Saturday!

Turned on the "auto-flip new images" option so as not to cause any more disconcerting backwards text in the photos. Strange to think that I've actually been photographing with my left shoulder thrust back, as opposed to my right. Mirrors freak me out. The fact that Photo Booth defaults to working as a mirror is disconcerting.

That photo caption is about all I have to say, today.

A letter...

From John Wilkes Booth to Jesse K. Dubois (Dubois was State Auditor of Illinois and close friend of Lincoln's. Following Lincoln's election in 1860, Dubois was repeatedly disappointed by Lincoln's decision not to give him a cushy government job as part of his administration. It's a really strange thing, reading Dubois' letters to Lincoln. It seems so out of character for Lincoln not to have given him a job, because, by all accounts, they were good buddies. Just another thing, that under the color of my conspiracy writing, seems really shady. Anyhow -- having Booth and Dubois meet at Lincoln's inauguration [never happened, far as I know] was fun, and now gives me an excuse to have Booth toy with the poor guy.)

“My esteemed Mr. Dubois,
I hope you find it acceptable that I am writing to you. Following our meeting this past March in Washington, I found myself researching you & your esteemed career. A State Auditor! A former Legislator! And a family man to boot. How are Mary and little Abraham? (You named your son after your close friend! Touching!)
More importantly (no slight upon your wonderful family of course) how are you faring? I scan the newspapers daily with hopes of seeing the announcement of your triumphant appointment to some office or another within our President’s inner circle, and daily I have been (thus far) disappointed. But perhaps not as disappointed as you are? Or should I say, ‘unappointed’? Forgive me a chuckle at that. As an actor, I am constantly seeking out every opportunity for a witty rejoinder. A verbal puzzle. Do these tickle you as they do me? I imagine that they do not. You, sir, are undoubtedly of such a stature as to be above such childish things. Or perhaps, as your life has kept you buried in the ledger books of your great state, you speak better with numbers; are better acquainted with figures; feel more at home amongst the calculations. Regardless, even a man such as yourself will have to admit that such a remark – calling a man hoping for a Federal position who has yet to receive one from his dear, dear friend, the President, ‘unappointed’ – has its merits in the world of humor, and it must strike close to the target.
Do you find yourself disappointed as you remain unappointed? Have you simply accepted the fact that you are to remain in Lincoln’s past, forgotten by history as your friend (the President) makes his own? Do you feel that if he would just answer your letters and heed your cries that you could add your considerable weight to the matters at hand? Has word traveled back to quaint Springfield (I adore your little town, having traveled through it on journeys to bigger, more civilized places) that we are now at war? Forgive me if that comes as a shock, but it is true, sir. The United States is at war with herself, and threatens to tear apart at the seams. But, this last is neither here nor there. What is important is your own state of mind. I simply must know it.
Most admiringly,
John Wilkes Booth

P.S. If you ever find yourself vacationing in Washington, D.C., just tell the gentleman at the box office of the Ford Theater your name. You will find that I have left you two standing tickets, good for any performance, at any time.”

I just gained an hour...again!

Was in the kitchen pouring the previously mentioned glass of wine when I looked at the clock, which said 11:30. "Crap, I thought, a mere half an hour until I have to close the word count on today."

Then I wrote that post (procrastination!) and afterwards, looked at the computer's clock which said 10:34.

I gained an hour!

Lest anyone think I'm wearing the same shirt every day, I'm not. I just happen to wear a white t-shirt most days and when I come home, lately, my thing has been to remove whatever shirt I'm wearing atop it and go around in the t-shirt until I need to go out again. I'm becoming very conscious of the fact that this is what I look like while I'm at home.

When I first started drinking wine (and let's not go into the whens and the hows of that in case there are any parental units reading) I preferred white wines because they were cold and more easily drunk, and I didn't know any better. Then, as I matured, I would only drink reds because I found it easier to discover the complexities and nuances of reds. I've recently begun to appreciate whites again, not for their coldness or their drinkability, but because beneath their innocent, unassuming appearance, there does lie a wide array of complexity. Who'd have thunk that a clear beverage could do so much?

