If I had a "PlayCount" in my mind I'd go completely insane.
If i had to layer on top of thinking about conversations I've had that day,
the number of times I've been through that conversation...
I'd go completely nuts.
Tonight I endlessly rehearse the events of last night.
I go over them and over them and over them
I think about everything I said and how it was received
I remember my intentions with every word and how they were received.
I hear my own words miss the mark and I hear myself coming up with better responses
to engage, excite, involve, and enthrall
the people I'm speaking to.
The most baffling part?
Last night was amazing,
It was overwhelming, wonderful, mesmerizing, breath taking, and everything
But I still think about how I could've have been better.
I go through the mistakes.
The moments when sarcasm was taken literally.
The moments when I gave a wrong answer and
the moments when I led them to wrong answers.
Mistakes.
So many to remember it is hard to write without falling into relaxing contemplation.
Relaxing because I am a sadist not only when it comes to interactions with other people
but also myself.
Going over every moment and thinking about all of my errors is elating.
I have tried to take social interaction and turn it into an art form.
I'm hardly alone on this. After all,
Elevating social interaction to an artform is the legacy of The American Modernist Writers.
It is a part of Americana now.
And since we've broadened the subject matter to far beyond last night,
I obsess over every email exchange I've had with people who I consider to be great artists,
I page over these things in my mind referencing the failures against the successes until they all blend into the realm of
I NOW KNOW HOW TO DO IT BETTER.
I would do it better this time.
Of course I know this is unhealthy,
More than that,
I know I will never get it right.
I have a blog post I've been working on. It talks about how every individuals experience of
depression/discrimination/prejudice/suffering-
/solitude is unique
but we must try to relate them as a feeble but noble attempt at feeling whole.
This sentiment is fleeting in its most concrete
and ephemeral in all things.
I know that later I will be able to do it better. With more rewrites the message will be clearer
but it feels so wonderful every time I put more art into the world
I can't help but throw all these halfcocked and unfinished ideas out there.
Excited to see the flaws of my writing in all the beautiful unintended responses.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
ASPERGERS=SCARRYYYY!!!!
As I was discussing my blog with my partner earlier today,
she raised a rather good point.
Primarily that,
I had started this blog as a way of expressing my experience as someone with aspergers.
I wanted to write about how I find that to be the decidedly more alienating part of my life.
How that being a highly functioning autistic person is far more disruptive than being trans.
up to this point I have not posted a single post about my experience with aspergers...
So to break the ice I'm making this post.
Nothing eloquent
Nothing beautiful
Overly analytical.
This post won't be read as something that is enticing.
I do not want neurotypical people to be able to read this and think "I know exactly what you mean"
Furthermore, I do not want neurotypical people to read this and relate.
I do not want neurotypical people to understand.
(And if you do not know what neurotypical means, Google it for fucks sake.)
But as I digress I lie.
The thing I wanted to talk about was the horrifying lack of intuition/empathy/something/etre or esse/thingy
that I spend almost every waking moment trying to understand
As if by consuming information I could somehow regrow an organ that was never there.
I live every day in fear of offending anyone.
To be sure, I take painstaking measures to preempt these terrible moments.
I absorb peoples lives, any scrap of memory they'll offer up,
as if it could regrow a heart to feel beating in synch
maybe arms to hold them closely
Or eyes and ears that could finally see and hear them
to make a mind that would truly know you.
I want to escape an analytical and egalitarian mind
in exchange for one rooted in the subjective values that actually matter.
I ask for quantitative values
when I desire the understanding of qualities.
No matter what I do,
No matter how genuine my fabrication of the neurotypical mind becomes
I will always live and breathe in my autistic one.
I will find beauty in words and numbers
before I find them in people.
I still find them in people though
and they often turn out to be
something more beautiful
than understanding.
she raised a rather good point.
Primarily that,
I had started this blog as a way of expressing my experience as someone with aspergers.
I wanted to write about how I find that to be the decidedly more alienating part of my life.
How that being a highly functioning autistic person is far more disruptive than being trans.
up to this point I have not posted a single post about my experience with aspergers...
So to break the ice I'm making this post.
Nothing eloquent
Nothing beautiful
Overly analytical.
This post won't be read as something that is enticing.
I do not want neurotypical people to be able to read this and think "I know exactly what you mean"
Furthermore, I do not want neurotypical people to read this and relate.
