spiritual

380: Star Poop and the Naked Boy-Toy!

| Aspergers Girls

young rob

Reader Beware: This is an example of what goes on in my head. (If you are bored, scan down to the end. Where my husband made a remarkable revelation!)

I was curious about some “things” and so I asked some random questions, as I seem to have a direct line to the collective unconscious of something or another; if you are comfortable with Carl Jung, let’s go there to the expansive wave of collective thoughts—the whole hundredth monkey theory.

If you are comfortable with inner-awareness, let’s go there, into the deep spaces of my untraveled mind, the pieces I have gathered from multitude of sources, and pinned together into a cohesive, almost understandable oneness.

If you like the idea of aliens in space beaming down prophetic knowing through the crystal in my cranium, let us travel there, into the ameba of oneness, or in this case the enema of oneness.

(You know in a bad comedy how they hint to the dumb audience what they were referring to, and you are part of this assumed “dumb” audience, and you say to your partner, or buddy, or invisible ghost friend: “Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Well I kind of feel like a producer of a bad comedy, with me as the star, and I truly don’t want to direct you to why the word “enema” connects to the title, so I won’t. But just thought I’d pause to explain, as that is why you tuned into this channel I am supposing. Oh, and if you think I think you are a dumb audience then you are, but if you don’t think that then you’re not. It’s all a matter of perspective.)

Or how about angels and God, those are fun places to venture, as there are always four camps it seems: the believers, the objectors, the debaters, and the unattached (aka: zen, enlightened, or I don’t give a hooting fricken chicken’s butt).

I wonder why that four-camps theory doesn’t work with the whole alien theory—there doesn’t seem to be the fanatical thing attached to alien theories, (unless you’ve been beamed up, of course)—maybe because they don’t threaten man’s perception of reality. Maybe green little men are easier to comprehend than God/Creator/Life Force. “I mean look at how huge the universe is! Aliens must be somewhere,” Earl said. With me responding, “Yeah, who cares about how the universe got here! There must be aliens!”

Perhaps you are comfortable with hovering spirits or guiding ancestors, in that case these are some pretty smart relatives and ghosts I have about.

Or perhaps, you liken the appeal of genius-aspie, as you yourself are on the spectrum or married to someone with Aspergers (lucky, lucky you!); and the whole genius aspect is intriguingly-comforting in that “I am so awesome” kind of way, or in that “at least she’s got that going for her” way.

Ideally, you think this is all utter nonsense, babblings of a mad woman who has falling off her rocker and can’t get up and has no device to contact the aliens to beam her up, or voice to beckon the spirits or angels, and no means to direct the hundredth monkey to fly down for rescue. Ideally, I say, because, how you see me doesn’t much matter. You will interpret me. I have no control over that. And honestly I don’t want to control you, unless you are chocolate; then I would like to control you and digest you. And that’s where the fun is, in eating you as chocolate, and in knowing in this moment in space, that you see in me what you see in yourself. Hehehe, you are so ________.

It doesn’t matter if you think I am a nutter. But if you are having trouble deciphering who you are, please insert chocolate.

Recently, I am thinking that I become magically transformed by your perception of me. If this theory is true, as some sages claim it to be, then somewhere I exist as a thousand replicas… time travel in its purest form!

(Remember, way up there, in my first big paragraph, I mentioned I was curious about some things…well I haven’t forgotten to get to the end of that point. I am sort of time traveling in my mind from one thought to the next, but eventually I will get to the place I was originally headed. Or not.)

I spoke to a special friend today, I call second mom, because she is so fabulously sweet. She actually counts me as one of her daughters, which makes me think she seriously is deranged—which is further proof we see in others who we believe ourselves to be.

My second Mummy (for my UK readers, Mummy instead of Mommy—comedy producer doubting audience) was the victim of my verbal spillage. I HAD to tell her most of what had happened to me in the last three weeks (Verbal Vomit.) The whole time I spilled, another “better,” and much more spiritually-matured part of self, I call the observer (or sexy goddess, depending on my mood) watched with a Buddha-grin, as I was split into two distinct forces: 1) my inner guru/semi-saint and my 2) excited-aspie-persona; then someone came and sat behind the observer watching all of us: the observer, the guru, and the aspie. Sometimes they all merged into one, and other times the guru and aspie were sparring, while the observer remained cautious. And the guy behind the observer, he resembled my angels and laughed at me. When I think about how I was able to see the man behind the man behind the me, my head hurts.

(I think as the observer as a man; no stereotypical reasons I can offer. I likely have God-abandonment issues. But the person watching the observer, I think she is a woman. So ultimately the she-me is in control; until I start to think about who is beyond her. Then I need a brain-enema.)

I decided spilling my thoughts onto my sweet mummy was liken to a little girl who had just opened a bunch of presents (toys) and has a strong desire to share them ALL at one time. And thusly, quite dynamically and swiftly, in a span of two hours, I ended up burying my dear sweet one into a huge gigantic heap of toys.

