May 24, 2013

May 23

I have learned from my Super-CS hosts,  Amy and Andre (Andre is a musician and both work with kids with autism), that Victoria is much wilder underneath than it appears on the surface. Laura calls it “the California of Canada.” That’s good to know.

It’s still not Mexico (or Jamaica or anywhere else where people are “wilder”). No one sings in public (on the street, on the bus, etc.).

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I am at Serious Coffee again. Had coffee and toast with Andre as Amy rushed off to work. Slept well on the couch and did a little yoga this morning plus my knee exercises (osteoarthritis).

Andre asked me how different I felt after I got my Asperger Syndrome diagnosis. An interesting question, and now I realize I did feel different–better–after the diagnosis. I knew my group; I understood my history. I began connecting with other Aspies.

I had always felt “on the outside looking in.” Suddenly, we Aspies began making our own IN GROUP! We didn’t need the NTs (neuro-typicals) in the same way anymore; NT acceptance of us no longer mattered. And (big thing) we didn’t identify ourselves as “flawed” anymore. We weren’t required to change according to NT standards and expectations. Neuro-typicals had to do some changing of their own. We identified THEIR flaws (eg. lying), and we let them know we wouldn’t stand for it.

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May 24

I am making changes in myself–as always–and one involves doing things in smaller segments. I used to challenge myself with huge, long projects. If I walked somewhere, it had to be an hour’s walk. When I exercised, it had to be an hour or more. Now, when I do yoga or meditate or whatever, I do it in ten minute increments. That works, and it doesn’t scare me away the next time. Doing ten minutes of ANYTHING is very doable.

I also am implementing the “Do Nothing” rule: empty my mind; let all the thoughts just float away, harming no one. This is a form of meditation that can be used anywhere, sitting, walking, playing, socializing.

And I know it’s true that “It’s none of my business what others think of me.”

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People here in Victoria (or at least in Cook Street Village) don’t look each other in the eye on the street (like they do in New Orleans). It makes me very uncomfortable.

A New Orleans show is on WWOZ and they are interviewing someone in the burlesque scene in NOLA. Trixie Minx (who has performed [somewhere; The Royal Sonesta?] from midnight to 2 am for three years)! Trixie has been doing burlesque in NOLA for seven years. The New Orleans’ approach to sex–and sex shows–is humorous, open and inviting to both men and women, and fun. It’s not sex-as-something-bad-and-divisive-forbidden.

“Just because I want someone who’s kind with a heart as good and pure as mine…” (from Creole String Beans‘ song “Just Because”)

A musician, Desmond ______, is on WWOZ now, being interviewed. He talked about growing up in NOLA and starting to play music on the street at age ten or eleven. Like my dad (Karl F. John) was out on the street in Berlin at about that age, selling newspapers.

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In some ways, I am getting less, not more, comfortable socially around NTs. Especially the men. I suppose I found out too much about men’s sexual side, and I saw too much ugliness in them, when I was experimenting with sex and exploring my sexuality. Now, anything untoward about men–and especially men my age or older–disgusts and repels me.

Einstein supposedly said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” And my imagination about men’s sexuality is often more accurate as well as more important than my actual knowledge about individual , anonymous men sitting in a cafe. And it’s not good. I can imagine their sex lives, their sexual tastes and proclivities, their weaknesses and strengths, and their prejudices. It’s a very unpleasant picture and it makes me uncomfortable around many people. I wonder if this is why some counselors seldom mingle in public. They know people too well.

Old men are really a public nuisance when they try to retain the social power (based on misogyny and patriarchy) they had in their heyday. Awful old buggers. Of course, some old men are wonderful, so I don’t want to just avoid them all. I have to be vulnerable and open myself up to the awful ones in order to not miss the good ones.

Another problem I have with men, and especially older men, is that they sometimes seem to think I am flirting with them or perhaps they want to flirt with me. I don’t flirt! And I REALLY don’t want to flirt with these old farts. Ugh! I feel like Sherlock Holmes (BBC, 2010, with Benedict Cumberbatch) when that awful reporter came to him in the men’s bathroom for an interview (she later turned up as a supporter of “Rick Brooks” a.k.a “Jim Moriarty”).

Being online here at the cafe, and especially having my earphones on (wherever I am), helps me avoid and ignore undesirable people. I turn my body away from them whenever possible. I don’t want to see them or hear them or know that they exist. I appreciate good works they do, but otherwise for me they are invisible, thank god.

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I sit in cafes a lot these days, and I am doing more yoga and meditation. When I’m at someone’s house, I just hang out there and get to know the hosts and their lives and their neighborhood.

This little Cook Street Village is quiet, slightly upscale, and full of retirees. It’s the kind of faux-quaint “village” I used to avoid. Now I find places like this (and Ojai) comfortable for a few days at a time. Any more of any oh-so-cute place, and I’m ready for a challenging, two-week stint in a cozy, mental institution. Or perhaps a week of hitchhiking: out there, living by my wits, among The People, rather than in this pre-death graveyard.

The old men at the table next to me are talking about sports cars. “Well, at least it didn’t break ya’.” And “My lady friend, ya’ know, she died on me!” The old women are saying things like, “She didn’t get that from my side of the family.” Where in the hell am I? A nursing home in Siberia? No, these old codgers and bitches would be much less annoying in an incomprehensible language.

Now that I think about it, I find it very hard to believe these people in Victoria ever GET DOWN. Maybe Canadians’ definition of “wild and crazy” is different from the American one. There are those of us, I suppose, in every culture who know from experience what “wild and crazy” means. And some  people certainly have explored that field much more thoroughly than I.

May 22, 2013

May 21

The  “game” played in public here–on the street, in cafes, and at most social events–is calm, cool and collected. Very English, I would imagine. I like it, but, I must say, I have gone another way (New Orleans: let ‘er rip style). But, so as not to confuse people here (or anywhere I go) I will do my best to play their game. It’s nice (“Be nice. Everyone’s having a hard time.”), and it allows me to observe and not be the center of attention myself.