I do not want neurotypical people to understand.
(And if you do not know what neurotypical means, Google it for fucks sake.)
But as I digress I lie.
The thing I wanted to talk about was the horrifying lack of intuition/empathy/something/etre or esse/thingy
that I spend almost every waking moment trying to understand
As if by consuming information I could somehow regrow an organ that was never there.
I live every day in fear of offending anyone.
To be sure, I take painstaking measures to preempt these terrible moments.
I absorb peoples lives, any scrap of memory they'll offer up,
as if it could regrow a heart to feel beating in synch
maybe arms to hold them closely
Or eyes and ears that could finally see and hear them
to make a mind that would truly know you.
I want to escape an analytical and egalitarian mind
in exchange for one rooted in the subjective values that actually matter.
I ask for quantitative values
when I desire the understanding of qualities.
No matter what I do,
No matter how genuine my fabrication of the neurotypical mind becomes
I will always live and breathe in my autistic one.
I will find beauty in words and numbers
before I find them in people.
I still find them in people though
and they often turn out to be
something more beautiful
than understanding.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
To all the "Nice Guys"
When a woman says "I just want to meet a nice guy."
She's saying something incredibly vague
and, it seems, she's saying something you don't want to listen to.
When I say "I want to meet a nice guy."
I'm not saying I want to meet someone who will buy me things.
I'm not saying I want someone to silently listen to me talk.
The last thing in the world I want is chivalry.
I can hold my own damn door.
I can carry my own shit
and I can pay my own tab.
I don't need to be treated like a child.
Chivalry's only use is to hide the fact that you have no idea how to treat someone you want to fuck.
Someone you don't know how to see as anything but a hole.
And maybe that's why you're so offended to be these people's friends.
Maybe that's why every time you get put in the "Friend-zone"
you see it as an insult instead of a compliment.
A person who you want to be in a relationship with so badly
but a relationship you have no interest in without fucking?
And god forbid I do anything to get my physical needs met.
If I go out, take home some guy with an average mind but a great body.
If I fuck him, practice safe sex, and then don't call him back,
You say "why not me, fuck me?" you whine like a baby whose first word was "want."
Why not?
Maybe I didn't want to involve anyone I knew.
Maybe I'm too busy with my career, my art, my education, and my life to have a relationship.
Maybe you're ugly,
Maybe I've heard from other people you suck in bed,
But maybe I actually value our friendship and I don't view it as some obstacle blocking you from getting into my bed. Maybe our friendship is meaningful to me.
More likely, you're just not the "Nice Guy" you're so sure you are.
One last thing,
you know after I broke up, we hung out and I told you how much of an asshole my ex was?
That's just a thing people do!
He could have been the nicest fucking person in the world, it doesn't matter.
Amicable break-ups are rare. Nobody is perfect.
It's easy and almost necessary to bitch after ending a relationship.
Bloody Fucking Hell, girls do this, guys do this, everyone does this.
I can talk for hours about the flaws of Shakespeare but he's still my favorite playwright.
It's pretty simple and I fear for the poor women who have male friends that think about nothing but fucking them if only they could just get rid of that pesky friendship.
Considering yourself a victim of a great injustice just because a friend of yours won't fuck you?
Pathetic,
the last thing you are is a nice guy.
She's saying something incredibly vague
and, it seems, she's saying something you don't want to listen to.
When I say "I want to meet a nice guy."
I'm not saying I want to meet someone who will buy me things.
I'm not saying I want someone to silently listen to me talk.
The last thing in the world I want is chivalry.
I can hold my own damn door.
I can carry my own shit
and I can pay my own tab.
I don't need to be treated like a child.
Chivalry's only use is to hide the fact that you have no idea how to treat someone you want to fuck.
Someone you don't know how to see as anything but a hole.
And maybe that's why you're so offended to be these people's friends.
Maybe that's why every time you get put in the "Friend-zone"
you see it as an insult instead of a compliment.
A person who you want to be in a relationship with so badly
but a relationship you have no interest in without fucking?
And god forbid I do anything to get my physical needs met.
If I go out, take home some guy with an average mind but a great body.
If I fuck him, practice safe sex, and then don't call him back,
You say "why not me, fuck me?" you whine like a baby whose first word was "want."
