My mother used to say “She’s not a gusher…” to describe me when I opened a gift and was not raving outwardly about it. Then she’d laugh nervously as she always did when she was describing me.
Of course I didn’t have a name for me then, (flat affect, autism, dysthymia) there’s many names I’d acquire over time:
She never told me I couldn’t fly- I flapped my arms all over the yard and if my paper bag wings ripped, she suggested a different size and color and “maybe that would work…” (The white Rex-All drugstore bags she suggested.)
When my parents retired and relocated to another state I’d visit for a week now and again, always managing to get a ride there somehow after my spouse died, my youngest kid(s) along with me. One thing I always did was travel with my dog. I’d rise early at their place and walk the dog up the gravel road as far as the cemetery, then linger there to read tombstones and then I’d head back, my arm full of Vermont wildflowers like Queen Anne’s Lace (my FAVORITE), Daisies, Black-eyed Susans and many colorful varieties from the Aster and Buttercup families.
A few weeks before she died (I didn’t see it coming) it was winter and I’d returned for a short stay. The same bouquet I’d placed in a vase on the table 4 months previously, was still there on the table, withered and dusty, brown and shriveled. A summer relic she couldn’t part with. This was completely expected. I grew up this way. Is it any wonder I cry at every episode of Hoarders? My mother never saw an episode and I wonder what she’d have made of it? Certainly any reaction from her, if we’d been able to see the show together, would’ve been an insight for me.
My father, now 88, widowed since 2007, told me a story recently – he stepped outside and stood on the porch, a wobbly few concrete steps with an even more wobbly rail. And there was a bear a few feet away near the pine with the branches that scrape the roof. He said he started talking to it and “it raised its head up and looked right at me.”
I asked what he did. He said “ I’m not afraid of no bear. I’ll put a saddle on it if I feel like it!”
But what. Did. You. Do. I asked.
He said just then his friend, who’d been inside, came to the door and said “who the hell are you talking to out there?”
Hearing the guy’s voice the bear ran off.
Wow. That’s all I could say. Then my father said “if I’d had a piece of bread I could’ve fed it.”
My father is a cat lady sort of guy and I suspect the bear was attracted by pie tins of cat food.
I’ve probably told this before but eh Let’s Make a Deal is a repeat like everything else so here goes. We got the encyclopedia set from World Book when I was in grade school. My mother loved a persuasive door to door salesman. I was so excited. Encyclopedias were my equivalent to getting internet. Once my mother responded to a cold call from a vacuum cleaner salesman.
The offer was that we’d get a free carpet cleaning with no pressure to buy a vacuum. I saw the guy pull into the dirt driveway. He lugged an enormous amount of equipment into the kitchen. His face was like that emoji where the eyes are surprised like saucers. I stood back from the action, watching from a distance my mother’s wide welcoming smile, her nervous laughing as she directed him to a path around piles.
The couch itself had carpet beetles in it. The carpet was thin, third hand and commercial grade, quite full of detritus. The living room was not bad actually. The tall standing lamp had a normal posture of tipping sideways but it worked. Torn screens were patched with duct tape and the stand up ashtray needed an emptying as it was developing a Mt. Everest of butts look to it. Overall though she had taken pains to be sure there was an area of about 6’ x 6’ (okay perhaps a little bigger than that) where he could use the carpet cleaner.
I saw him introduce himself, actually stuttering and then he suddenly remembered something he had to retrieve from the car. I watched him lug all the stuff with him as he let himself out, maneuvering around cats, (there were 20 then (ok probably more than that), saying he’d be just a moment.
I watched from the window as he loaded back up the car with the vacuum/cleaner machine. Then he peeled out of the long driveway so fast. We never heard from him again. My mother said something to the effect (giggling) well I guess we scared him away.
I’d like to prove my mother wrong. I do gush, I do rave. I get ecstatic even if it’s not outwardly shown. During work downtime while this heatwave demands staying indoors with AC no one can truly afford because electricity rates are ridiculously astronomical- I peruse art!
Mondrian has such range. What a pleasure.
