dogly comestibles

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Food. Nourishment. Sensory engagement. Pleasurable. Challenging.

Textures so beautifully sublime. Textures so horribly excruciating.

Decorated. Sloppy. Aromatic. Stinky.

Synaesthesia. Association. Memory. History. Imagination. Creativity.

Every morsel contains a story. A luxurious narrative. A simple note.

Tendrils spreading and intertwining inexorably.

The good, bad, and the downright ugly. Not forgetting wonderment and gratitude, so often delicately woven into comestibles too ordinary to warrant reviews. Yet, for many with sensory atypicality, the aversions are real, as are the struggles. And for others, there is just no food. Or not enough. I am grateful that I eat. I am also mindful of my own sensory attractions and aversions. My interest in food in its complete resplendent glory emerges from this multi sensory, multidimensional engagement.

Go ahead and photograph your food. Capture in the visual as much of the sensorial richness as you possibly can. Make no apologies for food obsession. I don’t.

Dogly. Full of dogliness. Thinking of my friend Rick, as I tuck in. Thanks for the noshful souvenirs!

wobbly

Musing on a puff.

Uncertainty is wobbly. It tastes like stale reflux from mushrooms. A purplish-brown. An insistent low howl in the ear. Not pleasant at all. Wobbly. With no known cadential resolution in sight. Even the seemingly random reflections of nature contain discernible patterns, and comforting pulsations of regularity, order and organisation.

The autistic brain is not bosom friends with uncertainty. In fact, this quivering gelatinous dynamic mass often creates unnecessary mental, emotional and physical grief for the autist. It is a contentious point that creates friction between the autistic and non-autistic neurocultures.  Continue reading

desolate

I went there today. It was one of our favourite places, Lucy’s and mine. I sat at our regular spot. Smiling faces and hearty greetings from everyone. It was good to be back. The humans, the smells, the sounds, the colours and images, the textures, they are comforting in their familiarity. Yet, there was a void, a resonating desolation. There, in that space, that little nooky corner by my feet, Lucy was not. Instead, a walking cane, to help my unsteady hobbling, ungainly swelling of ankle and metatarsal joints. Bunny keeps on keeping on, while Lucy awaits patiently in her new faraway abode. Here, back in our former home, our old neighbourhood, the emptiness reverberates gentle memories of our adventures. Bunny and Lucy.

hangover

It is a ‘hangover’ sort of day, and I spent much of it crashed out in my bedroom with Lucy, inside a whirly heaviness. I received very sad news this morning: a dear friend, Jack, passed away on Christmas Eve. He was a beautiful entity – generous, gracious and the perfect gentleman. Jack was Lucy’s first friend after she came into my life. Lucy is a minx, but Jack was the perfect gentleman. He shared his bed, his toys and his home with Lucy, who would hijack his space every time she visited. Jack was very well loved by his dads Nick and Monty, and everyone who had the honour of knowing Jack. I paid tribute to Jack via two Facebook posts, and mark his presence here in this blog post. It is my way of etching his memory even deeper into my Space of Mind… I am processing, churning… re-locating grief and loss, re-shelving memories… re-aligning myself with beauty…

But why ‘hangover’? Why ‘crash’? Continue reading

this morning

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Fish & Chips Da Capo

This morning. Today. A slowly unfolding, passing, flowing ‘now’… I am inside… Lucy is inside… We are both inside… Here…

They say the mark of a really good meal is in its rehashing afterwards. Well, I reheated yesterday’s fish and chips in a pan for a hearty late breakfast half an hour ago. In some ways, it seemed to taste even better than before. This AirBnB kitchen has no toaster ovenette – and I didn’t want to heat up an entire giant oven just for my leftovers – so, I used a frying pan, a dash of virgin olive oil, on low heat. The batter become crispier and the chips crunchier. The salad was fresh enough to not taste soggy-faded too. Thank you, dear Massimo!  Continue reading

bff or wtf?

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Are you offended by my expressions and paradigms of love? Have you ever stopped to wonder if I may be hurt by yours too? What are the different paradigms for connectivity and forming interpersonal bonds? How do we each express attachment and intimacy? Do we ever ask ourselves these question when we interact with friends? How about friends we have known for decades? Continue reading

familiar

 

Bruncheon in Paddington. Back to familiar space: sounds, smells, sights, textures and tastes. We know this well. It speaks peace. The basso continuo flows gently, meandering knowingly through patterns established. Home. Yet no more ours. Still, its benevolent space remains embedded in mind and soul, a soft unspoken clemency.

First to Not Just Coffee. Then the Paddington Markets for round two. How many more appoggiatura will the universe accord us here? Time suspends yet moves forcefully onwards in a contrapuntal dichotomy. Thank, loyal friend, for today. Tomorrow, where shall we be?

sensescape

After the foggy, damp start, the sun broke through with a forceful brilliance. A great day for washing, washing, and washing! A mission it was, after all, to breathe and touch cleanliness once more. So here, today, the full languid process unfurls.

How glorious is a gentle, warm shower, twice shampoo-ed hair, conditioned,  soaped and scrubbed down all over, turning slowly, touching cool smooth tiles, toes wriggling, and twirling carefully inside happy space. An old bathroom, just like the other one, but scrubbed and maintained. No cloying stink of rancid human embedded in threads of unkempt soggy towels, no dust or grime smeared across floor tiles, and no running out of water mid-way through. A little luxury too much taken for granted – basic, unhindered access to hygienic practice. Ah, the wonderment of squeaky clean hair! Continue reading

voicing the voice

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Off to face the world!

It began foggy, damp and cold. We lay in bed, unwilling to emerge from under our warm cocoon. Angel alarm has not been working for some time now. Is it her age? No matter, mumma’s turn to take over the waking up process.

All quiet, apart from the whirring of traffic and birdsong – absolute bliss. No anxious listening out for grating vocalisations and cling-clang-slam of doors etc, planning the morning dash to kitchen and bathroom to avoid having our morning peace cruelly interrupted. Or destroyed. Continue reading

gobbledy-goop

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goop

This is porridge. It is goop. You do not chew on goop. It is sluggish, it does not flow, it is not pretty, the sound it makes is murky. Goop does not sing in clear mellifluous tones. Goop just flops and blobs and generally obstructs refinement.

I have been living in a state of goop lately. Despite the unwelcome sensory atmosphere, or perhaps even spurred on by the discomfort and often sheer agony, I have been ruminating… and chewing… and gnawing… there has even been a goodly gnashing of teeth… over the colossal conundrum of EMPATHIC RESONANCE.

Let me try to put this mammoth in two simple, broad categories. Continue reading