Fun with Phil Hoem last night: we went to Monday Movie Night and saw Beasts of the Southern Wild. A low-budget movie made by a bunch of amateurs, and it’s wonderful!

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I posted this on Facebook today:

I have the distinct feeling that the very English (I imagine) Canadians see me as a degenerate. They are such nice people. And quite reserved and polite and peaceful. “Civilized.” I have followed such a different path! I am being quiet and imitating (very Aspie behavior) their collective public/social persona: respect others by being honorable (follow the law) and peaceful (stay calm at all costs). Can’t hurt.

I can’t exaggerate the difference between this culture and Mexican (and other) cultures. Nevertheless, the social class differences have their huge influences wherever I go. And here it’s all so correctly middle class. What are the lower and higher (economically) classes like here? Do these social class differences carry through all over the world? (Note: I am still working on this idea; it’s not clear here in my writing or in my head.)

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May 22

Saw “The Weeping Camel” last night. Made in 2004. One of the best movies I’ve ever seen.

Material World is a book at Laura’s which shows one middle class family and all their possessions  from a whole bunch of countries around the world. My favorite: Kurdistan. (Is that it? Damn! it’s one of those countries that came out of the Russia breakup). They had mostly carpets!

Had a delicious coconut curry soup for dinner last night. Laura treated me to dinner. We also went to Value Village thrift shop yesterday, and I got my first pair of jeans for years. They are actually comfortable. I also got a men’s flannel shirt and a warmer jacket for going up north.

The planes to and from Inuvik will cost $300 so I think I won’t do it. Plus the Couchsurfing host I was hoping to stay with isn’t really available. Maybe I’ll come back through Canada (after Alaska) and go up to the Arctic Circle (Inuvik) then.

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I posted this on Facebook today:

OK. I’ve had just about enough of these quiet, polite, very English, middle class, Border Canadians here in Victoria! Their reserve is killing me! It’s the antithesis of New Orleans, Jamaica, South America, Panama and Mexico. I feel strange in this little cafe, having my morning green tea and scone, because everyone is so careful, highly disciplined, and restrained. Nothing “inappropriate” is allowed! Sounds good on paper; in real life, NO. The song on the radio is “No Love Without Freedom.”

The song on the cafe radio now is about: “Swing your hips. Just pull me down hard, and drown me in love.” The morning cafe sitters don’t seem to object, but it certainly doesn’t go with the, dare I say, repressed atmosphere. Are they blushing? Pretending not to hear? Or do they simply accept this sexy song, as well as their own unusually rigid behavior, as comfortably, unremarkably normal?

The western Border Canadians are subdued, safe (I feel very safe here) and, as my friend, Laura (who lives in Canada now) told me: they believe in organization and strong government. I must admit that I feel very comfortable in many ways among these people. An element is lacking for me, too, and that element is wildness, spontaneity, and passion. The Southern cultures are so expressive and dramatic! I would miss that here.

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Three topics Laura and I discussed this morning:

1.)     Intimacy-

-what is it? It’s being able to be “transparent” and reveal yourself to others. Like, not just telling people about all the good things in your life, but the bad, too. Being vulnerable, yet feeling safe doing so.

2.)     Sam-

-let him know that Megan’s abuse is NOT ABOUT HIM. It’s Meg’s problem. She is unhappy/ashamed/guilty/or something, and she projects (see below) this onto him. Laura said I can even talk to Sam about this with Megan there by not making it  about Megan. For example, I can ask Sam about bullies at school; or I can talk about (or invent) something about myself where I was bullied; or I can make up a story about anyone and how they dealt with bullying (by not taking it personally).

3.)     Projection-

-we all do it. It’s just being human to project what’s in oneself out onto the world/others. Some of us (me, Noelle) also blame everything on ourselves. We beat ourselves up, and sometimes we (try to) commit suicide. But even those of us who do that also project out onto the world and other people. Nothing  we do is totally objective; no communication is free of projection (even silence or non-communication). It’s all about ME, and this is true of everyone.

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Two things from the May 2013 GRASP newsletter:

Keep life weird. (From Two Pleas For Sanity in Judging Sameness by Dwight Garner)

If we can’t get away from social rejection, we get aggressive. It’s the old “your best defense is a good offense” plan. What looks like an angry outburst or a zero-to-sixty temper may actually be a protective reflex built upon emotional scars and real insecurities. Heightened memories of past threats will increase the wish to disappear, hide, avoid the conversation, or just flat out quit (flight). Those same memories—of feeling like a failure, unwanted, or hurt—also make us quicker to anger, and with greater intensity. That’s our shield. We are trying to immediately stop what feels like a threat. (from Green Shirts and  Unlikely Heroes by Jennifer O’Toole [from Autism Asperger's Digest])

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My two visions from the Ayahuasca journey I took in Cumana, Venezuela at the beginning of this year are becoming more and more meaningful to me as time goes by. I am remembering now the bubbles vision. Everything that is bubble-like (spacey, floaty, light and pretty, fun, drifting silently, sensitive, gentle, fragile, and so forth) is very meaningful to me.

When Megan and I were online together on a Susun Weed group, Meg chose the name “Fluffy Bubble.” I love that. My name was “Bunny Blissfully.”  Bubbly. Where do bubbles come from?

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Definition of BUBBLE

1

: a small globule typically hollow and light: as

a : a small body of gas within a liquid

b : a thin film of liquid inflated with air or gas

c : a globule in a transparent solid

d : something (as a plastic or inflatable structure) that is hemispherical or semicylindrical

2

a : something that lacks firmness, solidity, or reality

(Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

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Physical bubbles

• Liquid bubble, a globule of one substance in another, usually gas in a liquid
• Soap bubble, a bubble formed by soapy water (a thin film of liquid)
• Antibubble, a droplet of liquid surrounded by a thin film of gas

(Wikipedia)

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SOAP BUBBLE

A soap bubble is an extremely thin film of soapy water enclosing air that forms a hollow sphere with an iridescent surface. Soap bubbles usually last for only a few seconds before bursting, either on their own or on contact with another object. They are often used for children’s enjoyment, but they are also used in artistic performances. Assembling several bubbles results in a foam.

