Saw Winston while leaving the Chevron & just back from voting himself. He warmly mis-remembered me as Devon, I told him, no, no, its Davos! He laughed, & at once called me Dana. Only Zool.

There should be balloons, the idea of balloons, as a mast for the ship of state putting down anchor today. The polling place empty enough to accommodate more balloons than an empty prom gym, than the hole where the fountain once was, than the ballpark in early December. In the booth, at he scene of the semi-acknowledged electoral crimes of 2004, so ineffectually addressed in amendments I voted for all the same. But the structures of injustice too large for state constitutions to really address, it’s a call from a reverie to a nightmare, asking the nightmare to lay off a bit, & it doesn’t, & this is called farce. The poker, tied to a dirty white thread, behind the rhetorical curtain, & the little pencil for whimsy, for write-ins. Still more like filling out a put-put scorecard than involving oneself in civic life, still the impossible windmill par 3.

November 8, 2005 * 2:26 pm

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