aspergers

344: Proof I am Alien… and Other Theories

| Aspergers Girls

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Alien Rod
In the x-ray image of me, there is a rod the aliens inserted; it starts in my brain and jets down to my mouth (see front tooth area for proof); it is my communication device where I glimpse elements of the future and am able to deem what avenues to take to protect myself and society. I receive messages at three in the morning in the form of complex and unearthly prose, telepathically received with beautiful images and divine sensation of wholeness and completion. The aliens look like angels and drive spaceships resembling the sun and/or the clouds. They are not scary. The rod doesn’t hurt, but makes for a cool zombie-like image. By examining this photo, note the size of my eye sockets and ears. I am alien for certain. I even have the alien-shape-face-thing going on. And yes, this is really me!

Audacious Spirit
Before I was shot down to earth by the spiritual beings, whom guard the hall of records in another realm, I met before a board of angel guides; they had agreed to help me in this life. I jumped up and down and was so excited about my list of goals I wanted to accomplish here on earth. Being headstrong and determined, I did not heed the warnings of the master experts, the ones with a thousand more lifetimes under their belts than me. I am one of those ambitious youngsters who thinks she is all that—the type the elders laugh at so loud the skies of heaven thunder. Of course, I was clueless to my hubris and audacity, and thought myself brilliant. I recited a long list. Essentially I wanted to learn all the life lessons possible in 88 years. At half-life I would metamorphosis and all my prophetic and empathic senses would kick in. I wanted to see in all ways: to know through all senses, e.g., feeling, experiencing, hearing, smelling, and seeing. I originally insisted on the sense of taste too, to know things through taste, but the angels demanded I throw at least one thing out. I wanted to experience extreme agony, displacement, heartache, rejection, abandonment, physical pain, and on and on. Just bring it on, was my attitude. I had no clue how long earth lives were, as I had never been a human before. I was a dolphin. Now I am stuck down here with this master plan, and I can’t change it. I dream of water all the time, and get uncanny cravings for fish. The good news is half of my life is over.

Dropped Down

I come from a planet where chocolate is the staple nutrient for life forms and no one eats animals or animal products. Actually no one eats anything beyond air, energy, and chocolate. There are twice as many trees. And the trees talk and sing. They are the only ones that talk. The rest of us speak telepathically, so there is no need to shift through the multiple variables of words to express the multiple variables of thought. Thought just arises in images and picture form and through emotion. Beings are conscious about their intentions; and there is little fear, as nothing is hidden. Nothing can be hidden. Faces change based on experience and emotion, and one’s energy. There is nothing that is stagnant. We see the energy of the world spinning, and multiple worlds within everything. Beings have soulmates, intense soul connections, kinship, and a knowing of peace and serenity. I was dropped down here on earth by accident. And it sucks.

The Woman’s Wisdom
I was a sage in my past life, something akin to a Buddha, but not quite. I was considered enlightened by all who encountered me and all whom heard my name; but then, this scrawny two-faced hermit lady, who lived in the deep caves of some forgotten unmentionable place, she came to me, and she cursed me with her wisdom.
She said: “You are a man in form in this lifetime. You are not truly enlightened in the complete sense, unless you come back to this realm as a woman, and as a woman in form you live through the following: the extreme emotional and physical confusion of hormonal cycling (for peak experience, live in the years beyond 2000, where the environmental toxins that mimic female hormones are abundant; PMS is a blast), the pain of giving birth, (and most of the complications that can arise while pregnant, including the agony of inducement), the challenges of marrying and living with a man, (as a woman you will see the male gender in an entirely new light), raising children, (and lets add children who never nap, don’t sleep through the night, have chronic health conditions in early child years, fight for the first ten years… non-stop), the experience of Aspergers, (your son and you will have this, but you will not recognize it in yourself until half of your life is over; that’s okay because with this condition you’ll have the capacity to fixate and obsess so much that you’ll figure yourself out in no time), the pressures society places on women to look beautiful, (you can rock that whole half-front tooth that turns dead thing), the cattiness of women turning against you and stabbing you in the back, the pain as a result of predators seeking you out, a chronic pain condition that has no explanation and no cure, and that people originally target as an imagined female condition. Hmmmm. (She smiled her toothless smile and raised a boney crocked finger.) And let’s add that whole mother-in-law dynamic bit. Of course female or not, you can still be endowed with all the gifts from this world: prophecy, precognition, seeing, sensing, knowing, feeling, empathy, revelations, energetic healing, etc. You can take all you need with you that you’ve gained from this life of a man, but I am telling you now, it shall not be enough! Do all this and come back to me at the end of the lifetime, and then you will be ready to teach me.” I concurred and naively agreed. After my nod, she quickly inserted, “And, just for fun, let’s give you voluptuous curves which you are entirely uncomfortable with, and the mind of a prudish, but lustful nun!” And with that, I was born.

