deliciate

Deliciate: to delight oneself; to indulge (in feasting or other revels)

Old words fascinate me. And this one is a timely balm to a fractured, frayed and frazzled soul. (Yes, I also love alliteration. Part of my sensory ‘stimming’ – calming, even if just for the rhythmic enunciative physical qualities.)

This is one old word that I’m longing to luxuriate in.

Sometimes, the cosmos interferes vigorously, even sharply, for my own good, especially when I have been self-destructively obtuse, obstinate and obscurant – inwardly – denying what ought to be glaringly obvious, covering my ears to the roaring whispers of ratiocination. A knock on the head was needed to wake me from my self-induced somnambulism. This thunder-clap on my thick skull came from a remark made by an autistic man, expressing an utterly selfish viewpoint with foot-stomping petulance and digging in of the heels with so much defensiveness that it was almost bizarre. I was shocked and disappointed at first, but I realise now that, inside a deeper consciousness, I already and always knew this side of him. I had merely been blinded by my enthusiastic hope that the person would change, that I could make a difference in this person’s attitude and learning journey.

On another level, I am sad that he did not even discern that my advice to him would actually serve to advance his own (albeit selfish) cause even further if he took it on board. Sometimes, we need to do some things that seem a waste of time, in order to gain other things, which may be less immediately tangible. When I offered that piece of advice, I was referring to proper protocol and professionalism, not selflessness. But who knows what really goes on in people minds, autistic or not? It was my own error of judgement that led me to this feeling of shock and disappointment, and I own it honestly. The person did not change, and is unlikely to change. My very first, immediate and direct sensing of him was absolutely accurate after all – I just deluded myself into thinking otherwise. My bad entirely. And it is timely that I am forced to detach and back away. Any later and I’d be not only more burnt out from all the time, energy and resources spent on a thankless mission, but worse than that I’d be inextricably bound to someone whose ideology is vastly contrasting to mine. For example, it would be professional self-destruction to be seen by the world as endorsing a product I do not firmly believe in, and which has potential to go rogue.

Anyway… I am relieved and pleased now. What is of import to me is that this served to tear apart the heavy veil that I had been erstwhile enshrouded in, and allowed my soul to emerge into the light.

A process in the making, but it took a small, innocuous rending to break forth, but the details of which need to be unpacked in another musing, not this one. Right now, I just want to dwell on healing and restoration, which the last five days at the SYNC Leadership Programme has galvanised and propelled me towards.

What are the things that heal my soul? What are my cosmic and intimate priorities?

Cast aside the inutile to-ings and fro-ings that tear apart fragile refined tapestries – it is Time to indulge and revel in little appogiatura and melismatic undulations once more.

Simple things – little details and observations.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Edible things – because I love food!

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Time-tested things – appreciating loyalty, trust and connectedness.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Lucy Like-a-Charm and all things Lucy – my lifeline.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

in sync – SYNC Day 1

IMG_1813-w

My autistic brain wanted to rearrange this, but my sensory overload just ate it instead.

Syncopating synchronicity. A homecoming. Returning to grace. Active, inspiriting, body-mind-soul connecting with intrinsic approbation.

Yesterday was the first of five days of rigorous physical andragogy. No, I am not training for a Iron Man, but it did feel like it to my old body, floppy with misuse and pushed beyond the limits, running helter skelter for purposes not directly beneficial to me.

I am one of a group of artists in the SYNC Leadership Programme, brought to Singapore by the British Council, Singapore International Foundation, Very Special Arts and collaborating supporters.

When an eclectic collection of highly-charged, dynamic and tenacious artists with disabilities cram into a small room together, a different kind of ‘normal’ is constructed. Our artistry is varied, each vastly dissimilar from the other, as are our personalities, backgrounds, styles and art forms. Yet, we are connected by the intoxicating electric charge of Artistry and all this encompasses in its multifaceted expressions.

