Z>«/)Nebraskan Since 1901 Editor Sarah Baker Opinion Page Editor Samuel McKewon Managing Editor Bradley Davis Glad you voted? Down-to-the-wire race , will go into history books Four more for Gore? Or the son rises again? Both were possible headlines the Daily Nebraskan staff prepared for today’s edition. The staff went back and forth throughout the night. The segment of the newsroom sup porting Gore cheered when the networks reported the vice president had won the state needed for victory - Florida. # The Bush segment grew ecstatic when the media reneged and gave the state to the Republican later in the evening. By 1 a.m., the networks gave the race to Bush. But at 2:30 a.m., they said Gore trailed by just more than 600 votes. By 3 a.m., Bill Daley, chairman of Gore’s campaign, announced the vice president wouldn’t concede until a recount was taken. Who knows when we’ll find out who the next president of the United States is? But one thing is certain. At 2:30 a.m., Dan Rather, anchor of CBS evening But after news, put it best when it was two announced Bush’s victory in decades of Florida was not secure. relatively “No one is going to live long predictable enough to see this again,” he Electiont s^d ° ^n?rftnS Throughout the night, the nice to media personalities and politi eiinntinnc cal Pundi*s proclaimed this like this to Elec?on Day was history in the shake making. things up This will go down in the his It reminds tory hooks - right next to the us that other electoral oddities that every vote have occurred in the last 170 or does count. soYears. - The political pundits who predicted during the past week that the candidate who won Florida would win the presidency were right. But who would have guessed that figuring out who won Florida would have been so dif ficult? Each pundit will come out with theories as tt) how this became the closest race for the presidency in U.S. history. We have a few guesses. With the economy the best its ever been, citizens had no reason to decidedly overthrow Gore. Some voted for Bush so they could forget about Bill Clinton’s antics during the past eight years. The economy is healthy. And with their stomachs and pockets full, many cast their votes based on the president’s character rather than policies, issues and the national well-being. Another thing is clear, as well. Both candi dates boasted relatively centrist positions. The close election was probably a reflection of the close proximity of the two candidate’s views on the political scale. But after two decades of relatively pre dictable Election Days, it’s nice to have situa tions like this to shake things up. It reminds us that every vote does count. At 3 a.m., the popular vote was stalled at 48 per cent for Gore and 48 for Bush. Gore trailed Bush by just 18,000 votesr It’s nice to know that trip to the voting booth mattered - whether you live in Florida or Nebraska. Editorial Board Sarah .Baker, Bradley Davis, Josh Funk, Matthew Hansen, Samuel McKewon, Dane Stickney, Kimberly Sweet Letters Policy The Daly Nebraskan weloomes briefs, letters to the editor and guest columns, but does not guar antee their publcation. The Daily Nebraskan retains the right to edit or reject any material submitted. SUxntttsd material becomes property of the Daly Nebraskan and cannot be returned Anonymous submissions wi not be puMshed. Those who submit letters must identify themselves by nane, year in school, major and/or group afSaban, If any. Submit material to: Ds#y Nebraskan, 20 Nebraska Union, 1400 R St Lincoln, NE 68588-0448. E maf: tettsraQuninto.unl.edu. Editorial Policy Unsigned editorials are the opinions of the Fa* 2000 Daly Nebraska). They do not necessarily reflect toe views of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, its employees, its student body or the Universky of Nebraska Board of Regents. A column is solely toe opinion of its author, a cartoon is solely toe opinion of its artiet The Board of Regents acts as publsher of toe Daly Nebtastar; po* cy iB set ty the Daly Nebraskan Edtorial Board. The UNL Pubications Board, established by toe agents, supervises the pttxkicflon of toe papa. According to poicy set by toe regents, reeponsi bttyfsrthe editorial consent of toe newspaper lee solely in the hands of its employees. v A y * AC(USB /*|£ OF ROT 8E/WG- INVOLVED. SA recall and celebrate seme when you re in/at/near the our primitive roots (Ma bunet and sippmg on a soda fountain drink (prefer- & Pa Neandrathalis). ably Pepsi, because that's the only drink my taste Eh... it's so much like Grade A beef. Line ’em up, buds will acknowledge (Pepsi has purchased the stuff ’em up, ship 'em out, grind ’em up. Yummy, rights to my tongue)). And next to the roast beef you have the chicken. Argh! = sound of exasperation. See