I have felt my heart breaking since first hearing of the shootings in Connecticut, breaking yet icing over as well. Since the first queasy suspicion in my own gut about the boy and his mind, his diagnosis or lack of diagnosis. Ice thickening and hardening against the political posturing of the NRA over the dead bodies of children. The sharp splinters of my heart warding off the words of each slick, over-funded lobby group that appropriates the grief of families everywhere, even as we clutch our as-yet warm and breathing children closer, tighter.
There's so much to say. This little word balloon is too small and light to contain it all. It's not as brave and adventurous as the balloon in "Up," which carried a whole house off on a fantastic journey. The House at Asperger's Corner is too big and heavy for that. And it doesn't like change, it likes to stay where it is. But my word balloon can't be happy with its string tied to the doorknob, anchored to the House at Asperger's Corner; it needs to drift along, light as air. And so it shall. I will feed it with my breath, when I have breath to spare. Poems, stories, meditations, artworks. Air.
The House at Asperger's Corner needs its own dedicated blog; returning to the concept of a web-log, like a ship's log, a record of progress, discovery, storms, uncharted desert isles, projects, meetings with strangers both hostile and friendly, inventory, passenger lists, troubles, triumphs, and did I mention progress? Please, progress? I'm not sure what to call it: These are the voyages of the Starship Asperger's... or The House at Asperger's Corner... or just, Dear Emma.
