375: Dark Virtues

Knock, knock, knock: This is judgment, I appear at your door, turning the knob, and begging you so. Come take me, release me, contour your edges into me; through your threshold bring me forward, that I may dance in your own silhouette and teach you of your great imperfection.

Oh, dear judgment, I see you, I recognize you, and I embrace you; come hither and dance in my bedsheets of imperfection. Penetrate me with your disillusioned skill, for I see your shape, pure disguise, a mask of humiliation set to place on my presentation. I know you well, the way you drive like screw into the bare parchment of my soul. Come here, closer, and delve into me and you shall find pureness and love and rapture. I am nothing of this calamity you claim, nothing of this disapproval or blasphemy. Smear my very name across your bedskirts, wind me round the posts, trumpet my calling of failure across the curtains billowed, out into the open free air. For I have dived into my deepest soul and found what lies there, a truth beyond this illusion you carry, in the creases of your darkening cloak. You cannot scour me with your lies or misgivings, as I banish them out with the same plate as fear. Feed you to the masses of angels readily waiting with appetite fierce to turn miserly offerings into blessings abundant. I hear you, I feel you, I take you fully, your bride-mistress, and here I sink my teeth into and divide you into smitherings; nothing but vanishing truths slithering away to the aforementioned hole in which you slithered from. I am higher than the serpent tongue with God’s grace at my glorious side, and your ways no longer tempt me; even as you breathe heavily into my ear, whispering of your knowing. For I know the truth of me, the light, the realism of fortitude, the castle rendering me angel in the heart. So go, my love, if I may call you so, leaving the residue of your scattered goodness, the crumbly truffles of reprieve and reflection in the trail of your lost dignity. Here I shall meander and nibble, eating of the limbs of you, the humility of resurrection. Treat me not to your judgment, oh unraveled one, for there is nothing in my ability that cannot devour you rightly so, and leave you shaking, the helpless shadow you be.

Knock, knock, knock: This is pride, I nibble at your doorstep, anchoring your goodness in my arms, rocking you like babe to chest, my precious adored one. How special you be, how singled out, how entirely worthy of my praise and gratitude. You are like kindle to my black-heart’s fire, though dead I be, you liven me with your coming.

Oh, dear pride, tisk, tisk, tisk, my precious one. How merrily you wait upon my stepping stones, waiting for the appearance of my smile. Do you not know that upon entering, I shall, like the visitors before and after, devour you in my sweetness? Your poisonous ways cannot beseech me. I see through you as the clear night sky to the endless stars. I see you in the ebony of my master’s eyes. His way, His gaze, His blessing set upon me through His gentle watching. You cannot abode me in your phantom glory, for you are no lesser or greater than the trespasser dressed in borrowed belongings, garbed in riches and dreams that do not beget me and fit me less than the horns upon the ram righteous and strong. I cannot lean into you, no less, less you jam into me first, and inject me with your venom pure, forge me onward for the coming of His name. For I know not how to go round you, evade you, or leave your plentiful sight without first taking you fully into me, and letting you bend in my very blood, your harboring devilish ways. Eat at me from the inside out and I shall ache and wane in the misery, knowing that when you rise again, less fed than drowned in my goodness, that I shall be the one victorious, claiming your opportunity vanquished and wiped out with the faith of my Lord. For you are but nothing, this glamorous foe, fooled by your own malice making. So come, come now, sweet cavernous pride, and ride me as the black rides the night, and I shall set my shining soul upon your stale skin and reach into the very heart of yours, pull out the tentacles and claim you naught. For you, above all, are illusion set out to cast the demon from my very mind, and spark him life. And for this I give you recourse, for this I give you your own filthy ways, a tar pit of mercy, for you to sink and harbor thusly in.

Knock, knock, knock: This is fame, sleeping at your staircase, my eyes set on the glory of your coming, my head set at your feet, bowing down in recognition of your name. Climb down the spiraling heights of you, and play with me, in your magnificence, so I may kiss this beauty known as you.