The gruelling demands on my body were partially mitigated by the gastronomic infusions – plentiful, yet not so overwhelmingly lavish that my sensory brain is driven into a state of confused shock. Simple, straight forward and manageable abundance.

And I cannot describe with words right now how exquisitely, incorruptibly peaceful – yet almost Lucullan in its graceful gestures – this is to my soul. I am looking forward eagerly, despite the physical punishment, to the next few days. Scheherazade is rising yet again.

Sensory photos from Day 1.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

theatre & survival

oil self portrait 1

Self Portrait – 2008.

Autistic ‘Masking’ is now at last being studied in earnest, and I am especially interested in the context of Autistic Women / female presenting Autistics. As far back as I can remember existing, I recall the consciousness of being different, an almost painful palpable awareness of the need to observe, learn, be vigilant and ‘on point’ in order to navigate the horrifying confusion of the ‘outer world’.

Growing up undiagnosed had its pros and cons. Whichever way it panned out, I am here today, and I am at last comfortable in my Beingness.

It’s funny how people’s perceptions of one can be so very different of one’s own – and for me, it is all about my Autistic Masking, my theatrical presentation of Self to Other, and the lack of empathic resonance of Other to Self. Empathy impairment does not belong solely to the autistic, though for too long this has been the dominant subjugating myth.

Some old friends refuse to believe I am Autistic. Even new friends, including a prominent brain scientist (not a neurosurgeon but a scientist studying the brain). Just because I do not present like Temple Grandin. That has me rolling in laughter, because their response is a reflection of how little they know me and how little they know autistic people and Autism (in the case of the brain scientist and other ‘experts’).

For other friends who did somehow grasp the edgy essence of my embodiment, my revelation of the diagnosis did come as a welcome ‘Aha!’ moment.

The Autistic Female who presents with any measure of self-confidence is not far different from any other woman who comes across as unwilling to wear the societal stigma of shame. The difference is that autistic females presenting this way are ironically much more vulnerable to becoming prey to sociopathic persons in multidimensional social realms – from familial relationships to friendships and beyond. Because evil always manages to sniff out innocence.

I call it “Performing the Unnatural as Naturally as Possible.” The dark side knows this performativity and they will do all they can to capture and own such naive brilliance.

Well, recent conversations with some old and new friends in separate situations have unearthed an interesting dichotomous juxtaposition.

This is the external perception of who I was before, in my younger days, and for new friends, this is what they perceive or imagine that I used to be too, as embodied in Ta Ta Young’s “Sexy Naughty Bitchy”. Perhaps it was the self-confidence on the surface? The flamboyant dressing? The theatrical persona? The meticulously studied and finely honed performance skills?

It could be flattering, I guess, but my Autistic brain does not compute the compliment at all. I am merely fascinated by the social experimental element and the exercise in observation, and the almost clinical surreality of it all.

However, the following was and is more my reality. It was all about Survival. Everything outside my Autistic Clement Space of Being has been and remains survival. Surviving social abuse, surviving colonisation of mind, soul, body, surviving as intact as possible, remaining as true to Self as one can, in the face of overpowering odds.

Two versions of the same me, from different vantage points, both sharply accurate and both utterly rebellious in its blend of quiet containment and unfiltered disobedience.

Today, I don’t need nor wish to mask anymore. But the years have already made an expert improvisator out of me. My ‘mask’ is already part of who I am. Yet, unlike some others, I feel no animosity towards this part of me, no self-loathing despite the tumultuous Artaudian-Wagnerian journey. I embrace it as yet another facet of a rich existence, the entire embodiment of my eclectic Tapestry of Self that continues along its inexorable unfolding inside Scheherazade’s Sea.

yellow!