Photo on 3-21-13 at 9.41 AM #2

343: How I long to be the sun

| Aspergers Girls

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How I long to be the sun…

I am such a dichotomy of prisms, multi-faceted in a way that confuses me, the observer.

I keep looking into myself and finding only tunnels, web-like hallways leading in all directions. There is such mystery here, and clutter. I am an open book, but not to myself. I am an open book to only that which I let out and that which I allow in. Even as I share so much, I hold eternity inside. I worry, when I have all the reasonings harvested of why not to worry. I fear, when I have all the reasonings set out of why not to fear.

I am this pendulum; this constant pendulum. I know not what moves me, but I am continually moved. At times I feel I become the person you are. At times, so many times, I lose the person I am. I absorb the world, all of the ingredients brought into me; and then I am left, in my loneliness, both awe-inspired and drowning in pain of recognition.

I see too much. I feel too much. I know too much. And there is no remedy.

I am the heap of pain that one carries on his shoulders. I am the sorrow of the mistress. I am the angst and guilt of the destroyer. I am the pillager weeping at the joyful bounty. I am the child in the glee-filled park. I am the mountaineer on highest peak. I am the widow crying at the grave. I am the tie tightened around my very neck, chocking me from the outside, to match the fury of pain within.

I am enveloped in need and then enveloped in release. I am tortured by thoughts and misery, and then let free by understanding and the depth of beauty. I am unstable, yet stable in my instability. I am consistent in my varying degrees of emotions. A spit-fire of desire brought to tender knees by only the touch of your words.

I am affected by all and none. This silence speaks to me. And the loudness hurts. I am the fury in your eyes. I am the heartache in your bosom. I am that raw pain that eats away at you. Time and again I rise, some mercenary to the many; unable to stop my vengeance; my need to take revenge, to beat the rhythms of my own soul down.

I am anger. I am rectification. I am renewal. I am lust. I am all this and more. And they merge and spin inside of me, claiming their take, and taking more than was offered. I eat of myself, devouring the agony.

If only I could find a way to balance the esteem of you with the esteem of my own being. If only I could find a way to stop the pain you feed me. Your naked trembling fear. To unchain the leash that takes me to the dark side of my own moon.

How I long to be the sun, the perfect sun shining overhead; and then with one touch, without consequence, to set free with flame this yearning for rescue.

~ Sam 3/20/13

341: The Mourning

| Aspergers Girls

I haven’t been able to write as of late.

I transitioned through immense amounts last year, especially during the month of November, transitioned through what I hesitate to call “junk,” but that which most certainly felt akin to garbage.

It was rumored, through various channels, that the end of last year would be a period of much availability for release. The key was to freely bring up the past and old aches, to tear open the scars, dig deep, and like magic, much would be healed.

Truth be told, and truth I often tell, this aforementioned rumor was mostly true. In fact, repeatedly I brought up to the surface my unfinished “business,” and repeatedly the thoughts, emotions, body-history, and spiritual “business” rectified itself and was reborn into sudden and freeing understanding, acceptance and forgiveness.