Oh, dear fame, I am coming. I hear you calling, but I rise up from the depths of you, neither ascending nor descending, but appearing as your equal. I carry nothing of the glory and gifts you speak or imagine, and nothing of me remains in the sight of you. For to see myself as lowly creature risen, I must see you as risen creature lowered. And still, as little and feeble as you be, I am no less worthy than the weakest that treads. And so I sit here at your own feet, imprisoned less in the light you display as good deeds, and more in the agony you set in my heart by calling me forward so. For how can I dance in a light that is mine when I cannot dance in the light that is you? How can I begin to proclaim my light worthy of the dance at all, and beg you to uphold the illusion you create me to be? Oh, grand fame, can you not see I am not made to be this phantom hero dressed in honors and badges of mighty? I am born to be given as the sacrifice, spread out and slayed, so that in my ruins the light from above may find me and shine down. So the very light of our world may seek refuge in my scarcity and inadequacy, and shine that much brighter. How can I shine for one, when the One I shine for is brighter than the heaven’s gates that beckon? No, my wavering fame; you are much less real than dream. Something I once touched long ago, and ran swiftly from, as one seized by the lion’s mouth does; for as I was almost bitten in your demise, I would rather remain caged in the glory of recognition from above, than in the praises of the phantom ghosts that chew away at my bones. Bid me not your partner rich, but sit upon my very lap, so I may adjust my view, and peer into the depths of you. And here I will remain until the story unfolds and the end remains unturned, your catered promises brought out in the open of day and laid out for all to peer upon. Here I can laugh, and with each chuckle disperse you into the air from which you came, lesser than dust, and greater than the deepest darkness. Here you can live, in the wind, as the wind is invisible yet pushes, and turns what was ripe and growing into dead droppings spoiled.

324: A quiet thump of faith

Something very interesting is happening: Every time I share something spiritual I feel as if I need to turn around and share something more Asperger-y or logical.

I am afraid to ostracize or hurt someone based on my own spiritual beliefs.

And I am afraid to offend.

I have reached a place, as of late, (a very recent as of late), in wherein I am less and less inclined to want to explain or justify my actions; not because I am angry or righteous, or think I have all the answers, but simply because I have gained a greater acceptance of self and my path.

Still, there remains a definite part of self that wishes to compile a list of reasons why I am spiritual and why I choose to share my spirituality.

It doesn’t feel ego-based, this need to explain, but more spirit-based, like a deeper region wanting to pour out.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I don’t want my writings here (on this blog) to turn into a means of spiritual prophecy and discussion, while at the same time I do not want to deny any parts of emerging self.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I know there is a sector of the world that still doubts there is a source or higher-self, and that when one mentions such a truth (individualized truth as it be), that walls and barriers are immediately shot up.

My intention is not to inject religious banter or rhetoric into anyone, but to express a part of my self, or soul, as you will. My intention is not to ever push my beliefs on anyone, as I know the harm this type of action can cause, and the hypocrisy involving aspects of judgment that occurs.

I am, for the most part, not a judgmental person, and thusly, I think it is improbable I could ever be a Thumper for Jesus; but quite frankly, I think that Jesus never meant for souls to be reached through blatant and oppressive means, and that He himself would be saddened and ill-stricken by the greed and want that oozes out of those that once call themselves “ordained by God.”

Of course, when it comes to certain topics, say: religion, politics, and life-philosophy, and heck, even autism, some people become adamantly vigilant and judgmental.

I think this is where there is a definite barrier between how I think and view life, and how others think and view life. Well, at least mainstream others.

For instance, I can be watching a show where terrible abuse or violence is happening, and even though I feel empathy for the victim, I do not feel judgment towards the persecutor.

I have tried. I cannot.

And it’s not that I haven’t been a victim of others’ hands myself. If I feel anything at all towards the one deemed the “wrong doer,” whether in fictional television or my own real life, it is a strong compassion for the “wrong doer” and state of affairs in his or her life that lead to this person to do said acts.

