Bah Humbug!, or What Christmas Means To Me

I dread this time of year - the Christmas holiday. An endless all-you-can-eat buffet of bright, shiny, colorful, twinkly, saccharine, plastic, superficial, empty-hearted, compulsory frivolity and joy to all. The cracks of the rest of the year are papered over, temporary patches to support the pretense that we are all getting along famously and having a good time. It's all over the TV commercials - smiling families gather around the dinner table to share the feast, seasonal bonhomie ramped up to the max.

Amid the repeated-ad-nauseam Christmas songs, the wall-to-wall sparkling lights and baubles and the commercial brands lashed tightly to old traditional symbols I can't help feeling that the whole experience is empty, devoid of meaning. Christmas has become its own parody, a cheap, mass-produced knock-off that has smothered the original beneath its glittering red and white, snow-carpeted facade.

Christmas died long ago: its dried husk is buried deep beneath strata of tinsel and fairy gold. With a wonky plastic angel stuck on top.

For me this time of year is not about giving or receiving gifts. It is not about parties and feasting. It is not about excessive consumption - gluttony if you will - of any kind. It is not about decorated trees, homes or streets. It is not even about the Christian religious festival.

For me it is the time of year when the darkness is closest at hand. When the long, cold nights harbor age-old fears of loneliness and hunger. When people used to gather round their fires to share warmth and protection, and to pray that the winter would end; that the sun would soon return to warm the land.

For me it is a time for thinking of the people I care about, those I love. This has become a season of unrealistic expectations, unattainable goals, impossible dreams. A season when so many people will fall short of the targets they set themselves, whether they didn't manage to lose that weight to fit into the new party dress, or they saw Dad get drunk Christmas Day and fight with Mum, or they didn't get that one special present they'd set their heart on. A season when people feel disappointed, hurt, alone.

I will not buy presents; I will not send cards. I will find my pleasure in what I can do for those I am close to. If I can make somebody smile, or help them feel that they are not alone, help them feel that they are appreciated and valued... then I believe that would be a worthwhile gift.

Eating (dis)Order

I came across this post by bunnyhopscotch and it made me think about my own eating habits and preferences. While I don't consider myself extreme in these regards I am aware, because of frequent comments from my wife in particular but also from my mother when I was growing up, that some of my behavior is unusual.

Order and predictability are very important to me - I like to know what to expect in advance and I hold a mental image of these expectations. If the reality is significantly different then that causes me to react - this can range from a mild disappointment to a full-blown meltdown. This is very difficult for non-autistic people to understand: many of them enjoy surprises and find repetitive experiences to be exceedingly dull. I'm not that way; I enjoy the comfort of regularity, of familiarity. If I get exactly what I was expecting then I could not be happier.

One of my favorite meals is spaghetti bolognese; whenever my wife asks me what I would like to eat that is the answer (I don't know why she bothers to ask unless it is in the hope that one day I will say something different). She gets bored preparing the same meal so often, with no variation in the method or ingredients. I would happily eat this every day - the longest I have managed was to have it for every meal for two weeks before she refused to serve it again on the grounds that she was sick of the sight of it! (I had chilli instead the week after.)

The paradoxical thing is that I am not a fussy eater: there are very few things I will not eat and I do not have any food allergies or other digestive trouble that would restrict my diet. What I do have is a fairly rigid set of routines around eating. I'll start with the arrangement of the food on the plate - all the individual elements must be separate and any sauce or gravy can only be poured over certain items. Gravy on sliced meat, roast or mashed potatoes is good; on sausages, chops and steaks, greens or most other vegetables is bad. I don't like different elements to be mixed on the plate - it's not good if, say, the peas get mixed up with the carrots.

I will also generally eat the parts of the meal in some order. Non-potato vegetables are always first, starting with the small, numerous items such as peas or corn. Then would come larger items: cauliflower cheese or mushrooms, before getting on to the potatoes and finally the meat. With meals such as chilli and rice (uniformly mixed together) I have a different approach: I will start at the edges, squaring the shape, and work inwards towards the middle maintaining that shape with its straight sides; mashed potato is the same.

There are other things: bread and butter must be in whole slices and if stacked the buttered sides must be together. Any cutlery accompanying the meal must not be in contact with the food prior to me starting to eat. Except for bread/salad and condiments there must be no combination of both hot and cold items on a plate.

I'm also a little unconventional in my use of cutlery. As much as possible I will use only a fork or spoon, held in my right hand. I transfer the fork to my left hand if I need to use a knife - I can't use a knife with my left hand - but will put down the knife and pass the fork back to the right when I'm done. I need to keep the cutlery clean as I'm eating which means I have to put the fork or knife into my mouth or lick it to remove any visible food - very delicately in the case of a sharp steak knife!

This last habit - putting the knife in my mouth - raises my wife's hackles every time she sees me do it. It turns out she was taught that this is ill-mannered. Trouble is, not doing it puts me on edge because then the knife is dirty, so I can't win. In general my wife is pretty good about accommodating my "peculiarities" where food is concerned, but she will keep on about the knife in mouth thing.

There are other little things but I've covered the main points here. From the outside I have been informed that my eating habits appear restrictive, repetitive or downright strange but from my side it is simply the way I am - I've always been like this so I don't know any different.

Lost in Transit

Footprints clear in the crisp snow;
I follow, hoping to find my way
Back to the place I came in.
The path winds on and on;
No end in sight. Until at last
Familiar sights greet me.
I have been here before:
This is where I started out
Chasing the ghost of my own past,
Round and round, perpetual motion
Leading nowhere. No memory
Of my destination remains.
Lost in transit, marking time,
Walking in my own footsteps
Hoping to find myself
At journey's end.

Handle With Care

Brittle tranquility, a fragile egg-shell existence from moment to moment. Trying not to think about the instant when it will shatter under the weight of my suppressed feelings.

At times I can go for hours, even days, with a happy, carefree cast of mind before the darkness encroaches again and I fall into the depths. It is so sudden, as if a switch were flicked to extinguish the light, that the onset is shocking in its abruptness. One minute I'm my "normal" self, the next I'm falling with an aching void where my heart used to be - such intense, painful loneliness.

At these times I feel the urge to curl up in a warm, dark sanctuary. To hold myself tightly, comfort myself in the most basic way. Tears prick at my eyes but will not flow even though I feel a need for that release - my inhibitions remain too strong. This frustrates me immensely.

All my worrying, anxiety, insecurity: it is little wonder that I have had trouble sleeping on and off recently. I feel mentally exhausted from the effort of keeping going. Reprising my role for endless curtain calls; no respite. I feel trapped by my responsibilities and face a strong temptation to run away but I know that any escape would be temporary. Not sure I could face crawling back to my old life after a hedonistic spree. Can't face severing the ties that bind me to my current station. Trapped.

It is a leaden dullness that holds me to the ground when I yearn to fly, to shine. I sit in the midst of winter-gray concrete uniformity and dream of running through the woods and meadows of childhood's infinite summer. Soap-bubble dreams that burst and disappear so easily: from weightless, iridescent beauty to oblivion in the blink of an eye. As fragile as my veneer of happiness.

New vs Old

That's progress for you, march of time,
The local that we knew so well:
A dozen years of dirt and grime
Replaced by light and new-paint smell.

Old habits live on, so they say,
The people still behave the same,
Old memories surface day by day:
Same old faces, the same old game.

And though the steersman's hand is new,
The ship new-found, fresh from the yard,
'Most every hand's from former crew
Who know the ropes, old ways die hard.

The captain is no fool: she knows
Every trick from a foremast jack.
I will sit back, see how it goes
With those who wish the old times back.

With a Little Help

If happiness in life dependsOn finding comfort where you may,
Then most of all you need good friends
To brighten up your darkest day.

If loneliness should reappear
And threaten to extinguish hope,
Don't ever give in to your fear:
Your friends can give you strength to cope.

The Third Degree

Believe me, being in a non-verbal state is as frustrating for me as it must be for anybody trying to communicate with me. It is usually a symptom of stress, of emotional overload, so the worst way to react is in any fashion that increases my stress - becoming emotional, speaking louder or more insistently, coming too close and encroaching on my personal space. If you must try to interact with me at least speak quietly, unemotionally and without approaching too closely or making sudden movements.

Any hint of threat, whether it is a raised voice or unexpected proximity, only makes me feel more anxious and ensures that the episode will last longer. If I do manage to force some words out then don't assume I've come out of it - this can be a delicate moment as I start to regain some control and pushing me - giving me the third degree - will only send me deep back down into my uncommunicative state.