In the end, she was under a massive pile of wooden toy blocks, because figuratively speaking, I had built a gigantic castle right on top of her sprawled out body. Way down low, beneath the block castle, peering up from the moat, was dear second-MUM! While I swung from the castle turrets hollering with glee: “Hello down there!” (wearing a purple princess dress). We surmised, together, that this was okay, me burying her and spilling upon her and such, as I let her keep, after some discussion, not a Stretch Armstrong doll, not a Six-Million-Dollar-Man doll, not a Donny Osmond doll, but a Rob Lowe doll, to play with and make her very own. With this she was giggly-happy, my seventy-year old second MUM… She was especially happy after I mentioned the imaginary Rob Lowe doll was completely naked! Yes! Naked. As I’d removed all of his clothes.

rob lowe

Yes, this is my life. And I kind of like it.

As my self-proclaimed second-mom and I were speaking, before I buried her completely in my new found toys, I had mentioned about a previous vision; and my special friend, very special indeed to be buried in my toys, well she said the vision I retold to her helped her a lot. The vision I had, which I shared partially a ways back, was a breaking point for my personal healing, much like my mum’s naked boy-toy.

In this past vision, I was shown a room, a vast room filled with a thousand people. There was a stage, and each person took his or her turn getting on stage and saying what he or she thought of me. Not all of them, as even with the ability I seemingly have to STOP TIME, I didn’t want to hear the lot of them. And so, through this vision, I listened through the visual representation of imagery. And in so doing, in being there in this vision, I was taught without word, but through energetic form, that each person in the room, every single one of them, had a unique individualized view of me.

I understood, instantly and with great inner depth, too complex to relate in words of any longevity, that no two people’s perspectives of me would ever be the same. That for another to perceive me as the “real” or “actual” me was an impossibility. I was further shown that in choosing what perceptions of me seemed to be the true perception of who I was, I would have to draw some sort of imaginary line of separation. I would have to choose. For instance, would I take the top twenty who spoke great of me? Or the bottom ten that spoke ill of me? The ones in the middle? The ones with mixed feelings? Or the perceptions that they had at a different moment, say next week, or next year? When they left the room and their life experiences changed, would I still want that same perception? Was I willing to define myself by ever-changing dependent variables, and more so base my sense of worth, and emotional state, even vibrational energy, on the ebb and flow of the perception of masses? On examining this room, I was able to come to the conclusion that the thought of basing my identity on so much uncertainty and constant variation, was not only exhausting, but entirely unpredictable and unreliable. In seeing this, and drawing swift recognitions, I accepted I would rather be something simple, something I could hold onto and embrace. I would rather be a light—nothing more and nothing less. And beyond that perhaps nothing, even the nothingness behind nothing. Here I was able to accept that I was all of these perceptions of the people in the room and at the same time I was none of them. I existed somewhere unattainable in between, in the infinite space between two whole numbers, the never ending decimal.

(End of powerful vision, and start of brief intermission.)

The only issue with my identity I am having now, beyond the sparring guru and aspie, and the endless observers that alternate genders, and the God-abandonment issues, and… is that as of late, I seem to morph into different personas depending what life force is perceiving me, (who I am talking to or nearby), and sometimes animals, like monkeys or my dog, or even my pet cedar tree, Fred. This can pose a huge problem; I mean what if I am in close proximity to a pole-dancer?

And finally, what my main point was, some seven pages ago, is presented below. The lingering questions I had answered by the life force of something or another, whom doesn’t care what I call it, as long as I understand the whole non-attachment thing. All of this I was mostly shown in the span of a five-minute drive home. I tried to recapture the thoughts/vision/knowing with the help of the monkeys, but we have obviously had one too many bananas. And so I offer you, what the observer of the observer of the observer, aptly titled: Star Poop. And in which I thought later, after typing this all out: The Crap that comes out of my head and stars’ butts.

*******STAR POOOP*******

My question: “Am I creating a need for others to suffer by wanting to be of service to others?”

Yes, however the truth is in the words you choose to use, not in your intention.

If your intention is to truly serve, then where is this foundation?

If the foundation is love, then the need is based on love.

Therefore, remove only the remaining attachment of the word “need” and replace with the word “open,” and you may simply restate: I am open to love.

This, “open to love,” can mean many things, including open to service, if you deem partaking in service a form of giving love.

Likewise, if you say you “need to create,” and this is from love, then you are “open to creation.” Love works in this same manner, as being open to creation, though love is the foundation of all. So when one speaks: “I am open to love,” he is thusly “open to creation,” and open to anything he deems beneficial under the umbrella of love.

If one then asks: “But what of this love?,” and in so doing recognizes readily that even love then has boundaries, for surely he thinks one cannot love while creating hatred; then he has met the point of openness in which he might ask: “Let me be open.”

In this state, a state without need, and a state without the boundaries of love, (as love is a concept created for union and not division, and love is subtracted in the sight of separation), than one is better able to comprehend the vastness of open.

For is not “one being open,” imply open to any “thing;” in one being open to anything, he is thusly the distinguisher of fear, and thereby recognizes that love can be manifested in what would previously have been deemed “hatred.” For all are our teachers.

If hatred is a teacher that pulls us out of self and closer to egoless, or our true being state, then hatred surely is love.

This is to say: Turn the other cheek, but in turn, turn the other as well: the hidden cheek of humility.

