I love Japanese cuisine, especially the rice, sushi and sashimi. My beloved brother-in-law now works in research and development at a large Japanese food company, and he takes us all out for a meal at least once a month at one of the many Japanese restaurants owned by the company. “Arigato” is the Japanese expression for “Thank You.” I am so fortunate! Continue reading
Yesterday afternoon, a friend took me to a little nooky cafe, tucked inside an industrial estate. A former hardware shop, the entrance decorated with eclectic vintage clutter served as a thematic introduction to the atmosphere within. As soon as we pushed open the creaky door, I felt a draft of musty, humid, cool air blow directly into my face, then wrap around me like a nebulous mouldy snake. My skin tingled, as my olfactory senses picked up the various miasmic odours emanating from each visually charming piece of history on display.
The waiter ushered us towards the back. Slipping within a split second into a bubble of wordlessness, I followed obediently, semi-somnambulant, my sensory system already engaged in a (routine) contrapuntal wrestling match with the onslaught of smells, sights, and sounds. As we were about to sit down at the allocated table, speech suddenly returned, and words fell out of my mouth like marbles, tumbling down and bouncing sharply against the concrete floor.
“I don’t want to sit here, it smells funny. I don’t like the smell here.”
The dark despair of failure. Those depths of acrid, rancid, dissonant putridity. Purple – thick, viscid, slimy, clammy, choking and Stygian – swirling manic whirlpool inside corporeal core.
That feeling that one has failed a precious Parallel Embodied child. Closest companion. Most faithful entity who walks alongside without questioning.
Each and every decision affects this beautiful being – such cogent reverberations – in ways no human mind will ever fully grasp. Yet, just sensing the very peripheral waves, catching those soft crying top notes or unheard vibrating bass notes, is enough to thrust the human soul into the vortex of forlorn, hapless gloom. That is, if the human possesses just a sliver of empathic resonance for Other, and a tiny beam of light shining onto Self. Many, sadly, do not. Yet… Some humans really do. Some humans truly try.
What would one give to understand in full the abundance that thrives within the Canine Angel’s inner world?
What may this human proffer in exchange for this harmonic-rhythmic enlightenment beneath the mantle of verisimilitude?
Would the knowledge and the weight of its pulchritude and agony annihilate the tenuous human fragility?
No words. No answers. The silence deafens, as the senses listen intently, skimming the surface of myriad textures, smells, tastes, vibrations, images, sounds… Ebbing, flowing, undulating…
Lucy has been busy inspiring this autistic Bunny yet again. We are crafting “Clement Space in the City (2017)” – getting ready for the Neurodiverse-city exhibition at the Customs House, Sydney, opening 20 September 2017! All part of a huge and amazing project, the BIG Anxiety festival 2017.
(Sorry, all Lucy-fans out there, I will not be taking her to the festival – not unless someone is willing to sponsor a return Business Class ticket on Qantas and the preparation costs.)
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!
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.
Grace notes occurring in the midst of forceful fury.
Overwhelmed inside churning, heaving and seething vortex of existential and corporeal torment – unrelenting in its pursuit of dignity’s destruction, unrepentant in its indecent mockery – the arhythmic pounding of crass insistence overtakes consciousness.
There, the little grace notes appear. Silent fluttering wings of delicate rectitude, without force, without rude encroachment.
Listen to the soft, gentle and sometimes whimsical intonations of clemency, and the sighs of gratitude amidst shimmering spasms of tender affliction. Continue reading
Rice. A staple for most Asians. A fine art in Japan.
Here in Singapore, this texture-sensitive, Autistic Bunny tasted the best Japanese rice outside of Japan yesterday at Ichiban Boshi @ Vivocity (well, technically, I’ve only ever been to Kansai airport on an overnight stay due to flight delays and the buffet at the hotel there was pretty sad, but I am guessing that there must be much better rice elsewhere in Japan, non?). Continue reading
I have launched my handmade adornment line at last. LaLaLouBelle. Named after Lucy, my muse and inspiration, LaLaLouBelle marks a long awaited re-ignition of a smouldering ember, a little ‘yearning’ of the sensory kinetic realm to ‘hand craft’ reinterpretations of fascination. Since childhood, I’ve loved little things that held associative wonderment. I collected bus tickets, buttons, jewellery discarded by mum, coloured paper, odd shaped rocks and pebbles, driftwood, shells etc. Thirty years ago, I began to collect beads and semi-precious stones wherever I travelled. I amassed quite a sizeable collection of bits and bobs gathered from parts of Europe, the UK, China, Thailand, India, Indonesia, Malaysia and home in Singapore. Thanks to a very generous old friend, I have in my collection some precious pieces – vintage handcrafted glass beads from around Europe, Johnson & Matthey silver findings, wire, tubes and plates, semi-precious stones and rocks from the Natural History Museum in London – which formed the foundation for subsequent additions along the way. Continue reading
Double wrapped for safety. I think this will do ok. The heavy, ponderously thick odour is sufficiently masked now. I found two pillow protectors among my old junk (left behind at my former abode, the Sensory Hell place). Yes, I revisited it. And I sort of survived, apart from somehow most inconveniently coincidentally catching a horrid cold thereafter.
Back to the pillow-odour challenge. A few liberal sprays of lavender all over the existing pillows, then into the pillow protectors they went. Another layer of freshly washed pillow cases, and…. voila! Well, the experiment worked. At least to the extent that I am no longer being suffocated by the sheer weight of it.
I think the smell of Lucy helps a lot too. Her presence in all its abstract and concrete glory is a stabilising counterpoint to the precarious balancing act of impermanence.