Above all, don't take my lack of responsiveness as a sign of indifference, ignorance or antipathy towards you: it is not. It is simply that my faculties are fully occupied dealing with my own mental turmoil and there is no spare capacity to handle interacting with people. I don't enjoy being non-verbal: because of the continual commotion inside my head it is mentally exhausting, and the muscular tension that results also causes physical tiredness. It is absolutely draining and leaves me in need of peace and quiet to relax. The fact that I might have been sat there, hardly moving or uttering a word, for hours does mean that I am ready to jump back into "normal" activities from the get go. Without some down time to recuperate it is very likely that even a small trigger will push me back over the edge.

Recognition of the causes and effects involved coupled with a little understanding makes it quicker and easier for me to work through the effects of the stress overload, and that has to be a good thing all round, doesn't it?

Duty and Responsibility

Sometimes I think about leaving this life with its burdens and responsibilities. No goodbyes; just go ahead and do it. There is no respite, no rest from labors. To even suggest it meets with accusations of selfishness and failure to care. Or worse. Threats, emotional blackmail or even violence.

I sometimes feel as if I am in thrall to a tyrannical master, whose every demand I must satisfy. I drive myself hard to meet the standards to which I hold myself. This infernal sense of duty - it compels me to carry on and on, grinding myself down, exhausting myself in the process.

I feel so tired. My defences are weak. The darkness inside finds its way to the surface, coloring my thoughts. Did you know it can take as little as 15 minutes to lose consciousness after slitting your wrists? If you hit the artery that is. Otherwise it could be hours. I looked it up - I wanted to know. Don't ask why.

Change. Don't like it at all. For somebody who has such difficulty relating to people I don't half have a hard time when I am apart from them. I'm a walking contradiction. I like my own company and I cannot bear to be apart from people. I abhor loneliness. And I am feeling lonely of late.

I try to keep my feelings hidden, even from myself I suspect sometimes. Must be strong, never show any weakness. So I must be alone, so nobody can see my vulnerabilities. I must be alone to cry in the night. I must be alone to open my heart and reveal my feelings. So much pent-up emotion that is held in, bottled up, because I do not dare let it show.

Anger, the rage inside, flares occasionally but never lasts. Unlike the hurt that never really leaves me. Oh, I can push it into the background but it still lies there waiting for its opportunity to raise its head and reenter my consciousness. There is no release, no respite. No rest.

I am a caged bird, looking out through the bars and imagining how it might feel to fly free. The bars are of my own making, stronger than steel. Forged of duty and responsibility. I have no option other than to remain here - suffer the constraints on my existence. The constraints I accepted so long ago now. The burden weighs heavy on me but I said I would bear it, so bear it I must. Choice was abrogated all those years ago. However I might wish otherwise that remains true.

But the caged bird can still dream of open skies. The slave can dream of the day the fetters are broken. And I can dream of release.

Kindred Spirit

Come sit with me and we can watch the world go by;
That's all I ask. I won't mind if you want to try
Some light discourse, then later we might take a stroll
And pass some time there by the river as it rolls
Beneath the trees and winds its way down to the sea:
A quiet time. And if in turn you ask of me
Just company, why then I should feel truly blessed
For I'll have found a soul to share my time of rest.

Waving or Drowning?

I drifted far out from the shore
Without a thought nor any care
For where the wind and tide might draw
My broken heart: I turn to stare
Back on that place I left behind
With few regrets. What is there now
To hold me and where can I find
The peace I crave? I wonder how
To send my signal straight to you:
A cry for help, I'm sinking fast.
No longer knowing what to do,
I raise my arms and hope at last
That you will understand my plight
And reach out, offer me a hand
Before I drift beyond your sight,
A castaway from love and land.

The Great Escape

My wife doesn't understand me! Well that's not an unusual thing for a husband to say. But in this case I am referring to something quite specific:  my love of science fiction and fantasy.

I have always loved reading - as a child I spent many hours lost in books, something that has never changed as I have aged. From my first sci-fi experience with the works of Arthur C. Clarke via Frank Herbert and Larry Niven to Iain M. Banks, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman I have found so much pleasure in their works. There is something about their writing that speaks to me.

Of all the authors I mentioned it is the last two that I have a particular affinity for. There is an appealing intelligence behind their words - they play games with language that I can only dream of emulating. They have a poet's feeling of the sublime subtlety in choosing a particular word that conveys exactly the right nuanced meaning. Or even multiple meanings. It is this depth that I find so satisfying.

I have encountered some other authors whose works do not provide this sense of connection. One in particular was the Harry Potter books of J. K. Rowling. I persevered through two or three pages but found that the writing was too mechanical, too plain. I found it to be simplistic - lacking any flair in the use of language. The stories themselves might be very entertaining - they are certainly hugely popular and successful. But for me there must be something more.

What I believe my wife fails to understand is that for me the subject matter is almost secondary to the pleasure I derive from beautifully created words. To be sure I enjoy a good tale, but it must be told in a such a way that the journey is as engaging as the destination. It is largely an artistic appreciation - I enjoy the precision evident in the construction, the master craftsmanship on show.

The opposite I find to be off-putting. The visible flaws in the output of less skilled writers jar discordantly and I find myself repelled. It is like a musician hitting the wrong notes in a recital - I end up focusing just on the mistakes and that prevents me getting enjoyment from the piece.

For me reading a good piece of writing is an immersive experience. I am engaged on both an intellectual and emotional level - I can enter a state of flow and lose myself in the procession of words. It is addictive and seductive at once - a guiltless, hedonistic pursuit, and one from which I gain immense pleasure.

The Hollow Man

Ever read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? I did, several years ago. There was something about Phaedrus'  ever deepening search for the essence of meaning that resonated with me. Being in the grip of self-destructive  addiction, knowing the damage that was being incurred but driven by compulsion to return time and again. Like a gambler chasing the big win, to hazard greater and greater stakes, risking more with each attempt, striving to attain that beautiful truth. The feeling that next time all the pieces would fall into place and the perfect light of understanding would illuminate the dazzling simplicity of the universe. All it needs is just one more step; it is so close now.

It is a chimera, an illusion. Instead of gaining understanding the very act of chasing that goal results in a narrowing of focus, the exclusion of everything except the desire. Monomania. Yet the idea of reducing all of life's complexity to its simplest essence is so seductive that it continues to exert a hold. I can fully understand what lured Phaedrus to abandon all the trappings of his "normal" life and devote his energies to the pursuit of knowledge.

I have been similarly tempted to step off the regular path and lose myself in the search for meaning. For understanding. Believing that if only I could fathom the principles underpinning the universe then I would achieve an enlightened serenity.  I just had to find that one last piece of the puzzle. Call it nirvana if you like.

Looking back now it seems to be a form of religious belief. I searched for meaning, feeling that there must be an underlying reason behind everything.

I no longer believe that. Life just happens. I have gone from an all-encompassing cause-and-effect view to one where individual choices and actions have little consequence beyond the immediate. And in adopting that view the immediate assumes paramount  importance - all that matters in life is to remain true to one's principles, to act correctly in accordance with one's sense of what is right.

Unfortunately this leads to conflict. I end up torn between courses of action where I have to decide between evils. To choose the least bad option. But because even the option I feel is the best has negative consequences I feel guilty that I have caused harm.

That is the essence of my belief. As in the Hippocratic Oath I believe that I first should do no harm. You may call me naive but I do not even feel that it is right to hurt those who have hurt me. I am not a Christian but the Christians among my audience might recognize the concept of turning the other cheek. Of forgiveness. Many people I know, encompassing several religions, see this as a weakness. But I do not. I see the ability to forgive as a great strength. As a healing force in the world. Because the alternative is an unceasing cycle of retribution. To break these circles of destruction it is necessary for somebody to stand up for the principle that two wrongs do not make a right.

Breakdown Timebomb

Handling strong emotions is extraordinarily difficult. Trying to keep them under control - rein them in - is like trying to close a suitcase packed with so many clothes that they threaten to burst out from every side.

I am caught in the currents of my feelings, one minute floating calmly and the next being pulled under by the rip tide or whirled around in a maelstrom of despair before sinking down in darkness. The illusion of control lies shattered around me as I huddle fetus-like in the middle of an barren landscape, no feature to break the monotonous emptiness fading to the horizon in every direction. Out here there is only loneliness. No sound. No breeze. Nothing moves, not even me. Yet within my mind nothing is still: huge, demanding thoughts and emotions slug it out in a battle for my attention while I struggle to avoid being overwhelmed.

