The detritus is still in-process of headed to the dump. The tourists have mostly left. The vendors of all man-made things with Obama's face stamped, printed, melded, drawn, painted, imprinted on them are still attempting to sell off their remaining stock. You want a cheap inaugural souvenir? Contact me, I walk by these guys every morning and afternoon.
I fell asleep because:
A. we had an excellent meeting about Robert's transition to middle school this afternoon, which was both a surprise and a huge relief,
B. after 7.5 months of familial and situational chaos and the associated stress, and after about two weeks of this write for at least 20 minutes a day challenge (see the Warren Wilson message boards), I finally did so today without angst, pain, or related existential suffering.
a. MCPS is finally starting to put its money where its mouth is in terms of inclusion education. We met today with a County representative who is the first County SpEd rep (in 7 years) to actually treat myself and Robert as though we were actually human beings. As though, imagine that, Robert had a right to expect to be educated to the best of everyone's ability. That supporting this kid's progress through life might actually be possible. That the County might actually be trying to meet federal goals and standards regarding special education. That even the methods and curriculum behind functional life skills might be shifting to something meaningful and only be, say, a part of a disabled kid's education.
All I can say is, wow. I have fought tooth and nail with these people for 7 years. I have never given up. My efforts were worth it and not some quixotic idiocy.
b. Shaken and stirred, life has been chaos for over 7 months (hmm, 7 years and 7 months), but, bit by bit, the pieces that have been flying about like psychic meteorites are gradually receding and settling to earth. Life, or something like it, is coming into focus again. The world levels and its axis tilts back.
When I am unhappy, I cannot write. As in poems or essay drafts or anything creative. Throw out your idea of the tortured artist (if I can call myself an artist). Let's see if the happiness builds steam and I can really get back to it.
And, last, but not least, a good friend has kindly sent me a copy of Ron Silliman's The Alphabet. That arrived by UPS on Monday. I instantly felt connected again with poetry. I felt "home." Why? That I will explain tomorrow.