The above paragraph is as related to this blog as everything I've been writing today.

Warning: This Excerpt is Ridiculous

Another white t-shirt photo. Go figure.

Wrote this today and while completely out of place, it was fun to write, and that's what really counts isn't it. Made me realize how much of an easy word pad swear words are. Stupid Lincoln didn't use foul language (or drink or use tobacco) which makes it hard to do any of the easy things it is to make a character do. Also tough to do any of the product placement that my sponsors keep demanding. ("Then Lincoln lit a Kool and noted with pleasure the refreshing menthol flavor.")

Anyhow -- without further ado (when Hitler hyped something up, was that Führer ado?...oh, that, right there, my friends, is too much good stuff....)


At Fort Sumter, Private J.K. Wheeler was huddled under a table with his longtime friend, Private Addleborough G. Kamloop as the shelling continued unabated.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Wheeler shouted over the booming explosions.
“It’s pretty goddamned ironic, if you ask me,” replied Kamloop.
“I’m not quite sure that it approaches irony as it’s so far wedged into the land of suck that it hasn’t time to be anywhere else.”
“Think about it, though,” insisted Kamloop. “Here we are in a coastal fort, being attacked from the fucking ground.”
“That’s exactly why it fucking sucks!” shouted Wheeler. “Their cannon are lobbing shells over the damned walls and our guns can’t point down far enough to even hit them. Anything that can traverse down to be effective is up at the top of the fort and you know what happened to the last guys who went up there to try to fire one.”
“Actually, I didn’t hear about that. What happened?”
“Well, you remember Jimmy Alton?”
“Sure, that kid from New York. Claimed he was gonna make it big as a musician or some shit, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Wheeler paused as a shell exploded nearby. “Jesus Fuck, that was close. Anyhow, so Major Anderson sends Jimmy with Weatherly and Townsend up there to see if they can’t start getting some fire trained on their cannon, only the second they get up there a shell lands damn near in Jimmy’s lap.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Kamloop.
“Yeah, exactly! So he’s bouncing it around in his hands not knowing what to do, right? And Weatherly is screaming at him to throw the fuckin’ thing back over the side and Townsend dives for cover except he falls through the ladder hatch.”
“Woah – is he alright?”
“Is he alright? That poor bastard fell three stories! He broke both his wrists! But you know what they say --”
“Coulda been worse. Right, right.”
“Exactly,” said Wheeler. “So Jimmy is hot potatoing this goddamn shell around and finally tosses it to Weatherly and Weatherly gets so pissed off that he drops the fucking thing on the ground and goes after Jimmy. Starts beating the blessed snot out of the poor kid. Meanwhile, the shell is just sitting there next to the powder magazine hissing and smoking, looking for an excuse to go off. But Jimmy and Weatherly are rolling around next to it, completely oblivious.”
“Jesus Christ. So does the shell go off?”
“Shit, man, if it had, we’d still be picking bits of Jimmy and Weatherly out of our hair. No, fuckin thing was a dud.”
“Those guys are seriously lucky bastards,” said Kamloops. “What are the odds?”
Another nearby explosion caused the two men to jump.
“Can’t we just fucking surrender?” asked Wheeler. “We should just surrender.”
“That’s the spirit, J.K.” Kamloops said, sarcastically.
“Oh come on. I mean, look at it this way – after this we’re going to be at war, right? No way Abe’s going to let them get away with this, even if they apologize real sweet. Secession was one thing. Yeah it was ‘legally void’ or whatever he called it, and sure it pissed him off, but you’ve got to think that at this point, they’ve crossed the fucking line. They’re attacking United States property. You think you can do that and get away with a slap on the wrist? Fuck no.”
“Fuck no, hoo-rah,” Kamloops grunted.
“Yeah, yeah, hoo-rah. U.S.A. U.S.A. My point is this: we are now well behind enemy lines. There are hundreds of Confed troops out there and thousands more all around us. How many guys do we have here, Addleborough?”
“Dunno. Eighty?”
“Eighty-six all told. Eighty fucking six. Cut off from the country we so dearly love and which holds us close to her heaving bosom. All alone in the wilderness and chaos of the Deep South which is full of backwards-thinking lunatics who can’t decide if they’re super tough or super nice. Right now, Southern Hospitality is going to be a stack of Johnny cakes followed by a musket ball in the throat.”
“Still, I hate to just surrender,” Kamloops said.
“Look, A.G., we are going to sweep through the South with the fury and force of the entire – well, half of it, anyway – United States Armed Forces. We will shock and awe the shit out of these fools until they are so scared they’ll shit their grits.”
“Hoo-rah!” Kamloops said.
“Hoo-rah,” sighed Wheeler.

