339: A Sample of a Fictional Story

March 8, 2013March 10, 2013 | 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!”

334: I Am The River

March 1, 2013March 1, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

I am not sure where my head space is. Or where my head is for that matter. I tend to ascribe to the Buddhist teachings that we don’t exist, as we can’t see ourselves in totality… Ever! And so, like the rest of me, my head has mysteriously disappeared.

Lately, some part of “Me” has been noticing I am much more aware of my environment. It seems that for decades, until now, I have skid past life and missed much of what happens around me on a day-to-day basis. Kind of like a first time ice-skater skidding on her butt so fast and so far that when she stands she doesn’t reckon she notices anything, except the full-heated rush of blood to the face, the cold butt, bruises, and torn pants.

Life seems like that for me, right now. Like I spent some four-decades plus skidding on my butt on the cold ice, only to just now discover that there are bleachers, chairs, and waiting areas, and even snack bars!

Today, everything is more clearer, as if, finally and at last, somehow I figured out I could step off of the ice, and even remove my ice skates. I cannot explain it any better.

Just recently, I am beginning to notice things I never ever did before. Patterns for starters, like the patterns in puddles, and patterns found in the streaks on the road after it rains, and the patterns in the shapes leaves make after falling. I am starting to notice patterns everywhere. I somehow managed to spend years not recognizing things that are right in front of my face.

I am going through many ah!ha!, look-at-that!-moments; It is similar to how I never understood about how a flower only lasts so long and then dies, even if it is in a pot of soil. I used to think a flower would last forever. It wasn’t until my twenties that I made the connection. While all around me flowers were blooming and dying. I just couldn’t see it or comprehend the process.

I have discovered, that at like faces, I cannot remember scenery. I cannot grasp the completeness of my surroundings. I am in a way in some type of visible matrix, in the center of an ever-changing energetic playing arena.

I cannot remember the order of houses when I drive down streets, the order of streets, the order of trees; I can’t remember where I saw the fire hydrant or where that one street was I once turned down. I just can’t. I have this incredible mind, but it cannot grasp the simple things, or at least not hold onto them.

I am finding great comfort in painting. Well, truthfully comfort isn’t the appropriate word, as the painting process itself is excruciatingly emotionally. So much energy and purging comes up. I go through cycle upon cycle of feeling, and have sensations of intense energy, both beneficial and exhausting. And no matter how hard I concentrate, I do not know what the painting will look like until it, the painting itself, is done.

As I have said early, when I paint, I am waiting for what is inside of the canvas to emerge. I feel this presence there just waiting to be uncovered and discovered.

And that is how I am seeing life now: That behind everything and everyone is this universal light and love waiting to be recognized and recovered, waiting to be held for its beauty alone.

I am much like a young child in so many ways, in so many “good” ways, able to see the same street again and again with new eyes.

Everything is shifting. Like the image of me in the mirror, my world is not stagnant.

Life to me is a river of sorts, and I am carried daily.

Instead of thinking I have fallen and am endlessly sliding on the cold ice, I can see I am very much alive, awake, and full of newness, the same newness that exists everywhere.

Interestingly enough, when I first delved into painting a few months ago, my angels (Holy Spirit) spoke to me and said with a camera I would be able to see images (spirits and souls) in my paintings.

This is truly amazing for me, as I am finding more and more “messages” and “signs” in my paintings. On this post I have shared one of my most recent paintings. It went through hours of transitions.

I love this painting. I see this as a spiritual being, me, in which essence and energy attaches. I am able to look at this and find peace. This painting is how I see the world. What I take in shifts and changes depending on the angle, my mood, the people and events around me, and the energy of the moment.

There is a beautiful energy here.

Gratitude is immeasurable. I am gratitude.

I exist as joy and thankfulness. And I embrace all parts of me, however imperfect or fabulous they are deemed.

I know, that like the images I am creating, in my painting, and through the limited scope of my mind and eyes and senses, that everything is always changing and shifting. There is no need to pitch down a tent upon myself and force, or, better yet, try to force myself to be this way or that way for this purpose or for that purpose; because soon, none of what is now will exist.

I am a river. My life is a river. Silly to try to capture a river.

Blessings and Light,
Sam

333: Long overdue…It’s “Official”

February 23, 2013February 23, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

How cool is it that this is number 333 post? I loveeeeee the number three! Always have, always will. He is cute and springy and sweet and funny. Number three rocks. And there are three number threes!

It’s like the threes are celebrating the fact that I received my “official” diagnosis!

Yes, indeed…. Who would have guessed, but a psychologist has concurred (very kind man) that it is true, I am Aspergerian.

So it’s official; whatever that means.

Oddly enough, the whole validation of my “condition” was anti-climatic, as I was in a very serene and calm mood during my last appointment.

I kept waiting for the jolt of “Yeah, Baby” to hit me. But alas it never came.

I analyzed this lack of Wow-Factor for quite sometime, and concluded this balance of emotions was a positive and beneficial thing.

My freedom of self is expressed quite clearly in this recent painting called Surrender.