Today I’m going to recreate a famous painting. My son Silas is going to do so as well. You’ve seen the trending pandemic pastime posts where people recreate paintings, right? Here’s an example below. ( from here: Recreations )
I am not sure which painting I’m recreating but I have some ideas. My son will probably do this one: (from Picasso’s blue period)
My elder cat Po of 20 yrs., died Jan this year. Here is a kitten I acquired from a woman off Craig’s list. This kitten had two parasites, one gotten from being exposed to goose poops. It’s been a long road getting Simon healthy. He was smeared in brown slime when I got him. He’s looking so much better. I’m ecstatic to be his mother. He must be separated from the other cat until he’s healthy thus the leash. Besides he hasn’t developed confidence and trust yet. He hides when loose. He is very sweet though.
This has been a scattered post but then that’s my mindset today. I look forward to Arting soon. Here is a recent collage I did. All paper. No paint.
If you’ve read this far thanks. My mother never told me I couldn’t fly so that’s what I do inside my head. I think about her a lot. I wish she could’ve met this little one. She loves those Covid commercials. I always ask her if they play that Covid music down at the Baby Club.
Here’s a random thought. MeghanMarkle says this about her sister in law KateMiddleton:
“We rolled out the red carpet for her.”
So. In my opinion: this is probably the only time that phrase was not intended metaphorically. They probably did literally roll out a red carpet. I love when people unintentionally say something that ends up having a literal meaning.
So that’s it. I’ll post our painting recreations sometime.
Some years ago, I had a stapedectomy, an operation to reverse hearing loss; involving a little implant. I feel as if it hasn’t worked the way I’d hoped, or else maybe the hearing problem is starting in the other ear now. Case in point: My partner, Al and my son Silas were all together in the van when Silas remarked that it appeared there was an older woman involved in a car accident. Silas was in the backseat and I turned to hear him better. I’d seen the police car but not the older lady in the white car Silas was referring to. So I asked Silas if the lady looked hurt. This is what I heard him reply:
“She’s from the oatmeal connection.”
Well that couldn’t be right. As usual when I don’t fully hear words, I nodded politely but Silas knows me, and said: “You didn’t hear me did you Mom?” I could’ve turned to my son that day in the van and said, “I’m sorry, but with the sound of traffic and the van AC blasting, I’m not understanding your words. I think I’m having hearing trouble again.” He would’ve then perhaps leaned into the front and raised his voice. I chose to simply nod and not hear what he said.
I have never had a Fitbit but I was researching it within the autism community for input. One person stated that the Fitbit thought she was napping for 90 minutes but she was actually hyper focused for that 90 minutes… on Art. Another person said that her Fitbit thought she was exercising when in fact she was watching an episode of Scorpion. Very interesting. A colleague was picking strawberries and got Fitbit credit for swimming. Yet another person’s Fitbit gave them credit for walking over 100 steps- before they even got out of bed. Apparently they tossed and kicked in their sleep.
If you are autistic, an introvert, or different in some way, or even if you’re not any of those things, you belong to the human race and as such, have known miscommunication, or misinterpretation of communication for all your life. It is human nature. I have brought up the way that the human body (my ears) can misinterpret incoming information and the way that technology is also not foolproof and can be mistaken about it’s input. I’m sure you can name similar miscommunications in your own life. Especially now, the most chaotic and surreal time period in history I have ever lived in. It’s maddening to be misunderstood.
It’s 9:30 at night and I’m refilling my night water bottle in the kitchen sink. (I keep water by the bed). I was ready to go to bed and read until I got tired. There was a small light by the sink and the window was open. I had a view of my dark dead end street out the window over the kitchen sink. Just a streetlight illuminated a portion of the road. And then came the distant sound of melodic chiming outside, and it was coming closer. The music was like you’d imagine from an antique jewelry box in a dusty room in a centuries old house.
The ice cream man has taken to coming late at night now, since the pandemic got underway. It is a bit eerie. It draws small crowds, who I admit do adhere to social distancing, albeit unmasked. But the ice cream guy, an older afroed redheaded man who is very friendly- he is masked. And to me everything about that is surreal. Is there a reason the ice cream truck suddenly comes under cover of darkness? Is he afraid he’ll be in trouble and get called out for coming during the day and causing crowds to gather? I am sure his intentions are twofold- bring joy to people stuck at home. Make money for himself.
