Sinister: Well, something's lost, and something's gained

[Ian Anscombe]

This doesn't seem to have gone first time.  Maybe I should take that as 
a sign, but I'm not going to.  Attempt #2

xx
Ian


Ian Anscombe wrote:
> Well, hello Sinister.  Its nice to see you again.  I'm not sure if I 
> ever posted to you drunk before.  It seems almost unfeasible that I 
> didn't, and yet I don't remember such occurrences.  I'm not really 
> sure that I'm drunk.  I've had such a measly amount of alcohol that I 
> should be more sober than a Londoner waking up to find they've voted 
> for a ridiculous Tory Twat to be mayor, but it doesn't feel that way.
>
> Anyway...what was I going to say?  I have no idea.  I'm sure there was 
> a point to this but fuck knows what it was.  And fuck is strangely 
> absent, so I have to recreate my own points from scratch.
>
> the sinister picnic then... that was nice, 10 years on.  It was a 
> strange situation, walking up primrose hill, very late, but having 
> driven to London myself - the first change of many.  I saw a little 
> indieboy, lovely hair and his equally cute indiegirl walking up the 
> hill.  The weather was just right, that mix of sunshine and cloud that 
> seemed to grace every sinister picnic, and always made me think of 
> such events.  I felt like I'd been walking ages, and was looking 
> forward to seeing you all sitting at the top.  It was a far cry from 
> the first time I attended - seeing you all outside Camden station and 
> actually walking away initially, before coming back to say hello.  And 
> yet, it still felt exciting.  Perhaps this is one of the benefits of 
> not living in London - meeting your fellow Sinikids still feels 
> somehow eventful, and unique, and different from real life.
>
> Perhaps that was the ghost of Sinister-picnics past, the indie couple 
> walking up the hill.  It reminded me of the people that used to come - 
> some of them were us, although I never really had the hair, or the 
> clothing, or the girl for that matter - but you all seemed so styled, 
> and cool, and vaguely intimidating.
> What does the ghost of Sinister-picnics present resemble?  A strange, 
> many-limbed beast.  Yes, there's still a bottle of something alcoholic 
> in one hand, but there are new limbs.  One holds the hand of a small 
> child, and though I'm sometimes slightly jealous this seems a 
> marvellous thing.  One might hold a professional qualification, 
> quietly tucked away for the occasion, a picture of a partner, or a 
> sense of self-belief that didn't exist before.  Oh yes, we've grown, 
> as I think a singer once opined.  And we're not so much joined 
> together by a strange mutual relationship with a band any more.  But 
> that's okay.
>
> I saw a new post, from a fragrant princess, the other day, and she asked:
>>
>> I promised you a long time ago that nothing would be lost right? 
> and Eric said something that ties in with it:
>
> If You're Feeling Sinister: the first boy I really had feelings for,
> the boy that gave me a mixtape whose side A contained an entire album
> from this strange band called Belle & Sebastian that he loved. I never
> fell in love with the boy, but my relationship with the band is still
> going strong, almost 10 years later.
>
>
> Mine isn't - really.  But Eric highlighted something.  We do have a 
> relationship when we fall in love with a band.  I don't think I ever 
> had such a deep one with a group of musicians.  And I felt a bit hurt 
> when they started seeing other people, but they'd warned me from the 
> start that this is what they would be doing.  I can't reconcile the 
> glibness of recent releases with the incredible tenderness and 
> fondness for the outsider apparent in the early days.  I guess me and 
> those musicians grew apart, but I met a lot of beautiful friends 
> through this relationship, and those are people I can honestly say 
> I'll never forget.  Ally said something standing on the hill, looking 
> out over London, about it all seeming the same, but different, us 
> being old now.  And I felt simultaneously a pang for a feeling of 
> belonging I'd once experienced, and a gladness that I didn't have to 
> chase after that any more.  You see, ghost of picnics present, I like 
> you as you are.  I hope we'll keep meeting like this.   When will I 
> see you again?
>
> I think I've been very idealistic about Sinister over the years, 
> partly because it was the first place I felt really accepted.  I chose 
> to ignore the cliques and the fashions, because they didn't suit my 
> idea of what I...we....were about.  Taking a step back and realising 
> I've taken my place in those groups is an interesting perspective.  
> There are people I rush to speak to at picnics, and people I've 
> somehow fallen into the pattern of not speaking to.  Some of us did 
> eye-contact and a passing comment.  I wanted to say more but that old 
> fear still exists.  Fear that its not okay, for some reason, to talk 
> to someone - and why shouldn't it be?  We've fallen into strange 
> self-defeating patterns of not speaking - comfort, or fear, or some 
> combination of both.  Maybe this lack of chasing belonging isn't such 
> a great thing after all.
>
> I'm not sure if any of this is new.  Any club has sub-groups.  The 
> strange occasional assumption that longevity is some sort of marker of 
> quality or verity is an odd one.  The excitement created when a member 
> of some golden age that only existed for...eighteen months, eighteen 
> weeks, eighteen minutes??.... pops up still makes me smile and sigh in 
> equal measure.  The people I've loved here haven't been experienced 
> through that age, though they may remember it, so many newer people 
> have given something of themselves to our collective as the last 11 
> years unfolded.  We've experienced friendship in the present, and 
> we've changed the present through that friendship - and its this, not 
> some marvellous, mythical past, that make Sinister live on.
>
> Gayle said nothing remains the same, Honey said nothing is lost.  In a 
> strange sort of way, they're both right.  You don't really lose 
> something when you choose to let it go.  Its through trying to keep 
> everything the same, clinging, terrified of it slipping away, that we 
> lose things.  We lose them here, and now, and all we have is a past 
> when it was really ours to look upon.  I'm glad we've grown, and we're 
> old, and there's still enough in the present to keep us meeting on 
> hills, miles from home.  I'll meet you again, strange, many-legged 
> picnic monster - and I'm not even going to attempt to name-check your 
> parts.  I'll only miss one, and every part is vital.
> And, in a nod to tradition, this isn't the e-mail I intended to write, 
> but what the hell... I kiss you, Sinister list.  In a nice, platonic 
> way, of course.  I hope I'll see you again soon.
>
> xx
> Ian
>


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