Sinister: but there still is hope, yes i can be healed.

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister.

i thought the other day that it had been a while since i posted. not a
particularly long or short while, but a while. and so. i wrote. 

and then, in the grand tradition of writing on days when the writing starts
out shitty and gets to feeling quite sweet at the end, i lost the post to
the abyss of lost emails behind the door that is actually a page saying 'not
found.'

perhaps it was the command that was not found. but maybe it didn't send
because the purpose wasn't found. most days i myself am not found, and if i
am, if the purpose is, i know all the satisfaction and anticipation of the
closed door that is actually a page saying 'message sent.'

i have been spending too much time in #sinister of late. i have started to
remember again when i first stumbled into sinister, pink and dewy with
newness and feeling like that kid with whom nobody ever asks to play four
square. the kid who, eventually, after watching the somebodies toss one of
those red or yellow textured playground balls around for awhile, watches a
bounced ball smack her in the face.

i was always that kid. 

once, i junior high, someone threw a basketball at my head during p.e. i got
hit. my glasses flew off, promptly breaking into two multi-colored pieces,
and i got to go home because i couldn't see. 

but i could hear.

now, i feel like the kid who got to the coveted red playground ball first,
and some days i can't decide toward which of the people outside my square
i'd like to chuck the ball.

and some days, that feeling makes me feel mean, but then i leave the
computer lab and fall down on the way to my car, and watch and listen to a
university parking meter man double over in laughter as i slowly pick myself
up off the dirt, brush myself off and get in my car. and while i take down
my hadicapped parking pass so that i can see through the windsheild properly
to drive, i feel sorry for the meter man because his car is idling while he
writes tickets, and his radio is blasting creed.

for that man, the message and all commands will always be 'not found.' 

and i wish i would have said something. i wish i would have said 'merry
christmas' or 'happy hanukkah' or 'fuck you.'

and thinking of that makes me think that maybe, this year, in america, there
is no difference between the three of those sayings. i would have meant any
one of them as the last, but maybe every american wants them all, in some
way, to mean the last.

and maybe that's why in a year where it doesn't feel like christmas and
where there has been but one dusting of snow, there have been a multitude of
home-sponsored light shows, featuring santa and jesus and a big twinkling
american flag. that laughing parking attendant and those kids that throw
playground balls at each other have rallied patriotism and love and american
family values and strung them all up in 500 feet of green wire and light
bulbs, hoping to shadow the simple truth that they are only scared and lost
and hoping to get back to something they cannot name so that they may first
end the in-house war.

you can't take the stars from the sky to light your trees, and i have the
right to burn the stars on the flag.

and the little kids who started out inside the square become the man who
will laugh at the crippled people who don't look like cripples, and the
little kids who stood outside of the square become the cripples who learn
how to walk. and one day they all learn how to say 'fuck you' in a multitude
of beautiful and diverse ways.

i am still not found. the message is still not found.

maybe #sinister is just a place to hide after all, a playground of sorts for
the people whose glasses have broken in two pieces.

well then.

happy christmas. war is

well.

war is.

lindseylou 







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