Of course, I recognize injustice and cruelty, and will make a stand in the best way I can to protect those in harm. In fact, cruelty is the reason I don’t eat meat. However, in finding the exact place to point the finger at the wrong doer is where I stray.

Take the meat industry for instance. Do I blame the breeder, the butcher, the grocery store, the restaurant, the consumer? Who is more to blame or less to blame? And how do I draw the line or hold the scale? And whose job is it to judge and determine the degree of right or wrong? For I certainly don’t think it’s mine.

This can get me into trouble sometimes, even in my marriage. Just tonight we were watching a show that depicted a country that still treats women as subordinates. My husband voiced his opinion. I could not concur. I explained that I don’t feel judgment, at least not the adamant-I-am-right type of judgment. I see too many variables, too many strings leading to other strings of theory and plausible cause. I see all the suffering in the world, in our own community and country, and I think: How do I even begin to choose which suffering is to a greater or lesser degree

And I think: How can one be blamed for something that he is taught since birth? Or another blamed for a deficit of mind or strangling of spirit?

Again, this isn’t to say I am heartless; I feel deeply for the suffering of all, and wish to lift this pain, and take it upon myself to make a difference in a way that feels natural to me. And it isn’t to say I don’t see the necessity of some having a burning, hot passion for change, for without such temperaments, change would be slow to come, if at all. I am saying I don’t have this in me, whatever this THIS be.

Whether I am right or wrong in my making, I stake no claims. But I know I am built for passive resistance of harmful intention and built to embrace and spread love. I am not built to hate.

To me life is a question without complete answers; and I have found that piling partial answers upon partial answers buries the soul. For me it is easier to give in and give up my quest to the hands of my higher power, than to search for a semblance of justice through the inevitable persecution of some.

In regards to my spirituality, my faith is my rock.

Within my faith, I know I am divine energy.

Through my faith I have been able to remedy much of my past insecurities, and likewise render myself valuable and worthy.

I cannot help but to love myself, for I am the very vessel that love pours through.

This is not to say I love the substance of me, or to indicate a prideful relationship with ego; this is merely to say I love the vessel I be; the holder of the cup, He is someone other than self, as is the substance. So it is not that I love the whole of me, but that I love the part endowed by my maker to be held and poured through.

This has brought me great peace, this acceptance of a part of self touched by divine, for I have suffered with bouts of pride over self, and have begged repeatedly for mercy and relief of self.

Once I determined I wasn’t self-incarnate, but indeed vessel for a higher-purpose, I was able to accept a part of me with adoration, while retaining what I think to be a semblance of humility. Thusly to me, my faith is my slayer of pride, at least the part of pride I am able to release and no longer hold onto.

In addition my faith, explains to me, at least to a vast part of self, that who I am is okay and what is happening is okay.

I believe things happen as they are meant to be. This does not meant if an infant is sick and passes away that I stand and proclaim that all is meant to be, for there is still a degree of suffering that occurs that feels unjust and painfully cruel. Life can be cruel, just as life can be powerfully divine.

But I do agree with the Eastern ancient messages found in the proverbs and folk tales that explain that nothing can be deemed beneficial or bad, because with the passing of time all perceptions of events change.

I am a cup half-full kind of gal; always have been, always will be. There is no way around this. And this, too, to a lesser degree, is why I seek out a higher purpose. For there has to be a higher purpose to substantiate all the suffering in the world, or I simply could not exist one more moment.

I believe, too, in miracles.

I hold onto miracles, like I hold onto destiny, and in turn hold onto faith. I have these three as not my crutches, but my strongholds: the sails that never fade and never tear and move me through the sea of my days.

So where I would like to have my writings, at times, not describe the elements of my faith and belief systems, I think with my extreme, say “pathological,” honesty, that this absence of an aspect of me would be an impossibility.

