Calling Earth: The Artificial I (this is a poem)

Calling Earth: The Artificial I (this is a poem)

The Artificial I (this is a poem)

(I wrote this when I was in a lecture and bored because the lecturer talks so much I can't follow what she's saying)

Sometimes I
would like
a joke shop eye.
An oversized
googly
squishy
stress ball eye
to 'accidentally'
drop on the floor
when Carolyn Waffleby talks too much
and I get bored.
It would stare at her
from under the table.
Such would be
the joy
of giving her
the evil I.

My bit of the email I sent to my MP

Because we have communication problems, it's hard for those of us on the autism spectrum to explain to other people what is difficult. We are SO used to somehow 'coping' and 'getting by' that we can't express what problems we have. Or we have given up trying because people misunderstand so often.

If my native language was Urdu, or Welsh or Hindi or Polish or Hebrew, there would be a form, written in my native language, to fill in. I could get it in LARGE PRINT or braille, or on a talking tape. We ought, really, to be recognised as racially different as that is very close to reality. We are supposed to speak the same language but you don't understand us. It is us, with our desperately frustrating communication difficulties, who have to learn to speak to you.

And do not be deceived by how I have articulated this message. I write much better than I speak. It's difficult to stammer in written words or to have thoughts suddenly fall in to a void. Nobody can interrupt when I write. If I can't think of the words, it does not matter how long it takes, nobody is there to get impatient.

The fact is, nobody is there. Anyone with autism will tell you the same. Nobody is there.

Would someone please tell me where this particular rant came from?

Maybe, when we are old, and have no teeth or eyes or ears and cannot walk, we will live in a community which takes off its hat to the bloody minded old fart who has fought the fight and refused to give up. This would be my dad. Some people lose their limbs in an instant; their sight, hearing or mind at the blowing of a whistle. For the rest, it takes a lifetime.

We may ask: 'Given two choices, would you rather lose your mind or your body?'

I come from a family whose bodies are spent long before their minds. I would rather lose my mind, which has always been out of sync with this world, to be honest.

Where is the glory in having a limbless body or sightless eye in a world that recoils from the imperfect? I would rather have no mind and thus no knowledge of the ridicule to which I would be subject. I would prefer to be unaware of the injustice and prejudice inflicted on the vulnerable.

My mum had some casual work over Christmas 1977, in a Quaker old peoples' home in Nottingham. Mum had various tasks to do and one of them was to talk to an old lady who was blind and deaf. I cannot remember her name, nor what she looked like, apart from her skinny, wasted, legs, no wider than my thinning, anorexic, wrists. To communicate with her, mum had to take hold of her hand and 'write' on her left thigh, spelling out words, letter by letter. You will possibly try it out for yourself by closing your eyes and writing your name on your own thigh. How can you have a conversation like that? This woman did. She even had the mental capacity to accomodate handwriting styles, as my mother had an unusual way of writing the letter 'G' - as in Glennis (mum's name). 'Yes' was an upward and downward movement. First gear to second, if you drive. 'No' was checking neutral, if you like, an horizontal movement. To be honest, it got a bit boring and I moved from watching this communication to other things within the room.

There were pictures of a beautiful young woman, vibrant, alive. Some looked like wedding photographs. They could have been 'stills' from the silent movies I remembered watching, not too many years before. An alarmed heroine, strapped to a railway line, crying for help. And all the while, the piano music smashed and crashed in the background. A conglomeration of cinematographic memories choked me. Who was this voiceless, screaming, woman? Fifty years later, my mother was holding her hand.

Over thirty years on from that, I wonder if that nameless woman danced. In her own time, in her own space, did she remember the music she fell in love to? The songs she sang? The hearts she broke?

And what would she have thought if she had known she would become a skinny thighed, deaf, blind old woman, locked away in one room of an old people's home with all of her mind and no body?

I would rather lose my mind. I would want to piss on those scummy, hooded, little shits who think they own the world than owe my body to the stupid, fucking, morons who went through college and think they know what it's like to be old, blind, deaf, voiceless.

We might like to think, in our perfectly Christian way, that this old woman 'found peace'. I wouldn't. Not if I had a thinking mind. Fuck, no. I would stumble, blindly around my room, putting all my precious pictures and special things away in a safe place and trash that fucking prison some sick bastard locked me in to.

Lewi's Birthday

Right at the top of Lewi’s birthday list was Daddy.

He hadn’t been there when Lewi started big school. Or when he came out, after his first day, with the painting he did of the soldier. It was Daddy in a desert, looking high as a mountain and wide as the sky.

He didn’t like the way the paint ran off the end of Daddy’s jacket because that wasn’t what happened in real life and he wanted his painting to look just like Daddy in his big boots and desert cammo.

Lewi had never seen a desert but Mummy said it was like a massive beach without any sea and that was where Daddy had gone.

Lewi looked out of his bedroom window. He wondered what Farmer’s Field would look like if it was all sand.

By the moonlight, Lewi thought he saw the fox but it did not matter. Lewi was getting to be a really big boy. Foxes might be scary for little kids but not Lewi.

Lewi was five tomorrow and nothing got the better of him. No way. He was Indiana Jones and Tilly Tylor was enough to frighten anyone off. She might have been a fat old dog to anyone else but to Lewi, she was a fearsome beast and not to be messed with.

