dedication

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This blog is dedicated to:

My beautiful, big-hearted baby sister and her valiant, generous hubby, and my most loyal and supportive friend YS – thank you for helping me eat better, look beyond my feet, reach out, live my dreams and keep on keeping on, knowing always that I am loved.

My canine angel, Lucy Like a Charm, who shares this wonderful journey.

best friends

IMG_3045lucy

No, Lucy is not my “best friend.” Nobody is. I do not have a “best friend” – well, not anymore. And I am very relieved.

Socially-focused humans have a way of declaring inordinate affection with far too much ease. “I love you!” becomes a trendy catch phrase, instead of a sincere utterance of decided, solemn dedication. “You are lovely!” seems to be tossed out willy nilly at every single corporeal entity that jostles the atmosphere, even if ever so slightly.

The autistic mind tends to take language a tad more seriously, preferring the literal, cutting factual deposition to socially-driven platitudes. Are we ‘cold’ and ‘unloving’ creatures running on robotic mechanisms, then? That is what too many misinformed and emotionally effluent social-brained folk seem to delight in thinking, played up and egged along by the media. Oh, and don’t even get me started on Autism Speaks. The truth is, we are far more devout and zealous about our devotions and emotional attachments than most, especially much more so than the socially-driven, party-populating neurotypicals.

I shudder when I meet someone new who instantly falls head over heels in love with me. Continue reading

Poisonous Expectations

bunnyhopscotch:

Another powerful post by Alex. This reverberates deeply in my consciousness.
“You are expensive!” “Do you know you cost more than any of your siblings?” “Do you think I ever wanted a child like you?” Sticks and stones do not actually hurt as much as words. Ableism begins at home. But so does inclusion and acceptance.

Originally posted on Married, With Aspergers:

There’s a toxic belief permeating all levels of society: that disabled lives are worth less than able ones. In just the last couple of days there has been a political candidate calling for compulsory abortion of fetuses that test positive for genetic conditions such as cerebral palsy, and a columnist in a national (UK) daily newspaper using the phrase “remedial-level dipshit” to describe children with developmental delays.

I have a daughter. I understand having hopes and dreams of what your child may achieve: that’s only natural. What isn’t natural, or at all healthy, is this cultural obsession with perfection. TV, magazines, newspapers are all full of examples of what is deemed to be “perfect” with public shaming and criticism of those don’t live up to this ideal.

Those with physical or mental disabilities are not spared. Portrayed as objects of pity, a modern-day freak show exhibited so that the able-bodied…

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moving on

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A friend of mine once gently chided me with what he felt to be sage advice: “Stop looking at the past and just move on.” To be fair to my friend, this is a very good maxim in all intents and purposes, and for many, it could mean essential survival strategy. However, for me, the past is crucial, absolutely indispensable to my present and the future. Continue reading

good friends

Everyone needs friends. Good friends are a crucial support system in times of need, and that includes whenever one needs to share a good laugh, great food, rant or ramble, and even intellectual argument (or dramatic narrative)!

I feel extremely blessed to have a number of very good friends, who help make my life so much easier, and the journey a great deal less bumpy. Continue reading

tiny weeny

IMG_3226grow!-s

My effort at growing baby carrots wasn’t too successful. They seemed to grow very well, sprouting copious green fluffy leaves, but nothing developed beneath. Perhaps I failed to provide enough nutrition? I did use good potting soil mixed with my carefully gathered compost in the fancy Urban Composter. I know, I paid far too much money for that thing, bought on a crazy whim triggered by severe depression during the dark days while living in Kensington, enduring all manner of sensory anguish. The tomatoes seemed to appreciate the compost mix better than the carrots. (There must be some scientific reason for this, but I am an ignoramus in this area and I really cannot be bothered right now.)

Actually, my interest in balcony gardening has waned, ever since we moved back to Paddington, and a sense of wellbeing, calm and peace returned. I realise now that the pottering around, which began in the old terrace house and grew into a frenzied obsession in the other balcony at my Kensington university apartment, provided a benevolent distraction from the overwhelming stress that I was wrapped up in. In fact, it was a routine I very much looked forward to, and I spent a great deal of time with my plants then.

Tranquility has returned at last, after far too long a stretch running around like a headless chicken in a surrealistic nightmare. Lucy and I are back where we feel comfortable and comforted, and I now no longer need that little oasis of diversion. I plan to reorganise my balcony this Saturday – time to downsize and simplify, so I can concentrate better on what I truly love, and what really needs my attention henceforth: my Work!

language

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Sunshine and dry, crisp air spell clemency! A beautiful non-verbal day. Well, apart from the mandatory superficial and brief salutations as we navigated human traffic and populated space. Lucy and I went to do a bit of work at my art studio today. We returned every smiling greeting with the same amount of cheer – why not? We love our cosy little bubble here, where everyone who matters is friendly, and where Lucy is accepted as part of the ‘family’. This kind of interaction does not bother me, even on a ‘non-verbal’ day where I want and/or need to disengage from words and social parlance, since nobody ventures to invade my personal mental space, nor makes grating demands upon my verbal consciousness.

Does non-verbality mean absence of language? No, not at all. Continue reading

consumed

Engulfment. A consummation. Completely devoured, imbibed with palpable force. A concrete visceral knowledge. Empathy with the elements that bring both delight and grief. Feeling resonances of clemency and violence. A pragmatic and empirical embodiment, the beauty of intersecting with the elements is not a romantic notion but a sensory exuberant peace, and there is really nothing fanciful about a splitting headache derived from wet, damp cold. Reality is just what it is.

Well, with all the above in mind, I had a rather benevolent weekend. Continue reading

petrichor

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The day began wrapped in rustling leaves, and a dull greyish brush over the sky. At mid morning, however, sunshine broke through, much to my relief. Glorious bright light and gentle cool breeze permeated most of the day, until late afternoon, when ominous dark clouds rolled back in to blanket the atmosphere with thick misty wetness. Nevertheless, we had a lovely day, enjoying the sunshine while it lasted. Continue reading

hiccups

hopscotch by the window

hiccups at the door

honey slowly oozing

polishing the floor

last night I dreamt of you

daddy I wish you knew

wading through treacle glue

poverty at the door… the door… the door

——–

My second scholarship has ceased. A reminder that the finishing line is near. Not a very pleasant sticky note, though. Continue reading

wonton

Little dumplings. Tasty morsels. I cooked mince pork and chives wonton a few nights ago. The Hong Kong style egg noodles from Harris Farm was pretty good too. Chicken broth unabashedly aided and abetted by chemical laden powdery stuff from a tin. Nostalgia evening, it seems. I loved Hong Kong, it will always have a special place in my journey through space and time. And ‘wonton’ – dumplings – contain more than just their physical material fillings.

Enwrapped. Enclosed. My Angel buried inside soft sheets. Precious. Sensorially delightful. I wonder, does she like my bed because of my scent, or the softness of the sheets? I shall sew her a soft comfy quilt, and we shall see…

Are we merely accidents, or accidents waiting to happen? I’d like to believe the latter, it was as if some purposeful directed accident brought is together.

Often, I wish I could give Lucy a better life, not this living from hand to mouth, teetering on the edge, listening with anxious pounding heartbeat to the howling silence of paucity, struggling to give thanks for abundance. I know, Lucy does not hold this against me, but the struggle is palpable and palpitating loudly…