Interestingly, there was little analysis I undertook during this process. In explanation, I offer a contrast: instead of opening a book of an event or events and feeding myself the pages, unlike a reader, or even an observer, in my process of recovery of self, the experience was liken to watching some other part of something open a symbolic window to let the lingering pain in; and within that same instance of the opening, some force beckoned a sweeper, an unexplainable substance, that now entering the space of self, scoured away to dissolve unneeded residue.

A dear friend calls some people “sandpaper” friends. They refine us. They grate on us. In a certain bowing of spirit, we allow them to hurt us. But in the end, we come out better for the experience.

Well with the window open, and the sweeper entering, I felt the sandpaper. I felt the needling rough edges pry open my skin, go asunder, and dig up the muck and guck that had lived and harbored within. I felt the intensity; I felt extreme discomfort. I felt exposed. I felt found, singled-out, even hunted. And then, I gradually felt slaughtered and left to die. Until, in the swirling of sensation, that came rather abruptly and all at once, I was cleansed and left lighter.

Through this all there was no effort on my part. I didn’t try to heal myself. I didn’t even want to heal myself. What I prayed for was love. That and to be a vessel for spirit and light.

This is what I went through most of the winter season. One day after the next of windows opening, and then finding myself in the midst of both trouble and rescue. Until at last, after months on end, I begged for reprieve, for break, and opportunity for rest.

And rest came.

But soon following was a time period of vultures, of name calling, of doubting who I was and my own path. Then with the passing of these trials, after I’d faced more inner frailties and demons, I found a profound inner peace and knowing. I had a clarity and a comfort. I felt blanketed by the divine. I was granted an unbridled passion to create and communicate. And each morning, I experienced intense visions which included powerful visuals, healing words, and much beauty. This too, this rapture of passion coupled with the visions, like the sandpaper and vulture times, became daunting, and I begged too for these to stop. And they did.

Soon the window closed to whatever was entering.

And here I have sat in silence for over a week wondering what my next step is; while all the while I hear a distant whispering of “There is no next step.” A whisper reminding me everything is okay and is occurring in divine timing.

I think I am mourning what I thought I’d found. I think I am mourning this profound peace and understanding I had for several weeks—a traveling period where I saw heart-clouds in the sky and angel shapes everywhere I looked. A time of deep prophetic prose and agonizing, sweet-release through creation. I remember asking for this profoundness to stop, to give me reprieve, but I don’t think I ever thought the experience would truly end.

Yet, as I sit here now, I don’t wish it back; as much as I miss this part of where I have been and the connection I had, I am glad the window has shut. For it is time for me to move along my path further. A time of new mysteries and discoveries, and a time of further refining. I guess what is somewhat discomforting is I know I have made a spiritual vow of learning. I have made this life about growing, despite the personal cost. I have dedicated myself to being the best me I can be. And with this dedication, I understand there is no stagnant place. And there is no final place either. There is just this continued traveling to a new something and new someone.

I think I have been mourning the past selves. The ones who thought they found themselves. The ones who thought they knew so much. I am mourning the possibility of ever knowing again. As there is no knowing, and there is no finding this self I so diligently had searched and longed for. I am here. In all my states, in all my emotions, in all my frailties and fallings, I am here. And this acceptance of self, in all stages and all phases, past, present, and future, is perhaps the most frightening feeling of all. The learning I am enough. I am love. I am light. I am home. Whilst still traveling this road that eventually leads somewhere else.

