Warming up

I'm looking forward to playing for the people later. A pint and a song is a very nice combination, and it must be good for the spirits. People say such kind things about my playing, and I find myself humbled by their comments. I feel that, whereas in the past I saw myself as someone who could play the harpsichord and the piano, now I see myself as a musician, because that's how other people see me, and they treat me accordingly.

Man's best friend

As is normal for we aspies, I've still got lots and lots of last night going round and round and round in my mind. I've had many happy thoughts because of the people I was with. At the same time I am bugged by the loud man with his dog. He obviously loves the animal, but I don't understand how or why.
Above is a picture of the common or garden Dog, exhibiting its instinctive behaviour. By nature, dogs are predators which hunt in packs. They are formidable hunters with ferocious teeth. They are opportunists and will readily steal the food from other species or dogs. Weight of numbers, mate.
Why then do dog-lovers anthropomorphise these creatures? They talk about their pets as if they were human. The animals' behaviour is described as if the animal were thinking like a human. The dog almost has human motives for its behaviour. It even smiles, if the person is to be believed. The truth is that dogs aren't intelligent, not in a human way at least. Dogs have learned just enough to be able to ensure that their owner doesn't get too pissed off, thereby ensuring a meal-ticket for life. And what a life. I wouldn't mind it, curled up on the hearthrug at an adoring owner's feet, being stroked, fed, taken for walks and having biscuits chucked at me. Bliss! Dogs are crafty though, and greedy,and the sluts will do absolutely anything they have learned, in order for the owner to treat them to another tasty morsel. Dogs are cunts. They sit there watching you intently if you dare to eat something without sharing it with them.
Many of their owners aren't much better. Many of them seem to have dogs which resemble themselves. They allow their pets to lick their faces, when shortly before, little pooch had been licking his own arse and rearranging himself. Some of them are content enough to let their little angels shit wherever they want, and not to feel the need to clean it up. They seem completely oblivious to the existence of Toxicara worms, which can cause liver damage and blindness. Let's face it, shit is disgusting to look at, offensive to the nose, and dangerous.
The strangest thing of all is when poor little pooch pops his or her clogs. The household is in a state of national mourning for about half an hour, before the grieving owners rush out and buy another one. That's weird. I just don't get it. When a loved one dies, you don't rush out shortly afterwards to procure a replacement.
That's enough about dogs.

Sensory overload

Sensory overload is a common issue for people that have autism, and may make it difficult for them to travel to busy and loud places such as the mall, convenience stores, or festivals. Sensory overload occurs when one or more of the body’s senses experiences over stimulation from the environment. When faced with an environment that may cause you to feel overloaded, it triggers a fight or flight response. You either explode into a temper tantrum or your brain shuts down because it is too overwhelmed.
When I was younger I suffered from frequent panic attacks when travelling on public transport. They were horrible. I could feel them building up. My foot would start tapping and I would hyperventilate. My arms would start to ache. With hindsight it was probably my body's reaction to sensory overload.
I am not comfortable in most crowded places. When I go to the supermarket I am edgy, and dash round as quickly as possible so as to be able to leave. I find the other shoppers' behaviour and proximity very challenging. I am uncomfortable at concerts, because of the number of people who attend. When I go to the pub I tend to clam up if there are lots of people talking. I hear everything yet hear nothing, except for the hubbub. I tend to have what some of my family call a 'Cliff moment'.
I know why Cunt the First has bothered me so much. It's where he's in your face the whole time and never stops talking. He ignores the fact that you have told him you wish to be quiet. I have suddenly exploded at him a few times, after having had to listen to his hours-long monologues. I have meltdowns afterwards and it takes some days to start feeling 'normal' again.
The top picture represents the build-up, and the bottom picture represents the aftermath of the experience.

Last night

Last night started off a bit 'iffy', but turned out really lovely. When I arrived, Cunt the Seventh was his usual, boring tit self. Blah Blah Blah. The landlady looked as if she wanted to take the easy way out, but she retained her dignity and composure as normal. Then another regular arrived. He's not a bad bloke but he talks. He talks and talks very loudly, and just carries on talking. The usual topic is his dog. I find that strange because it's only an animal. I couldn't love something that is infested with parasites and licks its own arse.
Anyway I did feel uncomfortable. My arms started to ache, my foot was tapping and I got a ringing noise in my ears. I found myself going out for more fags than normal.
In the meanwhile, a couple I know socially came in, so we had a natter. They left, the talking man and his dog left, and in came another couple of friends. It was looking better. We'd just started nattering when in came my spectrum friends, followed shortly afterwards by my brother and his partner. That's more like it!
There was lots of laughter and excellent conversation. Lovely.
One of my friends is bringing a party of people to the pub tonight, and has asked me to play. Of course I will. I've got one of my old-time singalongs tomorrow, and I will get this filmed so I can pout it on the Artists with Aspergers facebook page.
My social life is fantastic. For the first time ever, I really feel that I belong in the place where I live, and that I am a person. I am surrounded by love and wonderful people. I am so lucky.

The great unwashed

I am still in quite some pain as a result of my fall last Monday. I really want a bath, but my leg is still too stiff and sore for me to get in the bath, or to kneel down to wash. I must therefore declare, that I have temporarily joined the ranks of the great unwashed. Please keep your distance for the time being.

An update on More Aspergers (part 1)

Having though further about the question 'What is normal?', I looked online and found a picture to illustrate what normality is most of the time round here.