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Soap Bubble in Mathematics

Soap bubbles are physical examples of the complex mathematical problem of minimal surface. They will assume the shape of least surface area possible containing a given volume. A true minimal surface is more properly illustrated by a soap film, which has equal pressure on inside as outside, hence is a surface with zero mean curvature. A soap bubble is a closed soap film: due to the difference in outside and inside pressure, it is a surface of constant mean curvature.

While it has been known since 1884 that a spherical soap bubble is the least-area way of enclosing a given volume of air (a theorem of H. A. Schwarz), it was not until 2000 that it was proven that two merged soap bubbles provide the optimum way of enclosing two given volumes of air of different size with the least surface area. This has been dubbed the Double Bubble conjecture.

(Wikipedia)

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Watched “Long Island Medium” TV show yesterday with Laura. Wonderful!! I love this kind of show, and I believe 100% in mediums like Theresa Caputo.

May 20, 2013

May 20

At Serious Coffee, a cafe in Cook Village, an upscale little village in Victoria, the capital city of British Columbia, on Vancouver Island. It’s one of the few places open today because it’s Victoria Day; a parade is going on downtown right now. Laura, my kind and sweet host, is there, but I begged off.

This whole city is genteel in the extreme. I do not pretend to understand Canadians, but the people near the US border are very “civilized,” shall we say. Perhaps a better word is calm. Or “English” (Canada is, afterall, part of the British “Empire” [what is it called now?]). Or reserved. Low-key. Peaceful. Very polite.

As it happens, my prejudices (which are unfortunately much more common than I care to admit [and which I write about more, below]) include one against stiff, exceedingly “civilized” Caucasians (or any breed of the same). So, I have never been really relaxed around sedentary, middle class types like these. Ah, well. My loss. But I am enjoying them, particularly now that I’ve met Phil (to whom I could relate quite well)–more later on him.

Laura, by the way, is from Wisconsin; years ago, she married (and later divorced) a Canadian friend so she could get dual citizenship. Laura is 72 and very attractive with her long, wild, freely-flowing, white hair. She proudly says young men are attracted to her; they want to be with her, sexually and as a friend. When she asks these glorious, often (according to Laura) annoying, young men if they know how old she is, “They don’t care,” she says. Laura’s a Grand Gal with a peaceful, airy apartment here in Cook Village.

Very nice people these Canadians. Patient. Whites. Few blacks here. Few folks from the First Nations (Native Americans, as we in the US call these people)  here in sedate, refined Victoria (or I haven’t seen many). I approached a small bunch of First Nations young people as soon as I stepped off the bus two days ago, and I seemed to have surprised (they tittered). I asked a guy in the group sitting on the grass in Centennial Square to text Winnie for me (she was my first Couchsurfing host here in Victoria). They directed me to the only woman in the group (why?).  Do Caucasians and First Nations people not mix freely here in the capital?

I love the rugged look of most of the people in Canada . I think I can generalize about that. It’s gorgeous in the men especially, which I have also noticed in Maine. In some ways, I fit in better among Canadian women (than Americans and others) because I am rather rugged myself, and I am usually very casually dressed (as if for permanent camping!). The strong, independent, feisty type of women seems to be respected up here. I am just guessing at this point, but I bet people in Canada are quite familiar with camping and the outdoors; most Americans, I think, are not. Not sure.

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Yesterday, Laura Fellman* and I went over to Phil Hoem’s house. (*I met Laura a few months ago when I was camping up in Horn Canyon and she was attending a Krishnamurti Foundation meeting or perhaps just having a week at the guest house. She invited me to visit her up here.) Phil is an Aspie man, age 62, and lived in Amsterdam for his first five years. His wife, Astrud,  has MS and is in a nursing home. Phil is building an addition to his home, hoping Astrud will be able to return and that he will have adequate facilities to take care of her.

Phil is the first Aspie man I have ever met who is very attractive to me, both as a friend and sexually. This is interesting because I have been wondering if I could ever fall for an Aspie. He’s very Aspie and is apparently active in Aspie things (?). I sent him some GRASP stuff since he has never heard of GRASP. He and Laura also work in a Restorative Justice thing up here which brings prisoners and their victims together for possible reconciliation. And Laura works with prisoners in some other capacity, too. Very good work.

It was just super-divine to spend time with Phil. My true self emerges with a vengeance. I became so comfortable with myself and with Phil–in all of our Aspie-ness–that I could only hope Laura didn’t feel too left out or bopped over the head with our talk about NTs (Neuro-typicals). She was a good sport and mostly an observer.

Phil and I hit it off. He’s a dominant Aries. He’s full of original ideas, is very smart, and he’s also funny (a rare and amazing quality). We are going to Movie Monday tonight, hoping to see Beasts of the Southern Wild. I can’t even express how much better I feel after being with another Aspie, especially one who was so friendly to me.

Right now, I’m in a cafe in Cook Village with all these NTs who expect certain social behavior from me (which is not forthcoming, and, if it were forthcoming, would be forced and exceedingly uncomfortable). When this expected behavior does not appear, the NTs have certain judgements they automatically make about me. It’s all very disconcerting unless I just accept and love myself as I am, unless I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of me (it’s not my business), and unless I have been with an Aspie like Phil recently. Phil told me that Rainbow, who will be at the Aspergers Meetup at ABC Restaurant on Thursday, is just herself and that she really doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. Excellent!

A lot of why I bother to relate to people who don’t understand me (or want to) is in order to explain Aspergers (or being an Aspie). Why bother? People who want to know about it can go online and google Aspergers.

We drank beer and smoked pot! Few Aspies will do this! Laura had a tiny bit of beer and no pot. Awww!