It is not enough, to choose to turn away in physical form. To turn away in spiritual form, the mirror of illusion peering outwards into the mirror of illusion, and therefore releasing the thought before thought of self, is to truly turn away. Or in other terms, to turn forward and into self, by turning out of self, this is the measure of turning the cheek: to turn the various views of self long enough to render no self. In this state you are truly open to love, and there by an empty vessel for hatred.

Here, in this state of openness, you become openness, and in turn in being open, you are being self. This is a circle, as all life is, and without circle life is not.

Next question: “Did I tell a truth that wasn’t a complete truth, and is it better to speak the whole truth?”

A truth spoken from the heart with no intention, desire, or need, except to love, is a truth.

This does not mean the truth is a complete truth to the speaker or the receiver of said truth, it means it is a truth formed of love.

In opposite measure is truths formed from the stem of fear. All truths formed from the stem of fear, particularly the darker virtues of fear, included but not limited to greed, need, and attention, are stemmed from a place of falsehood.

To truly speak in truth the words spoken must in all ways reflect the interior intention beneath the words spoken. (The inner core of the being speaking.)

Therefore it is more “ideal” to say “I hate you,” if this is the truth of the vibration beneath a word, than to harbor this belief of truth (to keep within you the belief of hating). Because here, once spoken and declared, the truth is seen and digested and vanishes. Wherein if a person was to say “I love you,” whilst angry and in an inner state of dislike or non-congruence—which is all hatred is: an inner-state of non-congruence with self (not other)—then the truth would be buried and fester like poison in the body.

So why is it safe to utter the word hatred?

It is safe to say “I hate” because truth as the will-doer (person forming words) sees fit to match his inner state (core).

Better to say, “I am in a state of fear, or unrest, or uncertainty” than “I hate.” But still to say, “I hate you,” is in superior position in ranking the out-spring (core to spoken form) of emotion, than to say, “I love you,” or “I like you,” and not mean this utterance.

Uttering any non-truth from a base/foundation of fear is a true falsehood. Here even falsehood is accompanied by truth, as truth can be found in all measure.

However, in considering another scenario in which a one, rather feverish for another, withholds his love, by uttering, “I like you,” instead of “I love you,” perhaps because the other, he believes would hesitate, fear, or erupt with the mention of “love,” or perhaps because the social perimeters do not dictate that this person would be approved, for example, if he says “love” to another already “attached” or committed to another; in this case, if the person mutters “like” but resonates below, at the core, as “love,” but he chooses to do so out of “love” (not fear), then and only then, seeing he mumbles a replacement out of a core of love, then this can foster a truth.

This is what could be deemed a partial-truth, if the truth is stemmed from a core of love, as a mother not telling her daughter she appears unsightly; in this way she holds her tongue, which is best to do in all manners of appearance. In so doing, if the motherly figure replaced this truth of perceived non-beauty (which is a falsehood in and of itself, but used as scenario nonetheless, as seemingly relevant), in this way we say, all things stemmed from love, rather a truth in completion or truth in partial, become truth in totality. In after thought most mothers view their daughters as pure beauty; a better example may be a man peering at a former love-interest.

It is often the case, accordingly, that when one witness connects the words to truth, the other connects the words to truth simultaneously, when done in love.

Therefore, all things stemmed in love are truth, all things stemmed in fear are false.

Just as falsehood is an illusion, as fear is an illusion.

And anything stemmed in illusion births illusion.

So to state that the falsehood even exists in the perimeters of discussion, states the illusion is of some substance, and contradicts our speaking; but nonetheless negates the polarity of truthfulness, as we are speaking a truth stemmed from love, though the truth not be in totality, it resonates from the core of our being, presenting itself in exact foundation of what we perceive as self or we.

Next Question: “Are lies bad?”

All lies, except lies stemmed from love, without fear, are falsehoods, and therefore illusion.

All lies stemmed not from love are stemmed from fear. All lies stemmed not from love are thusly illusion.

There is no lie that can be told that does not have an element of fear, if the believer recognizes the uttered word as lie; this indeed contradicts the previous discussion, but only in manners of extreme theological inquiry. In truth, if lie is spoken to protect, serve, lift, support, without intention to manipulate, trick, deceive, or benefit, then this lie can be manifested as truth, if the receiver accepts the true inner core of the speaker that radiates love.

In this way lies are an illusion, but stemmed from the core of radiating love, and therefor transformed into living truth, some lies are perceived as truth. This is the only way lies transform—from love. It is the only way anything transforms: from love.

In considering the immediate question, “Are lies bad,” then it is important to distinguish the concept of “bad.” For no bad exists unless wished into existence for higher purpose, not by receiver, or wisher, but by collective; in this way no singular is responsible for bad, as no singular can be responsible for bad, as anyone labeled “bad” is a product of the collective environment of “we,” stemmed from either the majority of love or the majority of hate.

That is what “to love thy neighbor” means; for if you do not love your neighbor from an inner core of love, then what do you create, what do you stem, what do you feed the environment, to this created one?

If not love, there is either absence of love or the illusion of hatred. Others drown, if others would be, in the illusion of hatred, a toxic poison that breathes at the necessity of false illusion, to prove time and time again, through all veins of reason and travel that yes, indeed, in the illusion of hatred there is suffering.