Elijah McClain, a young man whose pasttime was playing violin for kittens at shelters because they seemed lonely, was stopped for “looking suspicious” and he insisted he was not suspicious, he said “I’m an introvert and I’m different.”
And he ended up dead.
Elijah’s last words anger me and break my heart. “I’m an introvert and I’m different.” People are very apt to make a 911 call these days and report people who are different. Perhaps people should be more inclined to look for the ways we are the same.
A man at a local McDonalds, is told recently he must put on a mask to come inside. No one can eat inside yet, but he can order inside and take the food out. The doors are clearly labelled with “must wear a mask” signs. He returns, irate, with a paint gun, and blasts out a McDonalds window.
Here’s an activity I enjoy. Like Grant Manier, I enjoy using puzzles in my artworks. It is repurposing. It is eco-friendly. Here is my favorite part of the process: I search online, at thrift stores and I have puzzles -usually missing key pieces- given to me. Sometimes they are just precisely the group of colors I am looking for or the pieces have eyes on them, or bits of pieces of faces are on them. I get a comfy seat and put Baggies all around. Then I sort boxes and boxes of pieces into hues. I put different colors in each Baggie and store these Baggies in bins. Electric blue, yellow and red are special finds and all the pieces have snippets of other colors on them too but I sort according to what the prevalent color is on each individual piece. When I begin a project, I can grab bags of carefully selected different colors, the way someone might set up squirts of paint on a palette. Then I peel them and start gluing to make a picture.
The curly pieces, because puzzle pieces come in all shapes and sizes, will lend themselves well to things like forest trees or hair. This activity is not so different as to when I was collecting shards of broken pottery and plates, and sorting the colors into plastic boxes for mosaics.
Except it is different in this way:
People are misintrepreting my motivation to choose puzzle pieces. Puzzles are colorful games. That are useful in my art, and although I have not made art with them for years, I am getting militant comments from a select few people
(okay…….actually only ONE sole person)
who is saying things I will not repeat here because my sincere hope is that she will grow from these exchanges she’s had with me. I can respect other views. I really hate the popularized and overused psyche term “trigger.” But even more, I hate that people
1) Mistakenly assume or think that I support the use of puzzle pieces as a “symbol” for autism.
(even if I did, I have the right to that. I don’t have to defend a personal preference, but I like the rainbow infinity symbol if in fact we must have a representational icon.)
2) people Assuming that the autism community and it’s art, movements, popular convictions, etc. is something I’m ignorant about- and that I am not a “proper” member of said community because I use this source of paper in art.
(Group-think, and especially trying to ENFORCE group-think, is very dangerous.)
3) people Assuming I can’t possibly know how ”triggering” it is to look at my art pieces.
(again, learning to live and let live without trying to bring others down and respecting their viewpoints would go a long ways these days.)
So many things around me are making me “see red” these days. Like the way pistachios used to be dyed red and the color stuck to your fingers and stained them.
Or the “juice” I’d be served as a kid, not juice at all but some red punch concoction that stained the tongue for hours. Or the merthiolate medicine parents put on our cuts that painted them red (and contained mercury).
But, this thing that I’m feeling is an internal red… this pervasive chaos that permeates the head space, stains it, and if you aren’t careful it is hard to shake. It colors everything.
I even got a Facebook friend request the other day from a guy (grown ass man) who sexually assaulted me with a gag and wrist binds years ago. Why? Why try to friend me? I’ve seen you at two functions since then and neither time did you acknowledge or apologize for that trauma you inflicted on an 8 year old me. Where is accountability these days? I’m seeing red, and not just because Silas dyed his hair that color. His hair is pleasant.
I recall going for a drive to Canada when my (autistic) son was just about 8 years old himself. This was when you didn’t need a passport. My (late) spouse and I were detained a long time at the border, to my horror. They took us parents aside and questioned us separately. Apparently my son’s different mannerisms, such as hypermobility and darting eyes, had them thinking we had kidnapped him. “He always looks shifty!” my spouse had said. They let us go. They had listened. Our stories matched. We were none the worse for wear.
WHAT IF we had been black and that happened recently? Would we be dead now?