Phil touched on bullying yesterday during our little BBQ at his house. He is a big guy, but I guess he, too, experienced bullying as a kid. He said people notice that there’s “something different” about an Aspie-in-their-midst, and that’s when bullying starts. I put in that, because we Aspies loathe confrontation, we shrink from the bully. We don’t get mad at the bully and punch him/her out, for example. Now, Phil says that nowadays, he just walks away or gives the bully some smart and probably incomprehensible (to the antagonist) reply. “Ripost” is the word I think Phil used.

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ri·poste  (r-pst)

n.

1. Sports A quick thrust given after parrying an opponent’s lunge in fencing.

2. A retaliatory action, maneuver, or retort.

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Ri`post´

n.	1.	In fencing, a return thrust after a parry.
	2.	A quick and sharp retort; a repartee.

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A new concept: “Aspies in the Arctic.” I’m heading due north to Inuvik on the Arctic Circle and then to Alaska (and maybe Parts North there). I love this kind of wild, big, open country filled with trees and wild animals.

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I have already noticed how much more “active” and dominant (in numbers and activity) the birds are up here. Once one gets to a place like this, where huge wilderness areas are nearby, wildlife takes on a whole different tone and meaning. More visible, more active, less afraid of/aware of/affected by humans, the birds and animals up here are much more of a Presence. In a big way, now that I think of it, I couldn’t live anywhere else (than a place LIKE this ["this" being Canada]). In places where wildlife is a curiosity, an unknown, a mystery and feared, and where huge expanses of wilderness don’t exist, Nature is never (one’s) Home; it’s just someplace that you visit now and then.

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I asked my Algerian Facebook friend Djamel about visiting Algeria when I go to Europe and Africa this coming winter. Is it safe for Americans, I said. He said “Why does it make a difference?” I don’t know what the hell he meant by that. (Was he being defensive?) Then, he said that Algerians like foreigners, and that he will be my tour guide if he’s in Algeria when I visit.

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My prejudices (besides stiff, tight-assed people) include:

1.)     Anyone with a German accent or any similar accent (eg. Dutch, Swiss, Austrian; not Russian). This often extends, irrationally (all prejudices are irrational), to German people (and others with that Germanic-like accent). This prejudice originated with WW II. We all got to hate the Germans after that. Poor Dad. He was cursed!

2.)     Rich people. The upper class , even many middle class people, and certainly the upper-middle class (in the US at least and probably everywhere). Dad definitely influenced me here, and in the 1960s many of us (in the US at least) turned against people with wealth.

3.)     Men. And not most men. I love men. It’s true. But it’s these old fuckers (usually men born before 1945 and some born a little bit afterward) who still think of women as inferior. We feminists in the US have been fighting misogynists for decades. It’s hard to give up this prejudice of mine because it’s so fucking righteous! And it’s a prejudice that is a RESPONSE to a prejudice. Can that be wrong? No, but it’s a personal handicap. I’d rather judge a man once I get to know him as an individual.

4.)     (What else? Oh, I know there’s more.)

I am not proud of my prejudices; I am ashamed of them. I don’t try to justify them; I am too wise for that now. Prejudice cuts me off from people and experiences I would probably enjoy. It’s ridiculous and something I am working on ridding myself of these extraordinarily dumb attitudes. They are beneath me. I am better than that, and I don’t want to be a prejudiced person.

May 19, 2013

May 13

I have undergone a swift change: I will be the change I want to see IN MYSELF (and not wait for others to inspire and change me). I have, thanks to the influence of Bonita (a housemate here in Long Beach CS house), become rededicated to YOGA. Bonita’s love of the art of yoga really turned me on yesterday; we had a session together here in the house. She not only helped me with asanas (poses, like the head stand), she also gave me lots of yoga philosophy.

I have never thought too much about the spiritual and physical benefits of yoga that go beyond the stretching and general health aspect (although I knew they were there and have read/heard about this). Bonita talked to me about the relationship between yoga and the chakras, control of my own mind (calming my mind, etc.), meditation, and other stuff. I suddenly think I want to make yoga a daily part of my life.

The focus and grounding aspects of yoga are very important to me. I am very normally very “floaty” and “spacey.” Yoga–even the simple stuff I have always done–gives me permission (it’s true) to NOT be that way. Perhaps spacey was a way-of-being I learned in order to fit into ’60s and ’70s society in the US.

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Me and Yoga, Yoga and Me:

Continuing with just stretching. Nothing difficult or stressful. It helps awfully to have an inspiring mentor around like Bonita. She’s only 24, but she’s my yoga mentor.

Fly to Seattle tomorrow.

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Here’s what I put on my Meetup.com bio:

Global nomad. No home, car; just my backpack. I travel around the world. Spend c. 3 mos. a year in my home-bases: New Orleans, La.; Ojai, California (USA). . Camping, hitchhiking, dance, yoga. A free, liberated woman with a degree (B.A. Psychology).

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May 14

Angelina Jolie (American actress, director) had a double mastectomy. And she has made it public.

Fat bags (breasts) = full of pollutants

I am at the Long Beach Airport, downloading some movies. I got a ride here from my CS housemate, Tom Nguyen, and I got here at about 9:30 AM for a 2:30 flight. This gives me lots of time to download; plus, I love being at airports. Just sitting around, watching people, listening to music, being online, and seeing the planes arrive and depart. If I weren’t flying, it wouldn’t be very fun though!

I haven’t flown much in my life. Tom said he enjoys striking up conversations with people (“meeting interesting people”) at airports (“but you have to be unafraid of striking up a conversation with strangers). I like to atmosphere of people moving around: going places and arriving here.

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May 15

In Seattle. Given free food (she said,”I’m gonna throw this away… Want it?”) at the Long Beach Airport yesterday (chicken and cheese tortillas with salad and sour cream–yumm!). I was really early for my flight. Downloaded a little (Sherlocks from BBC TV); then had a beautiful 2 hour flight up here to Seattle. Past all these gorgeous, shining, snow-covered, mountain tops in the Cascades. Window seat.

