Sinister: complex coniugated.

[Stefano [Steady-State]]

My Dear Sinister and Sinistrine

{Belle and Sebastian, Real part}]

	Reasons why I haven’t being listening to the radio session and don’t think I will by the single even if I’d love to see them at TOTP, possibly in the union pub, since I don’t have a telly at home: simply because I’m not so enthusiastic with the new album. I think that the only song that I really really like is Lord Anthony. But all the other ones, even if they sound alright, don’t get me wrong, and even if I would say are probably pretty good if they where by any other band, still don’t make ME feel like B&S used to. Which doesn’t mean there are lots of people out there and here in the list that are fully enthusiastic with DCW, as you could argue from the posts when the album came out. 
	I just find, there was a subtitle way in the way B&S were talking about, love, and everyday life in which I could mirror someway. They were not written for me but were written as they meant to talk to me. And I could understand or find that special something which made me love them nearly to bits. 
	And for a lot of reason, B&S had played such a big part in my life, that I would ever love them, even if they will become a Motorhead cover band, that wouldn’t matter. I will have always have the chance to go home and put If your are feeling sinister in the CD player, and I will hear someone talking to me, a way I didn’t expect, renewed every time. 
	
	
{Belle and Sebastian, Imaginary part}
	Sometimes the things seem to happen in a sort of circular way. I sometimes think that is the reason behind the mesmerising spinning of a vinyl disk over a turntable. The needle will be back precisely at the same position, exactly at the same time. With a stop-clock in your hands you might know truthfully at which time that single note, that single chord is going to fill the room. And when it is going to fade away. 
	But. Life walks on straight line, and there’s no much chances to take the ribbon back to any point. Often there are not many chances to chop of or erase the bits and takes you would love to forget. They do come back, emerging from where they have always been. Stored in a hidden place. Like a cupboard in the cellar. And every step, place, word, song, meal you’ve shared is pictured in a frame. And will make you think that in a day in February, or any other month of the year, you’ve touched and hold in your hands a single grain of happiness, which was worth by itself living a life. Till that precise instant. And what’s left then?
	Looking back at things, I’ve never though the earth was a dead cold place. I’ve always though the living everyday life is a hard hard job, for everyone, not myself. Because there are no written rules. Because everyone’s got his own little and immense pains and joys. Because of how unpredictable it all is. And that is the beauty of it all, outside the window. And down the road. Or, at least, it used to be.
	But as in any game, and it is not the rule of game to be blamed, because there are none, there are good players, mediocre players and bad players, and it is not even the other players fault too. Is not the kind of game you could be teach and though how to play. You sort have to learn by yourself, if you can. And there are some hidden skills that doesn’t matter how harsh you are rehearsing, and how long is your training. Nothing which is really worth can be really taught. Indeed. And you could write a requiem for me, when I’m dead, if I’ll make it into collage. One day.
Might be one day you realise the way your playing the game you are not going to get anywhere and listen what the people says. Might be on that day you try to play in a different position, or might be decide to put on mask and pretend to be the one you really are not. Is it all about getting to a compromise with your conscience? Is it all you need? Is it? And how far are you ready to get with the compromise? 
	You might be able to put up a brave face, walk down the way to tube and the office. Have lunch and a drink. Take a seat in the cinema, and buy a record in the shop. Smiling, and starring at people’s eyes, to see if you can spot any trace of bright flashing light in there. Wondering if the people around you are trying to spot a light that’s got so dim, any kind of light down your eyes and the costume you are wearing. Behind the life you’ve chosen to play as a character in theatrical drama. Through half-already-built sentences, half-said things and half-silences. A life you are in, as a surrogate. But not living. As you wished to.
	And still doing your best. 
	But then, one day, a feeble and impalpable breeze will blow away the masquerade and make-up you’ve been wearing. And it will be time to face what you had already known. That the only thing you eve cared for in you life is dissolved in the air, one day, like the mist on the channel. And that day the snow was falling.
			Falling falling falling falling falling,


Love
Stefano 


#######################################
There is a tree in paradise
And the pilgrim called it
The tree of life
All my trials, lord
Will soon be over
####################################



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