September 25, 2003

• I haven't had much of substance to say lately. I've moved away from trying to say anything interesting, and have ended up saying things that don't have much bearing outside the scope of my black hole autist personality.
  
  Speaking of which, maybe this will elevate and inspire:
  
  A long while back I 'blogged about the essence of my internal struggle, saying it was like a monkey riding a tortoise. The tortoise went where it pleased, while the frustrated monkey tried to get it to go somewhere else, ineffectually whacking the tortoise's shell with a stick.
  
  I've created a new image I'm working with now, one a little kinder to both character-nodes.
  
  The little boy is autistic, in the sense that everybody thinks of when you say the word. He's relatively high functioning, but still not good with words, easily startled or frustrated, and quite emotional otherwise.
  
  The young man is a caregiver. He's not sure if he's reluctant about it or not. Maybe, since this is fiction, he's the kid's single dad. I don't know. He's not as clearly defined as the kid.
  
  These two try not to be at odds, but they often are. They try to find common ground, as much as they can, and sometimes they do.
  
  The kid just wants to sit around and play with things and think and sing and line things up in an orderly fashion. He really hates it when situations change, especially when it's abrupt. This could be a bad change or a good one. All change is threatening.
  
  The man sees all the possibilities but is anchored by the kid. He can't go too far from home in case something happens. He has to give up part of his own emotional life for the stability of the little kid. He feels no duty toward the little kid. All the good he does for the kid ultimately comes from being trapped in this situation, and his own well being is tied to that of the kid. He's trying to learn to be a friend to the kid, but just feels bitter.
  
  And there you have it. The binary star that is my personality.
  
  My mom sent me some old pictures of myself that she had. (I'd post some, but I fear the photoshopping contest consequences.) There's one in particular that I like. It's a school picture of me at age 10 or 11 or so, maybe as early as 8. I'm wearing a t-shirt that says 'I Survived The Nantahala!' The Nantahala is a river in North Carolina; the family had gone there for some canoeing. But the picture is framed such that it simply reads, 'I Survived.'
  
  And that's the little autistic boy.
  
  There's another pair of pictures that I really like from this batch. One is just my dad. He must have been in his early 20s.
  
  He's wearing a light gray suit and a dark tie (the photo's black and white). He has short cut hair and those black plastic glasses you'd find on nerdy men in the 50s.
  
  The best part is the smirk. My dad's actually smirking. The smirk is the crack in the Organization Man presentation.
  
  The other notable factor: He looks like me. Or perhaps it'd be better to say I look like him. Not just a little bit.

  • 2:10 am
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