Theme
1:04am July 17, 2015

Redwoods

withasmoothroundstone:

A tiny seed of redwood sorrel, slumbering in its soil nest
Stones in its lowest spots say to grow upward
Silent hope for something sorrel can’t explain
Stirrings that see it slip from the soil, seeking sun
Sun on the leaves sweet sugar within
Sorrel is social, surrounded by sorrel-friends
Redwood sorrel seeks solely to live in the light
Supported by soil, the sun in the sky shining down

[Writing prompt - redwoods - provided by binghsien.]

2:47am June 19, 2015

““My role in society, or any artist’s or poet’s role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all” - John Lennon”

— (via brokenquill)
11:21pm June 17, 2015

Moth in my screen.

Computer screen shows
Moths flitting through air currents
Halfway cross the world

Keep reading

2:14am May 26, 2015

New Moon in Spring

sun goes down, no moon
darkness crosses young grasses
protects baby birds

Keep reading

6:01am May 24, 2015
autiequotes: “If you’re bold as bold And sure as sure I’ll hold a mirror at the door You can answer as I knock and see You are only as human, as human as me” -Donna Williams, “Icon I Am”, Not Just Anything (Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2004)

autiequotes:

“If you’re bold as bold
And sure as sure
I’ll hold a mirror at the door
You can answer as I knock and see
You are only as human, as human as me”

-Donna Williams, “Icon I Am”, Not Just Anything (Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2004)

8:54pm May 11, 2015
Elements The repetition and the symmetry I would sing them without surcease  Going in a circle Ritual and its power My gorilla family Often born of a spiritual, an aesthetic need Value and beauty of ritual My need for repetition Silently acknowledge landmarks Flowers and trees Had memorized everything Each flower, tree Was a person, a being If I did not see it,  It missed me and felt abandoned (A poetry technique where you black out words on a page and the rest become the poem. This is a page from Songs of thez Gorilla Nation by Dawn Prince-Hughes.)

Elements
The repetition and the symmetry
I would sing them without surcease 
Going in a circle
Ritual and its power
My gorilla family
Often born of a spiritual, an aesthetic need
Value and beauty of ritual
My need for repetition
Silently acknowledge landmarks
Flowers and trees
Had memorized everything
Each flower, tree
Was a person, a being
If I did not see it, 
It missed me and felt abandoned

(A poetry technique where you black out words on a page and the rest become the poem. This is a page from Songs of thez Gorilla Nation by Dawn Prince-Hughes.)

6:57pm May 8, 2015

Death of Squash (with apologies to Terry Pratchett)

death’s in our garden
picking out which squash will live
and which squash will die

6:52pm May 8, 2015

Spring

plants bud and blossom
rain and mud replacing snow
as the sun comes out

dad’s old red backpack
hangs expectant on doorknob
awaiting a hike

9:53pm May 7, 2015

The Ghost of a Kitten (cw: cat corpse, decay, decomposition)