A day and a half later, as Kamloops and Wheeler stood in formation to march from the fort under the terms of their surrender, they grinned at each other.
“Fuckin’ made it through, A.G.,” said Wheeler.
“Damn right we did,” said Kamloops.
“And we’ll be back, goddammit. All you motherfuckers better get ready for us,” Wheeler said raising his voice as though he were addressing the Southern troops, “because we will motherfuckin be back.”

Word 10,000

"for"


That is all.

Happy Day After Election Day!

I'd intended to take a picture with my voting receipt, but I lost the damn thing. Oh well. Trust me, I voted.

There are no newspapers available in the world today. It's ludicrous. Everybody on the planet wants a newspaper that says "Obama Wins!" Should have printed my own paper today. That woulda been smart.

So little writing got done today so far. Hope I can push through to a couple hundred more words. Totally uninspired in terms of making some sense of a story. Just writing bits and pieces that don't go together very well. Gah.

Realize I've been posting really long excerpts. Let's try to keep it shorter today so that someone might actually read it.

This is a silly scene between Lincoln and Mary. It's fun writing them together -- somehow Mary comes off as a fun-loving, clever girl. Everything I've read about her has her as paranoid and temperamental, but hey, it's fiction for a reason.

Lincoln returned to his own house, all but certain that he would accept Bell’s offer, or at the very least, participate in his plan. He was sure that Bell had not been entirely honest with him – he was a politician after all, was he not? – but that did not overly concern him. He felt sure that with the help of his friends – such as Jesse Dubois here in Springfield and Joshua Speed in Kentucky and his numerous other friends around the country, that whatever Bell had actually planned, he would be more than ready to see through it.
He entered the house, the nurse attending to the children’s bedtime needs, Mary attending to her own in her bedroom. He entered without knocking, finding her in a state of half-undress.
“Mr. Lincoln!” she shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Mrs. Lincoln, how would you like to be the First Lady of the United States?”
“Why, I’m not sure that President Buchanan is looking for a wife, but I suppose I would find it agreeable,” Mary joked.
Lincoln laughed uproariously, nearly shaking the house. He suddenly took his wife into his arms and kissed her. “Oh, Mary, that is why I love you!” he said.
“Because I would leave you for the President of the United States if I thought that he’d take me?” Mary smiled and pressed her forehead against her husband’s. “Honestly, Abe, what is this all about?”
“Would you be too upset if we had to move from here to Washington?”
“It’s an awfully long journey,” Mary said. “I’m not sure my constitution is strong enough for it.”
Lincoln playfully swatted Mary’s rear. “I’d say your constitution is plenty strong enough for that and more.”
“You are a naughty man, Mr. Lincoln,” Mary said coquettishly. “But really, what’s this all about? Stop beating around the bush.”
“I’ll do more than beat around….” Lincoln stopped at a look from his wife. “My apologies, lady. I ask you these questions because I would like to know your thoughts on my putting my hat in the ring for the presidency.”
“For the coming election?” Mary asked.
“Indeed, a mere fifteen months from now, the people will choose a new president. I would have them choose me.”
Mary smiled. “I could think of no better man for them to choose.”

Today would have flipped Abe's wig....

....not that he wore one.

...this post will contain something.