More Aspergers part 2

I have always found eye contact challenging. I couldn't really do it at all, until I was in my late thirties. Even now, when I play the keyboard I must have my back to the audience. At Uni, I nearly blacked out when I was walking to the harpsichord at my final recital. It was all the eyes, millions of them, following your every move. I am intensely uncomfortable when I'm the centre of attention, but I suppose that's part of the same thing. I don't like being looked at, particularly by someone I don't know.
I cope much better with eye contact now, so well in fact that people don't realise I have issues with it. I have my last job to thank for that. I hated the place, but I left with a useful skill. I went through the company's management trainee scheme. One module was all about body language and eye contact. I worked very hard at the eye contact and finally cracked it, and then incorporated it into my daily life. I still haven't sussed out the body language stuff yet.

More Aspergers part 1

Here I am again. Just as normal, my mind has been working piecemeal all day, so I thought Id try and channel the energy into some constructive writing.

I saw the illustration above and asked myself "What is normal?" When I was a boy, I would have replied that my home life was normal. Actually it wasn't. We were very poor. Mum hardly ever ate any proper food. She went without to feed my brothers and I. Dad was either remote, or a bully. He was Jekyll and Hyde. We didn't see our relations very often. I don't think they liked us. They were odd. Very odd. They were 'working class and proud of it'. So fucking what. They actually delighted in being ignorant. They liked watching sport on the telly. I don't want to be like them. The only 'working class' thing that I know I've inherited is language. Even though I don't sound like 'working-class Greenwich', I still use some old-fashioned expressions, sometimes for their comic effect. Also I swear like a good 'un.  Otherwise I feel no affinity with that 'culture'.

Later on, as I became aware of my sexuality, I might have replied that Gay was normal. Actually that wasn't normal for me either. I don't like loud music or dancing. I don't want to grow a beard and start mincing round town. I don't want to wear a label. I just want to be me. I've never got on with gay people per se, but that probably has to do with the aspergers. I have never belonged to that tribe, and feel no affinity with it.

Nowadays I suppose that 'the man in the street' must be considered normal. That is because the man in the street is the most numerous part of the population as a whole. I've seen some very odd behaviour at the local supermarket. Should I assume that all or most 'men in the street' have odd behaviour? When I listen to what passes for conversation between them, I am alarmed at the fact they are allowed to wander abroad without adult supervision. What is more frightening is that they bring their children up to be just like themselves. No, I have nothing in common with that culture either.

I'll tell you about what is normal in my world: varied, intelligent, interesting, lovely people from different backgrounds. Being accepted rather than tolerated for who you are. Being valued and loved. Being yourself, and not feeling the necessity to conform with anything. Being able to converse, or to be quiet.

I think I have made it clear that the preceding versions of normality are not normal for me. Likewise people from those 'normal' worlds don't see much further than my obvious mental difficulties in public, and my obvious sexuality. To them I am a 'wierdo', and fair game for ridicule. Of course they are entitled to their opinions.

A good night

I had a fantastic time at the pub yesterday. A good few of my favourite people were there, as well as my brother. The conversation was varied and interesting, not to mention very funny too. We laughed a lot. Someone asked me to play, so I got stuck into all the old-time songs. They enjoyed it, and so did I. I went to the bar to get a pint and had a lovely surprise; the guys had all bought me a pint. That was my evening sorted. How kind.
Cunt the Seventh (Mingicus Sativus Hortense var Zebedoides) was the boring little tit he always is. As usual he gushed on authoritatively about things he simply didn't know. One of my more erudite friends stopped the cunt in his tracks with the politely worded question "Have you ever had a brain scan?" HA!
Later on Cunt the First (Mingicus S. H. v. Jayceedaveii) turned up. That annoyed me, because only the previous day, the lying cunt had said that he wouldn't be back until at least Sunday. As usual he latched onto my brother. I managed to get him away from the cunt by inviting him out for a fag. Well the cunt followed us out, still talking. Outside I said to the cunt "we both have aspergers. We are not great talkers and can't talk for so long". He replied "I understand", and then carried on just as before. He was still talking an hour later. I've had enough. I've asked him politely. Next time I'll go for his testimonials with the bread knife.
After the cunts left, peace and happiness returned to our little bar. We finished our pints and toddled off home.
I was still feeling more than jolly this morning, but the coffee, fags and a flapjack have sorted that. The pain is much less extreme than it was yesterday, which I'm really glad about.
I threw caution to the wind by going to the local German supermarket and buying some nice things. I know I shouldn't really be so extravagant, but I'm bringing a little light into my life.
I'm still chuffed about seeing such nice people yesterday.

Full of the joys of spring

I have just come back from the doctor's, having made an appointment for Monday. That's fine. The local college have booked me in for a month-long computer course for beginners, and that is due to start on Monday. I've texted the college because I can't be in two places at once. It's rather odd being a university graduate, in that there seems to be a 'one size fits all' attitude toward the unemployed.
I know that I'm feeling much better than I have done, because I'm cooking something as a treat, rather than as a necessity. Now don't jump up and down, whatever you do! It's nothing exciting, but is one of my favourite things nonetheless; good old-fashioned Plum Duff. Suet puddens are so comforting and so satisfying. What a jolly life I lead.
I'm going to the pub (for a change) after dinner, as usual. My brother will be on duty, and I expect to see my 'spectrum' friends, plus three others who have contacted me. I anticipate a very convivial evening with lots of laughter. My brain has been swirling with thoughts and ideas all day, mostly nice ones I hasten to say, but I think a little bit of social diversion will do me a power of good.