ghost of dead kitten
watches decomposing corpse
shakes with private laughs

Keep reading

2:07am April 30, 2015
Hello, I exist. I see you.  I see that you exist too.  You are important. Hello, I exist. Hello, I exist. Is there anybody out there who understands my language? Repeat in all known languages and frequencies. Not languages like English, Tagalog, Icelandic, Mandarin, or Tsalagi.   Languages that each person speaks their own, or slightly modified versions of someone else’s. The languages spoken by disabled people who — whether we can seem to speak or type fluently or not — have severe problems communicating in words, or understanding words, a large portion of the time.  This is not something you can tell from the outside, especially if you’re not disabled.  So don’t tell me it doesn’t apply to me because I used to talk and now I type so obviously words are no problem for me. I’ve spent half the night in one of my brain caves, unable to get the words out that I meant, so writing other words instead. But that’s not my point.  Trapped as I feel right now. You need to know something. And that is that we have a million different ways of saying the same things: “Hello.  Is anyone out there?” “Hello.  I exist. I exist. Please acknowledge.  I exist.” “I see you.  I see you.  I see you.  Do you see me?” “I see you too.  Can we see each other?” These conversations take place across crowded institution hallways without staff being the wiser. When they do their experiments that supposedly prove that random autistic people placed in a room don’t communicate with each other… you can bet that in some of those experiments, the autistic people are communicating right under their noses. This is also something even autistic people get wrong.  Many of us assume that we only learned to communicate this way because we had to — because of a severe communication impairment, whether receptive, expressive, or both, whether recognized as such by others or not.  And we assume that people without those problems won’t learn to communicate in this way. But this form of communication is natural for many autistic people, and once exposed to it, many autistic people will find it so familiar, from somewhere deep in their soul, that they will learn it almost instantaneously. Have you ever heard an autistic adult tell the story — it has a  million different forms for a million different people — of visiting a place meant for autistic children.  School, institution, play group, whatever.  And an autistic child who has never shown any detectable interest in other people before, suddenly runs up to the autistic adult and shows blatant interest in one way or another.  I have had this happen to me more times than I can count, and I am no longer shocked by it, but lots of parents and teachers are. “I don’t understand, he never approaches anyone, let alone with so  much affection.” But sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes it’s “That’s not really affection, she probably learned it by rote somewhere, she’s incapable of caring about you.”  (Said to me when an autistic woman a couple years older than me sat down next to me, snuggled up, rested her head on my shoulder, petted my hair, and said “Nice… nice… nice…”) Anyway… Hello.  I’m here.  I exist. I feel like I’m trapped in a cave. I can barely get the words out that I want to get out.  I’m relying on a lot of other words, things I wanted to say other times and couldn’t. So much of the time I lie here and think up what I want to say, and hope that one day those things I wanted to say will come to my fingertips at the right time. I wish that the hello, I’m here, I exist, type stuff worked better over the Internet. I would hand you a rock, I would let my body change its movements just slightly to acknowledge your presence, there are so many different ways to do it in person.  So few ways to do it online, though they do exist. “Does he speak the autistic language?”  I remember being in a tiny mailing list for autistic people where most people there spoke a highly metaphorical version of English.  There are so many “autistic languages”.  My father spoke some of the same ones I do, and I didn’t even realize it until he was dying, and then after he was dead.  He spoke to me through objects, and I understood so much more about him than I ever had.  It was as eye-opening for me as reading my poetry was for him. The photograph at the beginning of this post, with the amber ring and the orange and white agate stone, is, of course, related to this entire post. I’m tired.  I want to sleep.  Not sure I can. But I also feel trapped in my own head, have felt that way for days now, and wish I was around people who could see inside me, communicate without language, understand the tiny little differences in how I move and interact, and vice versa. Finally, a poem by Jim Sinclair.  It’s allowed to be reproduced as long as you credit Jim Sinclair and say that it came from an issue of Our Voice, the newsletter of Autism Network International:AutispeakThis is the language we speak, we who can talk without sound. This is our voice in the silence Where every word has weight, and no thought is ever lost.This is the language we speak, we who embrace without touching, This is our dance without bodies Where every touch has meaning, and no glance is ever wastedThis is the language we speak, we who can see without looking. This is our star behind darkness where velvet rainbows sing, and no tear falls unseen.This is the language we speak, we who can float outside time This is our home beyond nowhere where shadows’ footsteps fall, where memory echoes from the future, and comfort flows back from the past, where smiles have no need for faces, and warmth breathes from the frozen placesThis is our source, our destination, where every song is heard, and no soul shines unknown.

Hello, I exist. 


I see you.  I see that you exist too.  You are important. 

Hello, I exist. 

Hello, I exist.

Is there anybody out there who understands my language? 

Repeat in all known languages and frequencies.

Not languages like English, Tagalog, Icelandic, Mandarin, or Tsalagi.  
Languages that each person speaks their own, or slightly modified versions of someone else’s.

The languages spoken by disabled people who — whether we can seem to speak or type fluently or not — have severe problems communicating in words, or understanding words, a large portion of the time.  This is not something you can tell from the outside, especially if you’re not disabled.  So don’t tell me it doesn’t apply to me because I used to talk and now I type so obviously words are no problem for me.

I’ve spent half the night in one of my brain caves, unable to get the words out that I meant, so writing other words instead. 


But that’s not my point.  Trapped as I feel right now. 


You need to know something. 


And that is that we have a million different ways of saying the same things: 


“Hello.  Is anyone out there?” 


“Hello.  I exist. I exist. Please acknowledge.  I exist.” 


“I see you.  I see you.  I see you.  Do you see me?” 


“I see you too.  Can we see each other?” 


These conversations take place across crowded institution hallways without staff being the wiser. 


When they do their experiments that supposedly prove that random autistic people placed in a room don’t communicate with each other… you can bet that in some of those experiments, the autistic people are communicating right under their noses. 


This is also something even autistic people get wrong.  Many of us assume that we only learned to communicate this way because we had to — because of a severe communication impairment, whether receptive, expressive, or both, whether recognized as such by others or not.  And we assume that people without those problems won’t learn to communicate in this way. 


But this form of communication is natural for many autistic people, and once exposed to it, many autistic people will find it so familiar, from somewhere deep in their soul, that they will learn it almost instantaneously. 


Have you ever heard an autistic adult tell the story — it has a  million different forms for a million different people — of visiting a place meant for autistic children.  School, institution, play group, whatever.  And an autistic child who has never shown any detectable interest in other people before, suddenly runs up to the autistic adult and shows blatant interest in one way or another.  I have had this happen to me more times than I can count, and I am no longer shocked by it, but lots of parents and teachers are. 