And then, as softly sudden as the bursting of a soap bubble, the turmoil subsides and I experience a period of relative calm.

I feel the need to escape - a basic animal instinct to flee from threat. But there is no path to the place that draws me because it exists only in my memories, in the past. An illusory golden history, a carefree time of happiness. An amalgam of times and places synthesized into idyllic fantasy. Such a temptation!... to slip away into this perfect dream world.

A number of factors have likely contributed to my current state of mind but they all boil down to one thing: change. Too much has changed and is changing in too short a space of time and it all pushes me out of my comfortable routine existence into an unstable, unpredictable, disorientating state of uncertainty and confusion. I've not been sleeping well as a result, compounding the problem with tiredness - I feel tattered, ragged, frayed, worn out.

Please, somebody stop the world. I want to get off - I've had enough of this ride.

Writer's Block

Blank page stares back at me,
Taunts. A mocking challenge,
Battle of wills. To see
How mighty is the pen
When faced with emptiness.

To My Friend

I've said before that I don't form attachments easily; well, over the past year I have been fortunate enough to gain a new friend. There are very few people to whom I feel close enough that I would call them friends as opposed to acquaintances: I rarely feel comfortable enough to drop my guard with somebody - to take off the mask behind which I hide my vulnerabilities.

To me a friend is somebody for whom I would drop everything in an instant if they needed help. My best friend is my wife, and beyond her I can count my friends on the fingers of one hand. I accept that this is a very narrow definition of friendship - the word is much devalued these days by Facebook and overuse in popular culture. Our Antipodean cousins have the culture of mateship which most closely matches my meaning here, but the rest of the English-speaking world have to make do with the term "friendship".

How did this newest friend of mine  move from being simply another person I talk to socially to being someone I care about very deeply?

To my friend: we first met at work; you were friendly from the start, you had been told about my condition and had taken the trouble to understand - that meant such a lot to me. You were explicitly approachable and made the effort to make me feel part of the team. I always felt that I had your support and after only a matter of weeks I came to trust you.

You have never given me cause to doubt that trust.

I don't know if I appeared cold or aloof - I expect I did because that's just my way. To illustrate: there have been a few occasions in my life when I have been confronted with somebody who was visibly upset and, although I wanted to just hug them and try to comfort them - to demonstrate my feelings, I was unable to do so. I was afraid that it would offend, that it would be perceived as inappropriate or over-familiar. And I feel ashamed that I perhaps was seen as unconcerned or uncaring. That I could have done something to help them feel better and did not.

I have trouble with physical contact. Apart from the sensory issues it is my difficulty reading non-verbal signals that causes me to err very much on the side of caution. My mother knew: I believe I shocked her the last time I saw her before her death by kissing her.

I so rarely tell people how I feel about them. Privacy. I have a deeply ingrained habit of secrecy where my feelings are concerned - if I don't speak of how I feel then nobody can use that knowledge to attack me. Don't get involved, remain on the edges: the outsider. Play my part. Stay in character. Keep the illusion of control. Smile! It's like the saying about clowns: "laughing on the outside, crying on the inside." I sometimes wonder if I'm fooling anybody as I carry on as if everything is all right. "Yes, I'm fine." Even while I am hurting inside I can appear my "normal" self.

But back to my newest friend: we have had good times - so many enjoyable shared experiences. Although I had been drinking I can remember the night I said to you, "You are a friend." A good friend indeed. Always a smile in greeting and a kind, understanding word. You have a good heart.

After a while I felt a bond between us: a degree of comfort where I could be myself without fear of censure. Cheeky at times I know - I can picture that look now. But that was an indication of how comfortable I feel around you - that I felt able to push the boundaries.

We no longer work together but I still hold a special place for you in my heart. Mere miles cannot stop me from caring about you as much as the day I last saw you. It was a lot of fun, as I said the other day. Perhaps it is only me that feels our friendship is something beyond the ordinary. That doesn't matter to me - you made a lasting impression on me and I will be forever thankful for the twist of fate that caused our paths to cross. My life would have been poorer had I never met you.

All that remains is for me to again wish you the best of luck for the future, and to hope that you can find happiness and stability in your life. Know that I will always be here for you - you once offered an ear to me when I was in a bad place and I will not forget that. Many people have offered advice over the years; very few have offered just to be there when I needed it and, even though in the event I did not feel the need to take you up on your offer, I cannot thank you enough for the support it gave to me. That is the true measure of friendship.

I thought long and hard about what I would say to you before you left on your awfully big adventure, the next chapter in your life. In the event I either didn't find the opportunity or the courage to speak my mind - I don't know which. I was afraid I might upset you or else give the wrong impression: you appeared so close to tears a number of times and I could not bear to be the cause. So I have written this for two reasons: to express how I really feel and to try to assuage my own guilt at failing to speak my mind. This has been very difficult for me to write and I have found myself reduced to tears several times. I hope it is not too selfish of me to wish that you had not had to leave. I miss you and worry about you: you are never far from my thoughts, my friend. I give you my word that we will meet again, which is why I never said "goodbye".

TTFN

Scar Tissue

The sharp bright pain of fresh wounds
Grows dull with time. Though they heal
The scars are left as scrapbook
Memories.

Each one a window on the past
Through which the hurt still shines,
Less intense: scar tissue hard
And numb.

Losing Patience

Several times, especially in recent weeks, I have been put in an awkward, discomfiting position when out socially. One minute I will be feeling at ease among friends and then one person will start behaving badly - disparaging and insulting others, being antagonistic, even spiteful, and completely shattering my sense of calm.

This person absolutely refuses to accept that they might be in the wrong, instead reacting angrily to criticism and blaming anyone and everyone around them; the phrase "chip on the shoulder" comes readily to mind. I'm starting to wonder if there's some psychological problem behind these personality traits - the Wikipedia entry for narcissistic personality disorder includes the following:

Narcissists have such an elevated sense of self-worth that they value themselves as inherently better than others. Yet, they have a fragile self-esteem and cannot handle criticism, and will often try to compensate for this inner fragility by belittling or disparaging others in an attempt to validate their own self-worth. It is this sadistic tendency that is characteristic of narcissism...

But this speculation does not address the issue at hand, namely that this person is causing an increasing amount of ill-feeling and upset. I know that I'm reaching the limit of my patience in dealing with this person's demands and prima donna antics, and I'm far from the only one feeling this way.

I find that I am dealing with the stress caused by this person's behavior by switching off from these interactions - I have become increasingly emotionally detached as a form of self-defense. While I still care, I am no longer willing to be subjected to this kind of bullying behavior.

The Support of Friendship

I fear that this Diamond Jubilee weekend just gone has left me sadly out of sorts with the upheaval and disruption to my regular routines. I accompanied a group of friends to London on Saturday, a lads' day out. I will admit to having reservations in the run up to the day itself - I don't generally enjoy the crowds and hectic work-day pace of the city - but I had not been there on a Saturday for many years and never in the company of a group of friends. As it turned out I ended up in a smaller group of three or four for most of the day and by focusing on just this group I was able to insulate myself sufficiently from the many thousands of people all around us - it felt to me as if we were in our own protective bubble.

The day passed so quickly and I had a wonderful time - my companions were good company and all the strangers around barely registered in my mind - I was relaxed and happy, and had one of the best days out ever. The next day, Sunday, was quiet and flat by comparison - I have no clear recollection of it - but Monday brought another social gathering. This time it was a barbecue hosted by another friend, and again I started out with some trepidation because of the number attending: over thirty people, but nearly all of them people I know well.

I needn't have worried. They were welcoming and genuinely pleased that I had come along and my anxious insecurity was soon forgotten as I joined in the fun. I ended up not going home that night, spending the night at the home of yet another friend where I slept on the sofa - I can scarcely believe that people not only appear not to object to having me around, but even invite me over.

That long weekend is over. But despite my lingering tiredness I have memories of some very enjoyable times, thanks in such a large part to my friends. I cannot overstate the importance that such acceptance has to me - it gives me such a sense of support.

On The Edge

Unbroken path leads back
The way I came while on
Each side the land runs out
To fade in distant haze.

In front of me the void
Assures oblivion,
Patiently awaiting
That last small step of mine.

I don't remember how
My feet conveyed me here,
Nor any of the turns:
Decisions lost in time.

