Sinister: if life is an index i'm looking you up.

[rrrrobyn]

oh, sinister. you.

it's nice that people like to take photos, ink or otherwise. they are
good things.  i worry that i don't take enough. so i took two rolls
last wkend during my birfday party. haven't gotten the prints back,
but here's one of the ink ones:

I'm in my kitchen and the house is full of people, most of whom are
wearing track suits, it being a track-suit party. I've got a black
and turquoise Reebok warm-up suit on and am drunkly (yet eloquently,
yes, eloquently) pontificating about whether to become a jock or not
because, damn, this track suit is so comfortable and makes the best
swish-swish noises. The ink photo right after this one shows me
picking up my friend Neil, who plays rugby and is dressed as Rocky
(Rocky 1, of course) and looks the part. I've got him balanced
sideways on my lower back. His neck towel has fallen off.  It's my
only impressive party trick, this picking up of people. But anyone
can do it. 

Another ink photo, to partially explain my sinister quietness:

That's me in mid-December, sitting on my bed, cross-legged, leaning
in a little towards my laptop to better read its screen in what's
become the dim light of my bedroom. Is it something like 3 a.m.?
There's that 3 a.m. hum of streetlights outside and the 3 a.m. hum of
laptop inside; the loudest hums in the world. Yes, it's something
like that time. I'm typing and deleting, cutting and pasting a paper
together. I haven't bothered to change my pants in a few days (though
I've managed to change my underwear, which I count as "keeping it
together, yo"), logic being that pants don't get dirty enough through
the act of reading and writing alone. Spinner.com plays jazz through
my tinny laptop speakers. I got tired of the indie rock stations an
hour ago. I believe I'm writing about cinema and the cyborg eye,
quoting the sticky-noted bits from the 20 or so books and articles
surrounding me on the bed and then attempting cleverness with my own
words. I have no idea how well I'm going about it, but I'm typing
fast. I'm so very "back in school"; when someone says articulate, I
say how high.

woodwork, coming out of.
sinister, singing praises of.
sighing, long and contemplative.
x, robyn.

=====
I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything. ~Steven Wright
~~~
Robyn Fadden    rfadden at yahoo.com    Montreal, QC

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