Sam Craft, March 2013

Beautiful One
I love you. I don’t know why or how. I just do.
You are immeasurably good, immeasurably pure, immeasurably wonderful.
I want to wrap myself in your essence, to bathe in your beauty.
I want to pour my soul into you, my every thought, experience, desire and dream.
I want to harbor my pain there, within your secret chamber.
If only there were a door.
If only I could find a key.
If only you would open.
Instead, I glide past your existence daily; hour upon hour, building my hopes atop the other like a child with wooden blocks, thinking eventually something will tumble, something will crash.
But nothing ever does.
You remain, and I remain.
And I am left dancing around the image that I imagine you to be.
Standing in a threshold, I both created and wished into existence.
And here, in this imagined place outside of you, I have found the enterance to self.
In this endless delight of searching out the possibilities of you, I have found the remarkable possibility of me.
My friend, my entwined beautiful one, in the wanting of your glorious being, I am.
I am. I am.
And I smile from the deepest place of happy soul child.
Smile as I swing upon the healing rainbow of you.
Still searching for the treasure beyond the imaginary door.
Yet, knowing when you are found, when you have at last welcomed me forward, that I will fall in love not with one, not with two, but with the illumination birthed from the reunion of beauty.

340: Phantom Chamber

| Aspergers Girls

In searching I have circled back, some ribbon turned into itself, lost inside a chamber of nothing; the layers and fabric thread red, bleeding the rainbow of colors twisted in perfection, and then spun down into an invisible white of naught.

I am but reflection, brought on by the sunlight that feeds illusion, stood upright in the eternal darkness, amongst the shadow speakers with the absence of ray, interwoven in solidarity into the corridors of nowhere.

I am but the eyes, ears, mouth, and skin revved up in latitude and longitude, the fingers finding me in the stillness, and measuring my righteous substance.

I am liquid amber dripping through the hands of no one—from him whom also stands in the shadows of no place and no being.

What am I least the tethered and labored music to the masses, the scent of the familiar last touched?

I am witness to the sum of my ever-varying parts, the intricate detection of bystander, the wanderers’ stopping point, however brief or meandering.

And though I exist, this ebb and flow made of conclusions and withdraws, of mediocrity placed upward or down in measure, I only exist of what illusion bends and claims real, a lost swimmer forgotten down the tunnel of not knowing what is and not comprehending the vessel that breathes.

And what of this air?

Does he too stand in the shadows mesmerized by his own selfless self; and in so doing suffer the want of recognition?

Am I but a thumbprint upon the eternal quilt of timeless time? Or rather the print inside the print; the molecular structure’s birthing house brought asunder, turned out, and opened for examination?

Where am I? Where am I hiding?

Beg me not to come out and view this self, so casually circumvented round the mysteries of never.

Beg me not to come out and spend my own self to make richer the dollar maker.

How can I be, when all about me there be nothing?

And how can nothing be, when all about nothing I be?

Where is this existence that hovers somewhere between us and them, between this I and this we?

Is we found inside the pupil, the wires that tell the openings to vision what to see?

Is we found inside the olfactory tubes, lined up and waiting to be called upon?

Is this me in this mirror of disillusioned oppression, made opposite to stare back into the light that is never justly exact?

Or am I, too, the sunshine, my ray only pleasing to the touch of those craving warmth?

Do I burn or do I freeze? Do I make-believe and then make the truth come true?

And if truth be still, if truth stop long enough for witness, then what witness sees this truth of truths? Whose truth is thusly so the path to what is and what isn’t?

How can I be so feather-like in the wind of life that to drop me here in this plane would set me adrift, scattered dust swept through the giant’s hammock strings?

What am I?

And in capturing a voice that answers, what ghost enters through this painted threshold into the emptiness of phantom chamber?

339: A Sample of a Fictional Story

| Aspergers Girls

This is a fictional piece I played with about four years ago. I am about one hundred pages into the story. I am thinking about picking up where I left off. I shall see. It will certainly be fun to visit the pages again, as I cannot remember most of what I wrote. A little treat for me, to see what happens! I find it interesting that the main character, based after me, is so Aspie! Before I knew I had Aspergers… Here is a little excerpt. They make me laugh, these ladies. Indeed they do.
Joy and Love,
Sam

Veronica Cosh and the House of Mirrors
by Samantha Craft, all rights reserved

Chapter One:

Veronica’s cheeks blushed crimson, the blood hastening full-force to her face, as she balanced upside down.

