Sinister: its where we live

[ian]

(for details of birmingham picnics and other spraffle, see the bottom of
this mail)
-------------------------------------------------------------

the air is a curious mixture of vanilla and diesel.  i am crouching in the
base of a long-disused newspaper stand, trying, against the advice of toy
stephen and madeleine mcneil, to avoid looking up.  usually, i like to take
time to regard the sky, or at least the distance of blue between one row of
buildings and another that birmingham will allow one to see.  not today.

instead, i look at the small dog that sniffs around my feet..

'toto, i don't think we're in the west midlands any more'

'no, ian, you're lost in an allegory of your own making, the narrative power
of which is greatly tempered by the confusion of imagery and the lack of any
definable underlying meaning.'

oh...

'toto'

the dog sighs.  it clearly doesn't want to talk 'YES, ian'

'fuck off'

the deep, sorrowful canine pupils regard me with disgust.  ' my pleasure.  i
didn't ASK to be in this e-mail'.

and toto is gone, leaving me with nothing to concentrate upon but the
danger all around me.  the pterodactyl regarding me from a nearby roof-top,
the fleet of helicopters dropping undefinable items from the sky, the sleek
grey missiles soaring only feet above the skyscrapers, threatening to crash
around me at any moment.

'have you got any cigarettes?'

now i'm hearing voices

'don't ignore me, ian... if you haven't got any cigarettes, at least bung me
a fiver so i can get some.  and get out of that newspaper stand.  it smells'

reluctantly, i pull myself to my feet and force myself to smile into the
soft, masculine, sleek, pale, weathered, tanned,
young-yet-chronologically-advanced face of my old friend.

the sinister list looks at me curiously.  'you're in a mess'

i smile ' i had a dream i was king of all the hipsters..'

'no, i'm not in the mood for that.  let's find an off-licence and go
somewhere better.  and, for fuck's sake, get rid of those pterodactyls.
they unnerve me'

they look like bats, from down here... circling around the pinnacles of the
sky scrapers.  from time to time, they swoop towards us as we stumble up the
centre of the road.  cars swerve, attempting to hit us, and then away again
as they collide head-on with the winged creatures.  the skyline ahead of us
is dominated by a row of mushroom clouds.  soon, the sun will set, and the
whole earth will glow like the fire that accompanied those clouds.

'fucking hell, ian.. you've been watching too many 'b' movies.  i'm not
meeting you inside your head again.'  the list clicks its long, thin,
pleasingly adrogynous fingers and our surroundings disappear.

we are floating.  we drift high above a city, yet even from this height we
can hear the chattering, the moaning, the screams of ecstasy and fear that
pour up from it.  a column of numbers flys past my head, narrowly missing
me.

'where are we?'

'collective mind of sinister.  look, there's kirsten kenyon!'

'where?' i squint through the darkness.

'oh, sorry, i forgot'  a wave of the sinister hand and an area of the
glowing city below me is transformed.  i can see flagstones, a woman playing
a mandolin, ash from a cigarette and long, emerald sports car trundling
towards a sunset.

'so that's what she looks like'..

'no, that's the inside of her mind, at this precise moment.  its got the
edge on yours, you'll notice.  not that that comes as any suprise to -

we are interrupted by another flying column of numbers.  my friend mutters
'sarah fucking clarke....' and doesn't offer to expand on this.

'what's that flashing?' it looks like lightning, from up here.  but it can't
be.  lightning should come from above, where i presume the sky must be -
although i can't see it.

my friend smiles 'another heart has made the trade'

'pardon'

'somehow, a vital connection is made.  you want to look closer?'  the
sinister list waves its hand again, and we float down towards the city
below.  to the north, a cloud hangs, delivering a flurry of snow.  to the
south, i can dimly perceive a thousand deckchairs, an arse in each one.  to
the east, the tide laps ceaselessly against a new england facade,
running through the sea-front buildings, and into the row of bubble-houses
behind.
we float to the west, towards the desert, and the mountains, and i can hear
somebody laughing.  a short, deep chuckle.  the voice sounds familiar.