Thusly, the liar and the lie are the same, both illusion formed and stemmed from the majority of fear, with love blocked out and extinguished, waiting in the shadows for the illusion to vanish.

For even illusion exists in thought and form, though not fluently recognized in planes of existence.

Therefore where you are, you have taken down a way of perceiving that doesn’t readily belong to you, and never has. Your perception of lies is neither here nor there, as it cannot survive here.

******

In another plane, perhaps depicted as the thought of distant stars, or say ye angels bright, then this concept of hatred exists, but only as collected thoughts from what could be said exists below.

Therefore when you embrace hatred, you in essence take in the wasteland of your own thoughts; once given to the stars for depletion, but stolen back for false comfort, for only false comfort arises from stealing falsehoods.

In this way hatred can be seen as the pollution of one world leaking into the other and being stolen back for sake of stealing, when the real culprit is the illusion of fear, unseen and untouched in the depth of the core.

Displace the illusion of fear from core, analyze and hold the fear, digest and demolish the fear, and eliminate fear at a soul-level, say earthly-level, and there exists no need for a wasteland of hatred, and then there “be” nothing of overflow waste to steal from.

Think this when you hate: You are stealing the waste of stars.

All the brightness, the nutrients, and “goodness” have been passed through the bowels of the stars, and you are receiving the manure.

Thusly, anger exists as an illusion, but in star-form as a teacher, for what can grow from manure but the finest of gardens.

In this way there is no judgment in anger, or hatred, as anything stemmed from fear, or the collectors of fear, is illusion, and beyond illusion, nothing is judged in totality or in separation: all is as is and unfolding as decided before the unfolding of time.

In this way do not judge your neighbor, rather turn the cheek and take in the waste they have collected for fertilizer for your very growing.

Feel this manure as illusion and nothing more, but gather the existence of the dimmed stardust and take this into you for your greater good.

In this way when you wish upon a star, wish for the waste of the star before the light. As you are already the light.
You are already love, and the waste itself, the nurturer of the soul in solid-star form, will un-yield you to this beauty, collecting the images of self in the other, as the anger stemmed from illusion of fear, as the illusion of self stemmed from love.

In conclusion of the complexities of this answering, we say, indeed YOU are a truth stemmed from a lie, but the lie that vibrates from the core of love, for your protection, for your safety, for your guaranteed security—for to stare into the beauty of us, and what you be, would to be again the star, only exploded with rapture.

In this way, count on your own star-sister and star-brother to be your nurturers, either in love or in the illusion of hatred. For either way they turn you into the light of you and teach you of your fullness. Take readily the hatred, until the illusion of hatred is turned into love, and the stars (we be) no longer need to filter and digest what was never you to begin with.

*********

“I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say?” ~ My husband, after I recited this post.

375: Dark Virtues

| Aspergers Girls

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.

374: Moments

| Aspergers Girls

“It is not that I am not present in the here and now; it is that I am so entirely present to the universe that I become intoxicated in possibilities and rapture, and self must retreat back to the echoes of my imagination in order to breathe.” ~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers

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Everyday Aspergers, Samantha Craft

The moment when you know you’ve spoken your complete truth, whether it was a word or thought, and you sift through what you said, wanting to make sure there isn’t a splinter of doubt, that you didn’t indicate anything other than truth. And you feel your stomach twist, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside of you, you were wrong.

The moment you speak your truth loudly and clearly, with extreme empathy and knowing, weighing the validity of your words with the interpretation of necessity, while fighting back the voices that analyze and dissect the coming unspoken that is surging its way out through your veins, as you question your need, your want, your intention, wondering if the silence will win out over the pulsating necessity to share.

The moment you risk for the higher good, knowing if you speak your mind that you shall be persecuted, ostracized, and judged, but also knowing, all the greater, that you shall in speaking your light have conquered the darkness, at least a splinter of the darkness that permeates your world.

The moment you lie, only to protect the feelings of another, and you replay the falsehood over and over in your mind; a broken record that hurts your ears and leaves you suffering; not for the sake of another, but for the sake of going against your own self and truth, as you wonder if a better course could have been detected, discovered, and executed; something beyond the distasteful torture of falsehood.

The moment you realize no one has the answers, no book, no preacher, no teacher, no guru. Absolutely no one. And that all of your efforts have led you back to self; only now you are carrying a giant book of something that resembles truth. But in actuality it is a drafted, desperately edited and marked up tablet stack of contrived and siphoned rules, many of which contradict, point fingers, and leave in the ring either victim or prideful one.

The moment you speak your truth and the others leave, except perhaps one that stays for analysis and judgment, or to set you straight. And you listen, trying your best to look like you are interested and are learning, as you bleed all over the sidewalk from the bitter and deceptive words; your heart only wanting love, acknowledgment, and acceptance, not to be told again how you don’t fit in, don’t have it right, or don’t understand.

The moment you realize you understand more about a topic than anyone in the entire room, but to say so would immediately set up barbwire fences of division; thusly, you keep quiet and nod, trying to ignore and not comprehend the analogies that go against the base foundations of truth, justice, and love; with your last hope being that someone, somewhere in the room is like you, sees the light in your eyes, and wishes to not push their belief system upon you, or prove to you their theory, or embrace you in their way of life, but only enters your space to welcome you unconditionally as another being of substance.