I was at the doctor’s office a few days ago, masked and trying not to engage. I needed a bloodwork recheck and I’d put it off for 6 mths. A very loud and kind of assertive 78 year old man came in (he told me his life story, pulled down his mask and asked me if he looked 78, and he chose a seat very close to me, even though the place was empty save for us two).
The receptionist asked about my granddaughter. I liked her, I’ve “known” her for years. The man started raving on about the atrocities we are facing today, about how Trump was off the deep end and making everything worse and he was sure Trump was racist. I agreed by nodding because all that is true, but still I was hoping not to engage. I was too focused recalling my verbal script list and anticipating the questions the doctor may ask.
The receptionist, (a petite 30-something blonde lady) chimed in.
I was again feeling like I was in a surreal world. I chose to keep my mouth shut, right or wrong. Do I wish I’d challenged her? Maybe. Here was a man to my right, extroverted in an intrusive and intimidating way. Here was a woman I thought I knew. A Christian? Really? define that.
It gets curiouser and curiouser out there. Stay safe.
ART OF AUTISM book review by board member Kimberly Gerry-Tucker
Becoming Vulnerable (Baxter Daniels Ink Press/International Word Bank; April 2020)
It is not surprising to learn that the word “vulnerability” derives from the Latin word for ‘wound.’ This poetry collection, entitled “Becoming Vulnerable,” with its real-world themes of autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality, is aptly named. To be vulnerable is to be open. A bird with closed wings cannot fly, after all.
Joshua Corwin’s Connection to Hummingbirds
In this book, meaning and symbolism are as open as a hummingbirds’ wings, imagery glimpsed and known, beating with kinetic fragility. His words; chosen as if by a wordsmith who has mastered this poetry thing, do fly off the page. Imagine fifty beats of meaning per second. I read and reread this book slowly, to appreciate Joshua’s hum, his elevated thoughts. I felt his sometimes-skewed sense of self; his journey toward knowing better his own personhood.
Joshua Corwin’s poetry; with its otherworldly rhythm, is like riding a night train. The poetry sits beside us awhile as our bodies are illuminated and then cast into shadow, our whole selves jostled, and our minds flooding with passing images; as we consider our own personal journey and how we relate to the journey of the poet. ALBERT WACHTEL (Pitzer College Professor of Creative Studies) says in his Foreword to Becoming Vulnerable: “These lyrics cry out from the heart.”
Joshua Corwin went to Pitzer College in Claremont, CA. and received a B.A. in mathematics and a minor in philosophy. After an out-of-body experience, he wrote a thesis on “Executive Qualia and their Relation to Mystical Experience.” Josh says: “Now, with this book, I utilize my experience as an individual with autism and as an addict who is sober and in recovery, to give back to the world with this collection of poetry, to become vulnerable. I thought vulnerability was a weakness. But in truth it is a strength. The truth is I might be different and unique in my own special way, as is everyone, but there are others like me.” Yes Josh, you’re right, and it’s through books like this, that we can find belonging. Like Josh, I too am autistic, and I was once stuck in a groove of addiction for a few wasted teen years before I found my own raison d’être. Unlike Josh, I have never been brave enough to discuss this openly. I am inspired perhaps to do so.
In his studies, Joshua Corwin has taken classes like ‘Psychology of Mindfulness’ and ‘Science of Life-Changing Events.’ He asks himself: “Can I apply the knowledge from these classes to my life? And also, be mindful of my own psychology and grateful for the events that have changed life? Can I be mindful of the science that God is with me here right now?” He succeeds in doing this.
The book starts off with a picture of Grandpa Mert, who is holding a dog in his lap. The page reflects the love and importance of this figure in Josh’s life. As we read on, we watch Joshua’s journey unfold and feel him discover his reason for being, his “raison d’être.” Truly, it is words and phrases like this one that entice me to love this book.
