Drain. The physical object. That little channel ushering its contents into the nether regions of our consciousness. The act of it. That actual movement, going, flowing, evacuating, emptying. And being drained. Emptied, while still alive, until there is no more. At which point does it translate into actuality? How long can the human soul endure? Continue reading

brick walls & mire


What is it that drives some humans to abuse those they perceive as weak, vulnerable and different? What is it that propels or instigates such heinous endeavour, and what dark creature feeds upon the morsels of ruinous activity? This has nothing to do with the fight for personal survival (which I can better understand). It seems to exist solely as a means of twisted entertainment.

Perhaps, this is the reason so many of us who are neurodivergent do not wish to reveal our diversities, and so many with more visible disabilities cower in the shadows of mainstream society without asserting their legal rights even in countries where they have those in place. A simple reason, yet so ominous: the fear of abuse at every level imaginable and unimaginable. Continue reading

patterns and the genesis of Self-Other


I read this blog post today. About using our intrinsic ability for pattern recognition to learn relatedness and interconnectivity. Pattern Recognition, Gaslighting and the Patterns of Abuse by Autistic Academic.

Straight forward. Simple language. Powerful message. I wish I knew this fifty years ago. Applies to all relationships, not merely romantic or friendships, but most essentially familial, because it is in the family, among siblings and parents, that one first learns perceptions of Self, Other and interconnectedness (or brokenness).

Pattern recognition is an autistic strength. Take it. Own it. Use it. Be empowered by our ability. Not subjugated. Continue reading


Another rough night. Sensory overload, anxiety attack, fever, white noise, hyperventilating, hyper vigilant. Sunken into the abyss of dark heaviness: not dreams, not nightmares, just a huge mammoth weighing down my consciousness. I could feel the heart pounding in a feral frantic dance trying to escape its mortal corporeal cage. Even at that moment, my mind was whirring and making associations – the final dance in Pina Bausch’s choreography for Stravinsky’s Le Scare du Printemps (The Rite of Spring).  Continue reading


Possible trigger here.

I read this piece of news today. Mother kills disabled child. 18 years in prison. The comments on Facebook reflect widespread outrage. Many say she should’ve got a life sentence.

I have no opinion re. the sentence. I empathize only with the child. Heinous. But would he have had a better life with this woman, resenting his existence and overwhelmed by and wrapped inside her own self-centric focus? Social services will not take away a child from the mother until there is irrefutable proof of abuse. And even then, so many times, children are returned to their abusive environments. My immediate reaction on reading this piece of news? As a person with disabilities (autism as well as other physical challenges), as a person who has witnessed first hand the utter evil of insidious subtle abuse, the kind that nobody outside of the Holy Circle of Horror would see, the kind that even if the victim were to tell about, friends and the wider society would scoff at and make light of – what were my initial reactions to this, what are my triggered thoughts whenever I read such reports?

I saw a lifetime of slow torture for any child trapped inside the swirling nebulous vortex of unwantedness – mental, emotional, and physical violence. Many other disabled children suffer this instead of death, until they manage to break free, or never in most cases of more severe disability. Dependent forever on the very persons who are torturing them.

The above was my own immediate reaction, born out of my own personal life experiences. Not everyone will see the same scene inside their intimate mindscape.

Then, there are the brave parents who persevere no matter what. They are not the conquering warriors in storybooks, they do not wield swords or sashay around clad in white linen, they are ordinary folk doing extraordinary things. The challenges are great, mistakes are made, but they valiantly soldier on, often alone and isolated from the very society that is supposed to help and support them. Raising a child is not easy, not even a ‘normal’ child. I have immense admiration and respect for these humans. And for some strange reason, I feel a deep gratitude towards them. Even though they are not my parents. I am grateful that they exist at all. To these, I say a humble, “Thank you!” Thank you for sticking to your commitment. Childbearing is a decision (in most cases), but the child concerned has had no choice in the narrative. I am grateful to these brave parents who stand by their choice even when the result falls far from their dreams and expectations, even when life can be a constant deluge of pain and frustration. And yes, I do have empathy, much more than is visible to the senses of normality, for those – parents and children, and children grown up – how have fallen and broken from the sheer immensity of the burden that human life presents.


A friend rightly pointed out that parents are human too. Yes, we all are. So are children. There is no ready answer. Just terrible sadness. At the state of humanity.

witch’s brew


Today, I received a sad communication from someone who has been abused by people near and dear to her. My own world crumbled within me, because I felt her pain, yet I am incapable of resolving it for her. I felt guilty, in a way, that I escaped the terrors that she had to endure, and I have wonderful friends who stand by me firmly on my side through this bumpy ride, while she has nobody but me to confide in. I am overwhelmed by empathic grief. As cosmic coincidence would have it, I turned on the telly, and was met with a report on yet another form of abuse. My heart weeps inside a very dark space today… and I am all the more grateful for the comfort that my beautiful Angel offers me inside her innocence.

Not all witches ride broomsticks wearing pointy hats. In fact, that is a laughable myth. The truth is, the most cogent evil is very often swathed in silken bundles of precious piety and steeped in a rich brew of religiosity and/ or moralistic postulation. Continue reading

flogging the silent howling

The title is a sentence taken from my earlier work, He(A)r(e)not – for violin, voice, video and soundscape (2009).

A lived experience. An almost perpetual circumstance. That is, for people who fall through the cracks, who are different in one way or another, who exist in the tangents and trajectories of difference, deeper depths, higher planes, unseen, unheard and ignored by mainstream collectivity.

Sydney experienced a horrific event yesterday. I am too overwhelmed with a torrid blend of grief, rage and frustration to elaborate on my own emotional responses to this. The events are reported in the news, readily available and I will not repeat them here. Google it if you want to know the details. Continue reading

D flat

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D flat and F sharp are the two most difficult tonalities for me to play on the piano. Is it just psychological? I don’t know. I have never been good at sight reading, those black notes dancing around on a page, just like too much text, but more visually attractive. As if my note reading handicap weren’t bad enough, too many of those black keys give me the shudders. No, it isn’t an Aspie thing, it’s just me being not very high functioning. Continue reading