“I don’t understand, he never approaches anyone, let alone with so  much affection.” 


But sometimes it’s worse. 


Sometimes it’s “That’s not really affection, she probably learned it by rote somewhere, she’s incapable of caring about you.”  (Said to me when an autistic woman a couple years older than me sat down next to me, snuggled up, rested her head on my shoulder, petted my hair, and said “Nice… nice… nice…”)
Anyway… 


Hello.  I’m here.  I exist. 


I feel like I’m trapped in a cave. 


I can barely get the words out that I want to get out.  I’m relying on a lot of other words, things I wanted to say other times and couldn’t. 


So much of the time I lie here and think up what I want to say, and hope that one day those things I wanted to say will come to my fingertips at the right time.

I wish that the hello, I’m here, I exist, type stuff worked better over the Internet. 


I would hand you a rock, I would let my body change its movements just slightly to acknowledge your presence, there are so many different ways to do it in person.  So few ways to do it online, though they do exist. 


“Does he speak the autistic language?”  I remember being in a tiny mailing list for autistic people where most people there spoke a highly metaphorical version of English.  There are so many “autistic languages”.  My father spoke some of the same ones I do, and I didn’t even realize it until he was dying, and then after he was dead.  He spoke to me through objects, and I understood so much more about him than I ever had.  It was as eye-opening for me as reading my poetry was for him. 


The photograph at the beginning of this post, with the amber ring and the orange and white agate stone, is, of course, related to this entire post.
I’m tired.  I want to sleep.  Not sure I can. 


But I also feel trapped in my own head, have felt that way for days now, and wish I was around people who could see inside me, communicate without language, understand the tiny little differences in how I move and interact, and vice versa. 

Finally, a poem by Jim Sinclair.  It’s allowed to be reproduced as long as you credit Jim Sinclair and say that it came from an issue of Our Voice, the newsletter of Autism Network International:

Autispeak

This is the language we speak,
we who can talk without sound.
This is our voice in the silence
Where every word has weight, and no thought is ever lost.

This is the language we speak,
we who embrace without touching,
This is our dance without bodies
Where every touch has meaning, and no glance is ever wasted

This is the language we speak,
we who can see without looking.
This is our star behind darkness
where velvet rainbows sing, and no tear falls unseen.

This is the language we speak,
we who can float outside time
This is our home beyond nowhere
where shadows’ footsteps fall,
where memory echoes from the future,
and comfort flows back from the past,
where smiles have no need for faces,
and warmth breathes from the frozen places
This is our source, our destination, where every song is heard, and no soul shines unknown.

8:51pm April 28, 2015

Mirror

I accidentally took a peek
At myself
Through your eyes

Right at the moment

You took a peek
At yourself
Through my eyes

Are we two people or one?
And are our eyes windows
Or are they mirrors?

7:36pm April 28, 2015
mom’s not a widow she’s still married to my dad even though he died     she brings him morning glories      he brings her one pure white rose

mom’s not a widow
she’s still married to my dad
even though he died

     she brings him morning glories
     he brings her one pure white rose

8:47pm April 22, 2015

They never told me mourning would be beautiful.

mourning happens most
when forest plants die, decay
underneath our feet

feeds new life and feeds new love
mourning: sad but beautiful

4:56am April 19, 2015

Dear (late) Father…

You visit the shrine I made for you
In remembrance of who you were
When you were alive
You like that I put rocks there

You visit my mother
And bring her flowers
You tell her not to visit your grave so often
You’re not there anymore

You walked straight into Love
With no fear left in your heart
And now everything you express
Is through that Love

When I wear your clothes
And carry your rocks
Next to my heart
And wear your whiskers
In a locket
I feel who you are
And who you were
Seeping into me
Down deep into my bones

Everyone tells me
I look more like myself
In your clothes
Than they have ever seen me
That for the first time
I look comfortable
In my own skin
In my own culture

You speak my language
A language of things
Not words

You gave me
All the right things
To find you again
Even past delirium and amnesia

I hope I can be in life
Half the person
You are in death

11:02pm March 31, 2015

Infants smell fresh

They have just entered the world
You can smell it on their heads
They are fresh, new, and ripe
Like a good canteloupe

And they know so little
Of the world they have entered
They are all hardware
With bits of software

The software will come
With age and experience
But I like them
Before that happens

Because I remember
Before I had much software
And I remember
Being an infant

Ever since I was barely more
Than an infant myself
I have gravitated towards infants
This has never changed

And infants have always
Shared a silent understanding
With my own gaps in knowledge
That I have shared with them