For me personally, luscious and carefully selected words are a meaningful mind-aphrodisiac that feeds soul and brain; and as I said, this book has them. Here are some beautiful words and phrases from Becoming Vulnerable: Tzim-Tzumic vessels, inner Shofar, neshamah, eutrophication, satori-Cally, kalpas, sangha, apophatic, Ananda, temporal qualia, styme…
Aaahhh, lovely words! But there are images in the book too. It turns out Joshua is also a prolific photographer and artist. On page 19, Joshua shares his haunting Artwork called “Faces.” I am not surprised that the man who wrote the short 17-line poem entitled “THE GATE IS NOT A GATE,” (which appears toward the end of this book and was first published in Ginosko Literary Journal, Issue 24), is also a talented artist. Really, I want to print that ‘little’ (profoundly enormous) poem out and put it where I can see it every day, as a mantra to my self.
Another favorite line of mine from this book is from the poem titled “I CAN SEE THE WRITING ON THE WALL.” As both an artist and a writer I can appreciate its simple complexity. Here is the line: “You are a painting in my mind’s eye.” Another favorite line that I know I will turn to again just for the pleasure of hearing it in my own mind’s eye, is as follows. From the poem “WHISTLING INTO WIT / STILLNESS SPEAKS TO THE WAITING” comes this line:
“the sun sprains itself past courage.”
I am not sure how the sun sprains itself but I am awed with the pondering of it. In the poem “12:01 AM,” (first published in Al-Khemia Poetica in September 2019), I am transported to the memory of a unique friendship I had long ago. Like the conversation in the poem, I am nostalgically carried back to that time, the in-depth revelatory things my friend C. and I discussed, the late-night-early-morning exchanges of information we shared and found unique value in… Like the poem, neither my long-ago friend, nor myself, had to “tattoo meaning in the air” to know what the other meant. This line (in quotations) transcended the passages of time for me, and this is exactly what I want a poem to do!
As I said in the first paragraph, vulnerability derives from the Latin for wound. In this poetry collection, and truly in his personal life, Joshua Corwin succeeds in salving his wound(s), and although (I sense) some scars remain, if only mentally (-how could they not?) I believe that Josh has healed his wounds in his candidness, in sharing his experience. He is right, vulnerability is not a weakness. It is his quietly loud strength.
——Los Angeles native Joshua Corwin is a neurodiverse, Pushcart-nominated poet with a B.A. in mathematics from Pitzer College (’19). His debut poetry collection, Becoming Vulnerable, details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality (Baxter Daniels Ink Press/International Word Bank; April 2020). Corwin hosts the poetry podcast “Assiduous Dust,” and he teaches neurodiverse addicts in recovery self-exploration through poetry at The Miracle Project, an autism nonprofit, held at The Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills, California. Please see www.joshuacorwin.com for more information.
The plants with the largest leaves in the world are probably the ornamental Rhubarb Gunnera. Also there is the Victoria water lily.
The fairy in me imagines painting or collaging someone wrapped in the leaves or actually wrapping my self up in them, for the duration of the pandemic. What really goes on in a cocoon? What is the sensation of emerging afterward?
This has been a theme in my art and thoughts and life for years as seen here.
Speaking of visuals, for regular readers of this blog, you may have noticed the layout of the blog has changed. I liked that the old version had black and white circles with pictures inside for each blog post I made, and then when you passed the cursor over a circle, it was suddenly in full color and the name of the post appeared. I needed to upgrade this wordpress site so that I’d have more space to write more blogs. As a result of doing that, I discovered that my ‘old’ theme was discontinued. How I abhor change. But now I see that it is nice to have an informational sidebar with social media connected, and easy searching for archived blogs and also searching with keywords by topic. Also, my profile here has room for many more links and I am adding more here and there. It looks less visual, but maybe more user friendly? It is not as unique as the old one, but probably more modern?
I have a collection of photos of empty store shelves, signs depicting one way aisles and directing us all to ‘keep six feet apart’ because this is history we are living and one day seeing gloves disposed of ignorantly all over parking lots, will not be the norm. While it’s important to chronicle these surreal times in photographs, it’s important also to SEE what we do have:
Easy to take abundance for granted.
Personally speaking, I’ve decided I’m not a Tik-Tok person; but I am going to start doing short YouTube videos, probably about my artwork. I’ve got to sort through it all (the paintings, sketches, collages…) so I may as well take the time to really look at the individual pieces and try to figure out, just what was I thinking when I made this!? I may as well think out loud in short video spurts. And if I become the butt of jokes it doesn’t bother me a bit. I suspect some things I say or do provoke that and I am okay with that.
