I went to sleep drunk at 11pm last night. What warring emotions: elation at Obama’s landslide, despair at the lead for bigotry in my home state.
Stephanie stayed up, TV on and laptop by her side, anxious look on her face. I hoped that the morning would bring good news, but I was pessimistic.
The light was beginning to turn blue when I was roused from sleep by a cramp in my gut. I rose to pee, and hoped I would fall back to sleep, but the specter of a yellow-hued, God-loving, gay-hating 51 percent would not let me rest.
I got up again and checked the news online: Too close to call but Prop (H)8 still leading.
My worst thoughts happen in the middle of the night, lying in bed. Could I still be a Christian? Maybe God was on their side, after all. Maybe it’s time to give up trying to salvage the Bible. They want it, they can have it. And where does that leave me? They call me depraved, promiscuous, sinner. And yet they make it so hard to be a Christian.
We Skyped with my brother who happens to be in Paris. What the hell is happening, he wanted to know. He couldn’t get definitive news. As of this writing it is still too close to call, but looking like the chickens will be able to get up and move around, but the gays must stay in their place. Even a-religious Julian reminded me not throw the Bible out with the bath water.
A little yoga. Life goes on. Prayer. Saint Francis of Assisi. Where there is despair, hope. Where there is darkness, light.
I put on my fancy shirt from Brooks Brothers I had been saving for a job interview. It is white, crisp. The sun was shining on rain-washed hills of the San Gabriel mountains.
The long view is coming into focus.
Dominique Dibbell 