Why not?
Maybe I didn't want to involve anyone I knew.
Maybe I'm too busy with my career, my art, my education, and my life to have a relationship.
Maybe you're ugly,
Maybe I've heard from other people you suck in bed,
But maybe I actually value our friendship and I don't view it as some obstacle blocking you from getting into my bed. Maybe our friendship is meaningful to me.
More likely, you're just not the "Nice Guy" you're so sure you are.
One last thing,
you know after I broke up, we hung out and I told you how much of an asshole my ex was?
That's just a thing people do!
He could have been the nicest fucking person in the world, it doesn't matter.
Amicable break-ups are rare. Nobody is perfect.
It's easy and almost necessary to bitch after ending a relationship.
Bloody Fucking Hell, girls do this, guys do this, everyone does this.
I can talk for hours about the flaws of Shakespeare but he's still my favorite playwright.
It's pretty simple and I fear for the poor women who have male friends that think about nothing but fucking them if only they could just get rid of that pesky friendship.
Considering yourself a victim of a great injustice just because a friend of yours won't fuck you?
Pathetic,
the last thing you are is a nice guy.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Maturation
I can always tell when I'm moving forward in my life
because the way I experience things changes.
Often, I become more grounded and confident.
Sometimes, more uncertain and understanding.
Always, a complexity is added
a depth and a current previously unfelt.
I have been taking hormones for a bit over two years.
When I first began I was so terrified of needles that it might take me an hour to complete the shot.
I would sit terrified of disease, accidents, and pain.
Did I disinfect everything properly?
Would I get it in far enough or would it all just seep out?
Would I remember to check and make sure I hadn't hit a blood vessel?
As many fears would rush in and fill my mind
I would start a little chant,
"Boobs, Hips,
and Pretty Lips."
I also noticed at the beginning, that after every injection
a cautious calm crept over my body.
A certain familiar pain left my muscles.
When I first began the treatment
this would last for a week.
As time passed I became less afraid of needles,
I am still afraid but I now know
I can do it without mistakes.
I am still cautious
but I have shed much of the anxiety and I can do the injection in minutes.
The calming in my body has grown.
It has reached outwards in time and now lasts the entire interval between shots.
It has reached out into my mind and calmed my thoughts.
It has quelled a manic energy that used to live in my mind and body.
A manic force that used to pull me away from my studies
and push me away from my friends.
Injecting myself with hormones is no longer the a wall of fear followed by a rush of elation.
It has become a ritual, a moment of remembrance.
I acknowledge the old manic energy,
the terrifying instability that kept me from so many things
and I embrace the new calm.
I remember how hard it was to sleep
and I feel how much easier it is to get up.
I look back at the past,
I look at the present,
and, for a moment, I wonder what the future will bring.
because the way I experience things changes.
Often, I become more grounded and confident.
Sometimes, more uncertain and understanding.
Always, a complexity is added
a depth and a current previously unfelt.
I have been taking hormones for a bit over two years.
When I first began I was so terrified of needles that it might take me an hour to complete the shot.
I would sit terrified of disease, accidents, and pain.
Did I disinfect everything properly?
Would I get it in far enough or would it all just seep out?
Would I remember to check and make sure I hadn't hit a blood vessel?
As many fears would rush in and fill my mind
I would start a little chant,
"Boobs, Hips,
and Pretty Lips."
I also noticed at the beginning, that after every injection
a cautious calm crept over my body.
A certain familiar pain left my muscles.
When I first began the treatment
this would last for a week.
As time passed I became less afraid of needles,
I am still afraid but I now know
I can do it without mistakes.
I am still cautious
but I have shed much of the anxiety and I can do the injection in minutes.
The calming in my body has grown.
It has reached outwards in time and now lasts the entire interval between shots.
It has reached out into my mind and calmed my thoughts.
It has quelled a manic energy that used to live in my mind and body.
A manic force that used to pull me away from my studies
and push me away from my friends.
Injecting myself with hormones is no longer the a wall of fear followed by a rush of elation.
It has become a ritual, a moment of remembrance.
I acknowledge the old manic energy,
the terrifying instability that kept me from so many things
and I embrace the new calm.
I remember how hard it was to sleep
and I feel how much easier it is to get up.