Being serious

I want to talk about my fit on Monday. I've had what I thought were blackouts since the age of fourteen. I always felt them coming on, and did my best to get to the floor before they started. I was usually unsuccessful, and would usually feel the result of a whack to the head for some days afterwards. The blackouts didn't bother me particularly. I just went with the flow. I had always been on my own when the blackouts happened, so of course I never knew what had taken place. The last three occurrences happened in the presence of others, and I now know that my blackouts were actually fits. My mum's oldest brother has fits, so we do have it in the family. The people who witnessed my seizures have told me what happened. It sounds really ghastly, and I feel so sorry for the distress that I caused. I remember being quite terrified just before my fit last December. I think I was panicked by someone saying 'He's having a stroke' just behind me. A very close friend had recently died as a result of a stroke. I thought I was going to die too. I was with close friends when it happened on Monday. I was lucky because the lady knew exactly what to do. I felt awful just as it started, but I wasn't frightened. My only physical consequence is the pain caused by my falling down just prior to the fit, and of course the physical exhaustion yesterday.
Something in me has changed since Monday. I listened to music yesterday, the first time I have done so in months. I'm starting to look forward to things, I mean genuinely looking forward. Rather than persuading myself with nice thoughts, I'm starting to genuinely feel them. I wonder if Monday's little melodrama has finally knocked the bum-end of my last depression out of me.
Now I need to pull myself together & go up the doctors.

Another look at Aspergers

While I was eating my toast and marmalade, I sat there thinking. 'What was I thinking about?', I asked myself. I wasn't really thinking about anything. I was just thinking. I looked online to see if I could find a picture of how I felt, and saw the top one. It shows mental energy charging in all directions. The flashes represent connections, patterns, and flashes of inspiration. The energy may, or may not be channelled. It's just pure energy. There is no on/off switch, it's just on the whole time, day and night. Voila.
The second picture made me laugh, so I thought I might share it with you. Online aspie imagery has more than its fair share of grumpy cats. They're hilarious! Let me tell you about cats. Do you think they are really those sweet, furry, purring little bundles of affection? Far from it, they are quite mercenary. They are horrid things, with their tusks, fangs and talons. They are a menace to wildlife. The next time dear little puddy tat comes purring up to you for a stroke, spare a thought for all the poor defenceless fleas that you're about to dislodge. Cats are a bit of a cunt, when you think about it. If they were any bigger, they'd have you on the menu instead of poor Mr. Blackbird and/or Go-Cat. Cats don't do love.
Incidentally I have two alter egos. The first is a bird, and the second is a cat. The bird is my daily life, the interest, the fun, my friends, in fact all the things I like people to know. The cat is my aspergers side; where I vent my anger and frustration at people and things. That is more private, and the only people I share that with are the ones who ask to know.
I hope I'm not becoming a skitsofreeniac, which is bad, or trisexual, which is worse. Is there any hope for the old spastic?

Since I last wrote

The hand and knee are healing very nicely. The smarting pain of yesterday has turned into the pain of bruised bones. My knee is stiff and swollen. I'm not unduly worried as I know the pain will pass. I've changed my mind about telling my GP about the fit. When I feel ready for the walk, I'll go up to the surgery to book an appointment.

I went up to the pub yesterday evening and it was quite busy. My brother was on duty, and I talked to someone I know socially. I had difficulty understanding what was said, because of all the hubbub, but managed to cope by lip-reading. I went outside for a fag and saw Cunt the First coming down the road, so I shot inside to warn my brother. I thought on my toes, and we had the scrabble board set up by the time the cunt arrived. A result. Mercifully he didn't stay too long. I will suggest to the landlord that they obtain an air raid siren, which we can use as a cunt alarm. It should be activated directly a cunt is sighted. Later on I played the keyboard for a bit. One of the odd bunch popped in very briefly, and it was lovely to see him.

After the customers had all gone, my brother and I had a really good talk about experiences and issues. Aspergers really leaves one vulnerable. I believe there is a species of person who recognises vulnerability from a great distance, and homes in on the person in order to use and exploit them. My brother and I have both had such experiences. I wish my brother could see his good points. He simply cannot understand yet how intelligent he is. He writes and plays his own songs. I can't make anything. All I can do is to interpret and analyse, for example when I play music, or talk about paintings or history. He speaks intelligently and with insight, but doesn't recognise that he has done so. I don't suffer fools gladly, and would not entertain the notion of talking to a rocking-horse. Let me assure you he is neither a fool, nor a rocking-horse. In spite of what he says about himself, he is one of the sanest and nicest blokes I know. I hope it won't be too much longer before he sees the good in himself. It's tragic.

Last night the weather turned nasty and it rained for a bit, but it didn't last. Today it's beautifully sunny and spring-like again.

It's lovely to come out of a deep depression.

Lupins

I'm determined to stay positive, so have been concentrating on beautiful things. One beautiful thing I want to share with you is the common or garden Lupin. They are stately and colourful, and have always been grown whenever I had a garden. I always looked forward to their arrival, and loved watching the bees working them.
When I think of beautiful things, I immediately think of my real family. Beautiful things have become a metaphor for my loved ones. All my people have an inner beauty which I feel, even in their absence. Thank you, guys, for being yourselves.

