thoughts

Day Forty-Two: On Leadership

| Aspergers Girls

I wrote this in (2010) Heard in one sitting. I wrote what I heard.

On Leadership

To lead is to forge the field. You (as leader) are no less responsible for beauty than the farmer who plants the seed. For he is useless is he not, without the sun beating down on the hearth of earth, the weed gently departing as worm spirals onward, the Cheshire Cat of yesterday* breaking way for formidable weather, as rain trickles down in her gentleness, neither drying or erasing.

For the farmer is a necessity, a part of the cyclic process of rebirth, but neither the ultimate piece nor the entire piece. For what is a garden without seed, without proper care?

Who is to care for the crops once they are bloomed? Again the farmer gathers and cleanses, again he replants. But what is it that he doth replant? Is it not the miracle of seed? The tiny element created within creation?

You are not but a worthy planter, less these seeds are worthy. You are not a true caller of spirit, less spirit is provided. The farmer no less provides the seed, as the sea bird the ocean. Still he dives to the depths of darkness and retrieves great beauty and nourishment, knowing not from which this beauty grew or was born. So a farmer is less a farmer, and more a grower.

A leader is a grower, an incubator nurturing the gift of living element and caretaking as the hen to warm the haven until arrival.

Your role is vital. All roles are vital. But lead first with the gentleness of the angels. Spread your wings and protect before climbing the mountain from valley to preach. Seat not yourself center or first, or either behind. Seat yourself in the position most needed, ever shifting to meet the requirements of the seekers, who lead themselves, a multitude of seeds waiting to blossom and enrich, and even say forthright ignite thy world.

When you ask of leadership on how to lead, and the right way to lead: you lead by example first. In how gently you remember your place; that is that your place is not at the head of the table or the back of the room, but in the center of hearts where you justly belong.

Seek not position of fortitude, or strength in numbers, seek position of greatness of heart and mind, and fortitude of the millennium, drawing from the well of knowledge for greatest understanding, and comparing this not to others who draw closer carrying their own buckets, however burdensome or heavy.

Keep your bucket light, so to fill it again and again, reviewing the process of discovery as a fresh student, excited and renewed. To carry a heavy bucket is a burden to the soul. To fill and fill without wanting to stop to rest is to bend your body into a position to be broken. Rest my child and refill the bucket when you are thirsty. Seek forth knowledge, as you seek for water, enough to quench your thirst, but not too much to bloat and stop the process from reaching its beneficial potential.

Think you not on the bloated bodies on the beach**, think you on the rain clouds that fill and fill and then down pour. They reach a point when the water must fall, when the truth must drip down to a different dimension. And so is with us, as to you. Fill and then spill down thy truth. In this way you will remained balanced and fulfilled, if not re-filled.

Speak again, We on leadership. Judge not the leaders before you. They are as unique as each sunset, as brilliant and welcoming as each sunrise.

Judge no one and nothing, as you know each and every is a teacher in guise for your betterment.

It is true you will see in the mirror which is most relevant to present itself, but do not gaze into the mirror for long periods of time, a glance is enough to indicate inner change. Glance with lingering eyes and run the risk of the desire for change of what you see, when in truth you see nothing but your own self-created image. So in this way, view the mirror in passing, take what is needed, and thusly adjust. No more, no less.

Leadership in your eyes is a priority, as you were built for leadership, in the way you were raised in the desires We planted in your heart.

But there is not a leader that you will emulate or you will find, for you are uniquely you, and in this way you will (do) lead like a joy-filled child, skipping down the hill to the clear, and welcoming values of gratitude and hope.

Lead them not so much to the waters or the valley, as to the welcoming spirit that waits inside them each.

You will remain child-like for every, as long as you choose to walk this path on this earth, and in this way you will be trusted and welcomed by many.

You shall not lose you humility, passion, want, and need for love—and in this way, as a child you shall remain entirely human, carrying with you the divine perfection in the eyes of your youth.

Do not emulate another’s softness of character, the quietness of creature, or the one who does not laugh as heartily, for your laughter is a key, a vibrational key to break open rifts and so called blockages. Just as your tears shall open gates, so shall your child-like laughter. Do not seek to become serious and unattainable, for you will become all that you seek.

The innocent shall seek you, for they shall see the innocent untouched spirit within you. You and yours shall see many blessings as you follow this calling that we know has not and is not always perceived as this word easy.

Lead first and foremost with your heart. Listen to the beat of reason less and the calling of your need to heal more. Fix less. Help more.

In leading you will gently release your need to know how to lead, for you will become, and embody leadership through a natural process.