However, I repeat, I would rather no one think I am trying to push my belief systems onto him or her, as I know the harm and drudgery that such self-serving and righteous indoctrination can hinder.

Yes, I hold Jesus in my heart, but my heart is big and there is room for a lot more company. My Jesus likes company. He likes compassionate souls of all race and creed.

It is mankind that put Jesus asunder and twisted His truth through profiteering, slander, misconduct, greed, and mistranslation of His word. I know this with every bone in my body, and often become disheartened that I live in a time where man has the means to turn the very representation and embodiment of forgiveness and sacrifice into sin, or at least the common understanding of “sin,” as even this word at root has not been accurately transcribed and translated.

And so it is, I share a piece, though a small piece it be, of my thoughts. Not so much to help the reader, but to dispel some my own whispers of mind, the old whispers from long ago, reminding me to be careful and to watch where I step, as the wolves are about. The whispers that would rather me hush than rush to share my truth.

For you see, it isn’t really that I have a choice. I have never had a choice but to be me. The only main difference now is that if and when the whispers resurface I know and recognize that I have a legion of angels at my side.

314: The Sword of Truth

I think from where I come from there are no wolves.

I think where I used to live there are lots of givers and seekers and dreamers.

I think where I used to stand there was a huge glowing light of acceptance and love.

I think I was surrounded by kinship.

I think I was supported for my truth and vision.

I think that some of us have come from somewhere else, still carrying our light.

And I am often so very homesick.

I am careful. And I grow tired of this carefulness.

For where I come from, I don’t think there was this word careful, or at least not the implications and stitching that created the concept of careful. It is backwards, this word, backwards indeed. For to be careful one moves back into fear, always back, and I just don’t think fear existed where I was before.

Yet, still, this careful seems to be the sword I carry, unable to set it down, unable to really use it effectively, as all things stemmed from fear produce nothing but more fear. No beauty comes from careful. No beauty at all.

Though when I attempt to set down this phantom sword, coated in fear’s gold it be, I am pierced as if ribbons of shield have been peeled down about my chest and daggers thrown through, one upon the other; no less victim than victorious one, but still shattered and broken, staggering pain replacing the falsehood of fear.

And here, where I now stand, pained, there seems to be flowers of strife, shooting up black and withered-whole in bleakness from the dead and dying ground; these flowers seem to be trickery, enticing trickery, bleed out upon us in satisfaction, though empty-satisfaction it be.

And I watch as others pick at the illusion. Pick away.

And I want to shout: Careful; though I know this careful, as black flowers dead, does not exist.

And I stand witness, these wolves about, painting flowers black themselves, in hopes of passerby. Eating up self, though poison it be. Lapping at the dark fed out and bled out.

And I know not what to do, with this truth of illusion, of these givers who give not, of these wanters who want not, of all these dancers in illusion, from where I stand aware.

Shall I stop? Shall I watch? Shall I just breathe and wait for the embers of their very own self-inflicted fires to dim? Shall I dare touch while flame still scorches—to stand in the path created by the field-seekers, the ones destined to not so much fail, but to fall into self in a way so foreign that self is forgotten and all that remains is dim hope calling out from the corners of unreachable nowhere.

What do I dare do, when home calls out to me, some forever beacon lifting the veil of my senses and perspective? Do I call out, or stand here drowning in the destructive showers of reason mankind thrusts upon me?

What shall be my way, when I can barely touch and find where I am meant to be?

For I am not some forever-masked dancer bending down in retreat and hollowing burrows for my own escape. I am this dance within dance. I am the music without form. I am what moves the other to ecstasy and what cowers in the darkness afraid to shine.

For where I look, I know not what to do, but to sit out at the edges and wait while the divine calls me forward, motions me with finger-light:

“Come my child, come. Come dance in this place of no dance. Eat in this place of no eatery. Divulge thyself in the goodness that is naught, so you may pierce thine own heart and bleed out the falseness of the world.