A drama queen

I'm going to have a whinge. I ache. I hurt. I'm bad tempered and grumpy, a right crochety old git. SO FUCKING WHAT. Pull yourself to fucking gether and get on with it.
I have just found out that when I conked out yesterday, I had a bit of a fit. Ain't it boring. Dull. Unimaginative in the extreme. I only do it for sympathy.
Actually I do have ideas about what triggered it. I'm just concerned that I've had two fits in as many months. I won't tell my GP about it, as I told another GP years ago and he didn't believe me. I will tell the consultant at the ASD centre when (at some point in the future) I get my appointment. I do know that fits can be connected with Aspergers. Fucking Aspergers.

A ray of sunshine

I know realise what a terrible depression I've been through. I fought it all the way by cherishing those people who are dearest to me, and by trying to think of something nice or positive. The picture expresses how I feel now; a burst of light coming through. I know that my moods will always be up and down. I also know how to get through. I owe so much to my real family, the people who matter most to me. You will never realise how much you have helped me. I am lucky indeed.

A beautiful day

What a beautiful sunrise we had yesterday. The photo was taken from my living-room window at 6.30am. The gorgeous spring weather has continued today for its fourth day, which is such a welcome change from all the rain we've been having.
 I know I probably shouldn't have, but I went to the pub last night. I'm glad I did, because it was quiet and my brother was on duty. My brother and I had a couple of really enjoyable games of scrabble. We won one game each, which is the best result. Because it was quiet we were able to talk about all the issues that affect us, and to compare notes about how we've handled particular situations. I feel completely alive, as if my batteries have been recharged. Thank God there weren't any cunts around, as they render any meaningful conversation impossible. Yesterday we talked about things that matter to ourselves, rather than being completely dominated by the gospel according to St Cunt.
I'm in a bit of pain today (right knee and foot, left hand) and my hips and shoulders are a bit stiff. Never mind, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to sit around moping. I think that yesterday was an important day in my life. I think I've battered myself out of a deep depression. I feel that good, that I'm baking a loaf for the first time in ages.

A melodrama

I went to the pub at lunchtime to help the landlady arrange the furniture. One of my family had popped round for a cup of coffee, and he came with me to help. He had arranged to meet his partner and her daughter, whose eighteenth birthday it is. They duly arrived. I went outside and looked up suddenly. I don't know what happened but I lost my balance, fell and cut one knee quite badly, and a hand. While I was cleaning my hand I began to feel faint. I went in the pub to summon help. I was helped to sit down, and passed out for I don't know how long. I'd love to go out later but don't feel none too clever. Besides, the cuts are still open. My two family will call round again later, after they have taken her daughter out for a celebration dinner. My brother is working a very long shift this afternoon, and will come round if he is able.
I am so embarrassed and ashamed. That's twice now that I've conked out in the same place. That poor girl. Many girls might be offered a theatre ticket as a birthday present. But not this girl, oh no. All she gets is a sodding melodrama written, choreographed and acted by me, with a cast of one. I'm so sorry girl.

Yet more eighteenth-century sanitation

One of my favourite interiors anywhere in the world is that of the Painted Hall in Greenwich. It started life as the dining hall for the bigwigs of what was then the Royal Naval Hospital. Of course the stinking, vermin-infested amputees and decrepits who were its inmates did not dine in such sumptuous surroundings. The second picture gives a general view of Sir James Thornhill's italianate, baroque interior. The first picture shows a detail; King William and Queen Mary are set in a cartouche in an allegorical setting. They preside over all. They are guarded by angels, and worshipped with awe by all other creatures and folk. This was certainly a fit subject. While the officers feasted their eyes upon this image (whilst stuffing their faces), they were reminded of their moral duty, and gloried in the name of Britain. It also took their minds off the suffering of the inmates, who were not so very far away.
The third and fourth pictures are by one of my favourite artists, William Hogarth. Hogarth was Thornhill's son-in-law. The two of them never really got on, and I'm sure that Hogarth's bolshy manner and general pugnaciousness probably didn't help matters. Whereas Thornhill was content to toady to the great and the mighty, Hogarth was a different kettle of fish. He would wander round london and make thumbnail sketches of tarts, beggars, criminals, the grotesque, and anything else that took his interest.
The third picture (I don't know the title) shows a group of people dancing. Thornhill would never have condescended to paint such a scene. It would never have occurred to him to do so. Hogarth doesn't give us idealised, static figures a la Thornhill. Hogarth's people are full of movement, full of life and having a bloody good time. There is humour in the shape of the dumpy man on the left, who seems to have tagged onto a couple who were already dancing. Hogarth's people seem real, even ordinary, rather like ourselves in fact. It's all a bit of a shindig, a rococo knees-up.
Hogarth didn't shy from the ugly. The fourth picture is Gin Lane, where Hogarth deplores the effects of the cheap gin, which was now flooding into the country from Holland, upon the poorer classes. Poor people didn't have fine paintings with which to ease their troubled lives. All they had was cheap  alcohol, with which they anaesthetised themselves for much of the day. Men, women and children, they all took gin in vast quantities. The ragged woman in the centre is so pissed that she is oblivious to the fact that she has dropped her baby. She doesn't hear its screams. She is so gin-sodden that she appears old enough to be the baby's grandmother.
These pictures have a sanitising effect on me. They channel my mind into thinking constructively. I am able to use my intellect, which my one good faculty. Here I come into my own.

