Sinister: i guess i'm your big mistake.

[lindsey baker]

hello sinister.

it snowed last night, big wet chunks of white. i left the paper, and looked 
up as soon as i got outside, as i often do anyway. (i tend to defy the city 
and scour the sky for stars, though i often mistake planes for burning 
spirals of gas billions of miles away. realizing i'm, in actuality, only 
gazing at the blinking light of a hovering aircraft tends to make me feel 
smaller than the stars would, and part of not a world, only a prarie.)

the sky was a hazy pink, and it reminded me of the sinister page at 
christmas time. i brushed the snow piles off my car with the sleeve of my 
coat, admiring the sharp contrast of soft whiteness against the varied 
plaid, and finally got in my car to clouds of breath and the smell of wet 
wool.

the wind blew the snow at a bustling diagonal, and the road was actually 
quite hard to make out. i crawled home, which was fitting, i suppose, 
because i think i have been moving laterally on all fours for weeks now.

i dreamt all night, but can only remember the segments wherein i put my 
glasses on, and couldn't see a thing through the pink lenses, only a snowy 
sky. i kept taking them off and rubbing them, blowing hot bursts of breath 
of the plastic, clearing away the fog. only to shove them back on and take 
them off again, blinded.

i don't particularly remember if i could see when i had them off.

i wrote an email to a boy i used to be friends with today. i don't expect 
him to write me back, but i saw his name in the daily nebraskan and 
suddenly, sitting there looking at his name in 10 point body copy, i kind of 
missed him and who i was when i was with him.

i came in to the paper today, rejoicing for the snow day and the removed 
responsibility of attending my photojournalism class, wondering if taking a 
picture of slushy snow would constitute as a photo of news. i intended to 
devote the afternoon to work, but instead i have been alternating good life 
albums and writing emails. and reading old emails. from the boy i first fell 
in love with. i organized them all into a folder a while ago, and i noticed 
today i must have dleted the bitter ones in a fit of fury.

and so the favorite song of another starts on the good life cd, and i am 
shaking still.

something has happened to me since this near-rape experience of a few weeks 
ago, as it were, and i have been trying to put my finger on what, exactly is 
wrong and why i feel stagnant, like i am waiting for something. waiting, 
mostly, to fail. classes and love and hope and life and, ultimately, myself.

repeat repeat repeat

...she met this boy from omaha
whose life was handed to him
but still he wanted everything
his dreams were his ruin
she couldn't wake him up
the bough broke, and he fell
like the time he fell from his mother
into the arms of a doctor
so he cried like that first day of his life
he knew he had broken this beautiful porcelain
and how could their world be the same?
and so it never was the same.
she whispers his name...

xxx lou





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