Sinister: goodbye, i can see you walking til you're running away

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister.

and so i have learned how to breathe again.

after months of holding my breath, waiting for something, aticipating the 
pending, there has been a death and a birth and i have remembered that i 
must both inhale and exhale.

now it's overhead. my recommendation.

and now. for a story. about a boy.

his house is just like the rest in the neighborhood, maybe a little smaller 
but definitely nice. the white paint outside made the thing look like a 
house constructed of clapboard, a nice literary term that every writer wants 
to use at least once a year when describing homes. those irritating icicle 
lights were strung up against the eave, and i suspect they're there 
year-round, welcoming the people going inside.

and the welcome was a surprise.

the pictures of him might indicate some kind of hidden pain, a thinly veiled 
and teetering hysteria that might, at any moment, topple over and out of his 
dark eyes and into another song. and the songs would surely indicate that my 
sister is right, and he is disturbed, and i shouldn't be anywhere near the 
boy i have been holding hands with, let alone the house of the hero of this 
story.

but the outside and inside and offered hand were too tempting, so i laughed 
with a glorified awareness that temptation is satan is jesus is god, and i 
became, officially, the new girl in the house.

of the twenty or so people inside, all were calmly, and quite happily, 
gathered around a brown bag of overly-salted popcorn with jam glasses of 
water or wine, and they liked my red jacket. they laughed, and so did i.

the boy. the hero. the owner of the house. he is all of these, and his eyes, 
upon closer inspection, are void of the theatrical madness of the stage and 
the frenzied gulping of a pitcher or water. instead, they are only the tired 
eyes of a just-legal man not quite ready to leave omaha again. i shook his 
hand with my one empty right hand, and his palm was warm and dry, the black 
bracelet i recognized from the photographs tied firmly in place.

and as i sat there, in the house, with one boy in front of me and the other 
at my side, i realized that people are just people, and we meet and pass. 
and if we are lucky, we catch the hands of a few passers-by for a while, and 
hang on long enough to realize that we don't need the hands to hold us up.

so ends my story, i think, as someone told me my last post was too long.

a few closing matters.

i am apparently the second lindsey baker known to mankind, as i was born 
after the older male version of me. i hope he has better luck in love than 
do i, though recent happenings here in the heartland bode well for LB#2.

props go out to my loves mandee and dave for reasons they well know. i look 
forward to future summits. and what fun it would be to click the sewing 
circle needles at a heartland pic-a-nic. hmmm.

support saddle creek bands. they work hard.

a bit of irreverant content: i am still finding myself listeing to wutu on 
the trip from lincoln to omaha and back, and am still surprised every time 
that three songs repeating in such rapid succession doesn't drive me nutty.

and finally. a final word about love.

it's there. and here. just wait, patiently, and the pregnant feeling of 
wating will one day break and then.

and then.

your misslindseylou






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