Some nice people

I went to the pub yesterday. Some people I know socially were there, and we had a nice natter. As it was quiet, the landlady and I played scrabble. Someone asked me to play, so I ran through a few Chopin waltzes and some Schubert, before launching into some lesser-known music-hall songs. The place was completely bereft of cunts. HAPPY DAYS! We did have a laugh afterwards though; when I was being given a lift home, we saw Cunt the First in another establishment. He was stood at the bar, giving the barmaid the hair-dryer treatment. She had a comatose expression and her eyes had glazed over. Meanwhile the Cunt's head was nodding up and down. His eyes were fixed and manic, and his mouth was moving like the clappers. Poor barmaid, but that was a lucky escape for us.
When I got home I finished the cold leftovers of my dinner, which I enjoyed. I went to bed at 1am and slept very badly. I remember turning over a lot, and having difficulty in getting comfortable. I don't know what I had been dreaming about, but I flew out of bed at 5.30am in a state of blind terror. I am starting to pull myself together now, but I do feel tired.
I have my fortnightly visit to the Social Security today. It reminds me of a visit to the workhouse door. "Please Sir, please may I have some more?" I don't like it one bit.
My brother will be behind the bar this evening, and I am looking forward to seeing him. I don't know if I'm becoming psychic, but I'm having a horrible premonition. I anticipate the arrival of Cunt the First. Horrible. I hope I'm wrong.

A bit of fun

I went to the pub this evening as normal. The landlord and landlady said they had a present for me, and presented me with a box of jelly willies. I like jelly babies, and particularly enjoy biting the heads orf 'em. The thought of doing the same thing to me jelly willies makes me shudder. Hey ho.

To my closest friends, my real family

I am somewhat lost for words, but there is something I want to try and say. I'm not very good at this sort of thing, and I expect I'll express myself with the usual clumsiness and ineptitude. Do please forgive me on that count.
What I want to say to you is 'thank you'. I know these words sound very hollow but I don't know any other words to say what I mean. Let me assure you that what I am trying to say is quite heartfelt. I want to say thank you to each of you for what you've done for me. The gifts you have given me include material help, sound advice, a kind word, a smile, a hug, love, friendship, loyalty. I'm sure I haven't given you such things, and feel very humble and proud. 'Thank you' isn't much to repay you, but I don't want any of you to think I take you for granted. I am very lucky indeed to have such a wonderful family. Thank you, and love.

Seventeenth century sanitation

It's been a funny sort of day today. Because I got up so late I've just finished the coffee and fags bit and taken my tablets. It feels like mid-morning, although I know it will be dark in less than an hour and a half. When I've finished writing I will make my dinner, and then I'll go to the pub. It feels like I'm having dinner for breakfast. My mood is still not good from being stuck with that idiot yesterday, so I thought I'd like to make a point of thinking about something nice, for the purposes of mental sanitisation.
The picture is Still Life of Flowers and Fruits by Jean-Baptiste Monnoyer (1636-99). Isn't it wonderful? Such an incongruous and disparate collection of things; fabric, classical urns, a sphynx, the artist's easel, a clock, graecian columns, a globe. The whole arrangement is a bit like a house that has been ransacked. On the face of it the arrangement looks scruffy and chaotic, but look again. Each object, each flower, each piece of fruit has been deliberately placed where it is. The artist is inviting us to look at the relationships between things that don't usually belong together. I particularly like the flowers in their ancient forms. Look at the beautiful roses, pastel coloured and cabbage shaped. I bet they had a delicious fragrance too. Of course the white jasmine is also fragrant. I can also imagine the fragrance of ripe peaches. The ones in the picture look swollen with ripeness, however the old varieties were probably a good deal smaller than their modern descendants.
I do like this picture.

Dance in a Pavilion (c1730) by Nicolas Lancret

Yesterday was lovely at the pub. They held a party to celebrate the landlord's birthday, and his wedding anniversary which falls on the same day. I had been so looking forward to it. My brother and his partner were there, so was my local family, so was the odd bunch, so were my 'spectrum' friends. LOVELY! There were also another ten-or-so people that I know socially. It was a decent-sized gathering of really lovely people.
They played records to begin with, and there was much conversation and laughter. Later on the landlord asked me to play, so we handed out the 'hymn books' (song sheets) and had a singalong.
One thing was very difficult though, namely Cunt the First, who had also arrived and was on particularly top form. He kept getting his claws into my brother, so I kept strategically re-positioning myself so as to be a human barrier. It was hard work in the end and I had to concede defeat. The mad bastard didn't stop talking. His sentence had started when he arrived around 9pm, and was still incomplete some three hours later. I became increasingly uncomfortable as the evening progressed, and started to have a meltdown. I put my coat on and was about to leave, when the landlord and landlady persuaded me to stay. The truth is that it's very difficult when you are with someone you'd like to talk to, but are prevented from doing so. Both my brother and I find it difficult to challenge. I often feel on the point of exploding with frustration at the cunt, but I generally hold back because a) I know this is another customer whose custom is needed b) I don't want to upset the other customers c) I cannot express my anger in a structured way. His selfish intrusiveness has disturbed me to the point that I now dream about the cunt. I am so angry with him that, frankly, it wouldn't take much for me to push him into the harbour.
When the cunt left normality prevailed. Normal conversations took place, where both parties took turns to speak, and with seemly pauses between phrases and sentences.
The party itself was lovely. The hosts and the people were lovely. I really enjoyed myself, except for the in-your-face presence of the beforementioned cunt. I steel feel prickly now.