On setting out the route
Lay wide and arrow-straight
As far as eyes could see;
We walked off hand in hand.

It matters not who first
Slipped from the other's grip:
We each believed our paths
Led true. The distance grew

Until the day I found
We'd drifted out of touch:
I had never noticed
You straying from my side.

Glimpses offered hope that
Our paths would meet ahead:
I'll wait for you forever,
Alone here on the edge.

I Aten't Dead

Still here. Just having trouble gathering my thoughts into a shape coherent enough to write lately; makes me wonder if the cracks are showing. Not enough hours in the day, nor enough days in the week to find time to undertake all the outstanding jobs. Ninety degrees weather and I'm snowed under!

There are times when the work piles up faster than I can manage - I'm working flat out and the backlog is growing by the hour. There's a tipping point - a critical mass - beyond which I start to spend more time thinking about the sheer number of things to do than actually tackling them. I feel overwhelmed - under pressure - and start to panic.

I have found that I have a limit to the number of items I can maintain in my memory - my mental to-do list. If it grows beyond that limit then it is like adding too many apples to a fruit bowl: I put one in and it dislodges one or two that were precariously balanced, so I have to catch them and try to replace them into the bowl. (Akin to what I'd call thrashing in the day job.) My time and effort is spent trying to fit all my apples into my bowl, so to speak, rather than eating them.

Imagine opening a door - not a normal door but a portal to another place, more like Alice's looking glass. It is door-sized and -shaped - about 2'6" wide and 6'6" high - but just stands there like a window hanging in space. All I have to do is walk through it to be instantly transported to a peaceful land of solitude. I stand on the lush green grass, feeling the breeze and listening to the birds, and look back through the portal at the world I have stepped out of. Hang up a "Do not disturb" sign and lock the door. If only it weren't a fantasy...

An idealized past haunts my waking thoughts; I look back through the haze of distant time to halcyon days of childhood when the weight of responsibility lay less heavy upon my shoulders. But time flows ever on like a river to the sea, carrying me in its currents farther and farther from the tranquility of my source whence I sprang from the earth pure and untainted by the corruption and filth of this world above. Feels like I need a vacation.

PS: Thanks to Terry Pratchett for the title...

Still Young at Heart

Realization recently struck me like a slap in the face from a wet fish - I've been far too serious lately and it has been contributing to a morose malaise. The cure? Cast off all sense of grown-up responsibility for a while and just play.

Reveling in immaturity and freedom as I take a short vacation from the gravity of adulthood - it sure sounds attractive. I want to jump in a puddle to make the biggest splash, climb a tree and look out to the horizon, run around and laugh and play. I want to be Huck Finn and run away on an adventure...

Not that I will end up doing any of that - just dreaming. But the other day I did yield to the urge to get away for a spell - irresponsible perhaps, but necessary to restore some peace of mind. I walked along the river path, enjoying the stillness and solitude. It was enjoyable for a while...

..and then I started to encounter people and it spoiled the mood. Gone was my relaxed sense of ease to be replaced by a stiff uneasiness in the presence of strangers.

I took refuge in a place I feel comfortable but although it turned out to be an enjoyable day I couldn't get time alone to restore some semblance of calm in my mind.

Playing it Safe

Social situations are a minefield in which the slightest misstep can result in things blowing up in your face. I picture the situation as a narrow path - the "safe" area in terms of what I can say or do - with increasing danger of stepping on a mine - upsetting somebody - the farther I venture from the path.

Since I am risk-averse I do not often test the boundaries of what people find to be acceptable behavior - mapping out the danger area - and when I do, I tend to do so carefully and deliberately in the hope that any negative reaction will be small enough for me to handle.

I find it difficult because different people have wildly different standards of what they deem to be acceptable. Not only that, but the boundaries move depending on context. There is only a small patch of common ground on which the majority of people I encounter socially can agree.

My starting position with somebody I have not met before is to play it very safe - speak when spoken to, no slang or swearing, no physical contact. Over time I will observe how they act towards me and others, and slowly begin to introduce those behaviors that they demonstrate - the assumption here is that they are less likely to be offended by something that they do themselves.

This is not an infallible method. That's people for you - they're not always rational, logical or consistent. It can be a case of "do as I say, not as I do" - how confusing! But slowly, gingerly, I can explore the envelope and work out just how far I am able to take things with those I know reasonably well.

A Changing View of Language

I'm selective when it comes to slang; some words I take an instant dislike to, others grow on me. Who remembers rad from the 80's? Does anybody still use the word to mean excellent? My brother and his friends picked it up very quickly at the time but I always hated it - an abbreviation and slang. Never! I will speak properly, thank you very much. Yes, I was more than a little pedantic as a child when it came to language and its usage.

Some aspects of that persist to this day. I make an effort to use specific words to convey nuanced meaning. I often feel frustrated when I am unable to recall the word for a particular concept. And, as I might have mentioned in an earlier post, I have been known to correct spelling and grammar on notices and suchlike. Obvious errors such as their/there, its/it's and misplaced punctuation.

Spelling and grammar were drummed into me at school; I developed a view of the English language (the Queen's English as it was named in several books) as having One True Way that was fixed and inviolate for all time. Grammar was a set of rules that formally defined sentence structure and, of course, rules must never be broken.

What happened between then and now? I slowly came to understand that this codification of language was incomplete and (shock!) not completely accurate. That wasn't all: I also began to harbor the heretical belief that these rules obscured the truth that any language in current use is not static, that it is changing and evolving. The language is what people are using every day, not some idealized model locked away in a dusty tome.

So now I have reached the stage where I consider language to be a tool. The once-sacrosanct rules of grammar are now just a set of guidelines, advisory rather than prescriptive. The purpose of language is to transmit information, to allow one person to move an idea from inside their own head into the heads of other people. Accuracy is important - I want others to see the same mental pictures as I do, and to achieve this requires following the conventionally-understood meanings of words and phrases.

Spelling and grammar are not unimportant - they fulfill the function of improving clarity and comprehension. Errors introduce noise that obscures the message. If there are multiple interpretations of what I write or say then my meaning becomes unclear. Following the accepted conventions of language usage makes the job of the reader or listener easier.

So I no longer feel uncomfortable when I begin a sentence with a preposition. I feel free to occasionally split my infinitives. Slavishly following grammatical rules actually harms clarity because the words do not flow as naturally. Spelling is another aspect - on this blog I tend towards American English spellings because they will be more familiar to the majority of my audience. I am equally comfortable with either variant. I mostly avoid slang and jargon terms because they may be unfamiliar to some people; likewise I try to avoid terms that mean different things in different variants of English. Always be aware of your audience.

Say what you mean. Sound natural. Be accurate, clear and concise. Like any tool, language must be wielded with a degree of skill. Part of that skill is an awareness of the boundaries, without which your meaning fractures into myriad facets, each reflecting a part of the original but combining into a kaleidoscopic confusion of possible messages.

Loneliness Redux

It was John Donne who wrote in 1624, "No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe". Can't say I disagree with this - the more I build protective walls around me, insulating myself from the world at large, the more lonely I feel. Humans are social animals and merely going through the motions, only interacting superficially, does not involve any connexion with others. I find I need some contact but I'm shut away.

The keep stands fast, ringed by its moat,
Secure, yet isolated.
Defending me from close approach;
Connexions subjugated.

All who try to find a portal,
Some water-gate unguarded,
Can only beat against stone walls
With which my self's surrounded.

Fear builds these walls, fear of getting hurt, fear of censure or ridicule. These fears seem to feed on depression, growing stronger until they overwhelm me, forcing me to withdraw and take refuge behind the reinforced barriers of my mental "panic room".

The trouble is that once those doors are closed, once the shutters come down, there is a coldness as my links to those around me are severed. Feelings are dulled and remote, like outside sounds heard through a closed door. In here I am safe from danger but also disconnected from positive influence - a dilemma.

Perfect isolation
Brings a deathlike stillness.
Colorless desert; expanse
Of infinite emptiness.

How to resolve this? It is paradoxical that in my loneliness I feel a need to be alone, to get away and be by myself for a while. To regain my balance, rebuild my strength and, hopefully, recover my happiness. Because at the moment I am down. Have been for some days or weeks now - not quite sure how long.

The blighted trees were once so green
But now stand gray and twisted.
My woodland haven, tranquil scene,
Destroyed, demolished, blasted.

I feel exhausted. There are reasons - I know what they are but not how to resolve them.