We will guide you and you need (as always) not fear. There is nothing fearful in leading the innocent and guiding them to reclaim their voice. No one can hurt the one who is guarded by a legion of angels. So rest in the comfort we are with you, and whomever you touch we shall gather in our wings and let quietly sleep in the knowledge of peace.

Remember who you are, and in remembering you will forget the shadows called fear.

* The cat’s grin remained suspended in air even after the whole of the cat disappeared. Yesterday is smiling upon us and remains, even though we cannot see this yesterday (cat).

** Dead bodies on a beach are from  Sam’s past experience.

The word every is used in replacement of every-one

Day Forty-One: To Blog or Blob? That is the Question.

| Aspergers Girls
The Blob Lives!

People with Aspergers incorporate different coping strategies in order to feel more comfortable. This post, I am pleased to report, is a fine example of such coping strategies, including:

  1. Humor
  2. Data Organization
  3. Tangents
  4. Analysis of Self
  5. Correction/Editing of Self
  6. Analysis of Others
  7. Research
  8. Interconnection of Data
  9. Data transformed into New Information

My original intention today was to report on how my blog has become a mind- and time-devouring entity, closely resembling the indistinct, formless entity from the movie The BLOB.


But, instead I deleted an entire, page-long list that had words such as: obsession, fixation, ice pack for shoulder pain, eyestrain, fear, and extreme anxiety. And replaced this here posting with the land of the blob. Which I know, and you know, has a much higher fascination-factor than a post about obsessive blogging.

Unfortunately, I planned on writing for only 30 minutes today, and instead I am further made blurry-eyed and pain-ridden. Once again, I was sucked in and consumed by my BLOG! The HORROR!

At this moment as I am typing, I have my computer in split-screen mode, and I’m watching the 1958 horror flick The Blob. If you are in the X Generation, there is a high probability that The Blob, (which was originally titled the Glob), rates in the top ten of all time horror flicks.  In the movie, an alien life form consumes everything in its path. As the blob devours, it continues to grow in size, until it resembles one massive lump of blood-red Jell-O. When the movie ends, the blob is dropped into the Arctic. Then a big question mark (?) appears on the screen, leaving little kids from the 1960’s and 1970’s to wonder forever, if the blog is in fact living in bedroom closets, streets, under beds, and in toilets.

Just think: if those Generation Xers had been told the blob was only a modified weather balloon and colored silicone gel, we’d have saved a lot of money on mental health therapy.

The movie makes me think of the words heebie-jeebies and jeepers-creepers, both words that Louis Armstrong has perfected, by the way.

I’m still watching the movie, and finding the scenes rather dull. Waiting for the blob to show up.

 

Here are some conclusions I reached from the data I collected from BLOB research.  

1. People who saw the Blob were scared shi*less!

I’ll need to buy tons of ice and fire extinguishers before I’ll ever feel safe again.

I saw this movie about 30 years ago, but was so scared that I ran out of the cinema before I could see the end!

I used to wonder about the question mark. I saw tons of horror movies when I was a kid, but seriously, not one of them scared me half as much as this one.

I wouldn’t call myself lucky. This movie scared the crap out of me so bad that I had to sleep with my mommy!

I was 5 years old and it knocked me out. I had nightmares for two weeks.

I saw this movie when I was a child and alone with my brother. I was so scared. I’m still having nightmares.

Saw it on TV way back in 1975 ,scared the crap outta me too! What can kill it?

I remember this movie scaring the crap out of me when I was a kid. And it was almost 30 years old by the time I saw it.

Omg, I remember this movie used to scare the hell out of me.

This movie scared me to death when I was a kid. After seeing it I couldn’t eat cherry Jell-O for weeks.

Well, for people back then, it was creepy as hell.

I think if it were real those people would run away and crap their pants.

When I saw this movie on the tv as a kid, it literally scared the piss out! of me. I woke up screaming and peed my nightgown.

2. People don’t like older men playing teenagers, even if the guy is sexy.

Looks like he’s pushing 30 and he has to sneak out of his parent’s house?

Yeah, Steve McQueen is the oldest looking ‘teenager’ I’ve ever seen.

Steve McQueen is supposed to be 17 in this movie and he was 27!

He hangs around with these teenage boys and he looks like their uncle!

McQueen is the sexiest man in history of men.

He’s supposed to play a teenager in this movie? They could have chosen someone who didn’t look 50 years old.

I like way they keep calling Steve a crazy Kid!!!.Shit he is as old as the old.

Steve McQueen was and still is ‘The Man’!

