Sinister: Taking notes for a crooked underground

[rrrrobyn]

Hello summer-fun kids and the list that still manages to bind us,

Again, time has whipped past me like some drunken bastard riding his
bike on the sidewalk. And again I have cursed it though it was far
too gone in all ways to have mattered. But at least it's still
summer. I've been riding my bike a lot, quite soberly, and too often
at dusk when all the bugs come out, making me wish I had a windscreen
for my face, or at least my mouth (blargh, bugs.) But dusk is still a
good time for bike riding, though I know from elementary school
visits from traffic police that it is also the worst time because the
low light plays tricks on drivers' eyes, kids, and they can't see you
as you chase a ball into the street or ride your bike wildly, hands
off handlebars, all over your neighbourhood. Yes, I know it, but
there's still a thrill in being a fast-moving shadow in the haze of a
slow summer evening. Death and bugs aside for a moment at least.

But right, I like the reporting back. It's all Good Ol' Days and
strange. It got me thinking about the first time I saw B&S in 2001,
how it was quite nice but something was off - partly that what had
been private was suddenly being shared by a theatre full of people
(yes, as you've said) and partly because the show happened two days
after the world trade centre attack. I recall thinking, as more and
more people joined their friends last-minute in front of me in line
(where I had arrived much earlier. Much.), that we'd all be more
aware of, er, humanity or at least other people as thinking feeling
things. But no, people prefered to bristle rather than smile, pose
rather than recognize a commonality. And maybe it was all too big a
show - too much spectacle and hype, too big a theatre with all its
velvet seats and gold trim and not enough audience to fill it either
with bodies or pomp. I enjoyed myself, but despite so much. Then in
the spring I saw B&S in Toronto, just before flying to England for
the first time. And it was one of the greatest shows I'd ever seen -
all fun and excitement, friends and dancing, and a cheerful,
confident band (plus The Aisler's Set!) It was the starter's pistol
to my holiday and freakin' hell did I run.

I supposed I'm talking about the Alignment of the Universe or Right
Place, Right Time things. Or I'm talking about getting older and
trying not to look back too hard on the past, but to see it as an
environment of which I was an active part. But then, maybe I've been
setting up a bizarre environment for myself right now that affects my
backwards view: tonight I've been writing articles about grad student
"life" (how do I rope myself, hangman's knots and all, into these
things?), reading "Watchmen" (how long has this taken me? I read the
first quarter six months ago and have ripped through the rest in the
past two days.), reading Foucault and Foucault criticism (ooh, ah,
ooh, etc.), watching 10 grindingly dull minutes of "Pearl Harbour" on
the CBCtv (and assuming that if a bomber plane scene can be dull then
the rest of the movie must be unwatchable crud), and unsuccessfully
defragging my aged computator. An environment for Nostaligia
Disaster, I know, I know.

I saw Camera Obscura a few days ago too, for the first time. I
started listening to them just over two years ago, so you see how
this ties together? It does (/me makes complicated tying motion with
fingers). The show was really lovely though a lot of people (esp the
French-speakers) had a tough time with the Scottish accents. Which
just added to the overall greatness, of course. They played all the
right songs and ended on "80s Fan", so what else can you ask for?
(Except the strength to not bluddy cry during that last one - what
the hell? These connections our brains make between songs and people
and times and things can be crippling even to women of steel such as
me.) I also rode my bike there.

I did not ride my bike to England in the early spring though. But I
did see several Sinister types again, and that was nice. This time
the holiday did not ressemble a race, nor did any grand event begin
it; it just seemed to happen, and a lot of it happened under cloudy
skies. I would never complain about clouds or rain though, not coming
from where I come from, and I would never complain about the weather
when given the opportunity to go to England or anywhere else. No, I
guess I mention it because the sky sets a mood that you can move in
and out of but not really escape (it being the sky). This sky made me
feel shadowlike, as dusk does, but slow and pensive. So there I was,
a slow and pensive shadow moving through London on foot or by bus (no
bikes, none), falling far too much in love with the A-Z (does it not
seem when you have no answers that something that appears to have
them all is most saviour-like? Though I now know that our salvation
couldn't possibly be in the A-Z, at least not the A-Z mini version.),
and generally letting things happen. Like going to Brighton on a
stormy day, getting drunk on more than one occassion, getting only
slightly lost on more than one occassion, looking at art, getting a
hate on for the Collection of History in Old Musty Places Far Away
from Where History Happened, doing some dancing, cooing at my
friend's new and amazing baby, getting rained on, reading, eating
haggis, making a conscious effort to Think Less, Feel More or
something silly like that (which never works, not even when watching
back to back episodes of Nick and Jessica: Newlyweds.) All necessary
and good.

A while ago Ken C. wrote about karaoke and I thought: How badly do I
want to karaoke to "Stay Loose" with Ken Chu? Very, very badly. I'm a
good back-up singer, Ken. Consider it. The last thing I karaoked was
"Sweet Child O' Mine" (it is a standard), before that "Little Red
Corvette" (which a friend told me afterwards was like an  "indie-rock
spoken word version". haha!) I wish my local karaoke nite had more
indie pop. And by "more" I mean "any indie pop at all". (sorry to any
I offended with the use of indie-pop and indie-rock. I remember when
the debates raged for days over such terms. Those times have passed.
What have we moved on to now?) No, really, what have we moved on to
now? I'm going to listen to some music, ride my bike, read things and
do as much frolicking-in-summer as I can while you compose your
thoughts into email versions much more succinct and concrete than
this beast I'm about to hit send on despite so much.

Balloons with your name on them,
Robyn

=====
I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything. ~Steven Wright
~~~
Robyn Fadden    rfadden at yahoo.com    Montreal, QC


		
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