Solitary inmate; my prison
Is of my own making, no less
Secure for that. I hold no keys
That will unlock these cold steel bars.

Outside my cell the corridors
Are silent, no guards to patrol.
My small cell lost in this fastness.
I cry out; echoes fade to naught.

Trying to find some inner peace is difficult right now. I try to recall times of happiness and comfort such as walks in the countryside, views across lakes to distant hills and forests - but instead I find I am transported to exposed rocky slopes with the cold wind howling around me as the rain lashes down and thunder rumbles ominously in the distance. I am a long way from shelter and the day is rapidly drawing to an end to leave me on my own in the stormy night.

Trudging endlessly through the long night, the search for a place to rest seems a Sisyphean task. But I cling to the hope that the storm will abate, a new day will dawn and I will at last find a place to lay my head. To cast off my weariness and return to the light.

The Point of No Return

History and literature are full of examples of actions that cannot be undone, steps that cannot be retracted. Julius Caesar commanded his legions to cross the Rubicon, countless seaborne invaders have burned their boats, Shakespeare had Henry V exhort his troops "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead". Common to these is the idea that, while the action might be a desperate gamble, turning away would equate to failure - come back with your shield or on it, death or glory.

Such actions are invariably described with the benefit of hindsight and portray the events as heroic and aspirational. But can they really be considered to set a good example - are there situations in which risking everything on the roll of a die is the rational course of action?

Obviously the answer depends on the consequences of turning away, of choosing not to act. In Caesar's case his term as Proconsul had expired and he had been recalled to Rome in the face of Pompey's accusations of insubordination and treason. If he had not invaded Italy from Gaul thus instigating a civil war he would have found himself much reduced, his political aspirations in ruins. For such an ambitious man that would have been intolerable; he preferred to risk defeat and death but was aware that he could count on significant military, public and political support. Bearing that in mind, it was a calculated risk.

I would describe myself as risk-averse - I tend towards courses of action that have less uncertainty, smaller chances of incurring harm. I find uncertainty - any kind of gambling for example - to be stressful. The worst kinds of situation I can imagine involve having to decide between courses of action that each carry risk: being between the devil and the deep blue sea. It is a combination of fear of the unknown and fear of the prospect of suffering injury.

Problems arise when faced with such dilemmas - I can easily be frozen into inaction by my fears, even if doing nothing carries its own risks. In consequence I will attempt to keep my options open, to leave myself a route back to where I started. To pass the point of no return is, to me, like jumping off a cliff (I have a fear of heights which makes this allusion particularly apt). I am over-aware of the consequences of failure and this biases my judgement to favor the path with the least bad risk rather than the one with the highest potential benefit.

It all boils down to fear and anxiety, those often irrational feelings, that steer me away from particular situations or courses of action. I guess I am at least predictable in that I will act to minimize my anxiety. Avoiding becoming trapped - cornered - with risk on every side is crucial to this. There will be no passing the point of no return for me, thank you.

Let's Talk About Me

Writing can only achieve so much. There are times when I feel I am holding in so many silent thoughts, so much unexpressed emotion that I get mentally exhausted. It's difficult - if not impossible - to let go, to let it out. Like a locked door to which I do not possess the key. The pressure builds up behind the barriers and the strain makes me fractious.

Mental tension leads to physical tension, that characteristic tightening across the shoulders causing muscular discomfort, aches and pains. How can I relieve this stress? Get things off my mind?

It doesn't help that I subconsciously avoid analyzing the causes of my feelings. As if afraid to confront them head-on I avoid letting my inner eye gaze long upon them. Must avoid eye contact, even in here. So these nebulous concerns accumulate while I refuse to reify them, to give them substance, because that would require that I acknowledge their presence and admit that I cannot handle them.

But admit to whom? To speak of such things to another would need such a degree of candor - such openness - that I would feel too exposed and vulnerable, succumbing in that instant to overwhelming fear, and hastily slam the shutters closed.

To what kind of person could I reveal the detailed depths of my inner turmoil? Whom could I trust implicitly to keep the secrets of my soul safe from the sight of others? It's a puzzle, to be sure - I would have to know somebody well to feel comfortable enough to consider opening up, but having done so I could not subsequently feel comfortable around them. It would be as if I were laid bare. So I end up believing that exploiting such a level of trust would destroy it.

The end result is that I continue to accumulate the hurt and pain, trying to keep it locked away from my day-to-day thoughts. Trying to appear carefree, chasing distractions and amusements that will occupy my mind for a while and give me some respite. Until the darkness returns, as it inevitably will, since I cannot open my mind's doors and let in the light. I am simply not able to talk about me.

Blame Culture

Whose fault is it?

It seems there is no longer such a thing as an accident in the strictest sense. Commercials pop up all around to urge us to sue for compensation - "Have you had an accident that wasn't your fault?"

I remember when tripping over some object left lying around caused embarrassment at one's carelessness and lack of attention - I didn't see that there. Now, rather than being personally responsible for one's own safety and taking care to spot and avoid hazards, it is up to everybody else on the planet to make my environment risk-free on pain of legal action.

Is it just me or is there something wrong with this picture? Whatever happened to common sense? Surely if I choose a course of action that involves some risk then it is my own fault, and nobody else's, if I incur - or cause - injury. It is my responsibility to be aware of the risks and take steps to mitigate them.

Let's take the scenario of crossing the street. Without warning I step out into the road and get hit by a truck whose driver didn't have chance to stop. Based on the premise that whatever happens to me cannot be my own fault then obviously it must have been the driver's fault - he was going too fast or failed to think that I might take it into my head to cross the road right in front of him. Hope he's got a good lawyer!

Or perhaps my assumption was flawed. Consider the possibility that it was my own fault, that I am responsible for myself. That if I don't want to spend time in the ER then I should look before I step into the road. That if I don't check that there is no traffic - if I don't take reasonable steps to reduce the risk - then I am to blame for whatever happens to me.

What about a different situation (one that really happened to somebody I know)? You are walking under a ladder when the person working above drops something on your head. In my mum's case it was a window cleaner's wet sponge - she saw the funny side - but it could have been something that would cause injury. My immediate reaction is that walking under a ladder on which somebody is working is a pretty stupid thing to do and you deserve whatever you get.

The point is that, with a few exceptions, window cleaners do not deliberately drop things on passers by walking underneath. If it is not a deliberate act then it falls into the category of an accident. Yes, he dropped his sponge and it hit somebody. But that person chose to take the risk of walking under the ladder. Some might say that there should be warning signs or barriers; however my opinion is that the presence of the ladder is sufficient warning in itself.

Which brings me to my final point here: what is gained by apportioning blame here? Does the window cleaner benefit from blaming the pedestrian for walking under his ladder? Does the pedestrian benefit by blaming the window cleaner for dropping his sponge? I don't believe either of them does. What would benefit the pedestrian in this case is to analyze the cause of the accident and learn to avoid similar situations in the future. In other words, don't walk under ladders!

There are situations where harm is caused by reckless or malicious behavior - these are not accidents but rather incidents: the effects of actions. In these cases the responsibility lies with the one who caused the incident - it is their fault. Key is the idea that we are all individually responsible for our own actions and should attempt to reduce the harmful effects of those actions on ourselves and especially on others. Failing to fulfill this responsibility is reckless if not deliberate but malicious - even criminal in some instances - if done with knowledge and intent.

Dissociation

Signals flashing through the air,
I don't even seem to care.
No expression, sit and stare,
Mind withdrawn: I am not there.

Dissociation is, I believe, a defense mechanism, a way of getting away mentally rather than physically. For me it appears to be an unconscious reaction to some sensory or emotional stimulation - the first I often know of it is when I realize somebody is trying to get my attention and they say to me that I was "miles away".

Don't ask me where my mind wanders during these episodes - they are blank. I have no conscious memory of what has happened and no sense that any time has passed. In a way it feels similar to the hyper-focused state of flow in that my sense of the passage of time is distorted.

It's not something that happens often - it's far more common that I'll shut down or otherwise become non-verbal and unresponsive while still being aware of what's going on around me. But every now and then I'll notice that there is a discontinuity in my memory - either I find myself in a new location with no memory of how I came to be there, or I notice that there has been some change around me. Different people, a change in the lighting. Perhaps the sun has set and I find myself wondering, or even asking out loud, "When did that happen?"

Discontinuity/
Jump cut reality/
Fast-forward memory/
Void in my history.

