of Barbary Coast 
heaven called Potrero Hill. The only goats here are getting long in the 
tooth, and short on the truth.

So, I have this apartment/flat/humble abode...it looks upon the Mission 
District and the Twin Peaks beyond garishly adorned by a giant out dated 
antennae that we affectionately call "God's Roach-Clip". It's a bit 
ridiculous cause everyone know that God smokes a bong...jeez!

As you can imagine I spend a good deal of time looking out the windows...and 
cleaning wood flooring. Murphy's wax and playing jacks on shiny well-kept 
floors...somehow It's easier to stay indoors....in my castle where I am 
despot. Staring down the long corridor of days, I am dumb with something 
intangible...a general lethargy. A buzzing of flies around my head always 
keeping me from concentrating. A faint notion that the cosmology I have 
built is working for me no longer (or was it ever?).

I found this supplement called 5-HTP...I took the happy pill on accident one 
day. Made from some African plant and it took some of the flies away...but I 
think it's just placebo. It hovers, that cloud of confusion...and I beat it 
back with reason. Sometimes I do.

You see, I write you when the buzzing stops....just long enough to type a 
short missive from Interzone..(i mean) California. And try to bridge the gap 
that exists between my brain and the world. Sometimes it takes all I can do 
to convince myself that the bridge exists...to make it substantial by sheer 
will. But mostly, I sit and watch the fog engulf the sun and the night cold 
creep through my window...and the time ticking tocking. And dream of denser 
days.

The Pickle Prince

P.S. Gordon scares me no more than looking into any other Mirror. It's 
difficult to grasp the profundities of self-reflection..but I feel it's much 
easier and more penetrating when filtered through someone else's experience. 
  IS THAT WHAT SCARES YOU?



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