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A picture speaks a thousand words, they say? Here are a few thousand of those words, in that case. And if you’d like more, then carry on reading… If not, it’s ok too. This blog isn’t an ego trip, really, so feel free to just enjoy the visuals!

I have been in non-verbal modality lately, but happily indulging in the pleasures of work. A beloved friend is moving house, and she has bequeathed a vast amount of material that I need for my upcoming exhibition. What blessedness! I have been sorting, touching, engaging with concrete substances in the sensory didactic, and being in that milieu is calming and pleasurable. However, at the back of my mind, the anxiety monster is reminding me that I have a lot of text to read, assimilate, ponder, philosophise, analyse, and words of my own to write. Semanticity is a cogent entrenchment. That is the reality. But I do my best to meander, skip, hop, and dance around it.

When babble fails, only then do we reach for our senses. Yet, many are unaware that our senses have been actively sending messages in a complex network of communication, regardless.

For us who are most comfortable in the sensorial realm, words are second language to the nuances of corporeal-elemental engagement. Verbal parlance has not yet caught up with the myriad threads that weave through hypersensory tapestries. I struggle with the demons of obdurate rigidity and the deafening white noise of nothingness, each time I try to express the luxuriant folds and hypnotic coruscations that permeate my senses.

How does one ‘speak’ the mutli-hued fears that grip, or explain the manifold triggers that set off the senses in multitudinous directions?

My brain forms palpable connections between abstract and concrete. Here is one example.

A smiling lady ambled up to us the other day, wanting to say hello to my beautiful Lucy. Lucy greeted her politely, as she always does everyone who approaches, though there are some people she would prefer not to have anything to do with, and others she instantly likes. The lady asked me what kind of service dog Lucy is. I dished out the basic one sentence reply that I always have ready in my mental pocket for such occasions, about being autistic and Lucy being my support for anxiety intervention. Her reaction was one that I know well, I call it the “Me Too!” She scrunched up in a curly sort of grimace, her head tilted backwards a few centimetres, swiveling on the neck, chin down and eyebrows raised, and said, “Oh, but doesn’t everyone suffer from anxiety! I wish I could have a service dog too!” I smiled, and replied, “Yes, absolutely, perhaps you should pay a visit to your doctor and look into that possibility. I’d love to see more service dogs around!” I was unable to read her expression thereafter, but I hope she went away seriously considering the suggestion. Regardless of her actual intent behind that exchange, in her case, I could readily see that she was someone who would greatly benefit from some kind of mental-emotional support. It wasn’t a pleasant encounter, but it wasn’t a nasty one either. What colour? I do not claim to be synaesthete, but I would associate the aura of our brief meeting to a brown-hued blob, like a medium textured Lucy-poop, not too difficult to pick up but nevertheless requiring a deftness, so as to preserve its form as it goes nicely into the poop bag (and not create a squishy mess that seeps into the grass). I usually hold my breath when picking up Lucy-poop, as I do when speaking to strangers who stand too close to me. Again, I am hard pressed to find words that aptly describe the sonority of such phenomenon.

No, I shall refrain from posting a photo of Lucy-poop. I leave this one to your imagination.


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