'that's you..' the list smiles 'somebody amused you today'...  the noise is
gone, and is replaced by a bar of song, an intake of breath, a tapping,
tapping of computer keys.
'you're playing a bar down there tonight.  don't expect anyone to turn up.
they've gone across town to see ken chu strip.'

can't say i blame them.  we touch down in a deserted plaza.  a couple of
pigeons peck disinterestedly at long-forgotten crumbs:

'hmm... they did leave, then.' i follow that slender-yet-pendulous arse
across to an empty cafe, and park myself on the garden furniture outside.
the sinister list vanishes into the building, and reappears with a bottle of
tequila
('let's just say i know the owner'). he pours us a glass each, and a herd of
gazelle sweep across the square.  an old woman sits down by me.  she offers
me a malteser, but i don't accept.
from an unseen window, somewhere, a burt bacharach song is playing.  the
last rays of sun fade from the sky, and we are left, in the darkness,
watching the city manifest itself

 above us, in the darkness, some sort of parade is taking place.  ghosts,
glowing electric blue as they hovver above our heads.

'the souls of the departed.  they'll be back.  they always are.  until then,
there will be others.  this part of town will fill up before you know it'.

and, with that, a long black limousine pulls up, and a woman in a flamenco
dress runs up a staircase to a wooden front door.  a fluorescent light
shines across the square, and a window opens to let out a burst of latin
music.

'she seems like fun'

'oh, she WILL be'

i sip my tequila.  the flavour of the lime has started to ooze into the
liquid, and the hot, sour taste warms my spirits as it has since the first
sip...

'does this place ever stop changing?'

'never.  the day it does is the day it dies.  when the last person leaves,
and there are no more encounters to be had.  until then, it is always here,
for those that want it'

i think of the state my mind was in... i prefer it here, watching the elvis
impersonators driving their tractors along the street, listening to the
Stephen Hewitt Marching Band as it belts out hefner melodies, drinking
tequila and knowing that, if i want to, i don't have to think at all, i can
just enjoy this world as it unfolds around me.

'can i stay here for a while?'

' as long as you want.. i've got to be going, but you'll find company soon
enough.  have a good night.  oh, and ian?....'

'?'

'you got that cigarette money?  its not for me, you understand.  i have a
mission of mercy to attend to.  there's a broken-hearted girl in canada and
she needs nicotine'

'no, sorry, no change'

'bastard'

and my friend is gone.  i pour myself another glass, enjoy the warm breeze
against my skin and wonder what one has to do to get laid in this place..

----------------------------------------------



so, from the Sinister City to birmingham.  i reckon we'd better do this
picnic
before the end of march, if we're going to.  if its left till april, i'll
get all caught up in b&s gigs, and atps and the like.

30th march?  sound good?  if anybody has an opinion, feel free to share it
with me.  preferably one about the picnic, but any opinion will do.  as long
as it isn't 'you're a tosspot' or 'your e-mails are crap', cos i've heard
those before.

you've all entertained me lately.  a couple of replies:

madeleine talked about swimming, and the mental space it gives you.  she's
right.  if anybody knows of a good way to avoid filling such space with
crap, i'd be keen to hear it.  personally, i find myself thinking all sorts
of shite, whilst simultaneously trying to clear my head and 'just be'.
amazing, how trying to clear your head creates so much clutter.

rachel playforth was spot on, as ever, when she said:

the japanese have a word 'amae' which describes that warm feeling
of being accepted, included and understood by a group of peers.
so rare, so amazing when it happens.  sinister at its best moments
can produce 'amae', i suspect."

well, full amae to you, my dear.  i'm afraid that quote is partly to blame
for the e-mail above.  you and yer bloody inspirational thoughts..


and, finally,

david hewitt said

'earnest is the new irony'

and i really hope that is true.  no i do.  i mean it.

earnestly.

au revoir, mon petite salle des bains, and as the buddha once said 'it aint
what you do, its the way that you do it, that's what gets results'

fuck knows what he meant by that.  he was a funny blerk.

xx
ian

________________________
Tomorrow will bring happiness
Or at least, another day

Phil Ochs
________________________








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