Couchsurfer host, Nick P., picked me up at the airport. Today, I took a bus downtown to the center of the city: Pike Place Market and the Central Library (online here). Had four strong cups of tea today: two at “home” and two at the Tea and Crumpets cafe. Wired (which invariably makes me terrified… of everything!). Riding the wave of terror.

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May 16

At Starbuck’s on the edge of Pike Place Market in Seattle.Seattle is a very low-key, beautiful city.

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Recently, I stayed with a man who reminds me of two other male Aspies I know. None of these men know they are autistic (or they won’t accept it), but, because I am and because I’ve been around quite a few Aspies over the years, I recognize the signs.

This most recent Aspie guy is extremely anal (uptight), hates loud noises, rigidly neat, super-organized, minimalistic, and has few (no?) friends. He is very conservative (politically), trait I have noticed in a female Aspie friend who is (also) very homophobic.

Two of these men are Couchsurfers and dependent on Couchsurfing for friends/social life. All three men are very self-centered loners who love and want companionship, but they don’t know how to make friends or keep them). While they are extremely unaware of who others actually are, they try. Like many Aspies, they mean well, but they are not fun to be with.

Two of the three men spent a long time in the military. Aspies often love uniforms and routine.

These guys are awkward sexually in the extreme. They want sexual partners, but they don’t know (again) how to get them. One man put a magazine photo of a swimsuit model (at least 25 years his junior) on his living room wall, partly, as he told me, so people would know he’s not gay. Another one of these guys told me (after we had sex) that his ideal lover would be an older man. One of these CSer men prefers hosting young women, and I think he hopes to have sex with some of them.

These men usually (not always) haven’t been married and don’t have children; taking care of other people definitely does not come naturally to them. They are almost totally focused on themselves.

They pass along “facts” that aren’t true and may be self-serving. They may strictly, fastidiously follow insignificant rules to the letter. They seem unable to let go, laugh, be silly, and have fun with others; they often attempt to do so, it’s their emotions, facial cues, body language, and understanding of what’s going on is forced and fake. (Note that while many these things are more than obvious to me, NTs don’t seem to notice what’s going on.)

The three men are strange, insulting, insensitive, and unpleasant people in many ways, but, despite all their offensive qualities, they are saved by their naivite (ignorance?) and their basic, underlying goodness.

In MANY ways, I am exactly like these men. We Aspies have so many traits in common (that’s Being Aspie!). I am sure many people think of me in the same way that I think of these three men… especially when I tell them that one of the common Aspie traits is a higher-than-average IQ. Among Neuro-typicals saying that is a No-No; you don’t say it even if it’s true. (Boo hoo. They are jealous.) So lots of people don’t like me because I am an Aspie. Do I care? Fuck no.

In the episode “Hound of the Baskervilles” in the BBC series SHERLOCK, Dr. Watson refers to his partner as “Asperger.” We Aspies are proud of being like Sherlock, like Bill Gates, and like so many other fabulous, though flawed Aspies. Whomever YOU are, you, too, are flawed. You may not have realized it; you may not have admitted it, to yourself or others; and you may not have publicized it. Just the facts, M’am.

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Here’s what I just posted on Facebook:

“Don’t let nobody take away your smile. Don’t let nobody change your funky smile.”* I’m at a downtown Seattle Starbucks with a ton of staid, white retirees (probably tourists). I have on my earphones and am rockin’ out to WWOZ (New Orleans live radio). I am, like, dancing in my seat; they are sitting sedately, not moving. Weird. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?? They have been my contemporaries throughout life, and I don’t fucking even know who they are. It’s all so different in New Orleans where everyone is rockin’ out and very funky (or at least that’s the majority of the people in the French Quarter and the surrounding areas are that way). I think this whole trip is just a way back to Sam (in Colorado) and back HOME to New Orleans (it’s been too long!). *~~Honey Island Swamp Band’s “Cast the First Stone”

Yeah! Who are these people? I really don’t know. I am certainly not one of them, and I never hang out with these people so I don’t know WHO they are. What do they think; what do they talk about; how do they live? I don’t know. Do their children turn out to be stiff robots like them? Or some of them at least people like me who don’t act like these stiffs? Are these the people who bought the American dream? They have probably worked all their lives: sat still at weird jobs where they told people what to do.

These stiffs (are they actually dead inside?)  love to think they are superior to others and should “guide,”"help,” “lead,” or control the rest of us. SOME (not most ) of these people are truly saints; all the rest just have (or want) big egos. Few are top bosses (if they are, watch out!); most of these Walking Dead do/did what their bosses told them to do.

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Walking on the streets of Seattle is a wonderful, positive experience. It’s a real City, and Seattle seems to  have a thriving street scene. Nothin’  like New Orleans, but what city is? (None.)

I hung out on streets with street people in Berkeley (1975), Santa Cruz (1976-’77), and a little in Santa Barbara (1984-5). Who I identify with on the street: some disabled people, some misfits, some artists, some travellers, and some street people. “Some” meaning the ones who are the most like me.The disabled: Aspie-types. The misfits: orphans (I was one at the very beginning of my life), intellectual rebels/mavericks. The artists: writers, I guess; many others, too. The travellers: world-ramblers (not local homeless). The street people: not the super-rough, dangerous, hard-core ones.

I have “a place” in the social, public, sidewalk scene. It’s light and amateurish, but I was out there for a while (off and on).

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May 17

Taking Greyhound to Vancouver this afternoon. CSer, Percy, will meet me at the station there. Then, tomorrow, the ferry to Vancouver Island.

I mingle with local homeless people on the street, and, with my big backpack, I am probably mistaken for one of them by some people. Other people, like those professionals at the lovely, upscale cafe I went to in downtown Seattle this morning, probably don’t care: a backpacker is a permanent outsider. These are the same people who will grow into the WALKING DEAD: the stiff, tight-assed retirees I sat among yesterday at the Starbuck’s by Pike Place Market. Their condemnation now is funny and acceptable in this light, but that’s not why I think this way; I think this way because it’s true.