Children's-Biennale-PosterInvitation-to-Children's-Biennale

The Dress Code for the event says to wear Yellow. I like dress codes. I like codes. I like structures and frames. They do not limit creativity, but rather create important space within which to be creative. These parts of social interactivity do not bother me, in fact, these are the ‘railings’ that help me to craft my spontaneity. Yes, you read that right. Improvisatory music is not something that is spewed forth willy nilly by ‘talent’ alone, it consists of years and years of finely honed, well practised and internalised riffs, sequences and phrases. The beauty of improvisation is the ‘how’, the ‘style’, the way the musicians brings forth these snippets of minutiae to form the whole, which is what the listener hears. Performance and performing are part and parcel of the joy of engaging in one’s Passion, interacting with it, and expressing it to others.

Anxiety is a different thing altogether. This, and other pressing matters, kept me in a state of restlessness all night and early morning. Well, actually, Anxiety has been pretty rapacious lately, devouring mind and body. I lay in bed, engulfed within an all too familiar nauseating sensation of slurping and sloshing viscera inside fragile cavities, with Lucy’s warm, pulsating presence my only comfort and solace.

Lucy is unwell, and I will not be taking her with me to the event today, even though this place (the National Gallery) is truly one of the most progressive inclusive public spaces in Singapore. Her bright yellow mindDog vest would’ve been just right for the theme.

IMG_0260-lucy@playeum

Lucy @ I-Opener, Playeum

My brain found this composition at around 4am (ish), and I laid it all out later in the morning after breakfast. Doing this helps resolve the tension in my mind, which occurs when I have a complete concept ready to be executed but have not yet arrived at the time and place for doing so.

100T9812-yellow-spectacles

New yellow frames

100T9815-yellow-top

A very old top from ‘Shanghai Tang’

100T9819-lucy-&-pinkskirt

Fuchsia skirt with yellow lining

100T9816-limegreen-handbag

Lime Green handbag

OK, so the lime green handbag – a gift from my baby sister – isn’t yellow, but I think it’ll provide some gradation of sensation and I love the fun, cheeky sequinned motif on the front. I shall wear my gold embossed Ferragamo ‘Audrey’ shoes with this ensemble.

Gold Audrey

Shoes are of grave importance to me, I have had many a battle, some quite fierce, with footwear since an early age. It hurts to wear these things, but they are a necessary evil, to protect against other even more nasty evils that lie in wait to ensnare, cut and graze my sensitive feet as soon as I step out of the safe confines of home. I love the feel of soft fresh grass underfoot, and I still remember the delicious sensation of running around barefoot in the garden of my childhood home, but I live in an apartment now, and I don’t trust grass that isn’t ‘mine’.

Much ado about nothing, you might think? Perhaps, to the normative world, it may seem so, but this ‘nothing’ is actually filled with so much minutiae, detailed connections, intricate complex constructions, rhythms, patterns, and systems, that it really does demand much to do and feel and think about – if you notice it all, that is. This is my ‘normality’ – an integral part of this particular Autistic Female’s quotidian ‘mundanity’, which is anything but humdrum, to be sure. The price Autistics pay each day of our existence is a high one – sensory anxiety is just one small facet, there are myriad other eclectic existential quirks that possess both enthralling beauty and powerful terror at the same time – but I would not exchange this for a life cushioned inside a bland, insipid and pedestrian existence.

I am quite exhausted from the whole exercise, so I shall have to rest a bit before launching into the Grand Mêlée later in the afternoon. Actually, I’m really looking forward to it, despite the gripping anxiety and energies spent on planning and creating order from the chaos it (anxiety) has created. I only feel unsettled at having to leave Lucy at home, because she is unwell and I cannot be there to watch over her. It’s a small thing, mild runny tummy, a bit of reaction after Thursday’s cartrofen injection at the vet’s for her arthritis, and I know she’ll be more comfortable at home, and mum will be there, so Lucy will not be alone. I refuse to work Lucy when she is not feeling top notch, even the slightest thing matters to me – yes, a disabled person with a poorly cared for assistance dog has called me “dogmatic” but I don’t mind that label, because it means I care deeply and passionately.

