Sinister: Ironing on a Sunday afternoon

[Stefano [Steady-State]]

MY Dear Sinister

	Can be the smell of the fabric when the blistering piece of metal makes it flat. Can be the shirts disposed with systematic precision on coat hangers. Could be the memory of childhood, of the radio, sit on the fridge, talking about the football fixture. Could be any of these things, or could be for no reasons. I just like ironing.
Same how I like tea, travelling trams, Russian novelists, Indian food, American contemporary poetry or mathematics.

Sunday is a good day to listen to the radio: transmissions. 
	I´ll agree, Sunday´s a god day to listen to Belle and Sebastian. And Nick Drake.
	
	When I got my way in the venue I saw a man sitting down a kind of wood box, playing some sort of modern edition of middle age instrument, even being in a 
Church, even being possibly my favourite place in town, I must admit that wasn´t what I expected to see and listen to. So I walk all my way down the benches. Looking for a place to sit, but I couldn´t find a spot. It was just started. When everybody is quite, when you don´t want to be the one who breaks the silence. I walk down the alley and take the first corner on the left, heading outside. Might have been to smoke a cigarette. Might have been to move out of embarrassment. 
	Outside the air was fresh and the rain was falling lighter and thinner then ever. Almost unreal through the last few yellow leaves left on the maples. Into the brick wall maze, I head a faint sound apparently, coming, apparently from nowhere. I couldn´t recognise what it was, but for some it sounded some kind of familiar. So I just followed the sound, in the fashion of a mesmerising one. Walked a few more steps into the maze, and as far as the music from the auditorium start to fade out, I could recognise the tune. They were slipping the clock around. Just from above my head. It must have been the bar, and it was. I just got in when the song was finishing, but, with my surprise and delight, they were playing the entire album. Hence I got me a pint, sit down, and forgot about the man playing sort-of-middle-age instruments downstairs.

I closed my eyes, but, I´m afraid, I´ve seen you everywhere.

	And by the sea in the wintertime. 
	When the orison vanishes into the water and the water into the mist. When the borders disappear. When the lines becomes subtitle and almost unreal. Broken only by the white wings of the sea gulls. And a bit of land, in confused shapes, and the colour of dark sand, right over the sunset line. 
 - Is it Ireland? - I asked.
She turned at me with wearing her best smile, and with a line shining into her eyes - 
No, it´s Scotland - She said.
 - Oh! Scotland. -

	We left our step foot behind us, the only things breaking the irregular, black veined, stripes on the beach. And passing by the docks, the warehouses, an unreal sound, floating slowly through the air, like an old French song being played from a distant place, or in a movie set. Or it might have been just from the sawmill.
Is this what happiness is like?

Love
	Stefano


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But you die inside when  you choose to hide
So I guess instead I'll love you

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