light

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Ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

 

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ancient voices

Disabled by the ability to perform the Other, at expense to Self.

The more energies spent on perfecting performance as Other, the less strength left to exist in Self.

Self is dissipated, disengaged, and exhausted

Inside this space, this hollow interstice, Self becomes nothing.

Un-performing is desperately necessary, to peel away rigid, harsh layers of coarse fabric. It is a difficult process, even excruciatingly painful at times, because these binding cloths so tightly wound have melded into growing flesh. Stubbornly embedded foreign bodies, artificial corns and callouses interwoven. Which is artificial, which is nature now? Nobody can tell, not even the disabled Self. Yet, that longing for Being, that yearning for a clement space of empathic resonance and elemental connectivities, is so deeply entrenched in our spirits, the Ancient Voices of our nascent souls.

Survival is paramount. So the decapitated and maimed carry their appendages in glass bottles, like ancient Chinese eunuchs, cringing silently in grandiose palatial hallways, scuttling to and fro, agony hidden, even festering in gilded cages.

“Ancient Voices of the Children” by George Crumb is a haunting work, featuring selected poems by Federico García Lorca. When I first heard it at the age of 19, as a music undergraduate student at university, I fell deeply in love with the music and poetry. Even then, undiagnosed, it spoke to me with such cogent poignancy. Will the autistic soul ever truly find their lost voice? The King of the Crickets has commandeered it.

The Little Mute Boy

The little boy was looking for his voice.

(The king of the crickets had it.)

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;

I will make a ring of it

so that he may wear my silence

on his little finger

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,

put on a cricket’s clothes.)

**

“Ballad of the Little Square”

My heart of silk is filled with lights,

with lost bells,

with lilies, and with bees,

and I will go very far,

farther than the seas,

close to the stars,

to ask Christ the Lord

to give me back

my ancient soul of a child.

 

Federico García Lorca – 1898-1936

the dilemma of trauma

 

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One week of excruciating physical pain. Stress reaction. A serious one. I was caught by surprise this time, I didn’t expect my body to react so viciously.

I was physically assaulted last Sunday. By someone I know. The person is very sorry to have caused me harm, and he has admitted to me it was a psychotic episode. I am psychologically and emotionally fine.

Last Sunday, I attended a theatre performance. I was standing outside the theatre, in a basement lobby teeming with chattering voices bouncing off pristine white walls, waiting for the show to begin, when a pre-show drama literally exploded in my face. Continue reading

bloviation & the sacrificial lamb

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bloviating babble bubbles

I learned this new word from my friend Rick. I like it. It has a robust movement to its physical form, flow and force. It sounds and feels like thick copious slimy globules arising from a pit of bubbling sludge. This word has a sensorial constitution that matches its meaning. Thank you, Rick!

“Bloviation” – such a proliferate and aggressively dominating activity in the field of Autism and Neurodiversity. Autism is a trendy topic these days, isn’t it? Everyone – from the housewife ‘AutismMom’ to the Professor in Psychiatry, and the outright quacks touting ‘cures’ and ‘healing touches’ mushrooming like unbridled viruses in between – seems to be dancing vigorously around the jolly campfire of Autism.The word makes me think of the many (I have lost count now, it is a long and wearying list) instances of having to silently endure protracted lectures, workshops, conversations, discussions, seminars, forums, conferences etc where non-autistic / neurotypical, so-called ‘experts in the field’ (with ‘decades of experience’ working with countless autistic persons, of course) blather on and on, expounding theories constructed out of little or no insights from actual lived-experiences, confidently spreading erroneous or inaccurate ideas and information, without due citations from progressive science or quoting from old and outdated studies, musing in hyped-up dramatic tones, and performing plastic rituals that ooze tokenism… Continue reading

layers

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Tumultuous ocean, churning depths. Underneath pomp, ceremonious circus, lies dark churning death. Extirpating the soul inside writhing grief, bursting through blessed gratitude too copiously applied. Such ponderous agony, ‘neath layer upon layer of colourful luxury.

Executive dysfunction is a very real phenomenon – not to be scoffed at. The veneer of steadfastness belies gritted teeth, foaming nausea, weeping silently, hapless, atop mighty pedestal. Who sets the heights, lengths, and breadths for performativity? The Autistic in a constant state of unstable flux – crushed, tossed, fluffed, buoyed, then crammed into discomforting contortions – seeks determinedly for clemency of space, breathing in every small fleeting moment, as if a last and final breath.

