It’s been so long since I’ve written, sad really. Apparently getting back on the blogging horse is much like exercising — you have to do it more than once a month to get yourself back in the habit.

Anyway, it’s been a lovely weekend. Finally, aside from a hot Saturday, there is the crispness to the air that’s meant to be there this time of the year and I feel more in touch with the rest of the world as a result — not stranded on some alien LA island where 85 in November is par for the course.

Friday went to a celebratory drink hosted by my pilates studio and dinner with Neeta, and Saturday night, we took to the streets for a Repeal Prop. 8 rally.

You know, the last time I protested was my senior year in high school, when my small town banned hats, HATS!, as potential gang apparel. When we had, like, NO GANG ACTIVITY. So my friends and I took to the streets and protested this infringement on our First Amendment rights, and some of us even formed our own gang, “F.I.S.H.,” Folks in Santa Hats. You know, which we then wore to school (santa hats). Man, was I a N.E.R.D.

This is the first time I’ve ever protested for something as an adult. And I was worried. Before we went out there (the protest was in my hood), I could hear the helicopters and the cops directing people and I wasn’t sure whether to go. But we went and it was AWESOME. The fact that we had to be there decidedly WASN’T (THANKS, organized religion (except for the Jews)), but the fact that there were so many families there, gay and straight, so many colors and sizes and ages of people all there to demand that people’s love be recognized, that was awesome. Native American dancers carried the crowds down Santa Monica boulevard with their drums and chanting and the beat of the metals on their garb as they danced pulling us all forward. I cried to myself for oh, the NINE MILLIONTH TIME, in the last week over the will of the people to hope and fight for change.

Today I didn’t do anything much — finished a book, cleaned my apartment (even mopped the floors!), listened to a lot of Andrew Bird (who is, in addition to incredibly handsome and in possession of very sassy red-and-white striped socks (saw him at Largo a couple weekends ago), AMAZING), went for a long run and generally felt happy.

And in a very good sign of thing to come, I painted my nails. I haven’t painted my fingernails in months, and I’m not sure what it means that I finally felt moved to, but somehow I think it’s significant.

I dunno, suddenly I’m seeing signs of hope everywhere.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 10th, 2008 at 1:01 am and is filed under That Time I Got All Jean-Paul Sartre. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.