Come my child, to this place of darkness and shine bright, shed the mask for my glory, and see me in all. Placate me, this once. Dance in the danger pleading for rescue. Dance in the danger diving for retreat amongst the living. Fear this place as I have feared and then move beyond the fear, to the one you recognize, to your home, that stands waiting beneath the dance, beneath the tango of refuge, beneath the floor, beneath the music, behind the masks of makers; find me there, amongst the dance, before you forget where I be.”

And I respond, a shivering leaf of one, no less and no more than the piles of eternity before and beyond me:

Blow me to this place of sorrow, to this place of pain, to the deepest place of hurt, and let me bleed. Let me gorge out my own eyes so that I may see.

Let me dance out my own steps, until my own feet give way, and I am forced to be carried away to the darkness of my own making.

Take me and lead me to this valley, with my own hands and own mind, take me.

Take me, like you have my masters before me, and spread me out in painted red, so I may bleed and in this bleeding weep out the tears of all.

Take me and pound me into the earth, my veins the very mystery of your forever soul. For there is not taking in the making of one, there is no giving in the haunting whispers of sorrow’s song, only misery beyond misery, plight of the foreigner in foreign land.

Least let me not suffer for self and self alone. Let me suffer for all. For in my own suffering may I find release in the reckoning that my suffering be not in waste, and not of need of rescue or refinement, but fortified by your wishes and ever-movement, blended with your glory and honor, and slaughtered out in division of whole as bounty for the wolves.

Let me be the bait for the misery and enticed ones; let me be the horror that the others seek in self, so I might find the avenue of retreat beyond the hauntings that no longer exist beneath your sheltered wings.

Let me cry out to the world, so loudly that my own piercing deafens the silence that besets me. The silence of where I once stood in knowing.

Whisper me back into the place of forgiveness. Speak me into being. Beyond the valley of your goodness, carry me home.

Breathe into me, I beseech you. Breathe into me your goodness, so I may erase all that is flawed and forged, all that is forgotten. Breathe into me so I may awake refueled and renewed, a star child no less bright than the dimmest star but still existing in your painted sky of eternity.

Feed me from the misery I pour out; turn what is wasteland in to purity, the soils rich with your own bounty and making. Dim me once and then again. Smother me so I can sit in the darkening nowhere. Dim me so I may not know my own face, my own ways, my own words. Dim me into the doom of doom so I may awaken rebirthed again and again in your glory.

For it is not the darkness I fear. It is neither the wolves or the shield of fear that carries me back. It is thy own self, wrapped in the misery of others’ before me and beyond. It is my own wishing, my own doing, my own bending, turning me round and round to the place from whilst I came. Turning me over to see that what is beneath is also about, beyond, and within. Making me this that is naught to return me to that which is eternal in sunrise gone. The light beyond light illuminating not from the desire of one but from the unity of whole.

For here is my sword of truth, turned sideways in fashion so fear begets the emptiness from which it came. Here is my sword positioned without cause or pretense. Dripping out the substance of nothing upon nothing until vanishing in the banquet of your coming.