With the moon shining in through his window, Lewi fell asleep.

He had dreams of fantastic adventure and other wonderful things about birthdays and wishes he kept secret under his pillow.

Lewi ran and ran for miles until he was almost too tired to run any more. Tilly just about kept up and they ran so hard they began to fly. Over mountains, forests, shark infested seas and hot, dry, deserts. Paige waved them both goodbye.

Lewi was Indiana Jones alright. Nobody could stop him.

Lewi swam like a fish across shark infested oceans. He crossed deserts, climbed trees, zapped nasty skeletons and poisonous snakes. Faster than the speed of light he raced, cracking his whip. Nothing could get in his way.

As Lewi flew over the top of the tanks and tents, he saw him.

Daddy! It was Daddy!

Lewi began to fall, spinning faster and faster. It felt like forever until strong hands caught him.

‘Hello, big man, happy birthday’ Daddy said, grinning, ‘what’s it like to be five, then?’

‘The best,’ said Lewi and grinned right back.

Archie's Cardboard Castle

King Archie had a cardboard castle. It was pretty huge and made from empty packing boxes left over from moving house.
King Archie loved it. It had everything a little king could ask for.
Huge turrets.
A gatehouse.
Spyholes.
A comfy carpet.
There was even enough room for Prince Blue, the dog.
Day after day, King Archie and Prince Blue played in the castle, fighting off scary people like Big Chris and the cat from next door.
Archie was feeling very brave indeed.
One day, King Archie got up and went outside to his beloved castle but it was gone.
He was furious. Who did this? What evil person could have destroyed it?
King Archie sent spies out the length and breadth of the land and discovered, to his horror, that it was an invading army led by the poisonous Baron von Gunner.
King Archie and Prince Blue set out immediately to conquer the Baron and make him say sorry.
It was a long, hot, day and King Archie was glad of the sandwiches, little yoghurts, carrot sticks and fruity drinks his mummy had made.
Night time came and so did the cold. It was a good thing Prince Blue was there to keep King Archie warm.
As the sun rose next day, King Archie could see the distant Baron von Gunner spying on him. He climbed on his horse and rode furiously across to where he was hidden and surprised the Baron.
With the greatest, biggest, scariest ‘Boo,’ he could muster, Archie confronted the cowering Baron.
‘Why did you break down my castle?’ King Archie demanded. He had to admit the Baron looked pretty fierce but he wasn’t going to let on to anyone. He wanted answers.
Baron von Gunner looked sad. ‘I was jealous,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t have anyone to play with.’
‘Well,’ said King Archie, who was nothing if not a very generous sort, ‘as I have only just moved house, I’m a bit short of friends to play with myself yet. If you help me to rebuild my castle, we can play together.’
Baron von Gunner looked grateful because he knew King Archie could pack a mighty punch and happily agreed.
So King Archie and the resplendent Baron von Gunner rode back together. King Archie even shared his fruity drinks and sandwiches with the Baron. The horses shared the carrot sticks and Prince Blue led the way.
Baron von Gunner, it turned out, was a dab hand at building and made King Archie’s bedroom into a castle fit for a king.
They were friends and King Archie and Baron von Gunner had the happiest times together.
When Baron von Gunner finally had to leave for a short time, to fight in a dusty foreign war, King Archie knew he would always have a friend out there.

I have a new Mentor

I thought it might be worth sharing the email I wrote to Alex, my mentor for the coming academic year, my final one at university. We have been trying to work out a convenient time to meet before the new semester begins.

In his last email, Alex told me he had worked with a lot of people with Asperger's syndrome and decribed himself as having 'long brown hair and a beard'. This is most of my reply

I knew I had some extra breakfast shifts coming up but didn't realise it was as early as this week. I'll be working Friday, Sat, Sun, Mon and Tuesday breakfasts. Weekdays, my hours are 5.30am until 1.30pm. If we met Wednesday morning, I would bring my boyfriend as he would probably like to know I was going to be alright, which is kind but daft because I usually do cope, somewhere between really well and crisis, on my own. Wednesday, Thursday or Friday the following week are also good. I realise I should have looked in my diary first. Sorry to be messing you about. Makes me feel like a spambot.

From your self description, you sound like Jesus so if I look at your feet first, I'm only looking for sandals, ok?

I used to think people meant as colleagues when they said they worked with a lot of people with Asperger's but, to my disappointment, it has been as a helper, not an equal. I can tell by the way people talk they somehow consider me a little less than themselves, or a half wit, but it's actually quite the opposite. You see, if someone you chatted to by the office coffee machine made a joke, you'd at least acknowledge it, even if you didn't think it was all that funny.

Now, if I make a joke, most people who work with the 'disabled' in a caring capacity would not dare to laugh in case I was being serious and it upset me. I might also get a straight answer 'just in case' even though they actually knew it was a joke in the first place. So who is the half wit? Somebody, somewhere, decided that autistic people have little or no sense of humour and social pressure to conform to this idea refuses to acknowledge the blindingly obvious and respond appropriately. Like laugh, or smile, for instance.

It's probably a good idea to become acquainted a little before we meet. I can probably now assume you are a bloke, unless you are a weirdy, bearded lady and some kind of circus freak.