If we were to know bacon by the name of "rose", it would still smell like bacon. I have been trying to formulate a response to certain articles and changes that are being purposed around Asperger's and autism diagnostics. Recently, I read an editorial in the New York Times that I found a bit upsetting and disturbing. I often applaud the Times' ability to print as close to both sides of the story as you can get (no matter if done under a "liberal" label). However, to see someone vent about their own personal issues under the guise of changing how thousands of people see themselves is shameful. Sir, write a letter to your mother and tell her you're a big boy now. Tell her you didn't like the way she raised you. Tell her you're not a "nerd" anymore. But, keep myself, my daughter, and any other adult or child with Asperger's out of your self imposed dilemma.
If I gleaned properly, I could take home that my daughter is not "retarded" enough to be considered on even the tip of the autism spectrum. I should learn to just realize she is a loser and move on, huh? Well, my daughter has Asperger's. My daughter is not disabled. She is just different. And, different does not hold any negative connotation in my mind. Apples and oranges are different. Some people prefer oranges over apples. But, that is ok. I like both, especially apples with peanut butter.
My daughter (GES) started showing signs of Asperger's at a very early age. She refused to make eye contact. She physically resisted it. And, if she was persuaded to do it, the exchange was extremely brief. She would cover her ears and, basically, shut down when dealing with loud noises or even the noise of crowds. As she grew older, her temper tantrums seems more severe. She would hit herself when frustrated. She had difficulty with speech to the point of getting a battery of hearing tests and therapy. She wouldn't go play with other children when entering a playground. She would obsessively talk about Scholastic books, regardless of what was being discussed at the moment. She would spin in circles. She walked on her tippy toes. She loved to dance, but didn't seem to have the same flexibility or agility of other children her age. She had issues with toilet training. She would line her toys up, instead of use "imaginary" play. She resisted kisses.
And, many of these issues continue to this day. She is now five and a half. Some of these characteristics would seem somewhat normal if they existed independently of each other. But, they don't. Plus, GES has a twin sister. MAS is extremely bright, too. For example, she reads at a second grade reading level (with great comprehension). She does not exhibit all the same symptoms as her sister. She manifests some of the characteristics of high-functioning autism and/or Asperger's, but doesn't hit ALL the bullets. This only makes GES' traits seem more glaring. However, they are both beautiful, talented, loving, brilliant children. Spoken like a true mother.
Myself, I could careless if my daughters become the prom queen or president of the student council. In some ways, I would prefer they don't-- many of my most successful friends avoided those trappings in high school. And, too, I don't necessarily want my children to be viewed as abnormal or atypical, IE. broken. I want to know what I can do to help my children live a fulfilling, happy, and productive life. GES' diagnosis and intervention will help her do just that. With hard work, I hope she does come to a day where she is able to socialize with less awkwardness and handle a barge of sensory stimuli without shutting down. But, when that day comes, it doesn't mean she will no longer be autistic. It just means she will be better equipped through years of education and intervention.
It is no different than teaching your gifted basketball player how to play baseball. He may learn the game well, even succeed. But, that will not make him any less of a gifted basketball player.
I experience some of the same issues as an adult with Asperger's. "But, you look normal." Or, "No, you don't have Asperger's. You're just a jerk." And, this is a good one, "Nah, you have friends." It has taken me forty plus years to build a haphazard skill set which allows me to navigate social interactions with the grace of a crippled buffalo. I am proud that I have had "epiphanies" throughout my life telling me things like, "Don't always say what comes to your mind out loud." Every once in a while I am told I am abrupt or abrasive. But, now, I can go out in public with a certain degree of ease and comfort (that may last only a maximum of fifteen minutes). I can hold my own in a conversation, and with extra effort, not interrupt people as much... AND even give people a turn to voice their concerns or opinions. This doesn't mean I am not on the spectrum. I still have sensory issues that are very distracting and can effect my mood quickly. Too much fluorescent light, too much whistling from a co-worker, too much perfume at the grocery store, or a collar on a shirt being too high on my neck. But, I have learned I don't need to flip out about those things or voice my agitation to everyone around me.
People believe what they need to believe to get them through the day. But, just because you decide you don't believe in unicorns and Asperger's doesn't make me suddenly disappear... or my unicorn, Sir Fuzzy the Duke of Rainbowville.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Signs: What's in a name?
I enjoy giving nicknames. I really enjoy giving nicknames. It is part of who I am. It contains equal parts of cataloguing, endearment, and entertainment. Most everyone close to me has a nickname. My children are collectively known as The Dumplings based on an early sonogram of them. Individually, they are Skinny Bear and Mare Bear. My mother is Big Red. I have a saying, "Big Red bowls a 300." My husband is The Big Fuss. And, I like to say, "Here comes the Fuss. Here comes the Fuss." I refer to my friend Danielle as Meow-meow because I like to end my conversations with her with a simple "meow". My other friend Kristy is know as Kristy Korea because she is from Korea. Many other nicknames exist: friends, family, co-workers, and even strangers. Some people have been given numerous nicknames. And, then there's me. I have a some nicknames. My family refers to me as The Botch or Botchie. And, many friends have learned to know me as Militia or Militant.