The old guy is so damn cute.

Are there nude photos of Steve?

3. People reminisce when they see old movies from the 1950’s.

In those days boys had good manners and girls behaved like well children.

Back then, when you missed something on TV that was it, until you caught it again.

Wow, 1950’s, I wish to see that day and die in the 50’s.

Remember when there was a vibrant healthy middle class and anyone notice the COLORFUL clothing and cars? Look at how many people wear black today and drive gray cars. And go down any Main Street USA today and see the poverty and boarded up windows…

4. People side with or personify Blob.

If I were an alien from another planet and I had an ignorant old piece of white trash poking me with a stick, I’d devour him, too!!

What kind of an idiot goes outside and pokes at a lugee?

This music leaves me with the impression that the Blob’s a suave, fun-loving guy who’d stop eating towns if you just got him a cigarette and a nice cocktail.

That Blob sure is a cool cat!

My sister had a girl friend she called the blob.

5. People theorize about the future of the Blob.

“As long as the arctic stays cold,,,” Ha ha, it’s like they we’re already setting up a sequel to be released whenever global warming thawed the arctic.

I still wonder why there was a question mark at the end.

Well, even if the ice caps were to melt, the arctic would still remain too cold.Then again, the blob could just float like a big ice-cube and drift out towards warmer waters in the sea.

Imagine that thing in the water eating whales and big, big things in the sea. It will be unstoppable.

Shit! Global warming is gonna set the blob free and it’ll either start with the Scandinavians, the Russians or the Canadians…

(These are all quotes I found under comments beneath the video clips on YouTube.)

Last thought. My Giant Question Mark:

1. I’m wondering if the search term crap will bring people to my blog now. And I’m thinking: Oh, Crap!

Day Thirty-Nine: Squirrel, Calvin and Bob

| Aspergers Girls
Click to see where image was found

Is there something wrong with me, if I get excited about looking up images of flattened squirrels?

I almost ran over a squirrel this morning. Upon seeing the little sport dash out in front of my van, I slammed on my brakes to save the critter’s life. Afterwards, I looked in my rearview mirror to make sure there was no one behind me. Nervous and preoccupied, from a near miss, I failed to make a complete stop at the stop sign, which caused a not-so-happy neighbor to honk at me.

After the honking incident, I was a bit perturbed, all the way to my sons’ school. I had wanted to stick my head out the window and shout: “I always make complete stops. But I was saving a squirrel and got nervous!”

Give me a break.

I was upset for a full five minutes about the stranger misjudging me. Upset that is, until, on the return trip home, my youngest, the only passenger still in the van, declared from the backseat, in that casual, got your number style: “Mom. You didn’t make a complete stop, again.”

Guess I’m still guilty of those California stops. Can I just blame the error on cultural upbringing?

Saving Squirrel from the grips of death is the highlight of my day thus far. That, and finally deciding to wipe the glob of toothpaste off the bathroom wall; the same minty-green glob I’d been staring down for a good two weeks. I guess I’m the only one in the family endowed with cleaning toothpaste super powers.

I did have an eventful morning. For that I give thanks. Before I was fully awake, I was serenaded by my youngest, when he screamed at the top of his little lungs: “My eye therapy treatments are a waste of your **** money!” He wrapped up his point with a grand slamming of the door.

Have I told you how I obsessively read every Calvin and Hobbs comic book that existed, when I was a young adult, and wished desperately for a brainy, precocious, and adventurous child like Calvin? Don’t’ tell me that wishes don’t come true!

I am chuckling through life, while assuming I missed some news breaking story, because four people accidentally ended up on my blog by using the search term: cheerleader sticks leg down garbage disposal. I stopped myself from Googling for details. Yet, now wondering, if you might.

I could use a good laugh. The Dean of the Education Department has yet to call back about my tuition reimbursement. It will be two weeks tomorrow. I am doing better with the whole not showing up to class thingamajig while still on the university roster. Although, last night, while in the videogame store, I did ask my husband to check my pulse (twice), as I was having heart palpitations.

I adore my husband. He is always looking after me. However, I must share that he is concerned about this Everyday Asperger’s blog. What’s he concerned about? Well, supposedly, I’ve shared way too much about him. (Pausing a moment here, because I still find this so very funny. I’m not thinking, I need to explain why.)

In fact, in scanning through the some 60 pages I’ve scribed, one could infer that my husband Bob was a science major, is a father, was born sometime in February, is turning 50, snores, can count (pulse taking), and acts like Spock. Tons of information, right?

