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.

 

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Edible things – because I love food!

 

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

 

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

 

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gotcha! – SYNC Day 4

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Day 4 – Happy Gotcha Day! Today marks the seventh year of our journey together.

Another intense day at SYNC programme. I am utterly physically exhausted, but it was good.

Here are some images captured from our day – there was no fanfare, but a quiet confident gratitude, celebrating the life-changing event of Lucy’s arrival. There needs be no more words for such clemency.

theatre & survival

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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.

clement Saturday

Too hot for walks, mumma!

Today, I woke up somewhat off-kilter. Lucy was unfortunately in sync with me and didn’t even want to go out walking in the early morning. The heat this month has been really depressing. Too much to-ing and fro-ing in the last few days, methinks. Sensory overload happens even when I am enjoying myself. I have a headache, sore throat, and there’s something not quite right along my nasal passages. I just want to be with my Lucy. The family have gone out for lunch and grocery shopping: the two little fluffies in their bright green buggy and mum in her super Wheelie (we call mum’s wheelchair the Wheelie), my sister, brother-in-law and their helper.

I’m now waiting for my FoodPanda lunch delivery – Hainanese Chicken Rice set from a restaurant nearby. Lucy and I could’ve walked there, of course, but this is Singapore and if you’ve never been here, you have no idea how assaultive the weather can be at this time of the day. Well, at any time of the day, actually.

While waiting, I played the “waiting game” with Lucy – I place a treat near her nose, and tell her to “wait”. She must not touch the treat until I say, “Okay!” She is a good girl, even when it’s her favourite cheesy biscuit! Now, Lucy has moved to the day bed and she is chewing on her Venison ear. I am listening to the rhythmic crunching, munching and gnawing sounds she is making. It’s all music to my ears, even the squeaky juicy sounds emanating from the air-conditioning sounds pleasant. All is good and clement. Just Lucy and me here. Clement Space for Two.

Oh, is that the FoodPanda guy now? I hear his motorbike downstairs in the carpark.

Hainanese Chicken Rice set with KaiLan and soy sauce egg.

This one is for you, Rick. In memory of our Saturday noshments! Have a dogly weekend down under and say hello to Paddo from us.

aggression oppression

 

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I am an artist, musician and a researcher. I am not an ‘Avenger’ or any comic book hero. I am no sword-wielding warrior. I am merely a reluctant Advocate – I dream of a world wherein there is no more need for disability advocacy because disability will just be accepted and embraced as part of natural human diversity – but I know advocacy is crucial in the here and now, else we the disabled will never have equity and autonomy. Without advocacy, I would not be able to practice my art, music and research, because of my known disability. Continue reading

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.

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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.

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New yellow frames

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A very old top from ‘Shanghai Tang’

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Fuchsia skirt with yellow lining

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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.

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Rest well, my Princess.

regression aggression

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Lucy inside Qantas cabin 2016 11 26

I read with dismay and disappointment that Qantas no longer allows psychiatric assistance dogs on board. What was even more distressing, was reading the comments that followed the article in the The Australian.

article

Screenshot.

Continue reading

(un)broken

broken pieces

This morning, my precious Octopus mug handle was broken by the cleaning lady. It was a gift from a dear friend, bought from a little shop in Covent Garden in London, and it’s traveled with me across many cities and different continents through its 30+ years of existence in my care. Intact. Today, I felt a part of me had fragmented together with the demise of this innocuous object. I can hear the neuronormative puffing and huffing, “Come on, it’s just a mug handle, get over it!”

Well, I am Autistic. I used to become intensely disturbed and distressed when someone so much as moved my pencils in my pencil holder. Neuronormative ‘expert’ observers of Autism label this “meaningless” or “obsessive” adherence to order, because we autistics are supposed to be craving some kind of malevolent “control” over our out-of-control environment.