More recently, three hours last night, and two hours this morning, I worked on this piece. It is filled with emotion and energy for me. This one is called Home.

Interestingly, when I paint, I am mostly using a paper-towel as my tool. I start of with drawing free-formed designs with a pencil, letting spirit move me. Then I add some paint in globs. Then I rub off the paint and see what starts to pop out. I follow no rules and use odd techniques.

Mostly, I feel like a genius-sculpture waiting for the canvas to speak to me.

I have a unique perspective on images. I see things in my paintings and strongly, to the point of distraction and physical sensations, feel the energy.

I didn’t like this image in my original painting. The shape seemed dark to me, almost evil. It looks like a dead animal or beast. I had to remove this by erasing with water and adding more paint.

This image really bothered me, too.

Often parts of my works feel heavy and unfinished, and I have to erase, reapply, and step back. If I see an image I don’t like in a painting, like this one above, of a succubus hooked on to the teddy bear’s head, I have to restart and free the energy. I have to remove the energy vampire, so to speak.

I feel this energy intensely, and feel it is either attached to me, a loved one, or both. So I rework and rework the piece until the energy is released.

I can recognize so much healing during the process, and I become almost hypnotic and lost in my creation.

The painting experience is similar to writing, wherein I cannot use certain colors, brush strokes, angles, shapes, etc. (with writing it is words, sentence structure, rhythm, etc.) without feeling a blockage that I must remove.

For me, everything in life is alive with energy: words, colors, shapes, feelings.

All in all, the art of painting is becoming a soothing mechanism for me both energetically and emotionally.

I am pleased with this new Painter aspect of me: the breaking through of self and displaying of self on canvas. It is another form in which I feel someone might be able to see me beyond the facade of my human flesh/costume.

I still find the creation of faces doubly-daunting, as I cannot grasp faces, not others’ and not even my own. So I am struggling with the releasing of “face.” A concept I find mimics my own personal trials: That of releasing the image of self.

I have a great sense of peace, as of late; partially because I stopped taking this hormone pill that was making me have complex, rapid thoughts (can you imagine!! as my thoughts are already so complex!)…induced hyper-thyroid. But mostly because I have started to listen to my own self. I have started to believe in the magic of the world again. I have started to see that inside of me is so much beckoning to get out. And I have chosen the magic over the misery. Something that is long overdue.

332: Letting Go

February 20, 2013February 20, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

***
I drove 1700 miles over the four-day weekend.
I grounded myself in my roots near the ocean-side of the Monterey California Peninsula.
I spent the weekend with my dear aunt, a devout and very loving Catholic.
I slept in my nana’s and nano’s room that has been untouched by the years, with aged prints of Mother Mary and Jesus set about me.
I slept in their bed, where they’d slept so many years together, long ago, before they passed on to another place.
And I felt remarkable healing.

I drove alone, and had in total, through several trips, over a day’s traveling time, some twenty-six hours alone on the road.
I prayed a lot. I laughed and I cried.
I sang to music.

I found myself again.
I didn’t let the invisible fear slip in.
Each time I felt a pain in my body or mind, I released the fear to God, and watched as thoughts evaporated and lightness entered me.
I didn’t hurt, despite my muscle condition; I was able to sit for an extended time and remained energetic and able to function at a high-level.
I was happy.
I was me and loved my company.

I was nurtured by loved ones and by myself, well-fed to the point of my chubby cheeks and lovely soul growing a few inches.
I nurtured every part of me. I walked and slept deeply.
Each night, in my grandparents’ room, I was blanketed in the deepest warmth and adoration. I have never felt such love.
I awoke refreshed and renewed.

The visions still came and are still coming, and so is the sadness, sorrow, and suffering. But there remains so much hope and thoughts of goodness to come. And I recognize the goodness is already here. Right here in me.

I am realizing with this traveling of body and spirit that I was happiest when I was teaching. I was happiest when I had a reason to get up and get out of the house, a responsibility beyond appointments and housecleaning and driving.

I am searching now, inside, wondering where I will go next, what my soul longs for, and whom she longs to be with. I miss the company of others, and realize that although my recent social isolation felt necessary that I now wish to return to a semblance of the life I had before, when I moved in the world more frequently with others and when I was confident in my work.

I have hidden a lot in the past twelve years, since I left the public schools, hidden at home and in my own thoughts. I have too much time to think, too much time to process and worry, and too much opportunity to over-weigh my choices and decisions repeatedly.

I need to be, and in my being, I need to be with other people more. I need to create friendships and connections here, in this place I have lived for almost three years. It’s time to stop searching for me and just be.

I have set some “goals” for myself, loose ones with no restrictions or necessity, no demands or “musts” attached, just ideas that I am releasing to my higher power, creations of whom I’d like to be again. Not just the part of me I released over a decade ago, but the part of me that had so much joy and eagerness for life.
I am slowly finding her, rekindling her flame.

I had to let myself burn in the fire awhile, slowly cinder there in deep reflection of self and my travels.

But I think I’m done with that now, the analysis and ins and outs of who this person that is me be.