Her adobe house, thirty-eight blocks up from Monterey’s Fisherman’s Wharf, was currently occupied by three of Veronica’s dearest friends. None of the ladies had missed their annual gathering in fifteen years, except once, when Jane had suddenly eloped and was excused on account of her European honeymoon; and there had been the time Freda was recovering from a hysterectomy.

Even then, after Freda’s surgery, the ladies had all rallied around Freda’s hospital bed. So no one really counted year nine as a miss. Irene hadn’t skipped one of their July gatherings, and she was always the first to notify everyone in the room of that very fact.

Veronica lingered upside down. She huffed as her legs shifted to the left taking on a sideways foxtrot of their own. At the opposite side of Veronica’s sunroom, bubbly Freda, with her thick hair and thick knees, knelt down on the floor with a stopwatch, as fair-skinned Jane leaned in near Freda, clinch-fisted and cheering. “Knees, don’t fail me now,” Freda whispered to herself. Irene, towering over the ladies, stood stoically on the outskirts of Veronica’s silhouette, snorting.

“In my next life I’m going to be an astronaut!” Veronica huffed. She was quite certain she’d kick her dear friend Irene in her bony little knee if she got within reach. Veronica couldn’t remember the last time she’d been upside down. The sensation was powerful. All the unfamiliar spoke loudly to her, the first being the absolute painful hardness of the wood floor. She’d hoped her husband’s sweatshirt propped beneath her would keep her head clean. For a few seconds her thoughts were lost in the idea of germs, of dust bunnies, of small broken leaves drug in from the backyard by her dog, of the wanting need to get up and mop.

Freda’s voice broke out. “Only thirty more seconds! You can do it!” Her fastidious eyes were glued to the stop-watch, her body hunched over like a quarterback. “Handstand Queen! Don’t give up!”

Jane cheered, sitting up so that the freckles on her knees expanded like ink blots on paper towels.

Nearing the end, Veronica’s patience waned. “This isn’t fair,” she pouted.

Irene stepped forward a bit. Still not close enough for a kick in the shin. “You asked for it!” Irene mocked.

Veronica contemplated what Irene would look like with her eyeballs plucked out of their sockets, and on that pleasant thought, lost her balance and smacked the right side of her leg hard against the nearby wicker table. The sudden impact set of a chain reaction: the table shook, the crystal lamp vibrated, and the light from the lamp became a wobbling gutter upon the robin-blue wall. Veronica quickly pulled her legs back up, remaining upside down, and balanced them against the wall. For the moment she despised Irene as much as she despised her free-flowing boobs that had ventured free from their abundant cuppings; and thusly she allowed herself without hesitation or analysis to swear aloud. “Shit, shit, shit!” The words oozed out violently like the puss from a stubborn, over-pressed cyst. And with the release, Veronica’s entire being felt at ease.

Irene watched from afar. She tossed back her dark hair, ran her hands through the glossy streaks, and playfully flung her hands in the air. “What’s this? The mighty queen swears?” she teased coyly. “You do know you are shaking like Ruben had that hyper-thyroid condition.” Irene was a Gemini through-and-through. This was a truth Veronica reckoned with as her legs toppled, repeatedly slapping against the wall and tipping forward before they met their final destination on the cold damp floor. “Crap,” sighed Veronica, feeling the blood leave her face and retreat with gravity back to the rest of her body. “Crap.”

“About ten seconds short of a minute,” Irene announced with a satisfied grin. “Stop. Enough,” Veronica said with her bottom flat on the floor and her legs splayed out. Seditious is all she could think. Seditious Fuck. But she wouldn’t speak of this. Not the F word—at least not in an audible voice. Veronica sighed, a deep hungry sigh. Her appetite set on revenge. Her almost-sober friends moved about in the aged sunroom, some of their feet trailing silly-string and dampened blue streamers.

“Failure becomes you,” Irene offered, glancing about in search of nodding heads. “Remember your motto: You are perfectly perfect in your imperfection.” Veronica pressed down the tangles of her hair and stood up to quickly survey the crystal lamp. She straightened her shoulders, and then carried herself to the other side of the room, finding refuge in the blue-checkered wicker chair.

