fools & horses

2015-Little-Sarabande

Little Saraband – Lucy Like-a-Charm

So much fluttering the past couple of days around social media, on my feed and that of others. Someone really quite brilliant once confided in me, that he feels an overwhelming sense of loneliness because few people are able to properly understand what he is conveying to them. It is a lonesome space to be, when one is extremely intelligent and intellectual, I suppose? I won’t know. I’m really not all that clever, but painfully few people fully grasp my communications too. Maybe my friend and I are at opposite extremes? I don’t feel lonely, though, because I have Lucy. No need for words between us, though being human I tend to use words a lot. She knows what she knows, and what she knows is enough for me.

My friend said of me, that I do not suffer fools gladly, but perhaps he is wrong this time about why. I merely despair because humanity seems hell bent on folly, while riding rigid-backed upon nervous horses on stilts.

Too many words flooding my brain lately. Maybe I am the greater fool after all. I’m happy inside wordlessness, and it’s once more time to repair frayed nerves, so I shall take my leave from here until my human ego and folly returns yet again with more words to scatter.

Fools. Here’s a song I wrote and recorded in 2000. This version is the instrumental, without words, but today, just the music is enough conveyance.

https://soundcloud.com/dawn-joy-leong/fools-instrumental-version

questions

“Questions” – A song in search of Clement Space of Mind and Soul.

Lyrics, music and vocals are mine.

There is a lot of pain in this grand cosmic struggle of things. Mental agony. Physical affliction. Emotional torment.

Autistic people are no strangers to pain. Very often, excruciating.

In the endless interrogation of truth, celestial mutterings and terrestrial enunciations, the enquiring soul meanders round and round in a seething, fermenting swirl of questions unanswered. What is the meaning of all this suffering? When will it end, or is there an end at all to the excruciation and vexation?

 

love me

 

An old friend. Probably the only one left from that era of innocence. A little petite dinner. A small humble celebration. Love. No need for big glamorous party. I don’t want many many flittering fluttering bits flying around my sphere, making me nauseous and giddy. Happy with just one old friend, a takeaway meal, and two mini little cakes for dessert – to celebrate my very obscure arrival on earth.

 

Love me, or leave me. Simple as that. Many have left, others have entered the clement spaces. New and old, a blended grace. And there is now Lucy Like-a-Charm. I am content.

 

happy birthday Bunny

Yesterday was my birthday. 53 years ago on this day, the Autistic Bunny was introduced into the soggy boggy sparkly world.

53 years later, still trundling along but such a difference it makes, with a beloved companion, the most precious of all life’s gifts. A Gift from Cosmic Heaven.

How did we spend this day? Continue reading

remembrance

Remembering dad through the music he brought me. I’ve inherited his love for music, for eclectic sounds – from Shanghai Jazz, Chinese pop, Cantopop of the Golden Era, to Jazz, Tin Pan Alley, Irish Ballads, and all the way to Western European Art Music, what people call ‘Classical Music’ (which isn’t exactly accurate, since the Classical Era was actually a specific time in Western European musical history).

Dad left us 11 years ago. Mid-Autumn festival would never again be the same for me. I promised to bring back lanterns to fill his room with, I asked him to wait for me, but he could not wait. I did not get to say a proper goodbye. Our goodbye will always be suspended in that promise – I had envisioned little multicoloured paper lanterns adorning his bedroom, and our last Mid-Autumn together. I knew he was dying. He knew he was dying. To this day, I ask myself, why did I leave his side? Continue reading

songs

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I am listening to the gentle rise and fall of Lucy’s breath, her warm scent wrapping around me like a soft blanket of wellness – a song in itself so masterful in grace and pulchritude that it cannot be of human construction.

For some time now, I have been feeling a deep longing to return to music. A Facebook friend posted some guitar arrangements he did and listening to them brought me back to my own songs from a very distant time and place. Looking back, it was as if I was lost and meandering my way through like an Alice inside a dreamscape – a blend between Salvador Dali and Kandinsky, with the intermittent clarity of Paul Klee. Entrapped and enslaved by malevolent Other, music was my only pathway to salvation of Self.