Returning to the here and now is jarring, unsettling. It's like falling asleep in one place and waking up in another. There is a strong feeling of dislocation, of confusion. A sense of having lost something. It can even be frightening - being aware that I have moved in time or space but not knowing anything about the transit.

The Rage

Bright, flashing lights. Loud, high-pitched sounds. Rough, scratchy touches. I find all of these overstimulating, sometimes to the point where they overload my senses causing physical pain and stress. It's a cumulative effect - as I experience the sensory input I first feel discomfort. This builds along with my stress level.

There are times when I just up and leave to escape from the sensations. This is effective from my point of view but not so good when I'm in company. Then there are times when I dissociate - withdraw into myself - and largely stop being consciously aware of my surroundings. Finally there are the times when I am not able to get away from the stimulation, when I am not in a calm enough frame of mind to withdraw.

In those situations the stress builds and builds like a lake filling behind a dam. Only instead of water it is an inner rage. From trying to block out the offending sensation, I now find myself fixated on it - tunnel vision where all I can see is the source of the anger and pain. My muscles tense, my blood pressure rises. Unbidden, dark thoughts of violence rise from the depths of my mind, hurling themselves against the walls of self-control that contain them. I am beset by images of the destruction of my nemesis; I picture myself wielding sledgehammer or wrecking bar and pounding the offending object into mute submission as I scream and howl, releasing the rage.

I am not a violent person by nature - people know me as laid-back and easy-going. It usually takes far more to rouse me to anger than most other people, and I very rarely feel anger towards a human or other animal. But when the pressure builds inside... I find it exhausting to hold it all in, and when the dam breaks open everything I had held back floods out in a meltdown.

Afterwards is emptiness and exhaustion. And then, later, comes the shame. Shame of failure because I lost control. Shame of drawing negative attention from those around me.

Two things prompted me to write on this subject today. The first was this blog post about misophonia. The second was a very unwelcome change in my local pub: a slot machine was moved to a new position right next to where I usually sit. Bright, flashing lights directly in front of me - need I say more.

Incandescence

Embers glow too dull to see
And yet the fire still smoulders,
Drip-fed fuel of hurtful words
While seeming to grow colder.

Now the kindling's stacked so high
It's balanced on a knife-edge,
Fatal breath of oxygen
Explodes it in violent rage.

Getting In Tune

I was at a gig in the local pub on Saturday night; a local band called Fuzz Universe. I really enjoy live rock music - it seems to be an exception to my usual intolerance of loud noise and bright, flashing lights - and I had a very pleasurable time. I even enjoyed a brief chat to the lead guitarist afterwards: he's one of only a few people to have recognized the subject of the painting on the back of my leather jacket as the character of Death from Terry Pratchett's Discworld.

I had a brief moment of anxiety early in the night when the singer came round with the mike during Johnny B. Goode in search of some audience participation in the chorus. Unfortunately my nerves got the better of me and my mind went blank: I forgot the words! Both of them - "Go" and "Johnny". Not singing was actually more embarrassing than if I had managed to do it. I got a chance at redemption a little later when he came round again during Kings of Leon's Sex on Fire and this time made a decent stab at it. The thing is I often sing along to songs I know reasonably well, just not loud enough that people can generally hear me. (I do the same when I'm driving: sing along to whatever CD I'm playing.)

I didn't quite realize how loud it was until the band finished playing and I had ringing in my ears and a slightly unpleasant damping of my aural acuity - my own fault for spending almost the entire night about six feet in front of one of the speaker stacks! Surprisingly there was only one moment when I overloaded and almost blacked out - a brief second or so when the input exceeded some internal threshold and I stopped hearing - causing me a moment of disorientation before recovering my faculties.

The band finished with Foo Fighters' The Pretender as an encore and I've still got the tune going round and round in my head - it's a good thing I like the song so much. I've caught myself humming and singing it in the shower (another favorite place for me to sing). Getting tunes stuck in my head is something that happens to me a lot - I just hope I don't start singing or humming them out loud in public. I attract attention by talking to myself now and again; I don't want to appear even more eccentric by singing as well. I've never managed to find a way to get such a song out of my head except by listening to something that I find even more catchy. Usually each will reside for a few days before the next one takes its place: I wonder what my next one will be.

Food for Thought

I have never been a particularly fussy eater, but there are some things I don't like and avoid. Raw tomatoes used to make me gag: it was a combination of the texture - mouth feel - and the taste. As I've aged I find I generally enjoy them, but if the tomato is under-ripe I still find myself gagging on it. Cooked tomato has never been a problem. I can't eat mussels or clams because of the texture and flavor but enjoy calamari and prawns.

I've never enjoyed dealing with meat, such as chicken portions, or fish that contains bones. I find the painstaking picking through in search of the bones so they can be removed before I take a mouthful to be tedious and I usually give up after a while, leaving the rest untouched. This is at odds with my strong inclination to finish whatever is put in front of me.

That inclination causes me problems with my weight: rather than just eating enough at a sitting I will continue to eat as long as food is available until I cannot physically consume any more. I don't feel hunger to any great degree and can generally eat a full dinner regardless of the hour or whether I have already eaten. Buffets are a particular problem for me - I feel obliged to try to eat everything that has been laid out, as if it had been served to me alone. I feel that I'm breaking a rule - committing some transgression - if I leave food. I guess this is a result of being brought up to clean my plate - I subsumed this as an almost-inviolable unconscious behavioral rule.

The only ways I have found to deal with this are avoidance and strict portion control. Despite knowing that it is not the best option from a health point of view I will skip meals, often eating just one meal a day. I figure that it is better to do this than to overeat. The second way, controlling the size of portions, requires the cooperation of others such as my wife who prepare my meals. Even though I remind her from time to time, I find that the size of my dinners creeps up. The first sign I usually get is that my clothes are starting to become tighter and less comfortable.

I do enjoy food. I derive a lot of pleasure from eating foods that I enjoy and do not get bored eating one of my favorite dishes day after day. As an example, I have eaten home-cooked spaghetti bolognese with garlic bread on more than half the days of the past month and enjoyed it equally on each occasion. If it weren't for my wife getting bored preparing the same dish repeatedly I would happily eat it every day.

Peer Pressure

I'm the first to admit I can be a stubborn character. Once I decide on a course I can dig my heels in and pursue it come hell or high water. For the most part I choose to do things I enjoy - that includes being helpful because that makes me feel good as a result. But I don't do anything because I feel I ought, because I want to conform, because everybody does it.

I really don't care be pressured by people into doing something I don't want to do. Any time I get that kind of pressure I start to feel irritated and I can quickly get angry and snappish. I'm not a naturally rebellious type. I don't take stands to make a point or to be contrary. I do it for purely personal reasons, not to fit in with some group of people.

I'm the eternal outsider; I never feel fully part of any group: I don't get that involved. And to a large degree that leaves me immune to the pressures that social groups can bring to bear on their members to conform. I feel no need to think, speak or act the same way as others. I have enough confidence these days not to worry if people don't like what I do. I'm comfortable in my own company, doing my own thing.

I keep trying to understand peer pressure; to work out why so many people have a need to be part of a social circle. I find it all very confusing. Are these people's values really so malleable that they may be changed to match the group norm? My values are deeply ingrained and have been consistent throughout most of my life. Do these people go against some of their natural inclinations to follow a stronger urge to conform and be accepted by the group? If so, wouldn't this cause an internal conflict, some feelings of discomfort or even guilt?

I've seen people act in certain ways when in a group that they would never consider doing when alone. This can include being critical of and putting down people who are not members of the group, and even bullying. There appears to be a suspension of personal responsibility: whatever the group does is the responsibility of the group rather than devolving to each individual within it. There appears to be self-censorship: there must be no disagreement within the group, so no member feels able to take a dissenting position on anything.

I find it all rather depressing and dispiriting. Is it a failure in education that people are so reluctant to think for themselves and stand up in defense of their values? Or - a darker thought - is it just human nature? Are we doomed to a society shaped and dominated by inter-group rivalries and conflict?

Enough of this - I dislike ending on a negative note and this subject is getting me down. I'll just continue to hope for enlightenment and respect, and treat others as I would like to be treated in return. Perhaps it's just a drop in the ocean, a solitary candle against the darkness, but at least I can hold my head high.

Alpha and Omega

Everything comes to an end,
That's just the way of the world.
Every new fashion and trend
Like a spring flower unfurled.

Try as you might, you can't mend
Petals when withered and brown.
Enjoy the moment, my friend,
Go with a smile, not a frown.