Go Namtla! Listening to the Steelers/Redskins game because if the Steelers win, then so will Obama. It's true: http://tinyurl.com/5lvvbq

Shall I copy and paste another excerpt? Okeydokey. I kinda like this one. One thing that's been cool is that when I've needed a character, I just mine the history and find one.... And sometimes they work out really well. Like John Bell might well have been like I write him.... But probably not. But really -- today I was writing about Lincoln "walking three doors down to his friend's house" and later I was looking for the name of a Lincoln friend. Turned out his buddy Jesse K. Dubois did live 3 doors away from Lincoln in Springfield. So convenient! ALSO, Lincoln snubbed Dubois for any political position after he was elected, making Dubois a great candidate for later nefariousnessity.

Springfield, Illinois
August 23rd, 1859

It had been unusually dry and hot that summer, across southern Illinois. Usually there was no lack of rain but this year, the spring rains hadn’t come, leaving the roads dusty, the creeks low, and farmers worried about their crops. Wells ran dry.
Lincoln left his office around one in the afternoon, intending to take his midday meal at an eatery near the State House. As he crossed the causeway, a carriage stopped suddenly before him, impeding his way. Lincoln stopped, staring at the side of the vehicle, uncharacteristic ire at the rudeness of the driver rising in his mind. It passed quickly, and he was turning to walk around the carriage when the door opened revealing the dark interior.
“Get in,” said a voice with a heavy German accent.
Lincoln squinted, trying to make out any details of the indistinct shapes within. He could see two people – two men – but the sun was at such an angle that it reflected off a building across the street, and contrasting with the dark interior of the carriage, it was impossible to glean anything more.
“I would rather not,” Lincoln said, turning to walk away again.
“I think you should,” said the voice. “Your country needs you, and I’m not a man who you want to refuse.”
Although Lincoln had an innate distrust of strangers, especially those who attempted to gather him into a dark coach, he was intrigued. His failed candidacies for both the Vice Presidential nomination in 1856 and for the House of Representatives just two years prior had left him without a means to pursue his political aspirations.
“Come, Mister Lincoln,” said another voice – a familiar voice. “We mean you no ill will. We just want to take a little ride.”
His curiosity getting the better of him, Lincoln pulled himself into the carriage and sat opposite the two men.
The carriage door closed behind him and with window curtains drawn, the interior was as dark as it had appeared from outside. As his eyes adjusted, Lincoln felt the plush velvet covered seat beneath him, smelled stale tobacco and whiskey, signs of opulence and comfortable living. He coughed involuntarily. The carriage began to move down the street.
“What’s all this about then?” he asked. His eyes had adjusted sufficiently to make out that he was seated across from two men, one younger than he, one older. The man on the right – the younger of the two – was smartly dressed in a European-cut suit, and had a slightly menacing air to him.
The man on the right, Lincoln recognized. It was John Bell, former Secretary of War, former Speaker of the House, and current Senator from Tennessee. Lincoln didn’t know the man well, but knew of him.
“Do you recognize me, son?” Bell asked, his southern drawl tempered by years of mingling with the Washington elite.
“You are John Bell,” Lincoln replied. “Yes, I recognize you. How do you do, sir?”
“I am well,” Bell said. He indicated the man to his left. “This is my man, Albert Konigmacher.”
“How do you do, Mr. Lincoln?” Konigmacher asked.
“How do you do?”
Bell continued. “I apologize that I was forced to implement such underhanded tactics. I assure you that under other circumstances, I would have called upon you as a gentleman would.”
“Under what circumstances do we find ourselves?” Lincoln asked.
“These are trying times, Mr. Lincoln. Our nation is at a crossroads. We stand divided, and we all know that a nation divided can not stand.”
“Things do look grave indeed,” Lincoln said.
“Grave!” Bell shouted. “A grave is what we shall all lie in if these troubles are not ended. The South speaks of secession but will not compromise. Those in the North can’t get their heads out of their asses – pardon my language, sir – can’t get their heads out of their asses for long enough to see it.” He paused a moment. “Excuse my outburst, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Lincoln said. “I understand and share your passion, Mr. Bell, but what would you have me do?”