The Land of Nod

I will tell you about yesterday evening in my next blog. I have commented several times recently, that my sleep has been either curtailed or disrupted. In common with other aspies I have always struggled with sleep, when I think about it. I hadn't realised the extent of my sleep deprivation, before I started logging the data in my blog.
Well last night I went to bed at 3am. I got up once in pitch darkness to go to the lavatory, then fell asleep again. I woke up just as it was getting light, then fell asleep. I woke up again when it was much lighter and was kept awake by the seagulls. I picked up my glasses ready to get up, then fell asleep. I finally woke up at 1.55pm with my glasses in my right hand.
I did feel tired yesterday, and have done for a little while now, but I must have been completely exhausted to sleep for all that time.
I do remember dreaming about Cunt the First. I'd dreamed about him the previous night too, so that shows you how he has really got under my skin. In fact I started having a meltdown yesterday. I'll tell you about that shortly.

A nice nap

Since I last wrote, I've just slept very soundly for two hours. I must have slept soundly because I don't remember anything about it, except for the noises I could hear when I was trying to nod off. I feel quite drugged at the moment, but much more rested.
It has been beautifully sunny again today, and it was lovely waking up to the sunshine. I've had my coffee and toast, and have been thinking about the wonderful people I love.
 The picture is of a garden of old-fashioned roses. I love them for their delicious fragrance, their narrow range of colours, and the beautiful flower forms. I can almost smell them now.
My routine for the rest of today will be laundry, bath, eat, go to party. That, of course, is after I've pulled myself together.

Birdsong

When I woke up this morning, one of the first things I heard was a blackbird singing. Beautiful. Then, in the distance, I heard some herring gulls. Gulp. Then I heard the buggers getting nearer and nearer. I don't know if the increasing daylight has anything to do with it, but they have started behaving differently. Their calls are different, repeated lengthy screams, shorter screams, the laughing noise. When one does it, all the others join in. They are so loud with it, especially if they are right outside your window. Can't the council introduce predators like the Eagle Owl to sort them out? They are cunts (the gulls, that is), and a drastic reduction in their population is needed urgently.

John Henry Fuseli: The Nightmare (c1782)

I went to bed at 2.20am and got up at 6.50am, after lying awake for what must have been about an hour. The brain was churning away and my right foot had been tapping; the bottom of my shin aches a bit.
I couldn't help worrying about the rent. Although I knew I now had the money, I attacked myself with 'what if?' scenarios: What if the bank doesn't let me have the money? What if something had gone wrong with the transfer? What if I could only withdraw part of what I needed?
Needless to say everything went fine at the bank, and at the letting agents'. But this is typical of what my brain does to itself. I worry and worry. Then I worry. I expect things to go wrong, when there is no reasonable reason for them to do so. Is this behaviour a sort of psychological self-harm? In the past I have made myself ill with worry, when there had been nothing to worry about in the first place.
I'm sure I don't sleep enough. My sleep is disrupted by a brain struggling against itself. My mind is active even when I'm asleep, and I am sometimes woken by monsters, some of which are real, and some of which are of my own creation. I realise that I will need to talk to someone professional sooner or later, but I don't want to tell my GP. Sleeping tablets are not the real answer.
In the meanwhile I will try and sleep for a bit now.

A very pleasant soiree

Last night was a very welcome respite from how I've been feeling of late. I went up the pub and played through my stuff while it was quiet. While I was playing the micropub tour (alias pub crawl) came in, so I just continued. The music went down very well; the party was in an advanced state of 'jolliness' and started singing along to my playing. It was such fun! They either started before me, after me, or all at different times from each other. There was lots of laughter and people requested me to play songs. My brother and his partner arrived, which made me feel happy. A couple of the group kindly bought me glasses of cider for medicinal purposes, and these were very gratefully received.
While the group was there, we learned that there was a second bus load of them, and that they were expected to arrive within the hour. They duly arrived, and in an even merrier state, and so I played again. They were too 'cheerful' to sing, and were happy enough having a laugh and a joke, with the music playing in the background. While I played, I heard someone whisper loudly "I bet he can't play Fur Elise". I duly played that as the next number. The crowd enjoyed it and asked me to play the 'Moonlight Sonata'. Both groups said very kind things about my playing. However I don't understand why people believe that Fur Elise is difficult to play. It isn't difficult, unless you can't play it.
Tonight I'm back at the pub to play for the landlord's birthday party. I expect to see several of my closest people there, so am looking forward to it even more.
The picture at the top is of a victorian-style sing-song. The video is of the music-hall artiste Lily Morris singing 'My Old Man Said Follow The Van'. I regularly play this song at the pub. I hope you will enjoy it.

A lively intellect

I seem to function mostly on the intellectual plane. Even when I write my blogs I tend to intellectualise what I say. I collect my thoughts and analyse them. I look for patterns in my thoughts and behaviour. I try to seek out the connections that make me who I am.
I now ask myself a question: Is intellect the same as intelligence? I suppose it must be a kind of intelligence, in that it is a mental faculty. I wonder to myself if intelligence includes the ability to channel ones intellect to achieve a result. That is where I get stuck, really stuck. I can talk with insight and in great detail about music and history. I enjoy solving mathematical problems. I can converse with ease in two foreign languages, and with some difficulty in a third. I play the harpsichord to professional standard, and am more than competent on the piano.
What else can I do? Not very much, if the truth be told. I'm not really interested in much else. I have always struggled to cope with everyday existence. I lack foresight which I should have from past experiences. I struggle with decision-making. I lack the confidence to repair or make things which most people seem to find so easy. I lack confidence. Confidence, I wish I could have some.
On the other hand I suppose I must have some good qualities, or else I wouldn't be surrounded by the wonderful people who are family and friends to me.
In answer to my own question in paragraph two, yes I am intellectual, no I am not intelligent. Far from it, I think.

