Sinister: as long as it's talking with you, talk of the weather will do.

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister.

so i caved to the burgeoning trend creeping around the sinister edges of our 
little group and made a blog.

*misslou winces*

have dunnit. writtin it every day, shockingly enough. i remember my post 
here about diary entries. feel the same way again when you go to 
http://therulesofthegame.blogspot.com.

i also wrote a less-than-glowing review of storytelling. feel like kicking 
me again and again with those boots they wore in a clockwork orange -- or 
not -- when you go to 
http://www.dailynebraskan.com/vnews/display.v/ART/2002/06/20/3d11c88d85cfc.

many thanks to big (or should i say 'blog') gay mark for his help on both of 
the above. if you see him in the real live steaming flesh, give him a hug or 
some household prettying products or something for me.

that said. the informational portion of my post has come to an end.

***

last night, at the risk of dirtying myself, i knelt on the floor of the 
coffee shop so as to be level with austin's head as i told him about the 
decision i had made. and he smiled, showing his surprisingly charming, gappy 
teeth, celebratory.

half an hour later i changed my mind, and he said he would be disappointed.

but i think maybe it's just easier to stop something than keep it going, 
stop worrying and fussing and imagining things to imagine when lying in the 
arms of someone somewhere in a different nuance than to sit on a thin sheet 
on a futon at night, thinking so hard parts of my body become dead. or 
dying. at the expense of keeping the heart racing. with shreds of 
illusionary crushing.

and certianly an ending is better than a pending, better than sitting across 
from someone and saying to him, 'we need to talk.'

***

when i went for the interview yesterday, the editor gave me books. books of 
poets the press published. books of poems of poets that i'll be editing, 
now: a twenty-year-old snippet slash nebraska farm girl stigma telling a 
writer that his usage of 'fucking' might be better off as 'cock sucking,' 
knowing that on a good day she might write something half as worthy of being 
edited.

inside one of the books was a dead spider.

its body had been crushed between the pages, and all of the legs, remarkably 
enough, were intact and attached to the little round body. it was brown and 
undeniably crackly in its permanent state of repose, and i didn't touch it. 
i was a little taken aback, actually, and for some reason i wanted to skip 
over all the words and just look at the preservation of death.

when i kill spiders -- or anything else -- the corpse is never so neatly 
justified.



when i am old and living alone with my draft and backlog of stories of life 
and writers and the eight-sided affair i had when twenty, i want a row of 
books on a shelf. and in one of those books, i want a spider, pressed 
between pages like a flower.

***

ken chu said something so nice to me this week, i cried.


love, lou
xxx



------------------
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