Freda, still kneeling, turned toward Veronica. “At least you don’t have these rabble-rousing breasts.” She propped up her boobs, grabbing them through her floral-dress and offering out a Jello-like jiggle. “Set free, these here babies give homage to my belly button. I tell you, it’s the scariest thing looking into the mirror and seeing my Grammie’s overstretched taffy boobies dangling there.” Freda cleared her throat and let go of her boobs with a flop. “What I wouldn’t give for a little supple perk.” She stood up straighter, sticking out her chest, giving a slight chuckle as she fishtailed to the corner to retrieve yet another pinch of chocolate fudge brownie, before settling back into an over-stuffed chair. Freda lived for pinches. She would be the first to admit that she collected her life’s bounty in delicate, timed out measured amounts. That is to say, to a point. And once that point was reached, watch out. The way Freda figured, she was still a good thirty minutes before a bounty of brownies was to be had.

Jane clasped her hands over her face in embarrassment over Freda’s boob remarks, and then stretched out slowly curly her slender body onto the floor, the whole right side of her body taking in the coolness. She imagined she was an agile cat lounging after a satisfied chase. She imagined a ball filled with catnip, the yellow plastic type that her childhood kitten would bat with his six-toed paws. As she slipped into her mind, thinking on what was and what had been, there was this welcoming silence, the type only alcohol or the occasional anxiety pill could bring.

Irene stepped over some crumpled wrapping paper and pet Veronica on the head—the mark of the alpha dog claiming her superiority. Veronica smiled knowingly to herself and brushed Irene’s large hand off of her. She knew enough to ignore Irene. Veronica had moved beyond the need to supersede, take control or correct. She understood Irene’s motivation. A reflection of sorts, Irene was: a shadow-side of Veronica that held the parts and pieces Veronica longed to show the world but didn’t quite know how to assemble and display. Veronica was thankful for their friendship, friends since seventh grade, a thread of acceptance and trust moved through their relationship with the fluidity of an unobstructed stream. One friend had always been enough for Veronica, one honest and true friend, who didn’t lie, didn’t cheat, steal or hurt. Seems her life always stemmed out and rooted around the one. And that one in the highly vulnerable years of middle school and high school had been Irene.

“Well, at least your complexion has never looked better,” Irene blurted out with confidence, before touching down onto the lumpy wicker-framed couch. She surveyed the room, first staring down at Jane, then across to Freda, and lastly to her near right at Veronica. The time had come. There wasn’t any doubt. Irene cleared her voice to rouse the room. She licked her lips, tasting the remnants of onion dip. “My dear friends,” Irene announced, taking Veronica by the hand, and raising their arms together. “Let me hear the words!”

On hearing Irene’s voice, Jane pulled herself up, using the side of the glass coffee table as anchorage. Standing, she gave a quick stretch and smile, before moving closer to where Freda sat. Jane found her place on the ottoman where Freda was resting her feet, and once there attempted to erase the brown mascara stained within the creases beneath her eyes.

Freda screamed on cue. “Put your lips together and blow, Baby! Blow, blow, blow.” Freda repeated the words again, kicking her stocking-covered legs up and down like a toddler splashing in a shallow pool of water. Jane tried her best to balance the wobbling ottoman, while shaking her head at Freda and letting loose a flitter of giggles.

Veronica shared a wide smile with Irene. “I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Blue Eyes,” she queried.

“Oh, scrumptious Mr. Blue eyes,” Freda quickly interjected with a Southern drawl. She fanned her chubby face. “What eye-candy!”
Veronica raised a narrow-necked glass filled with deep red wine. “To divine Mr. Blue Eyes!”

Irene, meanwhile, kneeled down in front of Freda and pulled out a small wrapped gift she’d hidden under the ottoman, and holding the present high in the air she cheered, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes.”

“That’s a definite winner, or should I say wiener?” Freda laughed.

All the ladies lifted their drinking glasses and toasted, “To finger-licking-good, Mr. Blue Eyes!”