I know I am love and light.
I know I am beautiful.
I know I am worthy of love and adoration.

I know I have an abundance of love and service to give.
And now I release this part of me, this “pain body,” this searcher, this wanderer continually searching for that which is nowhere to be found.
For I am here. I always have been, as has my God.

And so I am trusting in my next steps, not so much blindly, but with the legion of selves I have created at my side, cheering me on;
and I am releasing, with every part of my self, all pain to the higher realm.

I am releasing. I am letting go. And in so doing, I am free.

Blessings and love,
Sam

I find his music to be very healing. I memorized this song. It’s gorgeous, as is his spirit.

This is who I am:

329: Oops! I did it again! Who the Beep Am I?

February 11, 2013February 11, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.

And through the tears, I started punishing myself saying, “This is ego; don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”

Until I remembered that by focusing on ego, I simultaneous give ego power!

One of the things weighing heavy on my mind is this chameleon presto-chango act I do.

As chameleon, I have perfected several degrees of metamorphosis. I do this by mimicking someone else (real), a character (tv), or the stereotypical characteristics of a specific role (detective/when I was 8).

I’m quite good at imitation; I can pretty much take on any role to perfection.

It’s like a hidden talent. A type of hidden talent that seems like it would come in handy, like double-agent-Jacquelyn-Smith-from-Charlie’s-Angels handy. But it doesn’t. It just pretty much sucks.

Case in point, when I first moved to the state of Washington, two and a half years ago, I meet a spiritual teacher I admired.

Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Some part of my subconscious brain screamed, upon the acquaintance of this lady; and then, without telling me, some part of me set about to transform. Not to be her exactly. I mean I didn’t want to live in her house or steal her husband; that’s kind of loony, fatal-attraction-psycho-scary. But a piece of me did mean to clone her using my body. Hmmmmm.

In regards to this one woman, I learned how to mimic her voice, how to dress like her, and then studied to become a spiritual counselor, just like her! Surprise. Turns out I make a pretty good spiritual counselor. And, even after I tossed her persona out, I kept her cool, mellow voice. Bonus!

I think this self-discovery of self acting out a role that is not actually true self, has to be one of the oddest sensations known to mankind. And you can't really debate me, unless you've experienced this; and if you have experienced this taking on of roles without your conscious knowledge, then I am certain you would agree with me about the oddness factor, anyhow.

For all you non-chameleon types, the presto-chango experience is akin to being possessed by another life form or like being in a drunken spell for several months, and wondering what you did during those black out moments. Only you never black out completely, just a part of your awareness does. Maybe it's like waking up and finding out you have had a third hand for a few months but didn't even see it or know you were using it.

How, with my keen observation and analytical skills, I could not see my very own self doing something so obvious confuses me.

I imagine, beyond my ability to see, somewhere inside of me is a tug-of-war, where the participants are fighting: This way; be like her, be like her! No this way; be like her, be like that!

Which leads me to today.

Lately,I have been having a lot of spiritual experiences.

I am woken about three in the morning to vivid spiritual lessons. I am still half-asleep, but very aware that the lessons are occurring. But before I awake fully, most of everything is erased. Sometimes it’s poetry, other times images, sometimes Biblical verse. Also, I have been having powerful prose just pour out of me. And I have felt grand moments of serenity, peace, and healing. All of this is divine, in and of itself; the only trouble is that a part of me, that subconscious part, has been latching on to a new role; that of guru, or seer, or prophet, or even martyr. And it doesn’t help that my mom, who is always overly proud of me, bless her heart, is sending me links to saints!

And it all kind of sucks big time. Because that role of a seer, unlike suburban bimbo bunko player, is super serious and frankly no fun at all. And yes, I did the suburban bimbo bunko player part well, until I realized the acting had just about crushed the whole of me.

Oh, poo poo, crap, yuck-o!I so don’t want to drive down another road of roles again! “No way!” she exclaims. She being me, and flipping off ego, to boot.

To get sucked down the hairy drainpipe of yet another role will kill me. And this one role of the perfect seer is just too much.

I was already too serious (INFJ, Idealist, Cancerian, Only child, Aspie)…label Queen I be. How could I get more serious?

Crap! Where am I?

Damn it! (ahhhhhhh)

I’m tired of this role playing. I’m just plain tired. I’m turning in my costumes for good. I don’t care if the rest of me protests. I just can’t live anymore pretending. And if my brain won’t listen to me, then I’ll just have to take measures into my own hands.

Today was a step in the right direction. I figured out what I’d been doing, again. And then did something to symbolically stake my claim for change. I am happy. I am relieved. And I am excited… Unless, of course I am a seer channeling Shirley Temple and perfecting the role of a twelve-year-old, which is pretty darn possible.

And just to think two days ago, I was wondering if since I’ve been married and had kids, if I could still join a nunnery, and if my kids could live there, too, and my husband could have those special type of visits. I figured, likely not.

Here’s what I did today! So twelve and so loving it!

Hugs and big juicy kisses ~ Sam