Of course, in knowing he is married to me, you can definitely infer Bob (if that is in truth his real name) has a very high tolerance level! That or he’s on some heavy medication. Happy Birthday sometime this month, Bob!

If I’m not posting anything tomorrow, you can assume I’m on restriction.

 


Thirty-Five: Lost in the Masquerade

| Aspergers Girls

Okay. Day thirty-five and I’ve finally doused my fire of vanity! Yes, I’ve donned my reading glasses, and zoomed in on the font on my computer screen. Maybe I won’t have a raging headache today. What I goof-head I am. I can actually read the words I’m typing now, without squinting.

This morning, I have a lot of deep, philosophical jargon pinging around in Sir Brain. LV is in her pleated secretarial skirt, pacing about, taking notes, while wearing her studious glasses and practical shoes; (you might want to press my lingo button).

I was holding out for Crazy Frog this morning, but I think he is still away with the fairies, which leaves Little Me pretty much holding down the fort. Which is a bit scary, as this new form of thought has been emerging that I cannot quite pinpoint, but that seems liken to a black-caped, masculine-feminine entity, that hides in the dark behind trees, wears a mask, and carries various weapons of Sir-Brain destruction.

She’s more of a female but with a tomboy attitude. She despises feminine aspects in all forms, but yet finds herself a female. A difficult position to be in, I imagine. Anyhow she’s lurking somewhere within, and doesn’t have a lot of beneficial, high-energy words to offer me or other individuals. I imagine she is hurting somewhere deep, deep inside of her being, but that most people would try to bomb her before giving her the time of day. I can’t blame her for hiding. As I fear her myself, and wish to destroy her. Even as she whispers, “I am your teacher.”

I don’t have a name for her, but I think she’s the aspect of me that is responsible for explosive negative thoughts, that send me stumbling down the hole of self-destruction—the one who tells me I’m stupid for writing a blog, for exposing myself to the dangers of anything and anyone outside myself, and for thinking I have anything of substance to offer anyone. She is the barrier in the road, the stop guard with the automatic weapon that warns me to get out of my vehicle and stop moving, or she’ll shoot. I don’t know what she has to gain from acting the way she does. But there must be some motive.

She was with me most of the day yesterday. To the point I didn’t feel I had my footing in reality anymore. She was satisfied with the amount of time I’d been hiding in the house, refusing the act of even going to the grocery store or of taking a walk with my dog.

She isn’t depression. Depression doesn’t feel like an entity. Depression feels like a mass of fog that settles down upon me and leaves me temporarily disoriented and blinded, momentarily stunted in my ability to move.

No, she, this entity, that I shall name Phantom Eknow (eee-no)—for Entity unKnown—is definitely more than a feeling or fog. She is there somewhere, always waiting and watching, even in my happiest moments. She’s been there since I was a little girl. I remember laughing in my youth, and enjoying my day, while all the while wondering when the pain would resurface, the misery, the fear.

It is an odd sensation, talking about her with anyone. Especially as she is surfacing just as I am writing these words. I almost feel shameful, but not entirely shameful, because I’m holding out thinking someone will understand, and maybe be able to see their dark-caped entity, too.  That makes this seem worthwhile, this confession and sharing of sorts, the knowing that I am reaching out from this small place in which I live and breathing words into another human being in hopes of contact, connection, and shared understanding.

Part of the human isolation happening in the world right now is because of the fear of sharing our whole selves. So much is fear-based, that the very thought of being anyone but who someone else wants an individual to be is paralyzing the masses. So many are looking for a leader, a guide, a way, the answer, without taking the time to go within.

The fact that I almost feel shamed in sharing a darker element of myself is proof enough for me that a real oppression of authenticity exists. There seems to be two polar extremes in our world; all I have to do is tune into a reality show; which I don’t do, to view the extremes. There are always the crazed people doing terribly disturbing acts or the fake people dressed in garbs imitating idols.  It appears, many are immolating their inner being and light out of a fear of not being seen. When in actuality, the representation they are showing other beings is not a clear representation of who they are to begin with.

I wonder how many of us have PHANTOMS that we hide? Phantoms that are all caps, all capital letters, lurching inside, that we go on pretending aren’t there. I wonder if we brought them into the light and listened, what we would learn. Here is my Phantom. Here she is. Here I offer, to you, Phantom: the substance of what some people label my imperfections.