Samantha Craft, 2013 February

308: Weakness

Weakness

A leader who feeds off his own authority
A learner who believes his words are the right words
A man who takes his own life
A widow who gives up hope on living
A child who runs from the bullies
A dancer who cries at audition
A doctor who lies to a patient
A rapper who slanders his father
A joker who criticizes himself
A wife who stays with the abuser
A person who claims life is too hard
A candidate who cheats to win
A scientist who presents false data
A listener who thinks she knows better
A friend who gossips
A gambler who has a system of winning
A mother who leaves her children
A daughter who banishes her father
A prisoner who escapes
A judge who accepts a bribe
An athlete who gives up on the race
A sister who weeps openly in public
A brother who drinks to feel numb
A street walker who gives of her body
A cop who deals drugs
A classmate who hides in the corner
A neighbor who cheats on her spouse
A grocery clerk who steals from the bin
A principal who harbors resentment
A test-taker who pays for the answers
A waiter who keeps more than his share in tips
A gymnast who takes steroids
A jailer who bludgeons the captive
Of which of these would you call weak?
Of which of these would you judge?
And still more, of which of these would you fear?
Are they not each a part of you?
Are they each not a collection of your perception?
Of what you have been taught is right and wrong?
And what of the murderer, the destroyer, the dictator, the martyr, the insane?
Which of these is wrong? Which of these is evil? Which of these is not enough?
The one you find the least in favor, is this the one you hold inside of you most?
Do you fear the rapist, the reaper, or the tramp?
The gambler, the preacher, or the false-prophet?
Which one shall be punished? If not all?
Who are you to say? What is it that gives you the right to declare the weakest? The worst? The one deserving punishment?
Is it the child molester then? Who shall it be?
Which one pulls on you to no end and makes you squirm?
Who is it that you cannot and will not love?
Is it the one who reminds you of fear or of self?
The one you cannot understand or will not understand?
The one that caused so much suffering to the innocent?
How do you know who has caused the most suffering?
How do you recognize this evil?
Have you not looked into your own soul?
Have you not dived within to see your own incompletion,
though you be whole?
Where inside of you does this judge live?
And how much suffering does this judge give?
Are you not the one who bleeds suffering?
Are you not the one who is the sufferer?
When you have removed the judgment, when you have stopped to see another as someone to be categorized, fitted, and placed into one of your boxes, then you shall see.
That all of us our God’s children. None of us more or less worthy.
You will see you were never meant to be the judge.
You were never made to be the evaluator.
You were built to love and love alone.
When you see the angry dog, vicious with his teeth out, do you judge the dog?
Do you think that is a wrong dog, a bad dog, a demon dog?
When you see a storm coming, do you judge the storm?
Do you think that storm was raised the wrong way, a storm that should know better, a false storm?
When you see a tree that falls down and crashes a home, do you judge the tree?
Do you think that is a vicious tree, an unjust tree, a tree that needs to be taught a lesson?
When you see the sea do you curse the waves?
When you see the sun do you curse the rays?
When you see the rain clouds do you curse the coming water?
What is it that you see?
What is it that you need?
Do you think because human has a mind that he is above nature?
Do you think that because he is above nature he should be judged?
Do you think that nature is not bestowed with the same giving spirit as you?
Do you not see the nature is as worthy as you?
And if both are of equal worth, than how can one be given different standards?
How can you not respond to man like nature: With your heart, with open eyes, with bewilderment and awe, with amazing grace.
This man before you is no less or no more than the sunrise each dawn, no more or less than the space that holds your spinning world, and yet you think you are more or less than him.
This makes no logical sense, as you are him.
You are each of the same seed.
Each birthed in beauty and magnificence.
Look upon each other as children of the universe, not as enemies of this land.
Join and you will no longer suffer in your separation.
Bleed out your truth, this truth though weak it seems, is the cornerstone of your foundation.
Your greatest weakness is your disbelief in self,
In your disbelief in your grand magnificence.
There is no weakness beyond this false belief.
And even that is not a weakness but opportunity.
For I have given you nothing but opportunity, for opportunity is the fabric of my love, ever-reaching, ever-growing, ever-nurtured.
There is none loved above you and none below.
So go out now and look at the sunset before you.
The one that God blows to your doorstep.
Breath him in. Bring in his wisdom.
For whatever touches you is a gift from beyond.
A gift for you to open: a gift to judge not with thine eyes, but with the heart of God.

~ Samantha Craft, January 2013

Lori Sealy is a woman whose voice, spirit, and message truly touch me. She is on the spectrum (ASD). I find her music healing.