After high school, I attended a near-by Liberal Arts college. I had taken courses there when I was in high school during summers off. And, I felt comfortable there. I knew where the Whippy Dip was. I had concrete memories of watching the fire department do controlled burns while sitting across on the curb, tripping on acid. I knew some locals and a few current students. However, I landed there because I never bothered to do much else. I had expressed an interest in attending a natural science college in Maine, but got confused with admissions. I looked into a school in Colorado, but got confused with admissions. My high school guidance counselor provided no guidance. However, he said something to me I have carried with me every day all my life since he uttered the statement.
"I will read about you some day-- either for winning the Nobel Peace Prize or for ending up in prison."
I set that apart because it truly expresses how apart I was. I will probably refer to this quote throughout my life. I managed to maintain average grades with absolutely no effort. The teachers either loved me or hated me. The ones I viewed worthy of my respect usually tried to offer me encouragement and extra reading (whether it be physics or Greek tragedies). However, they were often as frustrated as I was. Why wouldn't I try harder? Why was I disruptive? Overall, why couldn't I get my sh*t together? The teachers who didn't like me wouldn't even speak to me when I intentionally shouted "hello" to them in the hallway-- even when we were the ONLY two in the hallway. Oh, well, four wasted years.
With my foot in the door to what I viewed as my next four wasted years, I found myself associating again with the misfits, the punks, the stoners, and the teachers. One day in that first autumn, sitting on the rolling lawns of a crunchy leaf-blown campus after a trip to the cafeteria for some rice, I was called Militant. It stuck.
I only stayed there for three semesters. I knew from day one I had no intention of pursuing a degree in Fine Arts Painting. But, I had to act like I was doing something... anything. Before I left, I asked my boyfriend at the time (my first true boyfriend), why that name? I didn't get it. I mean, it kinda sounded like Melissa. He explained it spoke to the rigidity in my thinking. My overall commitment and conviction to things I believed were true. My inflexibility. My air of self-righteousness. The "my-way-or-the-highway" persona. The "with-me-or-against-me" mentality. I was shocked. How could I be so misrepresented? I was flexible. I listened to others arguments for a while, until I got tired of listening to them being wrong or poorly informed. I was gentle and caring, when I wasn't agitated that people were preventing me from doing what I wanted to do. I was sad. That sadness faded, but the characteristics remained.
A few years later I would return to college. This time to study neuropsychology with a minor in writing. I befriended a guy I used to sell skateboard parts to back in high school. I now refer to Johnny as Whackjob. My daughters refer to him as Uncle Johnny. We took a symbolic logic class together. I loved that class and I liked John. Almost ten years later, he would introduced me to my husband. He calls me Militia. That I can understand, it sounds like Melissa. It's more clever. It still holds some of the same connotations, but on a more acceptable battlefield. I know John wants me on his side in the Theatre of War. Eventually, I would embrace the name. Using it as a moniker, a tag, and a by-line. It has a better ring to it than simply being known as abrupt and abrasive.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Analog
I have very vivid memories of the first time I chose music to play on/in any type of device. The piece? A hand-me-down vinyl copy of the Beatles' Revolver. At 4yrs old, I played it on my Mickey Mouse portable record player. The case opened to show Mickey's face on the hollowed top. The needle was hidden under a white gloved hand at the end of a plastic molded arm in the shape of a striped seersucker sleeve. Watching the vinyl spin, I played it over and over again. I alternated between that LP and a 7-inch from the animated Hobbit movie that'd "ding" when you were to turn the page. Hours and hours and hours. It was the next step up from turning the key on my aunt's music box all day long. I sat on the same sky blue rug under the cherry desk moving up in the mechanical world. Repeatedly, I lifted the arm up and try to figure out what the needle was reading in the grooves. This is years before I ever heard of Edison and his is wax cones.
Later, in early puberty, I would blow the grooves out on my first copy of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by laying on my bedroom floor while staring at the swirls in the plaster of the ceiling with a mega-huge pair of headphones on-- listening over and over and over again . A diamond tip carving through molded plastic. I still own that particular copy; it is filed next to the second, playable copy. During the progression toward that Bowie LP, I discovered the difference between stereo and mono. I eventually figured how to assess the speeds (whether 78, 45, 33, or 16rpms) needed based on groove size and spacing. I learned the different materials and mechanisms needed to press a record. I read about how bugs makes shellac.
A few historical markers in my life revolve around LP acquisitions. The first time I received my own LP at Christmas, ChangesOneBowie. And, the first time I used my own money to purchase an LP, Roxy Music's Stranded. I didn't even know you could read the spine of a jacket to find an artist's name. I can probably still remember when I bought each record in my collection as well as what I was doing when I first listened to its tracks. Each one, each time are all significant to me.
Around the time of the Mickey Mouse turntable, I figured out (with a bit of help) how to thread tape through a reel to reel deck. My father would set up the RCA and 1/4" jacks, telling me about input and output. I flipped through stacks of cardboard boxes with various names and dates written on them. I watched the heads engage and read the tapes. Recording LPs by the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles usually coincided with other little busy work projects like magnetizing metal objects with a battery. Soon, I would realize tapes and magnetics would work hand in hand. And, a little over five years later, I would discover how to recorded my own data from new PCs on to cassette tapes.
