A few things directed my gut to tell me to stay home last night.  One was Ezi’s sleeping for hours and hours all afternoon and evening, and one was my own bloodpressure. And I had a feeling that this wasn’t going to be a fun and games evening that would make me feel hopeful.  So I happily joined my poetry workshop instead.  And then there was a terrorist shooting near where my son hangs out and I wasn’t sure he wasn’t there. And the demonstration – although crowded – was reserved and quiet in memory of the man who had been killed.  And when I finally got to sleep I dreamt that had I gone I would have been maced like my daughter had been a few weeks ago. 

It was all about my gut, not the politics, which only change in intensity from week to week.