This is Christian based.

https://soundcloud.com/#lori-sealy/song-of-the-afflicted-mix1

To find out more about this artist, go here:
On iTunes at:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/begone-unbelief/id585872741?i=585872804&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

And on Google Play at:
https://play.google.com/store/music/album/Lori_Sealy_Begone_Unbelief?id=Bbz3o5yjbzz6v2d5grbmtdaogva&feature=nav_top_albums#?t=W251bGwsMSwxLDUsImFsYnVtLUJiejNvNXlqYnp6NnYyZDVncmJtdGRhb2d2YSJd

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lorisealy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This woman is my spirit-given sister; here is a post that I found helped me very much.
http://alienhippy.wordpress.com/2011/10/26/uncluttered-what-are-you-doing-here/

Day 71: I Had a Dream

What has happened to me in the last five years. What goes on in my head.

Thank you for being part of my journey. You will never know how much you have healed me. Bless you.

As always, this is my journey and I am not trying to push my experience or belief system onto any person. Click here to see my thoughts on spirituality.

I Had a Dream

The Spring of 2005

Except for the light from the slivered moon the road was black.  My foot hit the pedal and I sped up faster and faster towards the tracks.   Mangled is what I wanted.  But I wouldn’t have the nerve to stop, to wait for a train.  There would have to be another way.  Perhaps a motel off the interstate, perhaps some pills and a forever sleep.  I shook away the thought and breathed a prayer.  “Please, help me.”

The ache of the past had become my own Siamese twin.  So much so, I didn’t know where my pain stopped and my true self began.  I was pain.  I was the past.  We shared the same blood.  Everything and anyone could conjure up bitter memories, especially certain sounds and smells.  Everyday was yet another rerun of all the misery I’d viewed before.  The scenery and characters might change, but the plot and outcome never altered.  I knew all the psychological jargon, the self-talk, the imaging, meditation, and so on; and they served as my air so to speak, the invisible space which kept me temporarily afloat as I waved back and forth in a stormy sea clinging to an inflatable raft filled with holes…

The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers

 

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 47: Ode to the Amazing Asperger’s Brain!

Fun Brain Musical Video  (Fun for All Ages!)

At the age of two and a half, from the backseat of the car, Joseph asked: “Who birthed God?” and “How do you know?”

Many People with Aspergers Have  a Strong Ability to:

Reason

Identify patterns

Think abstractly

Find creative solutions

Talk through problems

Adapt

 Look at old problems differently

Speak their mind irrespective of social norms and standards

Uphold an adherence to personal beliefs

Think of new ideas

Have a high focus level

Experience intrinsic reward through thought processing

 

Here’s a look inside the amazing brain of a child with Aspergers. Below are approximately 5% of the questions my thirteen-year-old son, Joseph, who has Aspergers, asked me during a week’s time. Joseph asks questions at random, seemingly from out of the blue.

This morning on a four-minute drive to school:

What if the earth was square. How would that affect gravity? Did people understand the world wasn’t flat after or before they discovered gravity? I wonder what the world would be like if we never discovered the earth was round. I probably wouldn’t even be here.

Yesterday morning, while sipping his green tea:

 I wonder how the world would have changed if we had inventions earlier? Like navigational devices for the Titanic. You never know. But then again, then Hitler would have had access to such inventions.

 Questions all in a row:

How come people are bald on their head and not on their arms? Why don’t they improve things? Like the Titanic. How come the Titanic Crashed? Why wasn’t it steal plated? Didn’t they have radar back then? What a minute. How can we be a trillion dollars in deficit? Whose job is it to make zippers? I just realized something: we need dumb people to do simple jobs. Not that all people who do simple jobs are dumb. But we need them.

A few days ago, in the car:

 If everything is digital now, are we living more in a fake reality or real reality? When you think about it we are accidentally unknowingly transferring things to different dimensions. I mean where does electricity all go? Is it in the clouds?

Fantastic Video on Genius of Autism

Quantum Physics Musical Video

Crazy Frog side note: My dog licks dishes from the dishwasher. Apparently other people’s dogs lick dishes out of dishwashers, too. Good to know!

30 Second video of dog licking dishes…Don’t ask!