Sinister: RETREAD w/ added omissions

[Kieran Devaney]

(i *****H8***** that crazy transmogrification of inverted commas - i've 
heard it happens to men a lot but, well, that was my first time. honest. 
here's how it should have looked folx)

Afterwards we stood outside, sorting things out, weighing them up etc, it 
was late, the music on the system had been fun, I think I’d enjoyed it more 
than the others – or in a different way perhaps. Typically I couldn’t 
concentrate on the conversation, instead turning my thoughts to the late 
night mobile greasy spoon cart parked just outside, a scrap of a queue 
bustling round it drunkenly – food nobody needed, that they’d regret 
whenever. We had torn posters down from the walls, I’ve done it myself, 
things saved, and they never check your bag here, in or out. And the plight 
of the man with such unsociable hours, out in the muggy heat of his portable 
kitchen, out in the dead cold of the early hours began to bother me, that he 
could only catch the tail end of people’s fun, all those snatches of 
conversations, ours included, must be a world apart to him, a world he might 
make a living out of, but isn’t a part of. I wondered how you could 
romanticise this, if it was possible, Roddy Doyle came close, but then I 
suppose his books always do. I thought a picture might suffice, but I didn’t 
have my camera with me, perhaps next time. I glance back to hear someone ask 
me a question; I nod in reply, a yes. Then we part ways, half this and half 
that. I walk home very slowly and in near complete silence with K and M, who 
are staying over, K is in a bad mood, but thankfully not with me. When I 
wake up the next morning they’ve both left and gone without a trace.

Jay organised the Sinister Valentines Exchange and though I am unaware of 
what inner machinations were taking place, it all went swimmingly from my 
end, despite the long address. A big thank you to Jay for all that.

Recently I’ve taken to (no matter how I phrase this it’s going to sound 
weird, however liberally I employ scare quotes, so I’m just going to go for 
it) ‘borrowing’ people’s disks that get left in computer rooms around the 
university – it’s becoming a habit, and not a very pleasant one at that. It 
started quite innocently, as these things so often do, with my accidentally 
shoving a disk which had been left in the drive of the computer I was 
working into my bag on a couple of weeks ago. Arriving at home to find the 
rogue floppy I, out of pure curiosity and I suppose the hazy notion that I 
might be able to discover the identity of the owner and return the disk to 
them, put it into my computer here and had a look. Now you might be 
expecting me to have found some almighty revelation or piece of 
blackmail-worthy salaciousness. But no. What I did find was a CV, an 
application form to work on the tills at Morrison’s (and you wouldn’t 
believe the questions you have to answer to land one of those oh so 
desirable positions, they want to know your shoe size and everything!) and a 
couple of charts and tables for, I presume, some Chemistry experiment which 
meant nothing to me really. The overly intrusive questions from the people 
at Morrison’s aside you might be thinking there was nothing of interest 
there at all – except you wouldn’t because, well, you aren’t stupid (that’s 
not my official line on Sinister by the way, just for the purposes of this), 
and I’ve already told you that it *was* of interest. Quite why is more 
difficult to tally without seeming creepy or, worse still, sinister (ahem). 
But I suppose it stems from ideas about public and private, about how the 
way people write differs from how they communicate verbally, how people want 
themselves to be perceived, what exam grades and former employments tell us 
about a person, what an essay tells us about a person, and so on, I’m really 
not doing it justice here, I suppose I have to include the illicit thrill of 
intrusion, of being a voyeur too, that does it. And in this chemistry 
student’s list of menial jobs versus really quite impressive exam grades 
(including an A* at art for GCSE) versus her predictably MOR list of 
interests (the novels of Terry Pratchett and swimming) was a kind of insight 
that you can’t really get anywhere else, anonymous and incomplete, more the 
bland negative table space than actual pieces, just a glimpse or a snatch of 
overheard conversation – a bit like the people swishing past my friend and I 
at the train station that I found fascinating and he found dull. The next 
morning I put the disk back more or less where found it, hopefully she 
hadn’t gone back for it before that – I’ve put all of them back so far, it’s 
only fair, they might be in need of the information, or just not inclined to 
retype it all, or it might be their only disk, or whatever. But since then I 
have found a clutch of disks left lying around all over the place (you’d be 
surprised how many people are so neglectful), and have read all sorts of 
bits and pieces, a girl’s geography essay containing the most unenthusiastic 
call to arms to save the planet that I’ve ever come across, a Muse 
discography copied from some fansite, various graphs and charts which, with 
no frame of reference, I have no hope of decoding. Sometimes without names, 
or even indications of personalities – a set of unmarked, unannotated graphs 
lumped together with a photo of Angkor Wat at sunset. I think I want people 
to surprise me, but then I’m glad when they don’t, or when they only do a 
bit, in a non-threatening way. I can’t help it – I was shocked when I heard 
Eminem swear, so used was I to hearing the cut versions on the radio that 
when I downloaded that Kid 606 song where he speeds up the vocal on ‘Purple 
Pills’ it honestly threw me – ditto when I heard the uncut versions of those 
much loved singles also on the download. God bless the interweb. I was 
thinking, perhaps in an attempt to reign-in this vaguely worrying use of my 
time I might invest in some cheap disks and then leave them lying around – 
with, I don’t know, something elaborate but ridiculous, theatrical but 
non-threatening on them – and stick an email address on too and see if I get 
any replies. Disk art. Something like that. I’m going to give this a rest 
now before I start sounding like the guy from ‘Teeth n Smiles’ who went 
around with a severed finger in his pocket in order to seem ‘interesting’. 
Bloody medical students.

Today was, I think, the best day of the year so far. Weatherwise that is. I 
went out for a long walk, taking routes I don’t normally bother with. It was 
nice. I wont bore you with the details, except one. The route that I chose 
took me through some of the more well to do areas of Sheffield, replete with 
big gaunt houses set away from the pavement, big, lush gardens and so forth. 
So there I was wandering through there thinking how pleasant it all was, not 
a soul about or anything, not even cars, when across the road I spot a boy, 
who can’t have been older than fifteen I don’t think, perhaps not quite as 
young as he looked (but whoever is in this day and age? Oh ho ho ho!) given 
that he was sporting what I can only describe as the most massivest mohican 
haircut I have ever seen. Even two superlatives don’t do it’s biggest-ness 
justice. Huge it was. And dyed every conceivable colour except, perhaps, 
yellow. He was attired in classic punxor chic (er, whatever that is) – I 
wanted to take a photo, but I thought it might seem entirely rude, and as he 
passed I noticed that he had ‘Crass’ who I quite like, written in tipp-ex on 
the back of his studded leather jacket, along with a slew of other band’s 
I’m not so familiar with. I thought briefly about shouting “Fight war, not 
wars!” after him, but that passed quickly enough. What does it mean to rebel 
like that anymore? To be different. Duffle coats don’t even mark you out as 
an indiekid anymore do they? Everyone’s got one. How out of place did that 
kid seem amongst the Sunday afternoon birdsong and posh houses? How out of 
place indeed. Perhaps that wasn’t what he wanted anyway. I bet he doesn’t 
even like Avril Lavigne.

In other news, how homo-erotic is ‘Moby-Dick’? They left that bit out of 
‘The Pagemaster’ didn’t they? I’m still reeling. Also I’ve been reading John 
Cage and am planning on writing my next post with the aid of the I Ching. 
Well, again I'd like to write more on this one too, but I'm sure you 
wouldn't and plus they've kicked off with Van Morrison next door or across 
the way, loud enough so I can't tell, so I'm off to do something else. And 
there are disk drives that need checking.

Mind Out,
- Kieran






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