“You debated Douglas well. I regret I did not personally witness the speeches, but my agents reported to me favorably on your efforts.”
“Little good they did me. I failed election,” Lincoln said glumly.
“Perhaps you failed in that so that you might claim a larger prize,” Bell said.
“Of what do you speak?”
“I’m talking about the Presidency, son,” Bell said. “The Presidency.”
Lincoln shook his head. “One doesn’t go from failure to failure to succeeding at the greatest office.”
“One can. You can. You will.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“There will be four candidates. You will be the Repubicans’ representative. The Southern Dems will choose Breck – who is an ass, by the way – and the Northerners will take Mr. Douglas.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I am quite adept at reading between the lines. And also at reading lines that others would rather I hadn’t access to.”
Lincoln considered this. “You said there would be four candidates.”
“Yes, that fourth is me.”
“You, sir?”
“Yes, me,” Bell replied. “The Whigs are desperate to stay relevant, and they will choose me to lead the charge. I have been around for long enough that they know that I know what I am doing. I have enough friends in Washington to make it happen.”
“Then why would you have me run against you? Why would you have me win?”
“Because he can’t,” Konigmacher interjected.
“Sir?” Lincoln asked, surprised at the blunt response.
“It’s true, Mr. Lincoln,” Bell said. “I simply won’t be able to carry enough of the country in order to win. Without a fourth candidate to split the vote, Douglas will win. Breckenridge will carry the South, have no doubt about that, but these days, that simply does not mean shit – pardon my language again. It is the North that elects presidents. It is Pennsylvania and New York and Ohio that chooses our leaders.”
“And Douglas would win those versus you?”
“Without question.”
Lincoln sat back, digesting this. He lifted the curtain slightly, letting a modicum of light into the carriage. He saw that their route had been a circuitous one and that they were scarcely as far from their origin as he might have walked in the same amount of time.
“Mr. Lincoln,” Konigmacher started. “Douglas can not win. He is a hypocrite and a liar. The worst kind of politician.”
“I thought that was the only kind of politician,” Lincoln replied.
Bell laughed. “You’re far too young to be so jaded, Mr. Lincoln. You are a good man, and you are a good politician. You know me to be the same, or so I hope.”
“I know that you were one of two Southern Senators to vote against Kansas-Nebraska.”
“And you know that Douglas supported the measure; that he wrote that measure. And you know that he cares not about the abolition of slavery, that he would put it to the people of each Territory to decide upon the future of slavery. He would have us be a country united in name only, but with thirty-three nation-states each left to their own devices, deciding upon slavery this week, the consumption of alcohol the next and the right to carry a pistol in public the week after that.” Bell took a deep breath and continued. “If a man was unhappy with the laws in his state, he could simply leave and move to his neighbor. I say, if they are unhappy with the laws in this nation, let them leave and move to another. What then, is the point of this country we have created, if nothing else but to awkwardly carry this bundle of disjointed states from one place to the next? We are too young, sir. We are too young – not yet one hundred now – and too weak to allow this division to continue.”
“You know me to be an abolitionist,” Lincoln said. “Does it not bother you as a Southern gentleman to put me forward as President?”
“I will be honest, sir: I do not care for abolitionists. Yet, it is more important to me that we decide this issue as a nation. Put forward the notion of abolishing slavery and let us all decide upon it. I shall not have the Independent Nation of Kansas, or of Nebraska, or Washington standing apart, spending their own currency and speaking their own damnable national language!” He pounded his fist on the sidewall of the carriage.
“And you believe me to be the one who can keep this nation from falling apart?”
Bell chuckled. “Not at all, son. But there’s not a man on this planet who could do that.”
“Then why?” Lincoln asked.
“Because I believe that you’re the one who can put the damn thing back together.”

Election night, 1860

With our own election looming, this was interesting to write, especially since Lincoln and Obama both have Springfield experience. Undoubtedly, Lincoln would never have envisioned an age in which a black man could vote much less run for any sort of political office. On the other hand, he wouldn't have thought a woman could do either as well.