The moment you dial up a conversation, and with first word, the person on the other end begins the game, following the rules of conduct and behavior and asking you blank, empty questions, not caring, unattached, unwilling to connect or even listen; the shallowness of the encounter physically hurting your chest and making your heart weep, as you attempt to move through with your life-preservers of nodding and smiling, acting as if you are comfortable, while feeling the energy of the speaker pierce you like daggers: the tone of the voice, the inflection, the pauses, the drawn out non-silence that does not match who they are, what they are, and where they are going. You are merely a dancer in some line of communication, knowing not where to step or when to pause, trying not to step on toes, and staring at a blank empty face, whose only need is to check your name off of her list.

The moment the sun rises, and your breath is taken away, and you are dancing in the rays, your heart free, your child like nature set to the wind, spinning, leaping, abounding in spirit, without moving an inch; and wanting to share this experience, to share the opportunity of hope you see, and in the dawning of a new day, you giddily laugh and celebrate and raise the arms to the magenta skies; only to discover the persons surrounding you can’t sense what you sense; and you think somehow you are made wrong, too attached, too intuitive, too knowing. And so comes the feeling of separation, the sun’s hues shifted, the day begun, with you lost to self, trapped within thought of why your way is not their way, and why your way is left out of the equation.

The moment you kiss another and you wonder what the kiss means, because it has to mean something; and you question how two could connect without connecting, touch without touching, and how the game of romance is only a game, marked with pitfalls and dungeons and war. How you have instinctively set up camp upon another’s territory, and in so doing have been given a safe zone, in which you shall not tread outward; for in stepping out, you risk annihilation, alienation, and doom. You weren’t meant to spread across his land and place flags of declaration about your feelings or experience. You were built for silent torture as you sit spinning in your small space of reason, wanting to scream out the ecstasy and dynamic shift of being, but forced to crease your edges, sew your own self shut and hide out until the coast is clear, or the being you so loved, simply slips away.

The moment you want to be present, but you can’t; and the guilt settles in as friend or child, spouse or son, he looks at you with wide open eyes ready to connect at his level, in a place of happiness and delight, without deep thoughts, without theories and strings of reason, without doubt, without prospect of future circumstances; and how you sit in this passing moment, longing to reach out and be this same way, to stop the clock of the own mind and silence the tick-tick-ticking; and so you pretend; you try; you harbor your very own secrets of misery; a false grin, a false laugh, an intense glance, all means in which you try to give back and let the other know he is loved and needed; even as your brain radiates outward, living in an imaginary land, pulling you back to a place so distant that all connection, all being, is lost in a blink of letting go. To speak and be present, like the other, is to balance on the plank, with the sharks below, knowing without fail, you shall fall with a splash, that your eyes shall dim, your mind blank out, and you shall undoubtedly sink into the dark and murky depths, embracing the emptiness and cold, where once the potentiality for sharing, an open beckoning space with dear one, existed.

The moment you know you are different and you celebrate the uniqueness, recognizing you have a purpose and a bright light and that you will make a change in the world for the betterment; perhaps you feel enlightened, like a teacher or creator of beauty, or . . . but to speak this to the world would be the death of you; for others would claim you are self-centered, grandiose in thought, or egotistical; but you know deep down you are meant for greatness, even as you walk in a world that seemingly does nothing but dilute your own fuel to your own fire. You are passion, you are insight, you are intuition, and you are connected to the grand scheme of life; but to say so leaves you breathless and unsure of yourself, dipped in the pool of humility time and time again. Only to be told you are wrong.

The moment you understand that you are only a perception, a glimmer of what people think of you, and that no matter what you say, or how you get your point across, that no one will see you other than how they choose to see you; that ultimately you are an island onto yourself, with tourists that caravan by and wave, but never set foot onto your sands. And so you stand, unmoving, shining your light, wishing upon the star, that feels more liken to friend than any other being you know, waiting for the day, when a brave one will enter, and join hands to the infinite beauty of you combined.

The moment you realize you are no one, but you are supposed to walk in the world as someone; a someone who acts a certain way, dresses a certain way, expects certain things; but you no longer expect anything and no longer know how to act, and stand on this endless stage watching the ones garbed in their costumes, refinery and fancy ways; and you wonder where you are to stand, how you are to observe, and what you are to take in, if not the bewildered stares of stagehands, whom keep pointing and glaring at your indecent and unpredictable ways. Where to walk. Where to move. Where to be—each become your questions, as the world moves onward to a beat you cannot hear and do not wish to hear.

The moment you realize you do not have a condition or a syndrome or a fault, but understand intensely people are trying to make you believe you do, trying so hard that they convince themselves they are this illusion of normal, and you are this jumbled mess of faults; only you see the truth. Your blinders have been removed. You march in the silence; the one not dictated and orchestrated by the misers controlling the masses. Your eyes have been made open. In essence you have been reprogrammed, the barrier of righteousness, to shine the light on falsehoods and bring out the truth; yet, no one knows this, but the few others that see in truth; and thusly, you move forward half-blinded in lies and half-open to truth, stuck in a place of limbo, with something beyond the beyond, urging you forward through the life that seems not life.