IMG_0423-lucy-zz

Rest well, my Princess.

snapshots of grace

 

(Above: Rhapsody in Orange – photos of Salmon roe, Salmon, and common wholemeal bread squares.)

Unabashedly photographing food – almost everything I imbibe – as if on a mission. Unlike most, though, my food is seldom fanciful or posh, my captures are not from expensive restaurants or showy, but merely simple snapshots of quite ordinary and mundane fare. For me, each one carries an association – sometimes sensory memories of textures, smells and colourful tastes, other times brief mini narratives of sorts. Sometimes I am captivated by its arrangement, its visual composition framed within the plate or bowl, and the larger assemblage on the table of many miniature narratives.

 

(Above: Visual captures of Lunar New Year fare, snippets of tastes, smells and accompanying sounds – mostly very loud sounds – of festivity and celebration. Individual photos have descriptions.)

When I began this blog, I started out with a simple mission: to document the great food challenge of ‘How to eat on a scholar’s miserable budget”. Musings were deliberately kept light, sometimes whimsical and other times pondering the deeper things via the cogent agency of ‘food-ing’.

 

(Above: Photos of BunnyHopscotch style food-ing.)

My photographs of food are always intimate and personal – to me – and they speak of suspended moments in time and space, taking deep breaths of appreciation, gratitude at each savouring, and wonderment that I possess such intricate senses – all reflections of and conversations taking place in a kind of Clement Space that I inhabit together with the life-giving morsels du jour.

 

(Above: Eating out with family has a different kind of melodic & harmonic structure.)

 

I like the act of documentation, and my senses are natural archives being fed on a constant basis. And most important to me, on a deeper level, food-ing has been and continues to be an agency for gratitude, and the learning to embrace grace.

reflets dans l’eau

100T7403-xmaseve

stille nacht

2018 was unexpectedly obstreperous and brutal. A vast, swirling, seething, somewhat inebriated ominous monstrosity ingurgitating every attempt at hopeful rejuvenation, each ounce of vim and vigour slowly inhaled into its impenetrable mucilaginous dark cavern, leaving limp, brittle skeletal remains crackling in the sizzling heat of unrepentant tyranny, unrecognisable construal of once fierce passionate and spirited determination.

Advocacy has extracted its ponderous price. What irony, for one who never set out to be an advocate anyway. It is too arduous and violent for gossamer wings, too loud for tender ears, too rough for quivering fingertips.

Yet, where there is life, there remains slithers of flickering hope. And my life is not yet over, albeit saved time and time again by a Canine Angel whose existence beside me surpasses all reason, all logical apologia.

20181225_115930-lucymini-long

whispering hope

My minuscule whisper to the grand cosmic gyration for 2019? Time to reflect, rest, and retreat gracefully into Clement Space: art-making, embracing pulchritude, tasting each nuanced fluttering of time moving rhythmically through wordless interstices.

a clement Christmas

100T7314-Xmas-tree-card

Clemency is hard to find. Clement Space is an ongoing quest. As is the Endeavour of Empathy.

Looking back, contemplating crashing fortissimo and lifting appoggiatura, soul crushing depletion and spiritual strengthening… Artaud and Wagner, humour, beauty, gritty determined ‘dogliness’… Lucy has once again carried me through yet another year with her gentle, wordless steadfastness of spirit and embodied grace.

It’s Christmas Eve. I recall with gratitude and fondness, the most precious Christmas gift from our sojourn in Paddington, Sydney. It was 2013, a quiet Christmas Eve, early morning when the summer air was still cool and crisp. Those roses, tossed out by someone, still fresh and beaming with a brilliance I’ve never yet seen nor witnessed again in a bunch of flowers. Put into my hands with a gruff greeting, from our friend Michael, an eccentric old man who lives in a rickety van. We met when Lucy and I were out walking, Lucy chose to say hello to this elegantly dressed solitary figure, smoking and reading the newspapers on the park bench just by our grass patch we call “dog patch”. I miss Paddo. I miss our neighbourhood, our friends, and I think of them often. Especially Michael. I hope he is well. One can never be sure. Michael comes and goes. Nobody knows where and when. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. He was choking back tears when we last said goodbye, too proud for a hug, we did not even make eye contact. But I hope he knew how much we would miss him.