I am feeling a little sad about an interview I did with Kaleidoscope magazine. I’m supposed to be their upcoming featured artist; they choose one artist per year and my interview took place before the pandemic hit us all. I think the publication will be paused for now. But what I feel sad about is that if it does get published in the near future as it was supposed to, there will be no mention of the virus because when I was interviewed the virus wasn’t a thing. I don’t want the article to appear oblivious to that. Certainly it is in the foremost of thoughts because it is affecting all our lives. I wrote to the publication to see if they’d like to change the interview to be more timely, and relevant; but I got an automated response that the office is closed due to Covid-19, so in fact because it is not essential, I think the issue is certainly delayed. Which is good.
I’m not going to block my self from feeling sad a lot. I’m going to feel that feeling. I may even sob, though mostly I am sure I will find ways to get into an alpha state, for me that is immersion in creation. My work offers teletherapy, although talking therapy is never something that is beneficial to me, but I know it’s there.
If you have the interest, there is a link at the bottom of this post, to an article in Forbes about the fabulous company I work for and am proud to be a part of. We all had company avatars made, and mine was made from a photo of me with my hair back, as seen here, bottom row, third from left!
I had to go recently to the small but awesome specialty pet store run by a knowledgeable retired veterinarian. My dog has special needs, allergies, etc. I was masked and used my bottle of sanitizer after touching anything.
I felt woefully under protected compared to the clerk there (with the almost-equivalent to her idea of hazmat suit) who was running the store. I so wanted to kneel down and pet and speak to her dog, dressed in its little sweater, in its dog bed, blinking at me and dog-smiling; blissfully unaware but for some reason I thought it would freak the lady out and I went against my grain and did not touch her. I spoke to the dog a little but oddly that seemed to freak the store clerk out anyway.
The woman and I kept our distance and I was in/out in 5 minutes but the woman looked terrified. She handled my debit card with a tissue. She wore goggles and gloves and some sort of plastic mouth shield that looked like it was fashioned rather cleverly from one of those plastic cone dog collars that animals get when they have operations. We had minimal small talk (I asked for dog CBD drops which is kept behind the counter) but she was the right age that she reminded me of my late mother and the terrified look in her eyes stays with me. I couldn’t help but almost feel guilty for venturing out to get my monthly purchase of that which I think is essential for my pet. I am rethinking a lot of my errands now as to whether they are really necessary.
I know this, as my personal hobby of raising insects from pupa to moth, and my interest in cocoons and the art depictions of this topic can attest to: I’ve always been fascinated with what goes on IN the cocoon, and it is not likely I’ll actually get hold of a Gunnera leaf or Giant water lily to wrap myself, but I grasp the metaphorical sense of this being an actual thing going on right now. Of course everyone is going to be changed by this, transformed somehow.
I’ve recently come across artworks in my circle of art friends, which depict the virus being eradicated One art depicts a crow eating the virus, and in the other artwork, an Indian God is shooting arrows at the virus. Still other art I’ve seen, is being made from enlarged telescopic images of the virus itself in its colorful shapes. I’m going to try my hand at venting through art by depicting the virus being destroyed somehow. For decades, cancer patients have used meditative imagery to envision their cancerous cells being blown up, fought by armies, stabbed, destroyed, set on fire, whatever their imagination can envision.
Let’s start an art movement. I’ll consult with Keri Bowers and the rest of the board at Art of Autism and perhaps come up with a good hashtag for this. Draw, paint, sculpt, whatever- depict Covid-19 being destroyed through your art! I have always seen the correlation between Corvid (meaning crows) and Covid, so I especially like the artwork I saw of crows eating the virus. You know, I may have already said this, but the once dirty canals in Italy are clean from less boat traffic, and now teeming with dolphins! ten-lane highways in California are now empty and emitting far less contributions to smog. Wildlife, like deer are venturing into far less populated areas and hunkering down on grassy areas once occupied by humans. On the flipside, I saw seven vultures the other day. Gee, are all the birds noticing something different about the environment we share with them?