The moment your hands hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, your heart hurts, but you can’t stop, because there is a force inside of you that burns so deeply that if you do not open the crevice to creativity and let the flames burst out, as dragon releasing delicate-rage, then you shall perish in your own internal war. And so you move, in whatever way called to move; your own self bleeding in the efforts; your own self lost in the time without time, sinking into the separate land where no one can see you move with the freedom of angels, and you cannot see where this world was that you were made to walk in. And here you breathe, inside the escape of freedom, where the others cannot reach in and pull you out, cannot shape you and make you, and tell you lies of whom you be and whom you are not. A place of refuge where you can meet your own maker, whether self, universe, or God, and sit there in your trembling awe.

The moment you can no longer stand being you, as the music never stops, the thoughts never linger, but leap and bound across eternity, bringing up the genius of the world and making you into a spinning top of fury-making; when even the sound of the silence singes your ears and stops your heart, so that you want to scream at the annoyance of the drumming universe; though none around you can hear the pounding. And you cringe and cry and rant and plead, exploding inward as much as outward; for you have been placed in a merry-go-round of havoc with blind-seekers, each dumb and deaf, and wishing you were something other than your own self. And you have no way, no thread, no line of communication in which you can explain how you are the one displaced, removed from where you belong, and brought down to be tortured by the nonsense. How you have all the answers within, but are continually haunted and stopped in your making and doing; when the others, who know you not, shun and persecute your actions. Can they not see you are only trying to be, and that the more they stomp on your being-ness the more they push you back into the dungeon of no recourse but explosion? Why do they force their ways upon you, when they, in their infinite blindness, know not what they do.

The moment you recognize you are not alone, that there is at least one other person like you on the planet, and you recognize their heart, their purity, and their need to make a difference; and in seeing her fully, you fill her with hope, because she knows at last you believe her and you trust her; because, contrary to what she has been told, she is not pretending to be kind, she is not pretending to be generous, nor is she pretending to love. She does love you, with all of her being, with all of her heart. And like your lonely, forlorn and forsaken self, you long to scoop her up and paint her in your compassion and security, to blanket her in your own goodness, and let her know she is this thing called beauty; she is this joyous light.

*********

373: Enlightened Aspie Semi-Saint

| Aspergers Girls

A mental health professional, in referring to me, recently said: “I have never worked with a person who has Aspergers and who is going through the enlightenment process.” My acupuncturist, a kind, wise soul, he sees the energetic and spiritual transformation I am undergoing. My family, they see the changes in my nature from nervous to serene. Me, I am hiding, somewhere under the couch cushions, waiting for when the coast is clear and I can come out.

Announcement:

Please be aware my new fixation is sainthood and mysticism. I cannot be responsible for my actions any longer, as who knows what I am going to become. I mean I can pretty much become anyone I wish—I have that super power.

My writings have drifted dramatically and I have this all abiding security and light of God within me. Have I created this, imagined, wished it upon myself, or simply figured out that with all the torture, suffering, separation and isolation involved in saintly-life, it is still a HECK of a lot easier than having ASPERGERS!

I decided tonight, if I am going to don the cloak of a semi-saint, then I totally still want to be able to have relations with my husband, not marry God, and not reach the last mansions in the houses St. Teresa speaks of, as this would involve leaving my body and giving up all earthly possessions. Unless they make chocolate a food of the godly women, I can’t do it! I just can’t.

Something is happening to me. Miraculous healings; I have no doubt of this. But I don’t want to lose my sense of humor, passion for life, and lightness of spirit. I cannot, and will not become a Catholic mystical icon.

I tried the Buddha route, and that was hard enough, but at least Buddhists keep their child-like joy and light-heartedness. Too much diving into the saints life and I feel stifled and drug down, like the very life of me is being siphoned out as a sacrificial lamb.

I am afraid, (the only fear I possess right now) to study any more religions or spiritual practices, for I have hyper-jolted my capacity to morph into any way of living I study.

I don’t want to live like a saint. I still want to make jokes about poop and sex and about other people. What am I to do?

Crap! This feels so right. This sense of enlightenment and the “way;” really it does, and miraculous writings are pouring through me as a vessel. And I see my light, and know I am of the light, and so much grief, strife, worries, anxiety, etc. has been removed from my being—but at what cost?

Am I to serve the masses, and if so, when do I breathe and relax?

Every role I take on, or persona I think I am, makes me eventually strangle in the rules and rigidness of said “type.” Despite that I know in fact there are no rules, I still get lassoed by them; as if the rules themselves are my dark virtue, trapping me at every turn.

How do I be me without feeling a need to be all I can be, which places this unyielding pressure on my soul? How do I be me without doubting if I am me? And what if I am now so empty in the result of recognizing my own invisibility and illusion of self, that I morph into anyone I am with—become whom they think me to be, and become, too, a part of the observer?