I look back at the past,
I look at the present,
and, for a moment, I wonder what the future will bring.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Faith
I know what it's like to have your faith tested.
I know how it feels.
I am told by my family that I could regain their affections
if only I would just
go back in the closet.
If only I would just go back to pretending to be a man.
They would help me economically, when I needed it.
They tell me a job is only a white male away.
If only I would go back in the closet,
they would love to see me then.
Talking to me would not make my mother cry.
I could come home for Christmas in celebration instead of rejection.
If I only went back into the closet, they would wish me a happy birthday
instead of not.
I know what it's like to have my faith tested.
I know how it feels
and I am reminded of The Temptation of St. Anthony by Salvador Dali.
I look at all the promise of going back on who I am
and I remember.
I remember driving my car through a telephone pole, thinking "this time, it's all over."
I remember being thrown off a porch with my pants down by people my father considers my friends.
and I know how empty and fragile the promise of returning to the closet is.
I still feel very small.
I feel ragged.
I feel strung out
and I my right hand extended forward protecting me from everything that comes.
If this was all I had though, I'd be destroyed.
But I feel my left hand
steadfast upon the rock.
I remember how much my partner loves me.
how firm and unwavering her acceptance of me has been.
I remember my friends, not the ones who hurt me or made me embrace hate
but my current friends, the ones who go out of their way to help me.
When I remember these things
I know what it's like to have faith tested
and I know what it is to believe.
I know how it feels.
I am told by my family that I could regain their affections
if only I would just
go back in the closet.
If only I would just go back to pretending to be a man.
They would help me economically, when I needed it.
They tell me a job is only a white male away.
If only I would go back in the closet,
they would love to see me then.
Talking to me would not make my mother cry.
I could come home for Christmas in celebration instead of rejection.
If I only went back into the closet, they would wish me a happy birthday
instead of not.
I know what it's like to have my faith tested.
I know how it feels
and I am reminded of The Temptation of St. Anthony by Salvador Dali.
I look at all the promise of going back on who I am
and I remember.
I remember driving my car through a telephone pole, thinking "this time, it's all over."
I remember being thrown off a porch with my pants down by people my father considers my friends.
and I know how empty and fragile the promise of returning to the closet is.
I still feel very small.
I feel ragged.
I feel strung out
and I my right hand extended forward protecting me from everything that comes.
If this was all I had though, I'd be destroyed.
But I feel my left hand
steadfast upon the rock.
I remember how much my partner loves me.
how firm and unwavering her acceptance of me has been.
I remember my friends, not the ones who hurt me or made me embrace hate
but my current friends, the ones who go out of their way to help me.
When I remember these things
I know what it's like to have faith tested
and I know what it is to believe.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Hairy Birthday to Me!
Sometimes I find being gender queer terrifying but even when it's scary it always awesome so it's always worth it. I personally feel that I lean slightly to the side of female, I don't know say 65/35? Maybe a little closer to 75/25. And because I was born in a male body I hate being referred to as a man, where as I don't mind so much being referred to as a woman. In my pursuit to effectively and honestly manifest my gender I felt I needed to be able to "pass" as a woman before I could move back towards the center in a way that is comfortable. The epitome of this conflict has been my haircut. I grew my hair out to pass more effectively but I never really felt comfortable with long hair, I don't like how it feels, it gets in my face, and when I'm pinning someone to the ground (oooh, Sexy) it's always in the way. The other day I finally worked up the courage and cut it short! Yay! I know I said I was going to do it but I wasn't really certain I would. I'm not perfectly happy with the haircut, even so I feel a million times better.
So here's three cheers to self actualization as opposed to pandering to the lowest common denominator!
(No offense to people who have long hair. Long hair is plenty sexy.)
So here's three cheers to self actualization as opposed to pandering to the lowest common denominator!
(No offense to people who have long hair. Long hair is plenty sexy.)
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Birthday
My birthday is almost here...
ah, birthdays...
the past-
birthdays-
unpleasant...
remembering my youth makes me feel
like I'm right back there.
I feel so surprised every year
at how visceral and physical the experience is.
I just crumple inwards and
choke drown
trip fall.
Invariably I try to stay positive.
Inevitably I want to tell the people I looked up to them
I want to call them up and tell them how much happier a person I am now because of them
I want to sit down, have a beer, and ask them how they've been.
I can't.