And it's funny, so many folks (Republicans) claim Lincoln and yet his Republican party is vastly different from the modern-day Republicans. There has been a shift in polarity between the Reps and the Dems -- they've switched places. Modern Republicans would never fight a war whose goal was really to reduce the rights of individual states....and on and on. This is so not what this blog is for, but hey, I'm knee deep in this crap right now. How about an excerpt?

This bit, God help me, was so ridiculously shaped by the article in the latest Smithsonian, that I'm almost ashamed. I've fought with myself about how much I'm going to worry about historical detail and -getting it right-.... And this excerpt is more or less a blow by blow reenactment of what reporters say went down that night. So sue me. Unless you work for Smithsonian Magazine, in which case, please go look at these pretty flowers.
---

The offices of the Illinois & Mississippi Telegraph Company were crowded that evening. A growing knot of onlookers had steadily filled the room throughout the night. Their focus was divided between the activity of the telegraph operators and their machines and the exceedingly calm man who sat on a sofa nearby. He was tall and lanky; awkward-looking and thin; all elbows and knees. And yet, he exuded a cool confidence and capability that was unmatched in the room. As each telegram was received the operators translated the code into English, and transcribed it onto a yellow form. The papers then passed from hand to hand to the man on the sofa, each man attempting to glean as much meaning as he could from a quick glance. After the tall man read a message, he would hand it to someone else, reacting as if the telegrams had as much significance as a trivial bit of family news.
The rest of the men in room were not nearly as placid. Each telegram had the power to change the atmosphere drastically. Good news caused the men to cheer, so loudly that the throngs on the street out knew what was happening before the enthusiastic runners sent from the office had even opened the door. Still, they would take the opportunity to shout out the results and be met with louder, wilder cheers.
Bad news -- and there was some of it that night -- sucked the air out of the room. Instead of cheers, there were low murmurs, the men discussing the implications of the latest missives, what victories had to be gained in order to set off the defeats. Through it all, the tall man’s demeanor did not change.
At midnight, they withdrew from the telegraph office and proceeded through the large crowd outside to an ice cream parlor. As they made their way across the square, cheers and shouts from the throng filled their ears. Everyone wanted to shake the tall man’s hand, pat his shoulder, touch his hat.
In the parlor, a table of oysters, sandwiches, and coffee had been set out by local women. The mood in the parlor was jovial and friendly. Removed from the telegraph office, the tall man kept his air of cool and shared jokes and storied with his friends. His wife joined him, sitting at his side, picking delicacies for him to eat and occasionally whispering encouraging words in his ear.
Runners continued to come from the telegraph office, breathless with excitement and the effort of pushing through the increasing crowds outside. News of victories was greeted with earth-shaking cheers, or if they bore news of losses – not many of significance, but losses nonetheless – with quiet, anxious glances. Through it all, the tall man seemed nonplussed, content to snack upon the smoked herring on the plate in front of him and distract the group with another tale from his days in the state legislature.
Presently, a telegram from Philadelphia was brought forth, handed directly to the man himself who stood and read it aloud. Philadelphia, and the entire state of Pennsylvania had voted for him, giving him that state’s 27 electoral votes. Soon thereafter, a telegram from New York arrived with the news that he would win that state’s 35 votes, and with it the presidency.
If the crowd of onlookers and well-wishers had been merry before, it was nothing compared to their reaction to this news. Throughout Springfield cheers and shouts of triumph could be heard through the night. Everyone in the town was united in ecstatic joy: clapping each other on the back; dancing silly, childish dances; throwing their hats into the air. To the delight of the crowd, one man repeatedly performed back flips on the State House lawn.
Through it all, the tall man remained calm, ever calm. He excused himself from the table and crossed the square again to return to the telegraph office. His closest friends swiftly followed him at once protecting him from the excited crowd, and becoming of the excited crowd themselves. They made it to the office, the tiny room now filled to bursting with excited revelers. He steeled himself and went back inside.
It was all but over. With Pennsylvania and New York firmly in hand, as well as Ohio, and Massachusetts, and of course, Illinois, it was a certainty. A final telegram from New York stated, “We tender you our congratulations upon this magnificent victory.” And so, it was done, and Abraham Lincoln became the president-elect of the United States of America.
He stood from the sofa and thanked his friends, and the telegraph operator. Those not busy cheering and reveling noticed that a change had come over the man. He did not shout for joy or give any indication that he was pleased by the results of the election. Rather, he seemed deflated. Most wrote it off to relief and exhaustion from the day’s proceedings but to others, it looked as if Lincoln had just cast off a role that he had been playing all day; perhaps for months. It lasted but a moment; his quiet confidence resumed almost immediately. He walked towards the door, but paused as he opened it. He turned back to the room, a small smile on his face.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I thank you for your support this day, and the days preceding the election, and my entire career. Truly, this victory would not have been possible were it not for you. You are supporters and colleagues, but most importantly, you are all my friends.”
The men erupted in applause again, shouting huzzahs. As one, they rushed forward to congratulate Lincoln anew; to shake his hand. Then, seeing that Lincoln was tired and nearly overwhelmed by their exuberance, they pulled back and gave the man some room.
“Thank you,” Lincoln said. “I truly thank you. Now, if you will please excuse me. It is about time that I went home and told the news to a tired woman who is sitting up for me.”
At this the men laughed and said their goodbyes. “Good night, Abe!” “Good night, Mr. Lincoln!” “Good night, Mr. President!” New cheers arose.