I also remember the first time I inserted a cassette tape into a player. I picked the Beatles' Abbey Road. I can still sing through every song, probably in order from that recording. If you haven't figured it out yet, I liked the Beatles. Mostly, because my father liked the Beatles. We would ride around in his cherry red El Camino on weekends, driving through the country side and finding bridges to stand on. We'd listen to the music on his new cassette player, very hi-tech for the times. We rarely talked. A couple years later, I received my own first cassette from my uncle along with a pair of tiger-eye earrings. The Best of Blondie christened my first "boom box". This piece of equipment would engage me in my love for radio-- especially AM radio. I would sit in front of it, slowly turning the dials back and forth while trying to find stations and messages from other cities. I still take great joy in trying to tune in AM stations. It relaxes me. And, listening to CD sets of secret codes transmitted over airwaves is just good old fashion fun.
I later went on to purchase the same recording of Best of Blondie vinyl. Always back to vinyl. I like the sound, the sheen, the way it reflects light, the jackets, the liner notes. I never truly trusted tapes after something mysterious occurred in my bedroom during my freshman year of high school that caused all my cassette tapes to click intermittently regardless of what devices I played it on. However, like many children of the late Seventies and Eighties, I fondly recall various mix tapes made for me by others.
I am still having problems embracing CDs. I do own some... ok, alot. And, the idea of MP3 downloads is sort of silly to me. Like paying for water. But, I am slowly reconciling myself to that.
Soon, I will document my first interactions with instruments and amplifiers. I am sure you all want to know what brand my first tube amp was, right? And, film. That might be next. Knowing the title of the first silent movie I ever saw, where I saw it, with whom, and at what age will give you great insight into my soul.
Later, in early puberty, I would blow the grooves out on my first copy of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by laying on my bedroom floor while staring at the swirls in the plaster of the ceiling with a mega-huge pair of headphones on-- listening over and over and over again . A diamond tip carving through molded plastic. I still own that particular copy; it is filed next to the second, playable copy. During the progression toward that Bowie LP, I discovered the difference between stereo and mono. I eventually figured how to assess the speeds (whether 78, 45, 33, or 16rpms) needed based on groove size and spacing. I learned the different materials and mechanisms needed to press a record. I read about how bugs makes shellac.
A few historical markers in my life revolve around LP acquisitions. The first time I received my own LP at Christmas, ChangesOneBowie. And, the first time I used my own money to purchase an LP, Roxy Music's Stranded. I didn't even know you could read the spine of a jacket to find an artist's name. I can probably still remember when I bought each record in my collection as well as what I was doing when I first listened to its tracks. Each one, each time are all significant to me.
Around the time of the Mickey Mouse turntable, I figured out (with a bit of help) how to thread tape through a reel to reel deck. My father would set up the RCA and 1/4" jacks, telling me about input and output. I flipped through stacks of cardboard boxes with various names and dates written on them. I watched the heads engage and read the tapes. Recording LPs by the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles usually coincided with other little busy work projects like magnetizing metal objects with a battery. Soon, I would realize tapes and magnetics would work hand in hand. And, a little over five years later, I would discover how to recorded my own data from new PCs on to cassette tapes.
I also remember the first time I inserted a cassette tape into a player. I picked the Beatles' Abbey Road. I can still sing through every song, probably in order from that recording. If you haven't figured it out yet, I liked the Beatles. Mostly, because my father liked the Beatles. We would ride around in his cherry red El Camino on weekends, driving through the country side and finding bridges to stand on. We'd listen to the music on his new cassette player, very hi-tech for the times. We rarely talked. A couple years later, I received my own first cassette from my uncle along with a pair of tiger-eye earrings. The Best of Blondie christened my first "boom box". This piece of equipment would engage me in my love for radio-- especially AM radio. I would sit in front of it, slowly turning the dials back and forth while trying to find stations and messages from other cities. I still take great joy in trying to tune in AM stations. It relaxes me. And, listening to CD sets of secret codes transmitted over airwaves is just good old fashion fun.
I later went on to purchase the same recording of Best of Blondie vinyl. Always back to vinyl. I like the sound, the sheen, the way it reflects light, the jackets, the liner notes. I never truly trusted tapes after something mysterious occurred in my bedroom during my freshman year of high school that caused all my cassette tapes to click intermittently regardless of what devices I played it on. However, like many children of the late Seventies and Eighties, I fondly recall various mix tapes made for me by others.
I am still having problems embracing CDs. I do own some... ok, alot. And, the idea of MP3 downloads is sort of silly to me. Like paying for water. But, I am slowly reconciling myself to that.
Soon, I will document my first interactions with instruments and amplifiers. I am sure you all want to know what brand my first tube amp was, right? And, film. That might be next. Knowing the title of the first silent movie I ever saw, where I saw it, with whom, and at what age will give you great insight into my soul.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The signs: T.Nougat
As I have previous mentioned, since my diagnosis, I have been seeing signs that presented themselves throughout my life. Certain classic behaviors. I will refer to them as signs. When some of these things bubble up, I will share them if I can. Some I will later write more about, like stimming and documented behaviorial issues (all in note form now). These are just drops in the bucket. And, the bucket has a whole [sic].
