November 5th, 2008

Pixel Stained

Yes, we did

And come tomorrow we start doing again, because it's not a place, but a path. We are the prophets of a future not our own, and we get to make tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I am all a jumble. I bounced home last night. Like Silverlock after his draughts at the Spring of Hippocrene, I saw the win, and could stay still no longer; for that shining moment (when the folks in the coffee shop giving me bit of despair a week ago, was all abuzz with the thrill of Obama's incipient victory; which I knew was a done deal at 5 p.m. when I saw a blue Pennsylvania) was so great inside me I was overflowing.

I called my father in Tenn., and stopped, while we talked, to get pastries at a local bakery. I got home, went into the house, and we laughed, and shared stories and watched the initiatives come in. Even that wasn't enough to damp the incredible power of Obama's speech.

Wow... Nixon grated, Ford was sort of blank (I was young), Jimmy Carter wasn't inspiring, Reagan pissed me off, Bush pere was lackluster; even if he didn't piss me off the way Reagan did (I never thought of him as dishonest, in the same way I saw Reagan as dishonest).

Clinton is praised as being able to connect with people; it didn't work for me.

Bush fils.... like nails on a chalkboard, his very elocution was enough to make me want to plug my ears; his diction, lets just say I never managed to listen to him for more than 30 seconds.

Obama... moved me.

Today has been a great happy-sad thing. My state rejected people, told them they are less than equal. I weep. I am ashamed.

My Nation... we elected the better man. Forgetting my absolute loathing for John McCain, and looking merely at how they ran their respective campaigns; at the messages they used to sell their agendas... we elected the better man.

I rejoice. I am proud.

Tomorrow, we go back to work. Today, I am enjoying a triumph, and behind me is my conscience, whispering like a slave in my ear, sic transit gloria mundi.

We are craftsmen of a future not our own, and while we holiday we must recall, the work is never done.