Wednesday, January 17, 2007

When Barack Obama made his speech at the Democratic convention in '04, I called Mike into the living room to watch. "This is America's first black president," I told him. It was one of those hunches that I felt so strongly I couldn't keep it to myself. From Illinois, the Land of Lincoln, with a fresh face, a refreshing manner, he inspired hope in me that I had not felt in a long time. Judging from his meteoric rise from obscurity to stardom, I was not alone. (Photo: REUTERS/Jason Reed)

Now there are many of us who have The Audacity of Hope, hope that this next generation can take the muck-ups of my generation and turn things around. He doesn't have all the baggage of Hillary, or Edwards, or Kerry, or Gore, and that is to his advantage. I really believe he is electable. When he announced that an exploratory committee had been formed, I felt more than a twinge of excitement. Run, Obama, Run! Join the team!

I've got several errands to run today, so I'm outta here.

I heard this while at Sonic eating a chili cheese wrap for lunch. It immediately resonated with me, so I'll share it. From APM's Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor, a poem by William Stafford, "What's in My Journal?"

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous discards.
Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected anyway.
Deliberate obfuscation, the kind that takes genius.
Chasms in character.
Loud omissions.
Mornings that yawn above a new grave.
Pages you know exist but you can't find them.
Someone's terribly inevitable life story, maybe mine.

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