One Day Out

(I wasn’t going to cross post this from WWL, because it is weird, but maybe this crowd is more likely to get me. It got nothing there… so I won’t be offended if it doesn’t here either. LOL… I’m just me;)

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…and so much on my mind!

Douchebag chickenshit nasty crone of the year award?

Woman denies Halloween candy to Obama supporters

Fox 2 News says a sign posted outside Nagel’s house, about 12 miles west of Detroit, served notice to all trick-or-treaters. It read: “No handouts for Obama supporters, liars, tricksters or kids of supporters.”

Other reports had her grilling even tiny children at her doorstep, and even if they didn’t answer “I support McCain” because they were too young to even know politics, she sent them away crying.

When asked about children who’d been turned away empty-handed and crying, she said: “Oh well. Everybody has a choice.”

One has to think her house has moved waaaaaay up on a LOT of people’s Devil’s Night list for next year.

If only dreams came true. Next up?

In the “Diane really has weird dreams and is often the heroine of them…” vein, last night I had this trippy scenario:

(and yes, my dreams are this detailed)

It was this coming Wednesday and I was walking toward a Church in some non-descript small town, when people started passing me running the other way.

“Now that that Obama won, you can’t go there, the blacks are going to kill us all.”

I didn’t answer at first, other than “You’re crazy, we’re celebrating.”

“You’re white, you go there, you’ll end up dead.”

I just kept walking towards the center of town, and the Church where the celebration was to occur, when I found a group of people gathering. They had a bunch of (for lack of a better word) effigies on sticks. Strangely, the paper mache figures were white, just round heads on thick torsos with stumpy cartoonish legs and arms sticking out; while others were assembling crosses on poles as well. The bonfire smoke was as thick as the fear, both pungent and ugly to my nose. I knew where this mob was going and their intent.

I sidled away quickly without drawing attention to myself.

The steps of the church were spotless gray wide stone slabs nestled between the embracing walls of the huge structure. There were still people, black and white joyously walking up them through the huge open wood and glass double doors. You could almost smell the oil rubbed into that burnished wood, see the care and love that old beautiful building got.

I walked up two steps, and sat to the right, not wanting to be in the way of the entrants. I wanted to be on the front lines, and remember wondering vaguely if I would be seen as trying to speak for the Black community, but deciding my flesh should be front-line between people of my color and my friends of all colors.

A smiling woman walked up to me, with a bouquet of a few carnations and baby’s breath, nestled with a fern leaf and wrapped at the bottom in green tissue paper. She smiled more broadly and said “These are for you.”

I didn’t know her, though I knew most of the black people from that Church, even though I am not a regular church-goer. “Me?” I asked confused.

“I think I know why you’re sitting there, you sure you’re up to it?” she asked. I took the bouquet, the paper lightly damp to my fingers. Simple and beautiful with wisps of cinnamon in their aroma, they almost brought tears to my eyes.

“I know exactly what I’m going to say,” I said, “I just hope they will listen.” She nodded, and gave me a look of strength.

She moved up a step or two above me and sat right in the middle. Soon others were sitting as well, just randomly spaced around the huge entry. “They’re coming,” she spoke to people, “we’re going to welcome them.”

Soon about 30-40 men and women were marching toward us, about 12 step-sitters guarding the entrance to the hundreds inside; some of their effigies burning, but none of their crosses, to my relief. They were yelling stuff, mostly about how they weren’t going to be victimized by the blacks taking over the world.

The people on the stairs started talking back to them, some saying, “Come celebrate” and others saying “Go on, go home, hate doesn’t belong here.”

I stood and tried to get them to listen to me, saying I had something to ask them.

“I want to ask you something!” I shouted. The leader waved his hand and said “What?”

“Is God perfect? Does God make mistakes?”

(I am fairly certain the exchange here was influenced by reading Shannika’s last essay on Maat’s Feather)

He became enraged and said “Of course God is perfect!”

I asked then “Then was it a mistake to make 90% of the world not white? Was he in error? Here you have People loving God, God loving them back and you want to claim God was wrong, they are different, you are better? That the 10% of the white world are the only ones God made right and loves?

You must think he makes mistakes, then.”

Some of the people behind him started, visibly shaken by that one.

The leader said, “We will not be killed and abused now that THEY have taken over the country!”

He whipped a rock at my face, which I caught with a grab just in time. He flinched, thinking I was going to whip it back, but I dropped it next to the flowers by my feet.

Louder, “It seems to me that they are celebrating, welcoming everyone black and white because a man who has all of our best interests at heart has won, and its only YOU who are talking about doing any killing.

Let me ask you another one. Where did Jesus say to kill, hurt or burn out anyone different than you? Wasn’t he the one who talked about the Good Samaritan?

Seems to me, they are acting more like Christians, like Jesus, than you.  You’re the ones being violent.”

He rushed up and tried to hit me in the head with an urn. Two other men tried to use urns to hit other parishioners on the stairs, both black and white. Someone picked up one of the broken urn pieces and beaned the leader before he hurt me. He was down, but unhurt.

The lady who gave me the flowers stepped up and  said “Don’t! We will have no violence here.” The authority in her rich voice stopped everyone quicker than a Mother stops a child in a cookie jar. She made the whole thing over.

The leader down, the people behind him, who had already pretty much stopped when confronted with their own religion just started dropping what they were holding. Some melted back the way they had come, others came up to join us.

The pastor came to the doorway, and said, “Its time to come in now.” So we all entered, and he closed the huge doors behind us. He locked them.

I looked at that quizzically.

“Lets keep the ugliness outside for an hour, just in case, they deserve their happiness,” nodding toward the happy people laughing, talking and embracing inside.

I walked up to where my husband and son were sitting with everyone we knew, and seeing they had already made their way through the buffet line, oblivious to everything but the celebration, sat down by them.

I was still holding the flowers. I was really happy.

Urns and stones? Go figure.

But obviously the subliminal stuff doesn’t need much explanation.

I so want this to be a transcendent election.

Either that or I am stone-cold nuts and an eglomaniac.