Would you believe it?

I do enjoy Victorian adverts. I like the artwork and very formal English. I also like the sense of excitement an progress that the adverts are saturated with. They exude confidence by the bucket load. I have chosen some which I'd like to talk about.

The top illustration is for an American device called The Lambert Snyder Health Vibrator. If the advert is to be believed rather than deplored, the Lambert Snyder could cure a wide variety of conditions including rheumatism, indigestion, deafness and pain. A modern miracle! I wonder why it is no longer manufactured.

The second advert is for Wilsonia Magnetic Corsets. The advert claims that the garment is recommended by physicians (but doesn't day which physicians). It also claims therapeutic benefits to the wearer, for such conditions as nervousness, indigestion and paralysis. Another miracle of the modern age! Far from it. In the real world, corsets distorted the wearer's insides quite grotesquely. They were also a means of subjugating women through lack of mobility.

Do you have a weight problem? Then look no further than the bottom advert. It's simple; you don't have to bathe, you don't have to exercise, you don't even have to diet. Unbelievable! No it must be true, because the advert says so. All you have to do is swallow a handful of medicinal tapeworm (or probably their eggs). YUGH!!! So with this particular natural marvel it was possible to continue overeating, and refrain from both exercise and bathing, whilst maintaining the perfect hourglass figure. I can't see anything about anaemia or malnourishment as a result of ingesting these parasites. I expect it must be somewhere in the small print.

Now for a really useful invention. The third illustration shows The "Demon" Hill Climber, a penny-farthing tricycle. Again wild claims are made for it; it is 'generally accepted to be the best form of tricycle' (handy, you don't have to say by whom). There is also a testimonial by the Vice President of Midland Union of Scientific and Natural History Societies. Who's he? Is he a professor of something, or just a lay person? Did he work for the manufacturer, or was he paid for the testimonial? The picture of a well-dressed gentleman climbing a staircase on the contraption is hilarious.

I hope you enjoyed the pictures.

A little levity

I've just managed to grab a couple of hours sleep since writing this morning. Now I'm having a strong coffee to help me come round. On the Aspergers Awareness page on Facebook, I saw the above picture and had a giggle. I had a mad moment and remembered my friends in France. They live in a quiet village. Their house looks over a field with a couple of apple trees and a horse or two in it. I don't know what the horse in the picture has taken; the horses in France didn't look that cheerful. I've just sent my friend the photo. I'm sure she'll enjoy it.
One of my closest people has helped me with the shortfall in my rent, which is such a relief. I feel like a forty ton weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My friend from Uni has also been marvellous with lots of sound advice. He really is so wise and generous hearted.
I just received a text from my nephew's girlfriend asking if they might visit this weekend. That would be lovely! They, and his mother, are the only thing I miss about London.
I feel like I'm in a sort of free fall at the moment. Exhausted.

Some more Goya

I went to bed at 1.30am and got up at 5.50am, having been awake and trying to get back to sleep for a long time. My brain feels very tired. I'm halfway through the coffee and fags routine. For a change I had some toast before I smoked, rather than after.
I have an appointment with someone this afternoon, who will help me update my cv. Tonight I am playing at the pub.
This morning I'm drawn to Goya again. The painting at the top is The Family of King Carlos IV. Behind all their finery, Goya cleverly shows us the people he sees. The King (centre right in black) is a blundering buffoon. Queen Maria Luisa (centre) is a right madam. The Prince of Asturias (left foreground) is scheming and despotic.
I don't know the name of the picture at the bottom. Again Goya shows us the people behind the 'finery'. They are greedy and corrupt, and are followed by creatures of the night.
I wish I were as observant as Goya. It's quite a skill. I wonder if he struggled with the ordinary things in life.
I'll try and sleep for a bit when I finish writing.

The epidemic

I went to the pub as usual this evening. A social friend of mine was there. so we had a nice natter, then I went on the pianoforte & belted out some goo old cockney songs. He left so I had a couple of nice games of scrabble with the landlady. Then Cunt the Fourth came in, accompanied by his hideous bitch. It's a horrible animal; fat and aggressive with a large head, and it growls. I don't see what could possibly be loveable about it. It wants putting down. The same could be said for its owner, the annoying cunt.
Then another regular came in with his dog. There was a terrible growling and a gnashing of tusks. Without some timely intervention by its owner, the first dog would have ripped off the second dog's head. The two cunts did nothing but gush about their dogs. So fucking what. They're only dogs, and they stink terrible.  What about the real world? What about people? Get a fucking life.
I feel so sad that this evening, because I didn't see any of the people who matter most. I quickly had enough of it all and left early.