why I'm con- Sororities. But you always have the Pepsi. You have to have the Pepsi. Evidence II: People believe in politics. I don’t So you see, it all makes sense in the end. Just not know why. Most people vote either Republican or to me. r ___ Tell us what you think. E-mail your letters to : letters@unl.edu or call us at 472-2588. Creating a poem for all seasons When you see things differently, say like a poet, a change in sea sons is an obsta cle. the only way to —1 calm yourself is Dane to scribble hap- Stickney hazard thoughts, ■■■■ terrors, trappings onto a page, altering your view is diffi cult A week ago, failures were specks of colors falling off a brittle skeleton that was plagued by the midsummer storms, just now losing its will. They'd pile up in a spectrum of browns, oranges, yellows, reds and remind me of all that I can't rake up into neat piles. And if I ever did, they'd blow across the sidewalk of my mind and green grass of my soul, polluting and wrecking. But, walking out of a dark, stone hall way, pushing a metal door open and , walking outside, I’m shocked. Hie trees have given up, but we're still here. Hie cool yet warming wind packed its bags and sunshine decided not to attend today. Hie leaves that had once looked electrified, plugged into nature’s invisible outlet, have now been switched off. Hie closet filled with Gatsby's sting ing silk ties and crisply pressed shirts has been replaced with the gray-white blackness of Humphrey Bogart’s attire. Failures turn to rejections, which are vastly unlike leaves. Its now sharp bits of ice, becoming softer as the day gets cold er. It doesn’t pile up like leaves, evenly dispersed. It drifts, weighing down some, while leaving others free, unbur dened. Hie frigid northerly push bellows in a loud voice, “It’s unfair.” I try to find a way to take this sudden feeling and put it into lines, broken into stanzas that represent the feel of winter. I need to draw an antithesis with the heat of confusion on my inside and the wind chill outside of all of us. There has to be a perfect word to describe the way new fallen snow looks so innocent lying on the daik, rigid grass. Or a way to describe the girl walking out of a brick sorority house trying to look classy while still staying warm. What’s die word? Sheer. Elegant Mindful. Shadowed. Tight. Maybe just cold. Hien, I think, maybe it's in cement Cement is a factor only in summer and winter. In between it’s just there to' be walked on, trampled, forgotten about In summer, it is supposed to fry eggs, although I’ve never seen it happen. In winter, it’s the foundation for the glass that makes us lose our step. And in that regard, winter is all about cement Its rigid surface is like goose bumps on the sorority girl’s legs. Its slippery coating is the uncertainty of winter, the lame-duck attitude the end of a year brings. Its lack of color mirrors the season of whites, blacks and midtones. Its rough ness casts many shadows, revealing the contrast of winter - heavy coats that make us thick and ornately wrapped presents, fulfilling a wish. Its weight is the feeling I get every day. The heft bringing tunneled vision, blurred on both sides of my eyes, taking away the periphery. It's the feeling of staring out a dorm window after a fight _ the horizontal blinds leaving burned strips across my retina. In between is a parking lot full of cars. Covered in white. It’s the weight of the world pressing down on me, making me feel like I’m going to expl Wait That’s a cliche, and poetry can have no cliches. So I am told. The window on my right is cracked open, letting the newborn cold seep in, wrapping its gnarled fingers aroundmy toes. (Picture a dark shadow of a spirit plaguing me like that of Jacob Marley. Only younger.) I knew it would happen, but I opened it anyway, punishing myself. Something I do when I’m mad. Or when I fear rejection. So this is the point where I crumple up the paper or hand in the stanzas to some older man with a gray head. He’ll give me a -, ok or +, and I'll attempt to revise it. Even though most of the feeling of the moment has left me. Then I'll struggle for something else to write about. Attempt to make new parallels. It just seemed like I had subject mat ter in my hand, but now it’s gone. The leaves had so much for me. Veins. Feathery flight. Nostalgia. Resolve to fight death. Today, I've got snow. It’s white. Looks whiter against the night’s sky. It’s cold, an arbitrary feeling like love -hard to describe with few synonyms. But as the numbness in my toes works its way further up my legs, I need to shut the window to shield myself from the cold. Or perhaps I should take off all my clothes, cross my legs and chill myself to the bone. Get to know that cold. Make it part of me.