Sinister: content free

[mike windisch]

hello sinning sisters and maudlin misters.

hold on to your hairnets as today's windisch shares a something pretty. The 
true story of a quasi-poetic image that relieved pain:

funny how you never seem to fall doing anything difficult. it's always 
either some ordinary movement taken forgranted or a cheap little flair added 
on for ostentation that proceeds a prodigious spill.

For the really hard tricks -- like pinballing though sketchy city traffic on 
narrow streets but still manageing to make the time to turn your head 
completely off track for a smiling split second of eternity to make eye 
contact with that fetching green-eyed girl on the corner -- it's as if some 
inner zen labotomist shuts out all the irrelvances of distracted 
underconfidence to accommodate a soul-firing stretch of wit, talent and 
acrobatic acquity.

But those things done as a matter of course, like putting your pants on one 
leg at a time or negotiating a late-night staircase without falling up it, 
have a hidden yen to enact venegence for their mundanity by sending you 
sprawling on your keister with an audible sarcastic snicker shot out from 
the ether.

Flash back to the sabbath afternoon skate session. Well rested and tuned in, 
I am doing things that are not only out of character for me but are not even 
comprehensible w/out an egghead in advanced physics or a carnival magician's 
blown-liver. braggadocio aside, i was surpising myself and amazing my 
friends by riding away from things that by all rights should have sent me to 
the doctor a whimpering blood-splattered wreck. (foreshadowing)

Setting up for something with a backside smith shuffle (sounds naughty, 
n'est pas), I find myself flying. all is peaceful for a nano-second as 
gravity helps me negotiate the eight vertical feet between the lip and the 
flat. After feeling the joy of impact I'm laid out in a crumpled heap. The 
collective gasp lets me know that the spill looked at least as painful as it 
felt.

I jump up and do that jesus-god-profanity-this-really-explicative-hurts jig 
that I've been perfecting of late but to no avail. I pull on my coat, exit 
the indoor park, and take a stroll into the cold.

Amid a number of huge piles of dirt, gravel, assorted debris and the ice and 
mud remains of last week's snowfall, I found a quasi-poetic image that 
dispelled pain.

There was sunlight and frozen wind as flying-V's of geese cut the space 
between my swelling elbow and the cool blue sky.

At my feet, most of the snow had melted, turned the earth to mud, and froze 
again. But, here and there at regular intervals, strutted the packed snow 
footprints of the handfull of folks who ventured out between the piles while 
it was still a winter wonderland.

And even though they resembled those step-schematic feet that accompany the 
printed directions to popular dances like the lindy hop, the boogaloo and 
the madison, these prints were the only remaining snow.

They strode in silent truth like the lasting impressions one makes in life 
unaware that someone even noticed or will remember you and the things you've 
done.

Of course, to inject the reality-check that is irony's birthright, these 
particular footprints lead absolutely nowhere.

Somewhere in my reverie (which like some taxonomist-wanker-hack-arts-critic 
called the prints a positive manifestation of the negative space created 
when some walker puts down tracks in virgin snow)a sense of beauty and 
poignancy greater that words took over...

blissful interlude of holy

.... when I started thinking again, the pain was gone.

windisch











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