The local homeless and the street people (are they the same thing?) know I am not one of them. Some of them acknowledge me in one way or another; and some of them recognize who I am: a world-traveller.

Why can’t most Caucasians dance? What the fuck is wrong with them? They sit like robots, like wooden statues, when the most rockin’ music is playing. They don’t seem to feel it, and they certainly can’t do much with their bodies but sway and wiggle a little. It’s sick.  I am not like that at all. I can’t help but move and hop and jump when I hear great music.

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Here’s how I walk down the street (especially with this big, obvious backpack): I don’t ever try to be cool and fashionable; I look around at everything (at people, but more so at nature and buildings). I look UP (at the sky, at tall buildings, at tall trees). I appear–and am–non-threatening.

People in Seattle are pretty restrained. They aren’t loose and relaxed. They don’t look at each other on the street. They want to be cool, but they are afraid. Nevertheless, Seattle is a very cool city.

I am starting to see more Native Americans now. The further north I go, the more there will be. I fuckin’ LOVE that! We global nomads/Traveller-Gypsies are blowing through, rocking out, jumping and jiving, the embodiment of fluidity and flexibility. The Native Americans are holding a place, standing firm in a space, meditating, the embodiment of stillness and stability. It’s all wonderful.

I have to go to some upscale places, like the nice cafe I went to this morning. If I only go to cheap places, I will get conditioned to them and only them.

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Smart is the new sexy (from SHERLOCK).

I no longer say “Thank you” to my Couchsurfing hosts when I leave. The proper response, “Thank you for coming” is usually (not always) beyond their awareness. And certainly if a host said this to me, I would respond with a heart-felt “Thanks,” but that hardly ever happens. Too many hosts pride themselves on giving to surfers, without acknowledging how much we surfers bring to their lives. Hosts who rely upon surfers for their social life (like the Aspie hosts) are maddeningly ignorant of–and unwilling to admit–our role in their empty lives. They seem to think of us like many pet-owners think of their dogs and cats: when they need or want us, there we are  to fill up their vast loneliness.

Seth is experiencing a psychic bond with Myles. He told me he suddenly feels a “psychic connection” with his new son. Seth is amazing: strong, wise, and kind. he is definitely going to be a good father.

SHERLOCK refers to his memory file (see Temple Grandin on this) as his “mind palace.”

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May 18

I am up in Victoria on Vancouver Island. It’s pretty great here, very low-key and relaxed. Or at least the feeling I have here is like that.

Tonight I am at Winnie’s. Tomorrow I will go to Laura’s; she’s someone I met in Ojai at the Krishnamurti (philosopher) Foundation.

I am falling in love again with all the men I have loved in my life. Many men, many moments of fleeting love. Cliche. Yeah, I know. What is love? Why do we even bother with emotions when thoughts can be so complete and lead to the same place as emotions.

Up here in Canada, the Native traditions and the other more frantic, new side interact, intersect, like lovers. What is it about very cold climates?They scream and yell in New Orleans; here they have to be very low-key because it’s so cold so much of the time that they have to be exceedingly mellow.

I feel able to write very honestly tonight. My CS host is a very kind woman who is older than me. She’s been through the deaths of two of her kids and one granddaughter. She was raised by difficult parents.

Child-abuse is the worst human crime against other humans. It’s strange to hurt those one loves the most. Why does this happen?

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I am thinking about who my ONE LOVE might be. I feel him close to me, but I still don’t know who he is. So many men around me (they must number four or five or more… possible Soulmates of  mine). I guess I am not quite ready to meet My Man. So, he couldn’t quite be ready for me, either. When I meet or met him, I will notice how flawed he is. I will not like that.

I am now focusing on myself; I see that I am also very flawed, often by willful ignorance. I was looking at photos on Facebook of my favorite male/lover-type face of my life, the one I saw in Tapachula, Mexico a few months ago. He takes my breath away every time I see his face. But is that just “skin deep”? Of course, I will start looking for a deeper connection with men.I ADORE beauty though, especially in young men.This Latin look is overwhelming. Asian and Native American looks come next in my male pantheon. In the end will it be all about how a person looks TO ME? Can’t I trust my own eyes?

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May 19

A mild, pleasant night (the window was open all night). Parades today; hope it stops raining. A very quiet city, this.

May 12, 2013

May 12

At the Derby Club in Ventura last Saturday for the Kentucky Derby I heard one may say loudly, “I LOVE AMERICA!” He was making his way to the window where people collect their earnings; he must have won. A grateful immigrant. I love it! Amidst all the America bashing (some of it is by me), it’s so, so, so, so, so wonderful to hear someone who really loves and appreciates all this country has to offer and to hear him be so up-front and vocal about it. Call me a romantic fool, I don’t care.

I know the US is guilty of viciousness, brutality, and massive deception. And why? To fuel OUR NEEDS AND DESIRES. WE are the USA.

At the same time, I know that the US is not only capable of but actively pursuing totally GREAT goals. The US serves the poor in many ways; the US helps those who need help (in many ways); the US tries to do good in the world. “The US” is us; WE are the United States, people.

And when the virtuous, well-intentioned acts of the US government are accompanied (as they always are everywhere [thanks to human nature and the nature of capitalism]) by greed and corruption, it does not erase the positive intentions and actions by the people and by the government of the United States.

I support change. I consider myself a critic of the US and a member of the non-violent, artistic  counter-cultural movement (that has always been part) of the US. I know that non-violent criticism, freedom of the press, and freedom of speech are integral, essential parts of the United States. I am not a political conservative; I am not part of any organized religion; and I do not support any anti-US movements.

I am a liberated woman who has raised three-and-a-half children (my grandson Sam is the “half” because I helped to raise him for 5 years). I raised my children to respect themselves, to search for their own paths in a culture that (like most cultures) is filled with people who are content to follow the status quo. I taught my children, by example, to respect the basic norms, values and beliefs of a culture (the US) that fervently believes in individual rights.

I adamantly believe that cynicism on an individual or mass level is a BAD THING.

