I am no better than 50% awake just now. I really hate the switch back from Daylight Savings Time. Fall back my ass. I'm getting up an hour earlier to try and compensate, but my body knows it's 11:35 a.m. right now.
Since I seem to have started writing down my dreams here, a somewhat strange thing for me to do (and if it annoys you, tell me and I shall stop), here's one from this morning. It's only a very small part of last night's epic, but it's the part that seems to have jarred me most profoundly. I was on a long, wide beach beneath a cloudy sky. There was a city at my back. People were talking about a tiger shark that had been seen in the water earlier. I was standing in the surf, watching a white French Poodle playing in the water. The poodle had recently been shaved. We were all waiting on a woman (in the dream, I knew who she was) who was to arrive soon, by way of the sea. At last, I sighted a dot among the swells and knew it was her, swimming towards shore. The dog dashed into the water immediately, swimming out to greet her. And I wondered if poodles could swim. Of course they can, I thought. "Poodle" is derived from the German word "puddeln," which means "to splash." Poodles were bred as hunting dogs that could swim.
I followed the dog into the sea, swimming out to meet the women. I swam for what seemed like a very long time. And it felt good, the way I remember swimming in the sea felt good. Finally, looking back, I realized that I'd swum completely out of sight of land. Seeing this, I felt a sudden sense of dread at the depths beneath me, and I remembered the shark. Yet, still, I'd not reached the woman, and the dog was still ahead of me. I looked back again, and a great, ornate paddle-wheel steamer was now between me and the unseen shore, chugging landwards. I started back, following the wake of the boat. And as I swam, my right hand struck something beneath the dark water. At once, I recognized that firm but yielding, rough but smooth sensation of touching a shark (in my life, I have had cause to touch quite a few sharks). And this was clearly a big shark. I swam as hard and fast as I could. When I finally reached shore (with a tremendous sense of relief), I looked back out to sea. There was no sign of the steamer; it had sailed from sight. However, very far out, farther than I'd gone, I could just discern the indistinct figures of the dog and the woman, black specks bobbing in the waves as they continued to swim towards one another.
I think I'm now 52% awake. The tide is turning.
Tomorrow is tomorrow, isn't it? Yesterday, MSNBC reported that, "Bush has solid leads in 23 states with 197 electoral votes and is favored in four more, which could bring him to 227. Kerry is equally solid in 13 states with 178 electoral votes and is favored in five states, which would bring him to 232. It takes 270 electoral votes to win." I am not even allowing myself to hope. Hope is a Bad Drug. If Dominar G. W. is deposed, I will rejoice, at least a little. I'll cast my vote towards that end. But I will not pretend to hope. Of course, here in Georgia, we're facing a constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriages. Never mind that same-sex marriages are already illegal in Georgia, this is just so all us queers know for damn sure it's always gonna be that way. The passing of this amendment (and I am fairly certain it will pass) is the legislative equivalent of being told, "We don't just hate you, we hate you a lot." Personally, I already got the message, loud and clear and indisputable. I've been getting it for a long, long time. I don't need a goddamn constitutional amendment to drive it home. Of course, I suspect that, given the option, a majority of Georgians would vote to simply remove all gays, lesbians, and transgendered people from the face of the Earth. If they could send us to Mars or just wink us out of existence, I believe they would. I mean, since they can't "save" us, why not? We're mostly liberals, anyway, and we're just dirtying the place. The joke would be on them, though. Too much of fundamentalist Christianity defines itself in negatives, by what it's not, by what it must redeem or destroy, by what it hates. It has to have its monsters, or it loses all meaning and purpose. Yes, the Jesus Freaks need queers. They're just too short-sighted to see it.
And on that rather queasy note, I shall end this entry. I may make others later in the day. Poppy has asked me to read "Crown of Thorns," her story for Subterranean Magazine, which is a far more pleasant prospect than thinking about America come day after tomorrow.