Here is a montage of all who submitted to the Art of Autism’s Women’s History Month contest. Thanks to all who contributed and we will announce winners soon!
The other day I went into Walmart and that’s when the one-way aisles got established. There were people coming in the opposite direction that weren’t following the one-way rule. I had to pass a teen because of this and just as I did, she lifted her mask to cough and then put her mask back in place. It does not work that way! I am glad I was wearing a mask.
I had weekend getaways planned this summer that I accept will not happen. I had this Tshirt ready to wear to the events but I will just have to wear it in the living room instead!
I am awed/thankful on a daily basis, at the way people globally are utilizing their unique skills and strengths to combat this pandemic. From front line professionals providing one to one care and treatment, to researchers working on the “why” and “how” and developing possible vaccines to the automobile manufacturers building ventilators and the service workers in grocery stores and food prep. As a global team we are going to succeed.
.my sore throat is from dust from cleaning closets. My anxiety though is from hell.
I’ve not been out since Thursday. This is Sunday. I lied. I’ve gotten the mail on my porch. I’ve gone from low carb searching for ingredients like MCT oil, Miracle noodle fettuccini shirataki and Ghee to carb loading comfort French fries dripping with ketchup.
I discovered a new artist. Here is her bio statement.
Link to her work at bottom of this blog.
…..a Yale professional’s thoughts on stress: Stress is exacerbated by: unpredictability, uncontrollability, something chronic and sustained. The whole globe is in that situation.
I can wrap a leaf around myself or several leaves, if I could stitch many together. But let’s say I found one big enough. I could be a human caterpillar isolating in the mysterious dark and waiting patiently for transformation. Spin silk even. Plan new beginnings. But you know I am not going to wrap a leaf or leaves around myself. What are words anyway but inventions. A construct? Like time. Here is a digital Art I made recently.
So is anyone online shopping/browsing for fun? My favorite perusal pages to shop? Cabinet knobs! The array available is astounding. I bought ten of these:
I love antiques too. Patina spots. Silver-black signs of age. Well worn places. Rough spots. Sturdy no-nonsense frame. Well made. Lots of use left. Time tested. Takes a lickin -keeps going. Weathered storms. Great height. Secrets buried within. Am I describing myself?
So I made a nursery rhyme collage too.
Some good has come don’t you think? It’s as if Earth had creepy crawly infectious parasitic infestations like lice, scabies, mites, ticks. WE are that lice. We humans. Earth said “You have made me sick. Your turn.”
And the world slowed down.
And threw their gloves on the ground. Like narcissistic ignorants.
If I were a kid during this it would have been anxiety provoking but also fun! No sports. No gym class. Woohoo! No oral reports. Plenty of written homework. Yes! Keep 6 feet apart. Delivery folks: leave it on the porch. Yeah! Social distance? No problem! No gatherings no problem.
On the downside I’m not getting to go on my two weekend concert getaways this summer. Upside? My work at home job is taking care of us. I feel so deeply and have been sad for all who are going through these upheavals. I’ve been doing things like clean closets, decluttering and so forth.
Here is a stimmy snazzy iPad case.
I normally stim by perusing online sites and adding things to shopping carts I’ll never buy. But lately I’ve been buying! Stuff I have on the way by post: my Zenni glasses, capris and spring blouses just arrived and of course the cabinet knobs are on their way. I also ordered a device to open my floppy discs from the 90s. Probably mostly corrupted but maybe I can salvage old writing and pictures from them. I also sent in all my 8mm home movies from around the time Howie got sick. To be transferred to thumb drives for easy viewing.
At least the telemarketers have been affected. No spam calls since this started! And: the once-dirty canals in Italy have cleared themselves of pollution now that boat traffic has ceased. Dolphins are frolicking there now. The ten lane highways in smoggy California are in a word: empty. Which means the normal congestion of autos is not contributing to pollution.
Wash your hands thoroughly. Go outside for fresh air.
Put an LP on the old #recordPlayer and #closeYourEyes.
As my friend April says: “Painters will paint. Poets will write.”
Award-Winning Author of Twirling Naked in the Streets and No One Noticed; Growing Up with Undiagnosed Autism shares her book, life, and insight into the mind of children and adults on the autism spectrum.