The Interview
5 years ago
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
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 the lecturer 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.
Sometimes I
would like
a joke shop eye.
An oversized
googly
squishy
stress ball eye
to 'accidentally'
drop on the floor
when the lecturer 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.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 5 October 2009
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.
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.
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