I'm certain many of them have no idea that I looked up to them.
I wasn't friends with these people then.
I've even tried to reach out to some and they've all seemed displeased that I looked up to them.
and I'm back to
choke drown
trip fall.
I think of teachers I'd like to tell,
"Without you or someone like you, I'd have killed myself in the trial that is High School/Middle School."
but I'm nowhere near close enough to say that without seeming like a lunatic.
I wasn't ever close enough to anyone back then.
Of course, that's not entirely true I did have one decent friend from 10th Grade on
and that friendship did mean the world to me.
But of course, what I really want to do is rewrite my childhood into a positive one.
I want to reach out to the people who I liked and by connecting to them now
rewrite my childhood and clear the suffocating experiences from my throat.
By removing the pain, I'd be able to take back all those times I was too emotional to do anything
and rewrite all the mistakes I made.
I want to reach through the people who I looked up to
and hold and hug the younger me.
All to erase the experiences of my youth from my memory.
Most of the year I am OK with my past.
I understand what happened and why.
I see that I've grown to become much more than the person I want to be.
I can look at my current life and smile while acknowledging the sadness I experienced.
But every year my birthday comes around and
I feel so flooded and overwhelmed by memories that I go crazy.
Every year I do different things to cope
and every year the success of this coping varies.
This year I am going to take a step forward in my life that makes me quite nervous.
I am going to cut my hair short.
I have always dreamt, since elementary school, of being a woman with short hair.
As I went through my transition I grew my hair out as a way of strengthening the fortifications of my gender appearance. I believe that one of the saddest aspects of transitioning is using gender norms to achieve the appearance your gender. As much as I have desired to self actualize rather than just pass, I have not been able to bring myself to cut my hair short. So this year I will expel emotions along with unwanted hair.
I will take one more step towards myself and instead of rewriting my past, I will write a better future.
Also, I'm writing this blog post,
so yeah.
My condolences to whomever is having a birthday.
ah, birthdays...
the past-
birthdays-
unpleasant...
remembering my youth makes me feel
like I'm right back there.
I feel so surprised every year
at how visceral and physical the experience is.
I just crumple inwards and
choke drown
trip fall.
Invariably I try to stay positive.
Inevitably I want to tell the people I looked up to them
I want to call them up and tell them how much happier a person I am now because of them
I want to sit down, have a beer, and ask them how they've been.
I can't.
I'm certain many of them have no idea that I looked up to them.
I wasn't friends with these people then.
I've even tried to reach out to some and they've all seemed displeased that I looked up to them.
and I'm back to
choke drown
trip fall.
I think of teachers I'd like to tell,
"Without you or someone like you, I'd have killed myself in the trial that is High School/Middle School."
but I'm nowhere near close enough to say that without seeming like a lunatic.
I wasn't ever close enough to anyone back then.
Of course, that's not entirely true I did have one decent friend from 10th Grade on
and that friendship did mean the world to me.
But of course, what I really want to do is rewrite my childhood into a positive one.
I want to reach out to the people who I liked and by connecting to them now
rewrite my childhood and clear the suffocating experiences from my throat.
By removing the pain, I'd be able to take back all those times I was too emotional to do anything
and rewrite all the mistakes I made.
I want to reach through the people who I looked up to
and hold and hug the younger me.
All to erase the experiences of my youth from my memory.
Most of the year I am OK with my past.
I understand what happened and why.
I see that I've grown to become much more than the person I want to be.
I can look at my current life and smile while acknowledging the sadness I experienced.
But every year my birthday comes around and
I feel so flooded and overwhelmed by memories that I go crazy.
Every year I do different things to cope
and every year the success of this coping varies.
This year I am going to take a step forward in my life that makes me quite nervous.
I am going to cut my hair short.
I have always dreamt, since elementary school, of being a woman with short hair.
As I went through my transition I grew my hair out as a way of strengthening the fortifications of my gender appearance. I believe that one of the saddest aspects of transitioning is using gender norms to achieve the appearance your gender. As much as I have desired to self actualize rather than just pass, I have not been able to bring myself to cut my hair short. So this year I will expel emotions along with unwanted hair.
I will take one more step towards myself and instead of rewriting my past, I will write a better future.
Also, I'm writing this blog post,
so yeah.
My condolences to whomever is having a birthday.
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