watery graves

Slow streams of unconscious

Melting rubberbands

River of tiredness

Drying up the sand

Strength seeping

Knees weeping

Purple cobalt

Orange ochre

Sunlight making way

For bland leaden grey

And time runs down sink holes

To swirling watery graves

When even fragmented words in poetic paintings fail, music – that wordless communication of the soul and spirit – overtakes.

elemental empathy

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Daylight Saving is no more. We woke up as our bio-clocks whispered, regardless. I don’t ‘hate’ daylight saving and the changes as much as some do, I just take it as part of the roller coaster wonder-ride that is life.

And that is…

My head is still wanting to explode, my lower limbs still screaming, the new additional thematic wriggle to the raging two day epic Silent Cacophony are several large mouth ulcers pounding away. We had a rough night, the wind howled and rattled the atmosphere, Lucy tossed and turned, I could hear her tummy rumbling, she cuddled close all night, leaning into me each time she got up and settled back down (which is unlike her because we both don’t like cuddling when sleeping). I rubbed her tummy. We got up, it was still very dark, but we did enjoy a calm morning walk, despite the heavy soggy air – at least it isn’t raining anymore. Micturitions and excretions all completed, we trotted home to the rhythmic chant (by me), “Hungry, hungry hippos, we’re hungry, hungry hippos!”

Then, just as I was about to tuck into my sammich, Lucy threw up her breakfast onto the shag rug. I don’t mind at all, the shag rug, that is. I am concerned about Lucy, though. Lucy is more important to me than any material thing, or person, actually. She stared at me, laying by me, as I vigorously cleaned the patch. I reassured her she was still mumma’s good girl, but she looked unsettled. Continue reading

cloudy

IMG_0796lucy-bw

Lucy is my Angel of Clemency.

[This is not a Pity-Party Poor-Me post. I am voicing these thoughts because I hope that there will be greater awareness and understanding of the conundrum faced by autistic people who struggle to live and function within a system that is largely alien to our innate make up. It is not a grumble either. There is no “Us vs Them” anymore in my mind. I strive for Neurocosmopolitanism – a coming together and blending of minds – rather than to emphasise the divide.]

After two days of intense sunshine and heat, last night, it finally rained a little. We woke up to cloudy skies and a relatively robust wind. I have a love hate relationship with robust wind. On one hand, I love the refreshing feeling of a good cool breeze, the way it skims over my skin in a firm, passing yet continuous caress, but my auditory senses become increasingly stressed by the cornucopia of sounds that the wind stirs up. Rustling leaves are delightful, but my senses can only absorb and contain a limited volume – decibel level, frequency and yes, ‘volume’ as in capacity – before becoming overwhelmed. Continue reading

food-o-logue

I shall write when I find the words. For now, here is the journey through the lenses of a food-o-logue.

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maluca

dancing on the edge of the moon

green tea

ice lolly

blue bottomed baboons

i like alliteration

how about you?

dancing on the edge of the moon

curly tops

frilly mop

babbling word stims

onomatopoeic booboos!

dancing on the edge of the moon

whimsical pierrot

mottled flamingo

time is singing pirouette

while elephants march in twos.

porous

Wet, wet, wet, soggy doggy day. Lucy and I are not happy troopers. But we are troopers nevertheless. If that makes any sense? Thinking about seepage… My brain is still in non-verbal modality, so here are some word stims, dressed up as poetry, (for the sake of empathic reciprocity between neurologies – we try to use common terminology?)…

wet

movement

flow

seeping, creeping, dripping, bubbling

slithering under

fabric of dynamic matter

burdensome smells

dark eloquence

purple

brown

dysthymic blobs

frothy socks

soggy paws

shake, shake, shake

cellular fizz

melding

melting

blending

bending

permeating mist

it tastes blue

looking for shelter

green umbrellas

boggy floors

pitter patter

breathing water

cold feet

absorbing through holes

in reflective cheese

mastering life

A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both.

François-René de Chateaubriand

Continue reading

flub

Breakfast Roll

It was an anxiety laden night, wrestling with thought-gremlins about the upcoming slew of medical appointments this month and the mental, physical stress as well as the financial struggle. The sharp stabbing pain in shoulders and elbow joints didn’t help make sleep any better at all. Lucy’s presence is ever more important on days like these. She is the reason I am able to get out of bed at all.

I switched on the telly and was greeted with a Channel 7 breakfast programme featuring an Italian chef and Italian food, but Cuban mambo music playing in the background. Irritating to say the least. Reminds me of the terrible Ibuprofen advertisement playing A Tavern in the Town as accompanying signature music. Yes, it is a song about a lonely prostitute. Duh? Don’t people do their homework before shoving bits of music here and there? Obviously not. Yet, these people have jobs. Sigh.

Breakfast was uninspired but I had to eat something, just so I don’t faint – funny how one needs to make oneself better and stronger in order to see the doctor! Continue reading

deviant senses

I am not tired, but fatigued. There is a mushroom dancing out of sync to the silent throbbing in my brain. Sometimes, there just comes a deluge of little snippets, shredded magazine pages, from surrealistic maieutic groaning. The lousy Samsung portable storage drive is making chugging sounds, most disturbing. I need to back up my data now. Prose is difficult, so here is a poem, fragmented mnemonic morsels. Perhaps it is time for bed, my baby is huffing meaningfully at me now. She knows. She always knows. Good night, world. Continue reading