Why is it so many are trapped in this game of showing all their high cards, in hopes of recognition, while burying all their low cards in the dirt? What is it that makes a person trust another when they show their high cards, but makes them want to run away when exposed to the low cards? To me, the trust is found in showing what is hidden, not sharing what has been shared a thousand-times over. If I dig up everything and expose what was once hidden in the darkness, then what is left to fear in me? What is left for others to fear? If I am first and foremost authentic and genuine, and have nothing left hidden, then where can fear hide?

There is nothing to fear in being me, but this fear would like me to think so. The fear would like me to fret the plausible pains of exposing my true self, so that the fear can perpetuate its very own existence.

So many people talk about change. So many point fingers and blame. Yet, so many forget to look within—to take out the Phantom, to take out the power, to sit with the fear-based entity and listen to his or her story.

No wonder, that to me, and many others, the world often appears one giant masquerade ball—with the bug-filled wigs, restrictive corsets, and elaborate masks. For that is what the world is, at times, the majority seemingly set out in a dance of deception, where their true fear remains buried, and the pretend, disguised entity continues to twirl round and round.

I imagine a ball without the masks, where I am spinning with my phantom, twirling and twirling, and with each turn decreasing Phantom in size, until she becomes so small and obsolete that she returns happily into the unknown from whence she came. I imagine an endless room full of people spinning with their Phantom, until we are all left without a partner, and have no choice but to join hands together, and at last truly dance.

* I have to laugh, my original post (dyslexia) said Lost in the Mascaraed—which means lost in the eye makeup. Crazy Frog returns!

This Masquerade – George Benson

Are we really happy here
With this lonely game we play
Looking for words to say?
Searching
But not finding understanding anyway
We’re lost in a mas–masquerade

Both afraid to say
We’re just too far away
From being close together from the start
We tried to talk it over
But the words got in the way
We’re lost inside this lonely game we play

Thoughts of leaving disappear
Ev’ry time I see your eyes
No matter how hard I try
To understand the reasons
That we carry on this way
We’re lost in this masquerade

Both afraid to say
We’re just too far away
From being close together from the start
We tried to talk it over
But the words got in the way
We’re lost inside this lonely game we play

Thoughts of leaving disappear
Ev’ry time I see your eyes
No matter how hard I try
To understand the reasons
That we carry on this way
We’re lost in this masquerade

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8eXCdjdSHE&feature=related

Day Thirty-Four: A Lonely, Heart-Broken Pillow

| Aspergers Girls

Day Thirty-Three’s post was a superb example of me strung out on coffee. I’m assuming that the majority of viewers scanned down the entirety of the post, mumbled, “Crap, this is long,” and got the heck out of dodge. Or, they stopped right around the time I was rambling on and on about how I’d posted a video clip.

Now I’m tempted to copy and paste the bottom portion of Day Thirty-Three (awesome number 33 is, by the way), because the content, in my not-so-humble opinion, is very interesting, like the part when I express how I feel sorry for isolated globs of toothpaste. You might want to see the last part of the post, at the very least. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the gross-factor. Just saying.

I also am remembering my blog rules; and thought I should, (nasty sh word that it is), remind my readers (my friends, my good buddies, my pals) that there really are no rules in blogging. Just incase someone was thinking my powerful prose, I spat out while inebriated (smashed out) on coffee, was inappropriate in length. (Did you know coffee is not made from a bean but from seeds? Who knew?)

I love that there are no rules in blogging. Still I find myself doing what I always tend to do in walking life: analyze others’ style, breadth, subject matter, and quality. But then I reason, with LV (little voice in my head), that the act of Me breaking full force out of this self-inflicted mold, that of the Jell-O-mold of a fear-based conformist, is exactly why I am authoring this blog in the first place! (Now I’m picturing green Jell-O; now cellulite; now thinking I shouldn’t have had that apple fritter and cheese puff yesterday.)

For today, before I ramble on any further, or let Crazy Frog and Brain escort us on a three-hour cruise to cellulite land—as enticing as that sounds—I wanted to share a bit about my college experience. While you venture down melancholic lane, I’ll be heading upstairs to steal some sips of my husband’s coffee and watch the telly. (LV still has that whole British dialect going on from yesterday.) I’m wiping my tears after this one, so consider yourself forewarned.

A Lonely, Heart-Broken Pillow

Through the following seasons, the sharp point of fear worked its way into me like the microscopic barbs of a seed-bearing foxtail.  I was confused and greatly disappointed.  I believed with the coming of adulthood, by at last leaving my mother’s house and striking out into a different land, life would somehow get easier.  I expected the load I’d carried from my childhood to shed itself in layers, to ultimately fly away effortlessly, to disperse across the sky like the seeds of a dandelion… (The rest of the story is in the book Everyday Aspergers.)