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Wikipedia:

Cynicism is an attitude or state of mind characterized by a general distrust of others’ apparent motives or ambitions, or a general lack of faith or hope in the human race or in individuals with desires, hopes, opinions, or personal tastes that a cynic perceives as unrealistic or inappropriate, therefore deserving of ridicule or admonishment. It is a form of jaded negativity, and other times, realistic criticism or skepticism.

The term originally derives from the ancient Greek philosophers called the Cynics who rejected all conventions, whether of religion, manners, housing, dress, or decency, advocating the pursuit of virtue in accordance with a simple and unmaterialistic way of life. attitude or state of mind characterized by a general distrust of others’ apparent motives or ambitions, or a general lack of faith or hope in the human race or in individuals with desires, hopes, opinions, or personal tastes that a cynic perceives as unrealistic or inappropriate, therefore deserving of ridicule or admonishment. It is a form of jaded negativity, and other times, realistic criticism or skepticism.

The term originally derives from the ancient Greek philosophers called the Cynics who rejected all conventions, whether of religion, manners, housing, dress, or decency, advocating the pursuit of virtue in accordance with a simple and unmaterialistic way of life.

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When I am camping (as I have been doing for the past two months in Ojai), I am in bed (and often asleep) by 6 or 7 pm. When I am living in houses (as I do when I Couchsurf), I have different hours every day, and it’s definitely not to-bed-by-7 pm. Interesting.

A Couchsurfer in Valdez, Alaska told me he still has 8-12 FEET of snow in his yard now! He says it will be melted by July. Yipes!

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CSers emerge from the crowd so beautifully. Like, I’ll be out somewhere waiting for my CS host, and suddenly, there they are, a person like no other, smiling and welcoming me. Someone willing to take in a stranger. Someone willing to take a chance.

I have passed the stage of being so grateful that I didn’t see all I brought to my CS hosts. Now, as I say in my profile, I think it’s an “equal exchange” between surfers (like me; tourists are a different thing) and hosts.

I stress this “equal exchange” in my profile for two reasons. First, I have had some hosts who think they are doing us poor surfers a favor; they see themselves as GIVING and Couchsurfers as TAKING. This host ego-trip can’t continue. Maybe tourists will put up with it, but I won’t.

Second, because I have realized how much we surfers DO bring to our hosts, especially those of us who are, like me, on the road almost full-time and don’t have a conventional home. We live unusual, creative lives, and we are willing to share these with our lucky hosts. We bring the romance and the daily grind of the road to hosts; we remind them of their past (or future) travels. We interrupt their  often dreary, boring, repetitive ruts and, in effect, say: “Let’s go!” Because we are ON-THE-GO. We can’t help but bring new, positive energy into hosts’ homes.

I acknowledge as well the marvelous generosity of my hosts. I should be so open and accommodating to strangers! Maybe someday I will learn the fine art of hosting.

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I am, I realize, afraid of and afraid in cities. It’s most noticeable when I wake up in the morning. The sounds are so different from the sounds out in the woods. Cars and people rushing places. That’s fine, it’s great; it’s just different from what I grew up with in a quiet suburb with woods across the street. I played in the woods and fields around us. And what I have consistently sought out as an adult, for peace and relaxation, have been peaceful, bucolic, country places.

To deal with cities in a pleasant way, I am asking myself: what foci do I have that I can indulge in cities? What interests do I have that cities can satisfy? Cafes and restaurants; local music; areas where young, poor artists live (these sections are always jumping and jiving); nature within the city (eg. birds; botanical gardens, zoos [horrible places, but the animals do live there; why not visit them and say hi?]). Today, I’ll google some stats on Long Beach: population, crime/police, weather, unusual facts (every place has some), etc.

This morning, I did some stretches and a little yoga (inspired by Bonita, a housemate here at Carla’s); a bit of meditation; and blogging (now). Later, I plan to listen to Cajun and Zydeco music for two hours on WWOZ New Orleans (live, streaming radio; 10 am to noon), have Bonita help me with a head-stand (she loves yoga), meet my CS host, Carla (she was busy yesterday until almost midnight) and hang out with her a little.

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It’s Mothers’ Day! Seth and Noelle are bringing Myles home from the hospital today. (I’m not sure why Noelle and Myles stayed in hospital for three days; no straight answer from Seth [who sounds extremely tired on the phone].) Anya’s giving me $50 for Being Her Mom.

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Yesterday was a long, but pleasant day of travelling. My cell phone alarm woke me up in Chuck’s yard at 4:30 AM. I packed up my  wet tent (tons of dew at the ocean) and sleeping bag, and I walked to the bus stop. The first local bus of the day (Saturday) came at 5:24, and I told the driver I was trying to catch a Greyhound at the Oxnard Transit Station at 6:40 AM.

I had bought my ticket online ahead of time, and I printed it out. Four seats were left on the Greyhound heading to L.A., and four of us were waiting in Oxnard to board it. The bus was full of sleepy people who had gotten on at 1 am in San Francisco. After a pleasant three-hour layover in L.A., it was a short half hour ride to Long Beach.

I got to a little park near Carla’s apartment and lay down on the grass with a “pina colada” soft drink and a bottle of rum I had bought at a nearby package store. Took a little nap when the rum kicked in. Walked to Carla’s and Bonita buzzed me in. Had to get off the street by then so I was lucky she was home. Tom, another CSer and housemate, came home and told me to eat whatever I wanted and make myself at home. It’s the rare host who will say, “Eat whatever you want.”

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If there were no New Orleans where would all the wild people go? Where would they live? Where would they gather? Can uptight, repressive cultures ban/forbid and eliminate such people? Is this a form of genocide?

Unless you have been to New Orleans (this means YOU [if you haven't been there, GO NOW!]), you don’t know what the fuck I am talking about.