Too much struggle brings chaos to sensory reception – hyper senses become all the more acute, but yet bizarre in rhythmic jaggedness. The brain seems to switch off some signals, while others hurtle along as if out of control. A multi-dimensional existence, so markedly conflicting, it is a wonder that there are not far more collisions and collapses.

Demons screaming at the door, thinly veiled agony that nobody sees, nor ought they to be cognisant of in case of unknown, volatile consequences.

monachopsis

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Wriggling… awkward shifting, shuffling… navigating frothy nausea… think, dank fog…

How to craft Clement Space inside a constantly assaultive alienation? Minuscule foci. Small things. Split-second moments. Carpe diem! Each tiny aperture is a precious molecule.

Lucy.

Home-cooked nosh.

Friendship.

Music.

Art.

Goodness.

Kindness.

Droplets of mercy and grace notes of consideration, respect and gentleness. These all are Clement Spaces, in the midst of monachopsis.

crush

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I can literally hear it, the crunching, fragments rubbing against one another, breaking, jostling, resisting until they break yet again into smaller and smaller composites. The soul is an amazing, elastic creature, yet so fragile in its dichotomous existence. Crushed, overridden, derided, mocked, flung from one extreme to another, the dissonant chromaticism so excruciating, a wordless silent scream issues forth, travelling through time and space into the vast nothingness, pain with an ominous fermata riding mercilessly atop. Continue reading

cockroach

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Autism Awareness Month is going to sweep over us again, like a nauseating sludge – engulfing, choking, terrorising.

Awareness? Just like the cockroach in the room that one becomes aware of, that’s as far as it goes, this ‘awareness’ exercise. And autistic persons are being treated accordingly.

Parents, Siblings, Teachers, Peers, Autism Organisations… the list goes on… and round and round in dizzying concentric circles…

You write books detailing my vulnerabilities, my meltdowns, telling the world how terribly inept I am, using my dirt and mess as stark contrasting juxtaposition to your shining, glittery ‘suffering’. You can be you, this is you, this is how you deal with things, this is how you talk, this is how you react, this is just what is, so take it or leave it, but I cannot be me, because you are feeding me, housing me, and so you own my existence.

You kill me, it is murder, but because I am autistic, you become a hero instead, and the media is in a pity-party frenzy, not for me, but for you.

Do I even realise how stressed you are, having to care for my every need? Oh yes, I do. I am aware of much more than you care to even know about me. But what I think and how I feel are not at all important to you.

When autistic people protest, you tell us: Stop the drama!

When I try to explain myself to you, you tell me: Stop arguing!

When autistic people ask to be paid for work done, you tell us: Stop making demands, we ought to be grateful that you are going to great lengths to organise events on our behalf!

When I try to share my hopes and dreams, you mock me: Stop being ridiculous! You can’t even take care of yourself, what are you talking about?

Is my voice so broken? Are my words so devoid of sense? Is my Beingness so utterly despicable or laughable that you must use puzzle pieces to symbolise me? Or are you just not wanting to know my thoughts, not interested at all in who I am, because YOU are all there is and I simply should not exist? Without you, I am nothing. I cannot tie my own shoelaces. I cannot earn enough money to feed myself. Or… I cannot even feed myself. So I have nothing valuable to say. It is Autism Awareness Month, and you are making all the awareness on my behalf.

Cockroach in the Room. I am already much aware that you are aware of me. Awareness is a behemoth – overwhelming, overpowering, tyrannical – no room for negotiation, not even gentle co-existence. The Autistic is persona non grata. Deemed useless, hapless in the swirling vortex of Awareness.

Bring out the cockroach spray. Get the brooms ready.

We do not need more awareness, really, do we? We already are your filthy little cockroaches in the pristine normative room. And you are swatting and spraying at us every single day anyway. Let’s just do away with the pretext, shall we? Scrap Autism Awareness Month. We’ve been aware of your awareness for a very long time already.

deadweight

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Betrayal is a deadweight in the gut. Tastes like mixture of rancid milk and filth riddled mud. Smells like vomitus after a rowdy night. Not your own. That of someone else. Sickly sticky, viscous, slimy mottled slush all over your beautiful brand new silk scarf. And lingering on and on, churning chaos in the delicate ecology of your mind.