It was 2:30 in the morning, and though the general crowd in the square had thinned somewhat, the revelry across the city continued as strong as ever. It would not fully cease until well after dawn broke. People still danced in the streets; fired pistols and rifles into the air; some had rolled out the cannon that had fired in the morning to announce the coming election and were firing it again, this time in celebration of its end, and of the favorable result. The entire city was alive. On the steps of the telegraph office, Lincoln stood and surveyed the scene. His demeanor had returned to that of the defeated man.
As Lincoln descended the steps, some in the crowd took notice of him, and rushed in his direction. But they too saw that the man was not himself, and certainly did not have the look of a victorious presidential candidate and even through the haze of their revelry they realized that perhaps the man had had enough for one day. Though they still cheered him and wished him well, they mostly left him alone and did not impede his way as he walked home, disappearing down the street and into the night. For that, he was greatful.
Arriving at his house, he took some moments to be alone, for the first time that day. Looking up at his house, he could scarcely believe that this morning – the previous morning now – he had been a mere lawyer, and now he was the President-Elect of the United States. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel some amount of joy and pride at the feat. Perhaps he could actually change things; perhaps he could manage to salvage the Union. As is the case with every election, those of the losing party threaten to “move to Canada” or some such, and several states in the South had promised to secede were Lincoln elected. They had done their best to stop him, not even putting him on the ballot in nine states, and hardly voting for him in any of the others. But, perhaps it was possible.
It was a brief reverie, standing there, his hand on the picket fence that surrounded his home. It did not last long. The reality – the deeply troubling reality – of the situation sank back in. He tapped the fence twice, gathered himself and went indoors.
Inside, the house was quiet. Willie and Tad were somehow asleep, despite the noise outside. Indeed, Mary, the tired woman he thought would be sitting up for him, was asleep in her room. Lincoln knelt on the floor at the side of her bed.
“Mary,” he whispered. She did not stir. He touched her arm and spoke her name again, louder this time. Her eyes slowly opened.
“Abe?” she asked, sleepily. “What is it?”
“We’re elected, Mary,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, somehow, even in that dark room able to see the solemnity that her husband felt, thinking it was grave reverence for the job or apprehension of the task before him, she clasped his hand in hers, but made no sound.
“We’re elected,” he repeated. “And God help me.”

Writing at Restaurants

It's the same picture as yesterday!

Well, it might as well be. But trust me, it's new.

Wrote 615ish words at work today. Still have time to pump up today's word count, but I think, and experts agree, that my idea, which seemed so good....is now flimsy. So.... Help! What should I have Lincoln do?

Bah.

And this keyboard, once so lovely....I dunno. It just doesn't feel good. And makes me error-prone, which is annoying. I critique keyboards like Halsted does pens.