Cycles forever repeat,
Memories all that transcend.
Life springs from death, born complete.
Everything starts from an end.

Fantasia

One of my work colleagues, having read my post Music and Mood, asked me whether I had ever seen Disney's Fantasia - in particular the abstract animation accompanying Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. He was curious to know whether my mental images would match the animation at all.

I hadn't seen the picture at that point, but have since watched most of the segment in question. The short answer is that the images it conjures up in my mind do not match those in the movie at all. In fact the mismatch was so great that I stopped watching because I found the animation distracted from the music rather than complementing it; however I did find an audio recording of the piece played on a pipe organ which I found much more satisfying than the orchestral version because of the purity of tone.

It is somewhat curious to me that what is essentially an abstract piece of music - there is no evidence that Bach intended any narrative in his composition - should inspire concrete images in my mind's eye. The opening bars bring into being a darkened landscape, hills rolling to the horizon, the scene widening. And then as that powerful chord is built up the sun rises above the far horizon, flooding the bucolic land with its warm golden brightness. As the piece progresses there is movement as flowers spring up out of the ground, streams and waterfalls cascade and great towering trees thrust skywards, propelled by the strength of the deep bass notes.

There is a lot of detail and movement in my images, especially those that are produced by rapid sequences of notes - this is in complete contrast to the simple nature of the animation in Fantasia, where the complexity of the music is not matched by the visuals. There are odd moments that begin to show promise but they still fall far short and I am left with a feeling of dissatisfaction because the combined experience of music and video ends up much less involving than the music alone.

Filling in the Blanks

"Yeah, mumble mumble last night mumble mumble meal mumble Friday?" Oops. You just asked me something. What did you just say? Well, based on what you were talking about before - the bits I managed to catch - I guess you just asked me if I want to go out for a meal Friday. I'd better see if I'm correct - ask a hopefully relevant question and see what you say: "A meal this Friday? Where?"

At this point I either come across as "normal", following the conversation, or I just dropped a spanner in the works and confused the heck out of you. And I never know which it's going to be! The problem is that if there's any distraction - background noise or movement in particular - then I fail to distinguish the speaker's voice. I know they're talking to me, I can see their lips moving and hear sounds, but even concentrating intently I can only interpret the odd word and have to guess the rest from context.

More often than I care to admit somebody will say something to me and I'll respond with some acknowledgement. It's several seconds later that I finally work out what they said and can tell whether my response was appropriate. Or whether I just looked stupid again.


See if you can work out the meaning of this short extract. To make things easier I've left in most of the nouns:

__________ impairment ___ social _________ stereotyped and restricted patterns ______ activities and interests, and _____ally signi_____lay in cog______opment or general _____ language.

This is from a description of Aspergers Syndrome that I've quoted previously. I admit I've been selective in the bits I blanked out, but this is only for the purpose of illustration. In a real situation there would be snatches of other conversations interleaved with this one, and the whole would be obscured by background noise:

The thing is, I don't have hearing problems. I can pick up faint sounds like the clock ticking at home. I score in the average range in hearing tests. But if somebody says something while the TV is on - or there's music playing or other conversations going on around us - then although I can hear all the sounds, I can't separate them very well. It's a problem with processing the sensory input and I find it hard work and very frustrating, so I often keep out of conversations in noisy environments. In fact I prefer to avoid noisy social environments altogether.

With all this it's no surprise I prefer to communicate in writing - through email, text or similar mechanisms. The words are in front of me, not obscured by noise, and there is no need for an immediate response. I can take the time to compose my reply, re-reading their comment if necessary and thinking of le mot juste - the right word that will exactly convey my intended meaning.

The Joy of Darts

A post by C. S. Wyatt started me thinking about what games and sports I enjoy, and why.

I have always enjoyed word-based puzzles, particularly crosswords, and complete at least one cryptic crossword most days - my favorite is the Daily Telegraph which I usually finish in under 20 minutes. What attracts me is the challenge of interpreting the clue in the correct way to construct the answer - it's a combination of an extensive vocabulary, an awareness of multiple meanings of words and logical reasoning.

I occasionally solve Sudoku puzzles but find them much less satisfying because of the purely mechanical methods involved. I found it much more interesting to write a computer program to apply the methods and solve the puzzles that way.

Quizzes in various forms can be fun. I used to enjoy taking part in a local pub quiz but after a while got bored by the consistently variable level of difficulty of the questions - the first few would be insultingly easy, while the final ones would often be so obscure that they just resulted in a random choice of one of the multiple options provided. I enjoy playing Trivial Pursuit now and again but get frustrated by the element of luck introduced by rolling a die to determine where I can move my counter.

I have played card games in the past - blackjack, poker - in social settings for chips rather than "real" money in a casino. While I did very much enjoy studying and designing strategies to guide my play (I bought a copy of Hoyle as a reference), I found that the random turn of the cards and the unpredictability of other players meant I did not get nearly as much pleasure from actually playing the games.

I play pool (8-ball) on occasion - I used to captain a pub team - and ten-pin bowling, but the sport I play most has to be darts. In all of these sports, how well I do depends on my individual skill - there is no significant random element apart from the very small variation in ambient conditions - these being indoor sports - which affect all the players equally. I also enjoy the fact that, unlike in team sports such as rugby, I can play at whatever pace suits me.

In summary, I have a strong preference for games of skill rather than chance. I much prefer turn-based games. I enjoy puzzles and other activities that exercise my mind. I prefer games where it is only my individual performance that affects the outcome, although I have played pairs matches in both pool and darts. I believe that the individual turn-based nature of these is a much more significant factor than any interaction between myself and my partner in the pair - there is not the depth of strategy and real-time interaction involved unlike a regular team sport.

In fact, having considered the reasons why my preferences lie in a particular direction, I can see strong parallels between these leisure activities and my love of programming. There are the same elements of skill, knowledge, problem-solving and individual effort. Just as I am happiest and perform best when left to my own devices at work, so I prefer those leisure activities that involve solo endeavor.

A Bit Aspie

I suppose, people being people, that other Aspies have tried to explain how the condition affects their functioning in some way, such as difficulty reading non-verbal signals, only to hear, "I, like, get that too, you know: maybe I'm a bit Aspergers." Even after ignoring the involuntary wince that is triggered whenever language is tortured in my presence, I struggle to respond to that. While I don't want to dismiss out of hand the possibility that they might be correct, it can be hard to explain how AS (and autism) are  about more than being awkward in social situations.

What I want to say to these people - but can't because my AS makes it too difficult to formulate an adequate response without zoning out for too long and dropping out of the conversation - is that I doubt very much whether they do have AS. AS is not like a salad bar where you get to choose how much of each symptom you want. It's not something I chose to have - I have it, live with it and cope with the challenges as best I can. Each symptom taken in isolation does not define the condition: it is called a pervasive disorder for a reason. It is a set of symptoms, usually with varying degrees of severity, and having AS means you pretty much got the lot.

What is "the lot"? To quote the Wikipedia article which summarizes the DSM-IV diagnostic criteria,

[...] a pattern of symptoms rather than a single symptom. It is characterized by impairment in social interaction, by stereotyped and restricted patterns of behavior, activities and interests, and by no clinically significant delay in cognitive development or general delay in language.

This doesn't even attempt to explain why these symptoms occur: it is just a "pattern" that recurs and has been labelled as Asperger Syndrome. The label is a convenience, nothing more, to cover the effects of particular cognitive differences. It does not describe the differences between individuals with AS, the varying degrees of difficulty we face in everyday situations. Couched in the most general terms it says nothing about how it feels from the inside - how exhausting it is to deal with "normal" life, to feel so often that we have to consciously act "normal" with other people so that we are not seen as alien, to face censure for "inappropriate" behavior when we don't conform to their "normal" standards.

I doubt that any sighted person would describe themselves as "a bit blind" because they close their eyes occasionally. Likewise, they are not "a bit Aspie" because they sometimes feel awkward in social situations or have a fanatical interest in, say, football. There is evidence that the Aspie label is somehow becoming seen as "cool" - I can't understand why this should be so, because I know first-hand that the reality is that even in a mild form it causes significant difficulties for those directly affected, and also indirectly for those such as partners in relationships.

À la Recherche d'une Qualité Perdue

Childhood days -
Endless summer
Over so soon.

School routine -
Facts and figures
In place of friends.

The shy boy
On the fringes -
Mock his strangeness.

Building Lego
Sat for hours -
Transcendent joy.