Happy times

Every year, my family in the area where I live and I go to Cornwall for a few days. We always go to Fowey. The bottom picture shows the quayside, and the top  picture is a view from the hills above the town.
It's a men only affair; those who have partners and/or children leave them at home. I know this is difficult for them, but we always have a lovely time. I stay in a tent, and the others stay in their camper van. We, or rather I, take every possible opportunity to misbehave slightly, and we laugh a lot.
The other guys are really good to me. I don't find it easy to chat when I first wake up, and tend to take ages to come round. People who don't know me sometimes think I'm miserable or odd. Well they might be right on the second count, but I'm never miserable with these guys.
We go for lots of walks. I really enjoy the walks because I can trail behind a bit, and just watch everything. I particularly like looking out for wild plants and birds of prey.
We have a favourite pub in Fowey. Unfortunately you can't see it in the picture, as it's just to the left of the building on the extreme left. It's lovely sitting by the river with a pint, watching everything that happens on the water.
I'm looking forward to our next visit in July.

An oasis of fun

I went to the pub yesterday. My brother was there, and quite a few other people I know came by. My friends whose family are all on the spectrum popped in too. It was a lovely, lovely group of people. Cunt the Seventh (Mingicus Sativus Hortense var. Zebedoides) was there to start with, but mercifully didn't stay long.

At about 8.30pm the local micropub tour (aka pub crawl) came in, so I did me Neezup Muvver Brahn stuff on the piano. The crowd were such good sports, and some of them told me how much they had enjoyed it. Aren't people kind.

When I finished playing the pub was still crowded, and the atmosphere was lovely. However the autistic stuff set in for those of us it sets in for. My brother stood on the edge of a group, and was obviously having difficulty understanding what was going on. The couple put on a brave face, but looked a bit uncomfortable. I was completely stunned by all the hubbub and found myself rooted to the spot. My brother noticed I was stuck and came over to reassure me. I sat down and pulled myself together.

After the crowd left, we regulars had a good natter and a bloody good laugh. I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday evening. When I think about it, I believe the daily jaunt up to the pub does the same thing as eighteenth-century art. The lovely atmosphere, the conviviality, friendship and fun completely sanitise the unpleasant things in my life; at least while I am there.

Hope you enjoy Knees Up Mother Brown

How am I?

This is going to be difficult for me to write. I am verbally inept when it comes to saying how I feel, which is why I write my blogs. I don't think any slower. I don't doctor what I have written. It's just that when I write, I am not distracted by eye contact and proximity. My closest people have been asking me how I am, and I always reply that I am fine.
Actually things have been rather difficult for the past few months. My monthly income is £590, my monthly rent is £500. My only unessential expenditure is on tobacco. When I first moved here I filled the freezer and every available nook and cranny with food, and this has got me through. For the past few months I've lived very frugally, and have been robbing Peter to pay Paul. It has all caught up now. My rent was due last Friday and I only paid them £100. Since then I've received a water bill of £230-odd.
I'm not out with the begging bowl, really I'm not. I'm not a state-registered charity. I feel really ashamed of the situation in which I find myself. I've been surrounded by the usual whirlwind of thoughts, but I can't think. I don't know what to do. If anyone is any good at thinking about things like this, I'd be grateful to learn your thoughts.

Vermin

One of the most quaintly picturesque things where I live is the dear little flocks of seagulls. I love their varied cries, their funny antics and their naughty little faces.
Now I'll tell you the truth. I FUCKINWELL HATE THE BASTARDS. They've been making the most annoying and unnecessary racket for the past few days. You wake up to the bloody things screeching their lungs out and fighting with each other. They don't just screech once, oh no, not them, they have to make the same noise over and over again for hours. I'm sure they only do it to aggravate you. They're right in your face the whole fucking time. GET A LIFE, YOU EVIL BASTARDS. They're cunts, the whole lot of them. I just wish they'd fly off somewhere and explode.

Reminiscences

In my blog Eighteenth-Century Sanitation I used Wren's Royal Naval Hospital, Greenwich (Now called Royal Naval College) as one of my examples. I enjoyed writing that blog, and thought I'd give the matter some further consideration.
 The top picture shows the buildings as they appear in the present day from Greenwich Park, with the Queen's House in the centre. Nowadays they are set against a backdrop of Manhattan-style skyscrapers, but don't seem to have too much trouble fitting in (in an odd sort of way). Ain't it pretty? Well it wasn't always so.
The picture at the bottom shows Greenwich as I remember it as a boy. It was an industrial area. Wren's beautiful buildings were black with soot. Everything was black with soot. Anything you touched in the street left you with soot on the pads of your fingers. There are no skyscrapers on the Isle of Dogs, only wharves. It was a poor working-class borough then, just like its neighbour Greenwich. Greenwich Power Station, to the right, was still operating and billowed out huge funnels of smoke. The Thames was a working river then; note the barges and tugs and all the derricks. In fact my Great-Grandfather, who lived just beyond the power station, worked on the tugs as a fireman. He loved it.
I was born in the workhouse. The middle picture is of Greenwich Union Workhouse. It is a forbidding building, and was run by equally forbidding staff, who were feared for their cruelty. Of course it was no longer a workhouse when I was born. The National Health Service had taken it over, and by then it had become St Alfege's Hospital. The buildings were later demolished to make way for the Greenwich District Hospital, which itself closed some years ago.
On my journey I imagine myself to be like Greenwich. It is the same place it has always been, but changes with events. It acquires things which are unfamiliar, which in time become familiar. For me it is a quite incongruous mixture of the beautiful and the ugly. I often notice things that I must have seen many times, but seem to be new. I remember the place I have always loved, but have no fondness whatsoever for my family who lived there. That is how my journey has been so far. I hope that this personal demon of mine is heading for rapid extinction.