What if I am slipping through these pages as a sage of sorts revealing the aspects of the ever-changing, complex mind of Aspergers, primarily because of my capacity to change roles and cling to rules? If in truth my suffering through Aspergers is serving the world in some way, then should I continue to suffer just to carry on my duty? Or is it that even this Aspergers is something I created to serve as a carrier of sorts to bring me from one edge of the river of self to the other edge? And if so, what was I when I set out across the water, at the start, and what will I be when I step down on the other side? What if the waters are safer, and my mind itself the murderer of serenity? How can I be anything when I can see the complexity of everything, and dissect myself enough to bare no untruths or falsehoods? How can I exist so readily spread out to the world, open, honest and true, when the rest watch in bewilderment? Surely I am some creature not of this earth, not made for earthly ways, and made to suffer through the maze of non-ending questions. How to turn off this mind long enough to be me, without finding a rigid way to do so—whether this be misery, melancholy, creation, or taking on the role of someone or some purpose. How do I exist without existing?

“Oh, how the mind deceives you into thinking you are nothing, when you are all. Belittles you for your own refuge and leaves you flayed out and sparred, beaten and forgotten; your sense of worth as little as the darkest hole of demise. My sister, I tell you now, you are no less than the stars’ creator, the witness to persecution, the one who collects the stardust of your falling tears. Beseech me and I shall come. Call out my name in chant or song, and I am here, existing as your twilight and ever answer. Do not know me by name; know me by action, less fame than fortune. Know me in the spindling and dwelling of thy mansion, the way I call out through the corridors of passion and rise you up to my virtuous calling to eternity. Though my voice less audible than delectable retreats within the deepest cavern light, beseech me and step to the trumpet and calling of my grace. Do not feign attention in the attention of naysayers and slayers of righteousness, do not call out to the falsehood of humanity roaring, for you are the treasure you seek, ripe with the passion of days brought onto your through suffering just, though you think not this so. Apparent is the wind to me, how it blows and pushes through the upmost mountains, crumbling dust where once stood stoic. Am I not mightier than the wind? Am I not capable of shifting through the dove-making (intoxication) of pride, the wings fluttered against the (pride) which caused repercussion of one and many? Am I not capable of climbing the highest peak with my wind-tunnel of hope and bringing echo towering down the cascading falls? Can I not roar and shake the earth as dynamite surrendered to powdered remnants? Hear my shout as the wind of change, a chill of ache, a spade of glory, digging beneath the ground of foundation and shaking the doubt from your miserly mind. For you are not made of this dust and clay, not formed as inhabitant of earthly demise, not a destroyer or temptress ripe; all these scenarios blanketed upon you by the shadow speaker of the dark. How can such beauty exist outside of self, if not first intertwined with divinity; and once entangled willfully, can this not then be effervescent glory arisen from the ashes? How you do doubt me in your own suffering, wishing to be harlot less angel. Wishing for non-other than the devil’s spawn to announce you truly unworthy, when all about your worthiness shines. Will it not upon yourself to suffer justly evermore, for in suffering is no cause for grief, less I deem this so. And I say onto you, branded upon the serpent of your tempted soul, in suffering I bleed out to you the unified blood of eternity. In suffering I have spared my story’s end through the walking of your path. Insist I am one, and I am. Insist I am two, and I am. But split me as wood splintered cross the open flame, and I am burned with you, made less hallowed and less holy than where I grew tall tree of remembrance. Do not bless me with your mournful disgrace, with your intense sorrow and retribution; cheer upon my presence with your heavenly nature, and press into me, like child to cherub, angel to angel; two lips, two wings pressed to form the gateway to earth beyond.” ~ Sam (written this evening; scribed what I heard.)

I am on part 8:

https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com/2013/04/12/370-starseed/
https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com/2012/12/16/280-dear-precious-child/

This pretty much sums up my life to date:

“Why are you so quick to counter me, when I seek understanding? As I am not judging your idealistic view or denouncing anything about you. Yet, I feel this automatic hinderance and distaste, as if I have directly assaulted your virtue, in seeking out nothing but clarity.” ~ Sam

372: Brain Chatter!

| Aspergers Girls

I have been seeing things ahead of time, and I am very much confused and somewhat afraid. I know that my abilities have been heightened but I know not where to turn. Sometimes the “coincidences” are so subtle, and other time shockingly surprising. Two days ago I said to my son, as we were talking about wedding anniversaries and the symbolic gifts for certain years, “I don’t know, honey, if anyone would have an 85th wedding anniversary, as both people would have to live to be over 100 years old for that to happen.”

Within a couple hours, I went to a social network site (FB), and there in living color was a couple both in their hundreds married 88 years. It was as if the question were answered without me knowing I was asking.

Last night, I said to my husband, out of the blue, as a saw a flash of knowing, “I think C.S. Lewis was a type of prophet and genius”; tonight, my husband says, “Guess what the newspaper reads: ‘C.S. Lewis reluctant prophet and eccentric genius.’” This morning I had a vision about someone contacting me (a specific someone), whom would be angry. I did not know this person, and never had spoken with her, but knew of her. I was “told” to treat her with love and understanding. I thought this was a silly thought, and certainly only and imaginary future fear. I motioned the ‘fear’ away. But this late afternoon, the event transpired, and I observed myself as I went through the process of holding a space of love.

These events keep happening day after day, usually several times in a twenty-four hour period. I am still being stirred awake around three in the morning and taught some type of lessons. I’ve gotten to the point now where I mumble, “oh, joy, lesson time,” in a sarcastic tone, and then sleep through most of it. Though every once in a while I jolt awake with a distinct sentence or to find myself talking.