Exam success,
Afraid to speak -
Social failure.

Computer geek,
Obsessive interest -
The world forgotten.

Curious mind
Always learning -
Child-like wonder.

Naïveté
Jamais perdu -
Le retour de l'été.

Freedom

Freedom is an illusion. Freedom of expression, freedom of movement, freedom of action; all are constrained in one way or another by the written and especially the unwritten rules - conventions - of society. The uncomfortable truth is that there is no such thing as freedom from consequences.

Everything we do, everything we say has an effect, whether large or small. Every time I articulate an opinion it colors somebody's feelings towards me: if they agree then they feel more closely aligned with me; if they do not then they feel alienated. Even the way I express myself has an effect: my vocabulary in the workplace is more extensive and less coarse than when I'm in the pub. This is because social conventions exist in both places. There are certain behaviors that would be seen as inappropriate in the "wrong" context, such as swearing or drinking in the workplace. So while it is physically possible for one to, say, drink a beer at work, one would certainly face serious consequences as a result.

Can one be said to be free to act when one is physically able to perform an action that will result in censure or punishment? I do not believe so. I believe that freedom implies that no harm will befall one as a result of one's actions: that there will be no consequences that one is unwilling to accept.

Unwilling to accept - that is the crux of the matter. If one truly does not care about what happens as a result, either to oneself or to others, then one is free to do as one pleases. Greater freedom comes at the cost of diminished responsibility: being responsible for one's actions means being aware of and accepting the consequences.

Respect is a factor in this: respect for the right of others not to be offended or harmed by anything one might choose to do. Consider the idea of freedom of expression: a concept that many, especially in the Western world, feel is an inalienable right. A liberal interpretation of it could be construed as a license to lie, offend, incite hatred or violence - one has the freedom to say anything at all and because of that one is absolved of any responsibility for the outcome.

I recall the controversy over the publication, initially in Denmark, of cartoons depicting the Muslim prophet Muhammad. The publishers used freedom of expression as their defense; however there appeared to be an almost complete lack of understanding of the degree to which many Muslims would be offended, of the utter revulsion they feel towards those committing what they see as blasphemy. It is the same revulsion that many people feel towards those who desecrate Jewish cemeteries with Nazi graffiti, or those who abuse children. Would you say that people should have the freedom to commit those acts? Or should they instead have enough respect for others' rights that they could not do something so harmful? Understanding that, I feel I have a responsibility not to cause such offense - and in this it does not matter whether it offends me: it is about respecting the rights of others. Is it not reasonable to expect other people to behave with the same respect?

Having started on the subject of freedom, and dismissed it as a chimera, I have ended up reiterating my long-held views about respect and responsibility. I do not worry about whether I am "free" - it is a concept that carries little meaning for me with my consciousness of the social constraints within which I must navigate my daily life. I try to act intentionally according to my beliefs: in basic terms, to treat others as I would wish to be treated in return. It is more important to me that I be treated with respect than that I should feel free to do as I please.

Weathering the Storm

Looking back from where I sit alone,
Thinking how it all was meant to be,
Sunny days and laughter in the home,
Not a care to trouble you or me.

Gathering dark storm clouds: trouble looms
On the far horizon, distant fear.
Thunder rolls and hints of pending doom,
Presages the trouble drawing near.

Suddenly the tempest rages round,
Unexpected fury a surprise,
Trying hard to keep feet on the ground,
Lashing rain brings vengeance from the skies.

Feeling such oppression I withdraw,
Cower in the shelter of my mind.
Memories of happiness are straws.
Desolation creeps up from behind.

Identity

We all go through life acquiring labels: abstract, shorthand descriptions of how others see us. Some are positive: intelligent, caring; while others are negative: weird, rude, crazy. I've picked up several over the years. But how do these labels relate to my self-image, my identity?

The short answer is that they don't. I see myself as an individual, unique, with a set of behaviors and thoughts that is mine and mine alone. Yes, I share certain traits with others to varying degrees and this induces people to file me under certain categories in their minds. To put me into particular boxes bearing little hand-written labels, identifying me as a set of characteristics.

When I think of these labels I picture a dark, dusty, wooden cabinet, perhaps in a Victorian museum, with row after row of small drawers. Each has a tarnished brass handle and above the handle is affixed a small, age-yellowed paper label with one or two words written in a neat copperplate hand; the black ink has faded to gray. Inside each drawer, in perfect alphabetical order, is a stack of plain cards and upon each is written a person's name in the same hand as the drawer's label.

This view of a person as a collection of basic, orthogonal characteristics has its uses. It provides a point of reference, a sketched outline upon which to build a more detailed representation. But the picture must not be confused with the subject it represents - a portrait of somebody, whether painted or written, cannot describe them fully. The picture is not the object. That is the message in René Magritte's La Trahison des Images (The Treachery of Images) with its caption, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" ("This is not a pipe").

As in mathematics, membership of any number of sets does not predicate that those attributes are the sum total of being, of identity. It's just like saying that a particular number is prime and odd, and attempting to infer its other attributes from that incomplete description. Can you guess what number I was thinking of? The number of possible answers is literally infinite.

When I consider myself reduced to a meager collection of adjectives my hackles rise and it brings to mind the rebellious outburst of Number 6 in The Prisoner, "I am not a number, I am a free man!" By simplifying me, painting me with a palette restricted to primary colors, you deny my complexity and individuality. To understand a person in any depth it is necessary to consider the subtleties, the fine nuances of their character. To be aware of those aspects that set them apart from others who appear superficially similar. To understand that your labels are no more than a frame that limns the gross outline within which lies the colorful richness of detail.

I reflect upon my own identity and I can recognize traits, but they are not me - they do not define me. They are the bold strokes from a broad brush upon the canvas - no fine detail is possible. I am a complex system emerging from the unique combination of more factors than I can name, each contributing to the whole and generating new additional behaviors through their interactions. In this whole world of some six billion people there is not one other who is the same as me. I am me, no more and no less. My being is my identity in toto.

Say What You Mean

I'm trying to make sense of what you say,
But meaning keeps eluding me. I try
To get you to explain, to be precise,
But fail to crack the code; I'm left confused.

"You don't spend any time with me," you say,
Although I'm in proximity all night.
I guess you must mean more by these few words
Than superficial reading can discern.

In lieu of reading minds, I query you
To tease out your intent in speaking thus.
My literal approach has let me down:
Unable or unwilling, you decline
Request after request from me to put
Your evident concerns a different way.

You speak a language using words I know,
Combined in cryptic metaphors to bear
A meaning that may seem so clear to you:
It might as well be Mandarin to me.
So once again I offer up my plea,
I wish for once you'd just say what you mean.

Saying No

Saying "No" doesn't come naturally to me. Whenever people come up to me and ask me to help them in some way my instinctive response is to go along with whatever they want. I actually feel anxious even thinking about refusing their requests - I worry that refusing will lead to argument or confrontation.

So I end up doing things for others - not that I mind most of the time - but it takes time and energy that I ought to be spending doing other things. It can be a problem for me at work when I get people coming up to me or phoning me to ask for technical assistance when I am in the middle of some other piece of work: I end up taking longer to complete my tasks because I'm spending time on unrelated issues. I even raised it as a problem at my recent annual performance review.

One of the biggest problems with interruptions at work is that it can take me out of a flow state which then means I spend fifteen minutes or so trying to get back into it. Just four interruptions over the course of a day can lose me about an hour of productive working time.

I guess that invariably saying "Yes" to people actually makes things worse for me because it encourages them to ask for favors more often. In contrast I very rarely ask anybody to do things for me - I feel uncomfortable imposing on them.

I need to learn how to say "No" without causing myself stress as I fret about the possible consequences. Experience tells me that a simple, blank refusal doesn't work in most instances - particularly in a social situation. The person will just repeat the request, often with some attempt at emotional coercion - a deliberate attempt to engage my sympathy. And it works - I then feel that I would be letting them down by continuing to turn them down, which upsets me. It could be labelled emotional blackmail. I consider it a particularly devious, underhand means to get one's own way, but it seems to be a depressingly common tactic.

Some people have suggested that I invent some prior commitment that would preclude my assistance at that time; however that would mean lying which makes me even more uncomfortable so it's not a viable option. If only people would take a simple "No" as an answer and drop the matter there and then instead of arguing about it and trying to change my mind. I really need to find some stress-free way to refuse, because otherwise I will just continue to take the (for me) easy way out and assent to their wishes.