Back in the mid-90's, I was in a band called T.Nougat (a mix between sweet gooey candy and the influential band T.Rex). We played bars, radio stations, and colleges. Yes, we rocked Bennington College hard! It was the first time I felt truly engaged playing music with others. And, having the other two members being a long-time friend/roommate and the other a live-in boyfriend, we shared a "cerebral intimacy" as we stated in our press pack. We shared a lot of free time together in and out of the practice space in the basement (see previous Spontaneous Combustion entry). We played out about once a month for quite a while. We befriended other bands. We had fun making studio recordings, DAT tapes, and four tracks. But, live was where the greatest communication took place and lifelong bonds continued to form. We sang songs about ponies, clowns at carnivals, female cops, cute Polish girls (using polish on their toes), books, hats, and TLC (tiny love chunks). And, we did a few covers like Can, The Stooges, Elton John, and Gang of Four.
Yet every night as the show crept closer, the higher my anxiety would rocket. Sometimes, I'd get physically sick. Sometimes, I'd go stand outside in the cold. But, I was always ready and on time. Once I took the stage, it would start. The slow rocking back and forth, from one foot to the other. I would stand with my back to the audience, sometimes with my eyes closed... and rock. I would look at Joe the drummer and then Jason the guitarist in a repeated cycle when my eyes were open. And, steady with the rhythm-- rock. It wasn't the classic stadium antics of "rocking out". It was just rocking. A close friend of mine would draw this to my attention one day. I retorted, "It's like autistic rocking... it makes me feel better." This was almost 15yrs before my diagnosis.
I still rock back and forth sometimes. Usually, you'll see me up against a wall in a crowded room, rocking from the tips of my toes to my heels. Waving my hands in grand gestures while looking at the ceiling like the words I am saying ar written there. But, I am comfortable with this now. If you see me do this, it usually means I am relaxed with whomever I am speaking to. However, if you see me squeezing my thumbs tightly in my fists with my eyes moving back and forth (left to right, left to right) then you know I am uncomfortable. You know, I would prefer to leave the situation and go rock in the corner... with or without a bass guitar strapped on.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Who is Temple Grandin? And why is she following me?
No, no! I don't think she is really following me. That is a paraphrase of an old Grateful Dead Bumper sticker. But, it fits. A week ago, I decided to find out what all the buzz in the Asperger's community was about. Temple Grandin-- the books, the movies, the conferences and speeches. Intriguing to say the least. I borrowed a copy of Thinking in Pictures from the library. Within the first couple chapters, I got it. Not necessary the fame and notoriety, but the similarities. It was like reading the recipe for a batch of chocolate chip cookies you've baked over 100 times. When she ran through some comparison with visual thinkers "seeing" churches, I saw a flying buttress and remembered their historical significance. As much as we are all unique, the similiarities can be disturbing and comforting.
When I first starting working with someone about my own diagnosis, certain analogies started coming up for the way I think: a Rolodex or a filing cabinet. Every time I think of something or someone, there is a backlog of information that is quickly scanned before the new interaction can begin. However, it isn't just reading the files themselves. It is more like replaying the information, fast forwarding a video or DVD. I used to think this was some bizarre form of what people refer to has "holding grudges". Yet, I never really conjured any emotion out of the information. Just the facts, ma'am. One problem with seeing things in your life as a two dimensional slide show is this-- the context is often lost. If I am replaying a scene from a family reunion at the lake, I can see the insects hovering close to the ground on the bank of a muddy lagoon. But, I can't always remember what my father asked me while we were standing there. Or I can remember talking to my cousin from Delaware only because she was wearing an enormous hat. But, the face under the hat is like a smudge mark. And, if I think about her hat for too long (a matter of seconds) I start to think about straw and caning chairs and weaving and looms and...
This leads into another facet of my thought process. Everything is possibly connected in my mind. It is sometimes overwhelming because I have to be sure to keep myself directed. But, other times, it is a blessing because it allows my to have new and better ideas. When I was in "gifted" classes back in grade school, we were able to come up with our own projects. And, as long as they were approved by the teaching staff, you could muck about with them all day for days. One of my first projects was to redesign the cataloging system for the program's library. I understood the Dewey decimal system, having been a frequent visitor to my local library. But, I didn't think it was a enough. Sure, you can categorize a book by it's main topic and even list a couple cross referenced topics or each cited work on the paper card. But, there was no code. Nothing that actually tied the other subtopics to a grid. Mind you this was before the Internet even existed. And, I was just learning how to program a PC with DOS or monkeying with simple games on a MAC. I was given a room full of empty shelves and boxes full of books. I knew what I need to do. And, it was completely possible-- if I was given enough time to read every single book in its entirety. The project was abandon because the advisers got tired of coming in to see me just sitting and reading books. In my mind, I saw a very elaborate web of lines connecting books one to another. However, at age eight, I don't think I had the resources available to truly dig my heels in.