1511266_10151888074071700_798126374_n

This Christmas Eve, Lucy and I are ‘home’ with mum, my baby sister and brother-in-law, their two little furry children, and our helper Nula. Lucy has over-eaten again, too many treats and a giant lamb bone from her aunt who thinks she is too thin. (Though I keep reiterating that Lucy is a Greyhound, they are naturally lean.) We are waiting for Christmas Eve dinner – yet another private gastronomic feast by my amazing brother-in-law. The over-fed Canine Angel is asleep in bed, next to me. I can hear her rhythmic breathing, and she opens her sleepy eyes occasionally to check on me.

100T7319-lucy-xmas-eve-zz

I reflect on Christmases long past, and I realise how peaceful it is now. Without any more pomp and ceremony, no more need to dodge snide remarks and undercurrents of bitchery or witchery, no competition for whose gift is the most expensive or who has achieved the most success in the year. Those are now distant memories, and juxtaposed with our recent ones, they stand as reminders of how much goodness has come along since I walked away from all that mire.

We had our pre-Christmas dinner with extended family and friends last week. It was a very merry one, noisy and overloading but not at all emotionally or mentally exhausting. A pleasant, happy, kind of overload. And, of course, the food is always delicious – how could it not be, with a top professional chef and two F&B professionals in the party?

This year, I slogged away all week to finish my handmade gifts to mum, baby sis, Mini-B and Tiny-T. A welcome restfulness of spirit and blessedness of mind – taking time away from a surfeit of advocacy work, campaigning and proposals – just to touch, feel, and flow with the patterns and variations so clement to the senses. ‘Making’ is a beautiful activity for me, calming and restoring. I’ve named my jewellery line “LaLaLouBelle” – after Lucy and my childhood nickname for baby sis. Every piece is made up of vintage and antique components, collected through my early years of avid travelling or handed down to me from mum and granny. Each one a narrative of love and filled with meaningful history.

Oh, yes, and Little Mini wee-wee-ed on Lucy’s bed yesterday, so I’ll have to buy Lucy a new bed. Mini is a spunky little (fat) button, with a penchant for Lucy’s bedding.

We’re all set! I’ve put up a miniature tree, with tiny lights and trimmings. Our presents are all ready for the ritual tonight. – we open ours on Christmas Eve.

100T7309-xmas-2018

A peaceful and clement Christmas Eve wish to all from Lucy and me!

vivification

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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.

Autistic Thriving

 

“How can autistic and non-autistic people grow and thrive, not despite but because of the unique features of autism? And what can society learn from autistic persons?”

Lucy and I shall be at TEDx Pickering Street this Saturday 4 August 2018, talking about autism and neurodiversity. Come join us!

…….

[Autistic Thriving – Dr. Dawn-Joy Leong]
There is a great deal of ‘awareness’ these days about Autism – mainly from non-autistic observations. However, where are the Actually Autistic voices in this cacophony of opinions and interpretations? What is it like to be autistic? Discover how Dawn learns to thrive within her autistic ecology, not despite but because of her autism.
Grab your tickets here: https://tedxpsthrive.peatix.com/
.
[自闭世界的生意盎然]
自闭症在当下取得了广泛的关注,只不过这些观察结果都是从非自闭症患者角度获得的。可是抛开这些不和谐的观点和解释,我们从何听到自闭症患者的真实发声?作为一个自闭症患者是什么样子?在这场演讲中,Dawn会向我们分享她是如何在患有自闭症的情况下茁壮成长。