It feels good to be restless at 3 AM . Outside the still world sleeps while my mind is racing, still linked to unconscious world.  Franitcally transcribing the fading dream that made me sit up in bed.  The answer.  Another aha moment rendered into an indescipherable heiroglyphic word salad when I pick it up a few weeks or years later.

      There is a historic feel to writing at this time.  I have done some of my best work at 3am.  That's what the critics said during staff meetings at the inner city madhouse.  A madhouse clothed as a school.

"My jobs hard enough with all these forms from the new bosses," complained Romesa Smith, Bankers wife, and titular "Educational Leader of the building", " but that don't mean the School District paper work is going away.  They got me doing double work now.  And it isn't helping that there are members of this staff sending middle of the night emails to Edison talking about how I should be fired. "

tit·u·lar

ˈtiCHələr/

adjective

1. 1.

   holding or constituting a purely formal position or title without any real authority.

   "the queen is titular head of the Church of England"

   synonyms:

   nominal, in title only, in name only, ceremonial, honorary, so-called;More

2. 
   

I snorted.  I made it.  I knew when I pressed send and sent the email with Re: "Criminal Negligence?"  that I would get someone's attention.

   Was it enough?  She was not working in that school the next year so some one owes me a hero's dinner  I tried to save that school by eliminating one of the most pressing dangers facing it.  The next year I was a little less energetic.  I didn't feel I had to watch my back as much.  I lost my edge, and soon after that I lost my career, but that's not the story here.  Perspective is the story here.  This is just the part in the narrative where the writer establishes his tone.  Where I dance the foreshadow tango.

  Elegant at age 50 and impossibly graceful for a half hippo, half /Neanderthal hybrid, an impossible combination put together by geneticists at a secret under ground laboratory which I took over when I lead a menagerie of nightmares in an underground coup, but that's also not the real story, that's being optioned as a graphic novel and we can't talk about it here for legal reasons.

This is a story of another kind of all American boy, a wunderkind, really.  The kind of kid who believed the teachers when they told him he was great, even if he was only half ass-ing it and mailing it in.  They were teaching to the lowest common denominator in that suburb.  Kind of reminiscent of the one Garrison Keillor waxes Rhapsodically about.  The place where everyone's kids are above average.   I learned valuable lessons about effort and picking your spots and about the behavior of an observed cat, versus that of an un-observed one.  This cat is happy laying in the sun.  But if some scientist is watching me, or a boss, girlfriend, coworker, the general public, it's then SHOWTIME!  Cue the fertilizer delivery truck.

 I journeyed into the heart of the Education system in this country to see what the deal was.  

How could my Kindergarden thru third grade teachers have been so wrong about me?  I was a prodigy, I was sunshine.  I was Tom Freaking Sawyer and the world was mine.  At least that's what the blimp said that floated above the cast party as the production ended one steamy night in Miami where we partied long into the evening and wound up in a board game tournament for creme filled donuts in a seedy area in little Havana as the sun came up.  I was ten.  The world was my oyster.  Then I met the first Educator named "Smith" that ruined my mojo.  Changed the course of my life.  And just like in the Matrix there were a few of them along the way and they never looked like the other one until it was too late and you were suddenly dodging metaphorical bullets which were aimed to change your worldview radically.