I revisited these old songs on my SoundCloud page tonight, and Lucy doesn’t seem to mind at all. It feels like a strangely sweet layering, listening to these sounds and enunciations swirling above Lucy’s comforting breathing in and out, a rhythmic anchor that I did not have at the time, but was searching for. It took 12 years for me to find my way to Lucy. Now, I think I am slowly finding my way back to music again.

vivification

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Colour, smell and clever arrangement make food more inviting, often enhancing the actual taste itself. Texture also plays a big part. Crunchiness can add a delightfully cheery  dash to even the most ordinary of foods. Of course, the chemical transformations that occur when foods are cooked in certain ways and combined never cease to fascinate.

Food has become more an everyday indulgence than a lively challenge since returning to home ground. In many ways, I miss the latter days, though I have not ceased being grateful and appreciative for each morsel I imbibe. Perhaps the weather here – the humidity – makes everything taste less defined, and having such abundance has dampened the enthusiasm of discovery or provocation. I also cook a lot less than before, as cooked food is cheap and readily available here in Singapore, and my dear foodie-chef brother-in-law either takes us to new places on investigation missions, or he brings his expert professional culinary skills to our table at home.

I do still like to notice the little tiny interplay of colour, tonality, texture, smell and the way each component communicates with the other, like small musical pieces or miniature dances unfolding inside my bowls, plates and dishes. Cutlery interacting with these morsels form a personal and even intense connectivity and communication, sometimes intimate in isolation, and other times part of a larger conversation with the human sensory realm.

It’s Friday yet again. I do miss our weekend noshments in Paddington. There was an aura of preciousness and bonhomie that remains unique to that particular juxtaposition of company, time, place, space and situation – an what conversation! There can be no replication.

activism, advocacy vs clement space

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Yawning angel

This Autistic Bunny is not mired in meaningless repetition from “having autism”. This Autistic Bunny is mired in frustrating, seemingly futile repetition due to the utter lack of empathy and/or regard of the non-autistic world. Especially the ones who congregate around the money-spinning, job producing, status boosting Autism Bandwagon. Armed only with the medical model and little to no understanding of lived-experience, they declare themselves ‘experts’ and sell their ‘expertise’ in myriad ways to desperate ignorant non-autistic parents, students in institutes of higher learning who start off wanting to do good and make a difference, peers in academia who know nothing so just readily accept the viewpoints of these ‘experts’, and politicians in positions of governmental power.

What kind of ‘Autism Crisis’ is this? Not created by autistic persons for sure. But autistics are trying their best to clear the flotsam and jetsam that is being tossed around in seamless repetition by the non-autistic world. How do we even move forward one step at a time, when each step is a perilous risk?

To be clear, I say this again. I am not an Autism Activist. I advocate, somewhat passionately and vigorously, only because there is so much rubble strewn across each and every pathway that I need to clear the rubbish before I am able to venture forth. One just cannot safely and smoothly walk along paths that are chockfull of hazardous waste. I am no expert in bomb disposal, and I’d much rather have safe spaces to live in so I can focus on creating my art and doing meaningful workshops to help people, but what else can I do if the way forward is a minefield? Each day, I feel I am neglecting the very Being that is keeping me alive, giving me sustenance in a way no human creature ever can. I long to retreat into that space of clemency where I can commune with my Lucy in our soul enriching elemental empathic way. Yet, I have to sally forth into that awful domain of autism advocacy, speaking the truth where nobody dares or wants to, and all just to ask for basic respect and true inclusion.

I do worry about being blown up someday by one of the mines I am trying to clear. I do this for myself, for other autistics, and mostly to benefit the next generation. 

What kind of world do you hope for your autistic, neurodivergent and/or disabled child to live in, what kind of tomorrow? Today is not good enough. We need to work on a safer, gentler Neurocosmopolitan world.

…. yes… But what am I doing to and for the Pulchritude that lies in my bed so steadfastly preferring life-giving energy to this tired autistic soul? I owe her a debt I am never going to be able to fully repay. My Lucy Like-a-Charm.

lucy+art+food

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What do a black Greyhound, multi-art expression, and food have in common?

They are all close to this Autistic Bunny’s heart.

Autism advocacy. Disability advocacy. Trying to throw open the windows of tightly closed minds. Mistaken as threat. Tokenised and patronised. Writhing and spinning round and round, ploughing the miry fields of repetitive human social-political gyrations. Trudging through the cesspools of normativity. Wiping away the spit of jealous competition, meandering through lies and subterfuge. The burden of participation in humanity’s Theatre of Absurdity can wear the trembling soul down, and the spirit is too easily crushed and fragmented under pounding cacophony of noisome people-ing.

Continue reading