The web that existed in my mind for the project was three dimensional. I could spin it, looking at it from bottom to top, side to side, any angel, etc. But, another part of my visual thinking is being able to take 3-D objects and make them flat. When I was a child, my uncle lent me a copy of Flatland. I still consider that a very important book to my developing mind. I can see forms and outlines in everything. I like to look to the place where objects position themselves against the sky. Trees, birds, telephone poles, mechanical cranes, and on. I am also able to make my mind go from standing in one spot to repositioning itself above an object or any terrain to make it appear like a map. I still get very excited about dioramas (various flat fields positioned in a box to create depth) and salt maps (maps that show location and elevation). When I was a child trying to relax at bedtime, I would visualize myself flying above specific routes. I would see the landscape like you would if you viewed a miniature train display from up on a ladder. And, I would test myself by picking new places to "fly".
My ability to do these things has allowed me certain degree of marginal personal and professional success as an illustrator. When working on a piece, 90% of the project is executed in my mind. By the time I sit down in front of a piece of paper, I know exactly what I want the blank piece to become. And, by teaching myself the simple mechanics of drawing, I am able to make it appear. Usually, by the time the physical drawing begins, I have drawn and redrawn the piece numerous times in my head. When you do the work in your head, many negatively think you are procrastinating. I am able to do that to some degree with writing as well. But, the reigns need to be a little bit tighter. I can take a paragraph like the one you are reading and somehow, in my mind, rationalize why it would be okay to also discuss dip pens and ink with varnish. That type of fishnet thinking makes me create metaphors that may seem a little off the wall. If you think about it, or if I explain the train of thought-- most often others will reach a lighting bolt moment. And, those who know me well (for over decades) have acquainted themselves enough with my thinking to see the humor in what first appears like nonsense.
This thinking translate over to other senses as well. Someone once told me that odor carries weight. Imagine "seeing" the particles of everything you smell if you were to let yourself. Each scent having distinct shape, size, and color. I have to stop myself from doing this or some things become less enjoyable. And, with sound, there are two ways I see it. Each sound has a shape that I can see either as a wave of varying height and density or as a different shaped and colored wooden building block. One moment I can see a Stockhausen piece coming together with varying levels of colorful blocks, stacking into 3-D shapes, becoming longer and longer as the song progresses. And, other days, I can see a song by Brian Eno come together in waves like looking at many oscilloscopes running all at the same time. It looks like scribbles on top of scribbles, but each waves remains separate and easy to identify. This is what I think composers and song writers "see" when orchestrating. And, some touch has color and sound. A lot of the senses move back and forth between each other, but all can be visualized.
Sometimes, my visual thinking can be like trying to contain a tornado inside a house. But, then, I am grateful I can visually every album cover and book cover I own. I appreciate my personal internal clip art collection. I may not be able to draw your portrait without making it look somewhat like me, but I can draw a hundred different hands from memory. I am lucky that simple things like looking at old advertising logos and icons bring me enjoyment which can be saved for later reference in the library I keep in my head. I like taking conversations or ideas and applying symbolic logic to them. If (p) then (q) but greater than (r). Although, it may contribute to my black and white thinking, it is engaging. I love that I can walk into some one's home, knowing I could recognize the handle to their front door in a line up (here's where I recommend the book Poetics of Space). I am never overwhelmed by my brain's perpetual motion... just grateful.
When I first starting working with someone about my own diagnosis, certain analogies started coming up for the way I think: a Rolodex or a filing cabinet. Every time I think of something or someone, there is a backlog of information that is quickly scanned before the new interaction can begin. However, it isn't just reading the files themselves. It is more like replaying the information, fast forwarding a video or DVD. I used to think this was some bizarre form of what people refer to has "holding grudges". Yet, I never really conjured any emotion out of the information. Just the facts, ma'am. One problem with seeing things in your life as a two dimensional slide show is this-- the context is often lost. If I am replaying a scene from a family reunion at the lake, I can see the insects hovering close to the ground on the bank of a muddy lagoon. But, I can't always remember what my father asked me while we were standing there. Or I can remember talking to my cousin from Delaware only because she was wearing an enormous hat. But, the face under the hat is like a smudge mark. And, if I think about her hat for too long (a matter of seconds) I start to think about straw and caning chairs and weaving and looms and...
This leads into another facet of my thought process. Everything is possibly connected in my mind. It is sometimes overwhelming because I have to be sure to keep myself directed. But, other times, it is a blessing because it allows my to have new and better ideas. When I was in "gifted" classes back in grade school, we were able to come up with our own projects. And, as long as they were approved by the teaching staff, you could muck about with them all day for days. One of my first projects was to redesign the cataloging system for the program's library. I understood the Dewey decimal system, having been a frequent visitor to my local library. But, I didn't think it was a enough. Sure, you can categorize a book by it's main topic and even list a couple cross referenced topics or each cited work on the paper card. But, there was no code. Nothing that actually tied the other subtopics to a grid. Mind you this was before the Internet even existed. And, I was just learning how to program a PC with DOS or monkeying with simple games on a MAC. I was given a room full of empty shelves and boxes full of books. I knew what I need to do. And, it was completely possible-- if I was given enough time to read every single book in its entirety. The project was abandon because the advisers got tired of coming in to see me just sitting and reading books. In my mind, I saw a very elaborate web of lines connecting books one to another. However, at age eight, I don't think I had the resources available to truly dig my heels in.
