This may be a day for reflection, but I’ve turned off my brain.  Its wild fluctuations make me dizzy.

“McCain has the narrowest path to victory.”

“Where the heck’s the ‘youth vote?'”

“Votes suppressed!”

“Don’t underestimate the  Republican ground game.”

“Barack has changed the face of  ground-side organizing.  Millions of volunteers getting out the vote.”

“Republican headquarters are eerily empty.”

“The polls were wrong in New Hampshire.”

“Polling didn’t catch up to the vote in New Hampshire.”

“Obama wins in landslide in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire. The little town last voted Democrat in 1968.”

“Republican down-ballot incumbents are crashing.”

“Voters will change their minds at the last minute and vote for the familiar — the ‘safe.'”

“People are desperate for a larger, more-inclusive vision.”

“People retreat to their comfort zones in times of trial.”

“Hope will triumph over fear.”

“Obama could win the popular vote and McCain could take the Electoral College.”

After voting and taking a few others to the polls, I’m packing  my pajamas, laptop, potato chips, banana nut bread and knitting needles and heading to  my son’s house.  He’s going to cook for me.  His roars, moans and curses will drown my own.

In 1997, after  forty-four years of living and dying with  the Cleveland Indians, I watched every pitch of that year’s playoffs and World Series until  the last batter of the last inning  of the last game.   Cravenly,  I retreated to the back porch and lit a cigarette. Under the gigunda mountain sky,  I heard a stadium of Marlin fans erupt in triumph at the last pitch.

Forty-four years of diligence blown in the last fifteen minutes.  I’ve never stopped feeling guilty.

So today, there’ll be  no phone calls,  no writing, no struggling for the perfect word, no thought.

This day,  nothing will distract me until we either plunge into darkness or resurrect with selflessness of purpose.

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