Pushcorn

popping and pushing through abstraction

Month: July, 2013

Binary

Image

The first thing that came to mind was the Void.

Not that it had ever left , mind you . It was always there, lurking in the far depth of my being , only surfacing from time to time to remind me of its presence if ever contentment deceived me into believing it gone . It was fast to caution that all is illusory , its existence the only truth .
Its ubiquitous existence , by which my self was reflected and my identity conjectured.

It was my guide , the fuel that powered the propulsion of my present from one moment into the next , teasing me with the prospect of completion . A dream so surreal, so abstract and intangible … And yet so real, real by its mere none-existence inducing existence , a physicality I could feel inside the candent translucence of my white skin, pulsing with life , growing larger, wider and stronger , feeding off of the expanding literature ideated to potentially fill it up , unraveling along with the alternating tableau of speculations painted of all that could be …
All that would be,

All that I will be when I was finally complete.

And I wanted it filled.
I wanted it gone .
I wanted it terminated, butchered, assassinated.
I wanted to reach the finality , the big One , the promised One , the One they all spoke of, the One they all said would await me if I worked hard enough, was fast enough, was determined enough…

And I was all those things.

I was the fastest , the hardest working, the most determined of them all – Because I wanted it so badly… craved it … yearned for the authenticity of the transcendental connection it could afford my parched non-being .
The brief moments of doubt quelled fast by the constant flux of ideology prompting me to have faith, to keep going , keep moving forward, you’ll get there, we promise , you’ll get to the next stage .
And like a fool I believed them, molded myself to the image of some messianic archetypal figure , the one , the son, the transcendent.
And it was all done for the Void . My perpetual companion, my friend , my enemy.

If ever there was a god, the Void was He.

It had toyed with me,  promising fulfillment, urging me on , conspiring with the walls on my peregrinations , the red walls whose blood spoke of aborted histories , pulsing tunnels that breathed my presence , mystically patterned with the veinous inscriptions of the substance of life .
Told me I was on the right track , there was a light at the end , just keep moving .

And I did.

And I moved .

And I thought of nothing but the promise of realization, of actualization.

And I moved .

And I kept moving,

Until I stood at the brink of emptiness.

Its vacuous expanse a cruel testimony to my failure , the gruesome failure to subscribe to a more fertile illusion.
There , in the vast abyss in front of me ,
There , the Void dwelled .
There, where they said the Ovum would be . My Other half. My Completion.

But the Void was all there was,

All there is,

And it was the Void that I thought of as I perished.

Journal entry of a sperm cell on the wrong end of the cycle.

The mechanisms of empathy

Following my most recent venture into the world of blogging , I have spent countless hours pouring over the plethora of autism related blogs available , some by parents sharing their stories , some by activists striving to give a voice to all those considered different , but the most interesting and insightful had been the discovery of the blogs belonging to individuals who are themselves autistic, in which they wonderfully articulate their own experiences , from sensory regulation to perceptual processing , illuminating and rendering concrete the underlying configuration differences between the neurotypical and autistic brains.

Given the propensity for filtering another’s experience through one’s own model of understanding , it is easy for some to erroneously project  their own conclusions as to the mental state at the root of certain behaviors they encounter in others.

When my son starts yelling and running in circles as he hears the generator in the underground parking , I am compelled to filter his experience through the information I have acquired from the lists of autism symptoms I have come across which state that autism occasions some sensory regulation issues , often manifesting as over sensitive hearing . Consequently , the scope of his experience is lost on me beyond these few tidbits of objective information accumulated by non autistic people categorizing phenomena . I assume , based on my own logic,  that as soon as the sound is gone, he will recover from the momentary anxiety and hurry him into the car to get him away.

Last night, as I read through an autistic girl’s harrowing account of her experience with fire alarms , how unhinging it had been to have her world turned upside down by a violent  monster of a noise which attacked her senses, how she could do nothing but cower in a corner with her hands over her ears, or  how in dealing with hyper sensitivity to pain she lost control over her own body as it tried to regulate itself through hand flapping so strong the wrists almost broke , my perspective on autism updated itself to include this new information , so that now when my son reacts to sounds or behaves in a certain manner, when he starts yelling , running in circles ,or flapping his hands , I have a truer approximation of understanding of his subjective state , one which allows a more authentic glimpse into his mental condition through a better informed interpretation of his behavior .

Another post I read is a beautifully crafted piece exploring synesthesia ( crossing of senses) in the author’s ability to visualize mathematical functions and music ,  giving rise to an inherently intuitive and enviable understanding of math , all the while unable to pursue an education in either because of her inability to process visual cues such as those found on sheet music or math exams at the level which most education establishments demand . She states that should there have been an alternative for her in taking exams – being dictated the problems on a bigger surface like a whiteboard, for example, to space out the stimulus, she would have been able to , but as it is, there are not enough provisions taken to support those with differing operating systems .

The voices of these individuals is a treasure to behold, a gift imparted by them which is of the utmost importance in the road towards acceptance . Those are the voices I will hear when I interact with my son , the voices that will inform my decisions with regards to his future, his education, his happiness . It is through them that I shall be able to connect with my son on a deeper level , one which transcends my own views and perspectives . The voices that will hopefully guide the changes that will make the world all the more hospitable for him.

psychoanalyzing toilets

Gotta love Zizek