The web that existed in my mind for the project was three dimensional. I could spin it, looking at it from bottom to top, side to side, any angel, etc. But, another part of my visual thinking is being able to take 3-D objects and make them flat. When I was a child, my uncle lent me a copy of Flatland. I still consider that a very important book to my developing mind. I can see forms and outlines in everything. I like to look to the place where objects position themselves against the sky. Trees, birds, telephone poles, mechanical cranes, and on. I am also able to make my mind go from standing in one spot to repositioning itself above an object or any terrain to make it appear like a map. I still get very excited about dioramas (various flat fields positioned in a box to create depth) and salt maps (maps that show location and elevation). When I was a child trying to relax at bedtime, I would visualize myself flying above specific routes. I would see the landscape like you would if you viewed a miniature train display from up on a ladder. And, I would test myself by picking new places to "fly".
My ability to do these things has allowed me certain degree of marginal personal and professional success as an illustrator. When working on a piece, 90% of the project is executed in my mind. By the time I sit down in front of a piece of paper, I know exactly what I want the blank piece to become. And, by teaching myself the simple mechanics of drawing, I am able to make it appear. Usually, by the time the physical drawing begins, I have drawn and redrawn the piece numerous times in my head. When you do the work in your head, many negatively think you are procrastinating. I am able to do that to some degree with writing as well. But, the reigns need to be a little bit tighter. I can take a paragraph like the one you are reading and somehow, in my mind, rationalize why it would be okay to also discuss dip pens and ink with varnish. That type of fishnet thinking makes me create metaphors that may seem a little off the wall. If you think about it, or if I explain the train of thought-- most often others will reach a lighting bolt moment. And, those who know me well (for over decades) have acquainted themselves enough with my thinking to see the humor in what first appears like nonsense.
This thinking translate over to other senses as well. Someone once told me that odor carries weight. Imagine "seeing" the particles of everything you smell if you were to let yourself. Each scent having distinct shape, size, and color. I have to stop myself from doing this or some things become less enjoyable. And, with sound, there are two ways I see it. Each sound has a shape that I can see either as a wave of varying height and density or as a different shaped and colored wooden building block. One moment I can see a Stockhausen piece coming together with varying levels of colorful blocks, stacking into 3-D shapes, becoming longer and longer as the song progresses. And, other days, I can see a song by Brian Eno come together in waves like looking at many oscilloscopes running all at the same time. It looks like scribbles on top of scribbles, but each waves remains separate and easy to identify. This is what I think composers and song writers "see" when orchestrating. And, some touch has color and sound. A lot of the senses move back and forth between each other, but all can be visualized.
Sometimes, my visual thinking can be like trying to contain a tornado inside a house. But, then, I am grateful I can visually every album cover and book cover I own. I appreciate my personal internal clip art collection. I may not be able to draw your portrait without making it look somewhat like me, but I can draw a hundred different hands from memory. I am lucky that simple things like looking at old advertising logos and icons bring me enjoyment which can be saved for later reference in the library I keep in my head. I like taking conversations or ideas and applying symbolic logic to them. If (p) then (q) but greater than (r). Although, it may contribute to my black and white thinking, it is engaging. I love that I can walk into some one's home, knowing I could recognize the handle to their front door in a line up (here's where I recommend the book Poetics of Space). I am never overwhelmed by my brain's perpetual motion... just grateful.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Gates
Every Saturday, my daughters do an exercise called "The Gates" during their pre-school dance class. If I don't sit in my car to avoid talking to all the other mothers, I am sitting in the back dressing room (hopefully alone)-- knitting and answering any questions posed to me from people trying to make conversation. If inside the building, I can hear the music and the instructor calling for the tiny dancers to make their way through "The Gates". What do I think about when I hear this? My mother saying, "What!?! Do I look like I'm wearing skates!? Slow down!"
My mother has a pretty decent sense of humor when I know she is joking. Unfortunately, I don't always realize when people are joking. However, this comment is only one of the many things I remember being said to me. One that may not have been said to me if others and myself had known about Asperger's in the Seventies, Eighties, and most of the Nineties. Another thing commonly heard about my walking was being referred to as "Stompy". Both of those things are true. But now, I kinda of think of it like this: would you poke fun at a blind man about how he bumps into things he can't see? Or on a less dramatic note, would you mock someone for being right or left handed? Sadly, seeing what I have seen of the human race, I think both of those things have happened. The way I walk is not an affliction! It is the way I walk. I walk really fast, with scissor-like glides. Although most of my life has been spent long and lean, I am far from graceful. And, I walk really hard on my heels. Just look at any one of my many pairs of sneakers. Forensics would pin me in a second.
I have trouble telling how hard I am doing something. This is also evident when I write. I usually end up with a divot in my finger from holding the pen. And, you can easily read what I wrote on at least five to ten pages under the original document. As an illustrator, I tried to use dip pens as recommended to me by a favorite comic artist, Peter Bagge. But, my hand is so heavy that it was almost impossible. So back to Sharpies. Thanks god, somewhere along the line graffiti artist made those cool. If you wait long enough, whatever you are doing will come into fashion (if only for a second). And, watercolor? Forget it! I tear through the paper in five minutes flat. I guess that is one of the reasons why I like the early works of Jean DeBuffet. He painted with sand and dirt.