The “out-of-control” part is accurate, but the “control” part is rubbish. What the normative ‘experts’ – professionals making good money out of us in the autism domain, and normative-minded parents spending a lot of money on non-autistic devised autism ‘interventions’ – do not know, and/or are not ready yet to want to know despite us autistics telling and telling them (though this is changing slowly) is that many hyper sensory Autistics like myself inhabit a realm that is far more exquisite than the noisome pestilence-filled domain called “normality”. We are connected to the vibrant matter around us in ways that normative minds may never be able to grasp, even some Autistics who’ve been so successfully brainwashed and ‘corrected’ by various behavioural mental programmes into becoming pseudo normatives, because they have sadly lost touch with this beautiful part of their embodied existence.

You see, this “just a mug handle” is part of the finely balanced, natural elemental ecology that I call my intimate abode. It’s not that kind of bizarre Svengali-like “control” that the normative minded pronounce us to have. Perhaps, because normativity can only understand this limited concept? Instead, it is a harmonious, gentle, generous, rich and grace-filled connection one small detail with another, molecule by molecule, whisper to whisper, heartbeat to heartbeat, that embraces us. If one component is out of place, or crushed by violent normative callousness, then the entire living ecology cries out in pain. Imagine, if your finger were crushed or cut off, will not the rest of your body scream and thrash? Why, then, are we Autistics punished for our intimate connections just because the normative have no such inkling of Being? (I’ve explained this in my PhD dissertation, under “elemental empathy” – please visit my official website if you want to read and learn more.)

“Get over it!” – sure, I shall, in time. But your finger… you know, that part of you?… if I break it, how soon will you “get over it”?

Executive function failure: I was unable to even insert money properly into my wallet after that incident. My heartbeat is going at a racing pace, the over-exerted organ pounding against my ribcage as if it is trying to escape. I am sitting next to Lucy, inhaling her comforting aura – which includes aroma, fragrance, physical and spiritual radiation – trying to calm down.

Today was supposed to be my rest day, I allocated time to do peaceful, restful, rejuvenating tasks that are for me, by me and help me to recover from having to comply and perform to the excruciating demands of neuronormativity in the last few weeks and months. I have to try and make the most of it now. With a part of me, and extension of my Being, violently shattered.

Wouldn’t you guard your fingers and toes if you’re working and living in an assaultive environment? That’s just what us Autistics are trying hard to do. Yet, you intervene with your behavioural therapies to force us into a catatonic state of numbness and disconnect with our most beautiful modalities. Dear Normative / Allistic people, please don’t punish us Autistics for your own lack of sensitivity and connectivity.

Who is empathy impaired now?

clement riffs

 

It is 6.40am as I start typing this. The churning, heaving, hurling and caterwauling, the uneasy prancing around Neuronormative plastic tulips, swimming against the tidal cacophony of insidious agenda and spiteful fear mongering, all while valiantly maintaining expert façade of sangfroid-with-edge. What a week it has been!

The highlight ‘achievements’ of the last seven days?

Rid myself of the Millstone of Inefficiency in a project I am working on – nothing personal, I am not here to make friends, I am here to work and I find it hard to tolerate hindrance.

Emerged from the miry bog Swimming with the Hogs, made a firm decision to take control and issued forth my Ultimate Ultimatum – it’s my terms or nothing at all, I’ve allowed them to snuffle in the mud for too long, time to move ahead or leave.

Not melting down while dealing with Belligerent Entities must of course count as the highest accomplishment of the week. Very proud of this Autistic Bunny. (But of course, I had help from my Canine Angel.)

Now, for some clear lines, like fluid aromatic ink on smooth silk, here’s Chick Corea and Bobby McFerrin with a song I love (I learned to play the Autumn Leaves by ear as a wee lass of seven and it is still one of my favourites). Sitting with my Beloved, watching the light slowly seep into the dark sky as a new day asserts itself upon our consciousness.

I am so glad I took the good advice of my Fine Arts Professor (who has now become a well loved friend) during my undergraduate days and chose music as my major. Now that I have made the transition into art, music is still a Clement Space that I return to for sustenance and strength.

A Clement Sunday to Every Bunny!

reflets dans l’eau

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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.

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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.