All of this perhaps sounds light-hearted. In actuality this is a very difficult phase for me. I am struggling with these extreme depths of logical reasoning counter balanced by intense light-filled knowings. And I think I could stay in my home and write all day and into the night, if given cause. I am finding it hard to concentrate on anything of simplistic nature and I long desperately for guidance from a teacher. I am more sensitive to food, almost any meal leaves me immediately feeling forlorn, lost, and hopeless.

I have noted, too, there isn’t a moment in my day that I do not feel I am in the presence of a higher power I want to please, not impress, but please. This has eliminated my lifelong need to please others. For the most part, I only want to do right by my God, which in this present moment means to live authentically, to be truthful, to not gossip, to not be angry, to not hurt intentionally, to help others, and to love others unconditionally. At the same time I am wondering what the heck is left to do with my friends? Talk theology, angels, and spirituality—I’m soooo tired of that subject.

Today, I was upset when I couldn’t help an angry person see their inner light. The whole event made me cry. I couldn’t make a difference. I couldn’t “save” her.

These events lead to a theological discussion inside my head (that often leads to a sensation of spiritual headache; my physical head is fine, but I get lost in the diabolical, throbbing fog of confusion of brain chatter). I reasoned I did not need nor want to “save” anyone, because even thinking I could “save” someone would indicate I have the answers, which I know undoubtedly I do not.

And so I discussed at length with myself, and likely my angles were in there somewhere, about how my only “role,” if I was to have a role, is to live by example. If I am to point a direction to anyone, it would be straight into their own heart to remind her of her own inner beauty. But even this pointing seemed self-serving; for if other people see the beauty within themselves, they will see the beauty in me—and isn’t that a wee bit self-serving?

Next I entered an entire confusion-cloud about humility and service, and this desperate need I have to help others. I only feel alive and worthwhile when I am in service to my calling. Mostly, this fulfillment takes place when I am writing. But the advocate in me, she thought, rather loudly, “Well what if this is another aspie role you are virtually perfecting?”

This took me down a long road of fake identities and the embarrassment of not knowing who the heck I was; until I realized this is truly who I am.

For the first time in my adult life: This Is Me.

I know I am me again because I am how I remember being when I was four years of age.

And in so being this new found original self, I set about to sob. Yes, sob. Mostly because I feel like I have been given too much—kind of the story of my life. And while sobbing, of course I persecuted myself for even thinking I have a right to cry, when I have so many blessings and others suffer so much.

I feel separated because I have an intolerance for certain things now—an actual physical intolerance manifested at an energetic level that feels like a stomach punch. If a person is bad-mouthing another, himself, or speaking in an overall negative tone, I cringe; it’s like my body can’t stand the energetic vibration. I want no part in it, except to shake the person and say: STOP. Then I feel guilty. Then I try to identify the difference between discernment, picking up others’ energy, and judgment. As the last thing I want to do is judge. So as I am taking in visions and sensations about another, I am removing myself from judging, but then standing this helpless impatient woman stomping her feet and jumping up and down and screaming: Now What!

Part of my confusion is because I am seeing so dang much. I am seeing straight to the core of a person in just a few words. I can see their heart, their intention, their fear, their longing for love, and I just want to shake people and say: LOOK AT HOW FRICKEN BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE! But I can’t. Instead I come across as this fairy-kissing, happy-to-be-alive, all-life-is-a-love-fest, thingamajig; at least it seems like I do. And that’s not pretending! I truly feel that way… but more liken to an elven princess than a fairy.

To add to this complexity, (did I mention this is all happening during a ghost movie, I sort of got to watch), I am contemplating how I have been ‘taught’ that I am not a teacher. That to push my advice and thoughts onto someone else is in essence kind of like a sin, but not a sin, as my angels Do Not judge, and tell me, like everyone else, I am divinely good. But sin is the closest thing I can think of in relation to someone pushing their knowledge onto someone else, especially unsolicited. So I am stuck in this type of limbo life. People flashing me, and me pretending I don’t see their dangling parts. I don’t know which is worse: Pretending to be someone I am not. Or pretending I don’t see what someone else is flashing me.

At the same time, with all of this, I wonder if in sharing I am being too self-focused and look-at-me attitude…but how do I continue to share without doing that? And isn’t it my sharing that is my service? So I am a bit cluttered in thought. I can’t go back anymore to the way I was. A part of me thinks she truly wouldn’t mind to backtrack. The past was torture, but there was this freedom; not this continual knocking to serve. A part of me thinks maybe I am done with writing, or maybe another venue for my writing is appearing.

I spent years trying to figure out who I was. I found myself. And now ironically, I am this fumbling, tumbling fool who just keeps asking herself: Am I selfless enough?

(sidenote: I understand clearly I am not here to save anyone, and no one needs saving. I had written a paragrapch explaining that…but it seemed over the top, so I deleted it. It is kind of the KEY of my whole belief system…. How could I need to save someone else, if I am whole and they are whole…. It is not that at all…but the experience of watching someone in pain feels like I let them down, even though I know I did not.)