Sinister: Smoking and sticks
Christina McDermott
zcraw96 at xxx.uk
Tue May 14 16:39:37 BST 2002
Hello again fair patrons of Sinister...
I know, I've been quiet recently. Yet again I've been hiding in the
shadows, peeking my head out occasionally from munching Haribo at the back
with the cute boy with the mohican to send a few of you emails and go
drinking with you and have conversations about chair orgies and watching
*some* of you (not that I''m mentioning any names....noooo) then go on to
play some serious chair gymnastics.
So it goes, I've not meant to be this quiet, honest. Just I was back at
home in Manchester over Easter 'angin' with the Manchester Sinister
Maaaaasssssiiiiivvveeee (Hello you lot, especially Ben App's Bro-proof if
it was ever needed that sibling rivalry is alive and well in that family
from what I heard when we went to see Belle and Sebastian at the Apollo)
and back working at the Cornerhouse with a computer which for reasons best
known to itself would not let me post to Sinister. Oh how I tried! I did
have a lovely gig report from Manchester to send to you, but no doubt
you've heard more than enough about all that for now, so all I will say is
reports of my violent streak have been greatly exaggerated. Honest.
So, now I 'm back in London, not eating a chicken and in the midst of exams
(Two down-one to go. Lucky me, huh?) and trying to find a house. For some
reason, this endeavor which seemed relatively simple when first thought
about has now turned into the most mammoth task of my life with people
arguing about what area they want to live in, where they might be over the
Summer and all sorts of craziness ensuing. The way it's going, I think I
may just become a mad bag-lady and live in a box outside Camden tube
station and drink Diamond White all day and hope that some nice person may
come along and buy me records occasionally. When I told this to the boy in
the tree, he just laughed and said I already was a mad bag-lady half the
time and had nothing to worry about. He wants me to go and live with him in
Carlisle where there's a nice castle we had a picnic near the last time I
went to stay with him and we got drunk, watched Blade 2 and had a disco in
his flat in honour of the fact that the Queen Mother had died. Everyone
kind of wants me to go everywhere at the moment really which isn't
necessarily a bad thing. Cay's grand tour if you will, stopping at Cardiff,
Carlisle and Derry along the way. Book tickets for your meeting with her
now if you will.
Oh yeah, and I'm working at a Wetherspoons in Whitehall now too if any of
you lot fancy coming in to visit me and laugh at the fact that even though
I swore I would never EVER work for a big company where the managing
director sports a snappy mullet (I kid you not Popkids) after the few
months where I was a Debenhams Mod, I've somehow managed to end up working
in a pub where I can't shake my
all-new-improved-Liza-Minelli-whenshewasinCabaret-fringe and get down with
the funky beat whenever the will takes me (or at least, that's what I'm
leading them to believe-just wait until my last night there....hehehehehe).
It's not too bad I suppose, they let me look like a badly dressed Mod if
nothing else, and sabotage from within is always the best way I suppose. I
just hate having to smile and act like a moron for a living. (Oh well,
there is always the added irony the day after I got the job there I ended
up getting rat-arsed with a load of Polish and Icelandic people to the
point where I don't really remember getting back to Camden all that well....)
Is this too much of a diary entry? If so, I apologise, there is supposed to
be some content in here...oooh, here we go. I am impressed by the amount of
covers that the glorious Belle and Seb are managing to pull off. Someone
somewhere should make a bootleg CD of them all. I know I'd buy it, if only
for their version of "I am the resurrection" in Manchester. I rung the boy
in the tree when they were doing it and held my mobile up so he could hear
it, and bless him, I could hear him singing along to all the words. Was
very sweet. And they've converted me to the Stone Roses now, as I was
forced to go home and nick my wee bro's Stone Roses album and realise how
good that version is too. I've never really been a Stone Roses girl, I mean
what with being from Manchester and all, I've never seen the point of
buying the albums when all I have to do is go to some silly 15
year-old-nu-metal-"Indie Kid because they like the Stereophonics and
Travis" (If you like these bands, I really don't mean to offend. Insert
band name here if you know what I mean)-club and hear them practically play
the whole album and watch spotty teenagers try to act like Ian Brown. Then
I came to London and went out and saw silly Southern grown Indie Men
lurching around the dancefloor when they played the Stone Roses pretending
to be Northern and realised the sillyness of the whole situation and
decided that all could be forgiven.
There's a song on my walkman now, some old Northern Soul tune about how
some woman likes London in the rain. I don't. It makes the bus drivers
behave more like madmen then they do already and messes up my hair when I'm
walking home from Sainsbury's.
Archel is better than Ian, just because of her tactics with everything
sado-masochistic or otherwise he launches through the windows at her, and
because she organises wicked Brighton picnics.
Someone, (think it may have been Rob) was wondering about where the Poetry
Parrot had gone to and the ever-wonderful Liz Dappers always includes
poetry in her wonderous posts, so I thought I'd make a forey with something
I found. It's by Charles Bukowski and I know that someone has posted it
before, but it's so lovely and sad I can't help posting it again, just in
case no one's ever seen it. And it's something I can relate to, being in
love with someone even though you've never met them, or even seen them, but
you're in love with their voice and their words regardless.
It's called "An Almost Made-Up Poem"
An Almost Made-Up Poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, its all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, Im not jealous
because weve never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, theyve told
us, but listening to you I wasnt sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, print her, print her, shes mad but shes
magic. theres no lie in her fire. I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didnt happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didnt help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Love, Chai Tea (Wouldn't it be good if drinking Chai Tea made you good at
Tai Chi? Think about it) and Cigarettes,
Cay Cola-Cube
xXx
"If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your Revolution..."
-Emma Goldman
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