I am sure somewhere someone would like to say all the little comments had an effect on me. Maybe that person should be me. Maybe a lot of those feeling I can't recognize yet. But, in the beginning of this journey, I declared to myself I would not play a blame game. Some people can be nice, some people can be not-so-nice. Some nice people can be not-so-nice without really knowing it. I don't really remember these things because they hurt me. I remember a lot of things that happened many, many years ago for what seems to be no good reason. I guess that could reek of denial. But, I'm not sure it smells of anything but old newspapers.
For every ten to one hundred things that are said to me and fall off me like water on a rain slicker, there are one or two things that did/do hurt. I stopped keeping track of how many times I'd heard, "You are so smart but you have no common sense!" That hurt. Not only did it hurt me, it made me a little confused and scared. Most of the time, I couldn't figure out why someone (usually my mother) would get upset enough to say something like that to me, because it really just translates to, "You're smart but you're dumb!" And, I would be scared because most people who lack common sense do things like get hit by buses when they bend over to tie their shoe in the middle of the street. I may bend over to tie my shoe in the middle of you telling me something very revealing about yourself. But, I would never do that on the train tracks with a whistle blowing in the distance.
Another comment that stung was being called "clumsy". Being the tallest girl in the class usually set me up for playing forward on the basketball team not gliding across the balance beam. But, it was more than that. I had trouble navigating doorways and pieces of furniture that hadn't been moved in years. Watching me get out of a school desk was more like watching a mountain man wrestle a bear. I couldn't figure out how to rollerskate at skating parties. I tripped over my tennis racket and skinned my knee the first time I ever played. I was well-known for disappearing during highschool gym class. Not to go catch a smoke in the locker room or eat candy bars in the auditorium, but to avoid the sheer panic of having to coordinate my arms and legs into whatever red bouncy ball game of the day was being played.
Now, I see my daughter walk around the house on her tippy-toes sometimes. And, I let her, because I know it makes her comfortable. I will never make her feel bad for doing it. And, I will teach her how to deal with it when someone does. And, when I see on school evaluations that she hasn't quite figured out how to do a somersault yet-- I know she will eventually. I can work with her on that.
And, as of today, I am proud to be a minister of silly walks.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Spontaneous Combustion
For years, I have tried to find others who would understand a time in my life when I was fascinated by the idea of spontaneous combustion. About ten years ago, I saw an article in the Onion that I thought was absolutely hilarious. As I showed it to friends, they didn't think it was as great as I did. "8yr. Old Boy Knows Everything about Squirrels," it read (or close to it). Get it, I'd say, get it? While working on a degree in Psychology at Penn State, I thought of a perfect thesis. It would explore why so many kids in my "Gifted" classes were a little different, a little odd, a little obsessed. This was back in 1992. And, I hadn't heard of Asperger's. I could never figure out why teachers would always tell us to brain storm... to turn things over in our minds OVER and OVER and OVER. Especially when the majority of us were already thinking about things (we were interested in) WAY more then what the average person would consider normal or healthy. It is like asking a gentle, summer breeze to work itself up into a hurricane.
The other day while trying to relax, knitting while watching the Science channel, I tripped over a program about "dark" science. The theme of the episode was spontaneous combustion. Although my interest was peaked, my reply was, "Tell me something I don't already know." I watched it and learned nothing new. It is amazing how little had changed over the past thirty years.
I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe about 8yrs old like the Squirrel Boy. At that time, I had received a book about various phenomena. It included stories about mysterious footprints on rooftops, rainstorms of frogs falling from the sky, moving photographs of ghostly women, and a whole section on spontaneous combustion. I became entranced. I suddenly needed to find out everything I could about it. Those were the days before PCs in libraries and internet search engines. So, I spent many hours in the library digging through books, magazine articles, and microfiche. I found photographs like of man charred beyond recognition, except for the bit of tattered bathrobe and bedroom slippers filled with what appeared to be hamburger. I found scientific studies about pig carcasses wrapped tightly in blankets and then set on fire. But, more importantly, I formulated my own theory. It took a bit of geology, a bit of Roman Catholicism, and a bit of Looney Tunes. I ultimately figured spontaneous combustion had to be the work of the Devil. I just couldn't believe a being of his power and cunning would settle for sitting in a red hot throne while his minions poked people with pitch forks. Simple chemical reactions didn't cut it. And, it couldn't always be a misplaced cigarette butt. In an almost cartoonish way, I could see Satan himself lifting a fingertip to the outer most crust of the Earth's surface (because hell had to be in a solid center of the Earth's core surrounded by molten rock). He would then randomly set people ablaze like matchsticks for kicks.
I could deal with this theory for a while. It made sense but it was pretty innocuous. But, it still made its way to the forefront of my thoughts OFTEN. Sometimes, I would stop my mother while we were performing mundane tasks, like shopping at the Mall. I'd come to a halt and ask her, "What if I spontaneously combust RIGHT NOW!?!?!" She initially seemed a little disturbed. But, eventually, she would just ignore me. Every time I asked her, I would picture her covered in hot, steaming fleshy bits. Everything, in spite of my obsessive thoughts of flaming flesh, seemed to be moving along nicely in my world-- until the day my mother asked me to do the unthinkable. Go down to the basement and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. We lived in an older flat with a dark, unwelcoming, Lovercraftian basement. I could handle the shadows and the dank, damp air. What I could not handle was the thought of how much my mother must have disliked me to send me to a certain death. Because, if Hell is in the center of the Earth like many Christians would have had me believe... and it is Satan who is causing humans to go off like fireworks... and the basement is the closest part of the house to the center of the Earth!?!?! I wouldn't return from my task smelling unpleasantly like fabric softener (see previous entry). I wouldn't return AT ALL! I would get so wound up that I couldn't even begin to explain myself. And, what did come out sounded like gibberish to my mother, I am sure. An act of manslaughter, I'd think. In her mind, I was once again being uncooperative, difficult, defiant, overly dramatic, and even lazy. Once again, she'd note that her daughter was incapable of completing even the most simple chore.
As time passed, I though I had outgrown it. An idea lost under the bed like an old sock. Until years later, a boyfriend of mine who worked for a local printer compiled a half dozen pages into a chapbook about spontaneous combustion for me. I suddenly felt like it was a mistake to confide in him. Because didn't he know? The more you think about something the closer it gets to you! Suddenly, the ground seemed warmer under my feet.
I am now able to think of things without thinking I am forming thoughts into matter. I have moved beyond that mode of thinking-- kinda.
The other day while trying to relax, knitting while watching the Science channel, I tripped over a program about "dark" science. The theme of the episode was spontaneous combustion. Although my interest was peaked, my reply was, "Tell me something I don't already know." I watched it and learned nothing new. It is amazing how little had changed over the past thirty years.
I can't remember exactly how old I was, maybe about 8yrs old like the Squirrel Boy. At that time, I had received a book about various phenomena. It included stories about mysterious footprints on rooftops, rainstorms of frogs falling from the sky, moving photographs of ghostly women, and a whole section on spontaneous combustion. I became entranced. I suddenly needed to find out everything I could about it. Those were the days before PCs in libraries and internet search engines. So, I spent many hours in the library digging through books, magazine articles, and microfiche. I found photographs like of man charred beyond recognition, except for the bit of tattered bathrobe and bedroom slippers filled with what appeared to be hamburger. I found scientific studies about pig carcasses wrapped tightly in blankets and then set on fire. But, more importantly, I formulated my own theory. It took a bit of geology, a bit of Roman Catholicism, and a bit of Looney Tunes. I ultimately figured spontaneous combustion had to be the work of the Devil. I just couldn't believe a being of his power and cunning would settle for sitting in a red hot throne while his minions poked people with pitch forks. Simple chemical reactions didn't cut it. And, it couldn't always be a misplaced cigarette butt. In an almost cartoonish way, I could see Satan himself lifting a fingertip to the outer most crust of the Earth's surface (because hell had to be in a solid center of the Earth's core surrounded by molten rock). He would then randomly set people ablaze like matchsticks for kicks.
I could deal with this theory for a while. It made sense but it was pretty innocuous. But, it still made its way to the forefront of my thoughts OFTEN. Sometimes, I would stop my mother while we were performing mundane tasks, like shopping at the Mall. I'd come to a halt and ask her, "What if I spontaneously combust RIGHT NOW!?!?!" She initially seemed a little disturbed. But, eventually, she would just ignore me. Every time I asked her, I would picture her covered in hot, steaming fleshy bits. Everything, in spite of my obsessive thoughts of flaming flesh, seemed to be moving along nicely in my world-- until the day my mother asked me to do the unthinkable. Go down to the basement and change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. We lived in an older flat with a dark, unwelcoming, Lovercraftian basement. I could handle the shadows and the dank, damp air. What I could not handle was the thought of how much my mother must have disliked me to send me to a certain death. Because, if Hell is in the center of the Earth like many Christians would have had me believe... and it is Satan who is causing humans to go off like fireworks... and the basement is the closest part of the house to the center of the Earth!?!?! I wouldn't return from my task smelling unpleasantly like fabric softener (see previous entry). I wouldn't return AT ALL! I would get so wound up that I couldn't even begin to explain myself. And, what did come out sounded like gibberish to my mother, I am sure. An act of manslaughter, I'd think. In her mind, I was once again being uncooperative, difficult, defiant, overly dramatic, and even lazy. Once again, she'd note that her daughter was incapable of completing even the most simple chore.
As time passed, I though I had outgrown it. An idea lost under the bed like an old sock. Until years later, a boyfriend of mine who worked for a local printer compiled a half dozen pages into a chapbook about spontaneous combustion for me. I suddenly felt like it was a mistake to confide in him. Because didn't he know? The more you think about something the closer it gets to you! Suddenly, the ground seemed warmer under my feet.
I am now able to think of things without thinking I am forming thoughts into matter. I have moved beyond that mode of thinking-- kinda.
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