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Here’s a favorite part of mine from the Dec. 2012 Psychology Today article by David DiSalvo “10 Reasons Why Some People Love What They Do” (Reason #10):

10. They never, ever limit their vision to serve the interests of petty competition.

Stephen Covey famously said (paraphrasing), highly effective people don’t see the “pie” as having a limited number of pieces. Instead, they see a pie with pieces enough for everyone, and it doesn’t bother them to watch others get their slice.

While we cannot escape the fact that we live in a competitive culture—or that we are a competitive species, just like every other species on this planet—there’s quite a difference between healthy embodiment of competition, and petty pursuit of selfish ends.

People who love what they do are competitive. They wouldn’t be able to reach their goals if they weren’t. But they don’t invest their time and energy in scheming and undermining; they don’t try to deny the other guy his piece of pie just because that means there’s one less to consume.

Loving what you do—no matter how competitive you have to be to attain your goals—does not require stepping on others to get there.

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Something strange and inexplicable has happened: I no longer feel like a social outsider. How did this happen? Perhaps, thanks to Couchsurfing and my online presence (blogging, Facebook, etc.) I have found my groups, my people, friends. And I am really expressing myself now in ways I didn’t know I was able or free to do before. I felt that if I was really myself, people wouldn’t accept or like me. I’ve discovered that isn’t true. I just needed to find the people who WOULD accept me as I am.

I think I often ask the forbidden questions. I voice the unthinkable thoughts. I see things in unusual, unique ways. I disturb people. I rattle the gates at the doors of status quo, conventional thinking.

I posted this on Facebook today:

A society that encourages women to carry around bigger and bigger bags of fat on their chests (breasts) in order to please the dominant (i.e., more violent) sex is exactly like societies that demanded foot-binding for women. Let’s call it what it is: a physical-handicap intended to limit and control women. The national obsession with breasts is not only a form of control that negatively affects women, it also controls the minds of many men. Brain-washing is never cool. Let’s remove the blinders, shall we?

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Breasts are not sex objects in all cultures. Because they are sex objects in the US, we women have to cover them up (a restriction and a limitation).

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In some homes I visit on my travels, I feel a strong sense of what I can only identify as desperation (as thought the people there are chained against their wills). I always stuff myself with food in these homes. Is this because I was raised in a home like this (and Mom and I did eat a lot of sweet foods that she made, usually in the evenings (the worst time for heavy food). Did  we eat like this to satisfy longings that couldn’t be satisfied any other way?

My mom was desperately unhappy. She had agreed to a late-in-life (by the standards of her day) marriage; Mom was about 30 when she married Dad. They adopted me five years later (Mom was not able to bear a child [it could have been Dad who was sterile; they may have lied to me to "protect" Dad's self-image).

Mom was, in the manner of the day, forced to not work; she stayed home to give the Dad status: a man who could support his family on his earnings alone was admired in the 1940s and 50s. All her vitality became sapped over the years. She grew into a depressed, misunderstood, unhappy woman.

When I went off to college, Mom was intensely jealous. The irony of it was that without her help (with my schoolwork and with Dad [who didn't think that in 1963 girls needed to go to college]), I would NEVER have gotten to college. I have a high IQ (147: not a genius, but high enough), and I excelled in college, especially in writing and critical thinking in the social sciences (sociology and psychology). I persevered over 40 years and through eleven colleges to get my degree in 2001.

I effectively left Mom and Dad behind when I went off to college. Neither of them went to college. Mom went to “business school” after high school (or maybe she went to a business high school), and Dad only went to eighth grade in Berlin. Once I began learning new stuff, Mom and Dad were out of my life. My interests and their narrow view of people and life kept us separated for the rest of their lives.

May 11, 2013

May 8

I don’t want applause or recognition for my original lifestyle. I don’t want to prove how clever I am. I don’t want to stand above or outside everyone else. My ego will NOT benefit from any of this shit, and I totally reject it all. I am learning to stop myself from being so judgemental and critical; I am reining in my impulses to tear down people I have come to hate (often because of childhood lessons [the rich]and sometimes because of social injustices [men]).

I AM thrilled at having a life of my own, a life of my own creation, and a life wherein I am doing exactly what I want and what I love.

Disclaimer: I am sorry that some people can’t accept who I am. They can’t accept that I DON’T CARE about the same things they do. As June Carter Cash graciously said to a woman who tried to shame her for getting a divorce (in the movie, “Walk the Line”), “I am sorry to disappoint you.” That woman expected things of June that she had no right to expect. “I am not here to live up to your expectations, and you are not here to live up to mine” (Fritz Perls). Every individual is responsible for THEIR own emotions.

As Popeye said, “I Yam What I Yam.”

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May 9

Myles, my grandson, was born either this morning or last night. Got texted photo of him from Seth.

I just read Gypsy Boy: My Life in the Secret World of the Romany Gypsies (2009) by Mikey Walsh. It was a difficult but frank and amazing book to read, and I read it in one day. (Another of Walsh’s books awaits me at the Ojai Library today.) It revealed the depths to which (some) British Gypsies have sunk. The violence (by Mikey’s dad) was extraordinary, and I was shocked by how everyone tolerated it.

I have always said that I am glad I’m not a Romany Gypsy because of the narrow, controlled, inferior status of the women. This book bore that out… and more. Ugly!

Stephen Fry’s quote on front cover: “A revelation. Moving and terrifying, funny, and brilliant. I shall never forget it — an amazing achievement.”

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“Travel is… about learning, about crossing boundaries and mastering the fear of strangers, about making the effort to understand other cultures and thereby empowering yourself.” ~~Fatima Mernissi (on a bookmark called “Bridging Cultures: Muslim Journeys”)

Wikipedia: Fatema or Fatima Mernissi (Arabic: فاطمة مرنيسي‎) is a Moroccan feminist writer and sociologist.

From ArabWomenWriters.com:
As an Islamic feminist, Mernissi is largely concerned with Islam and women’s roles in it, analyzing the historical development of Islamic thought and its modern manifestation. Through a detailed investigation of the nature of the succession to Muhammad, she casts doubt on the validity of some of the hadith (sayings and traditions attributed to him), and therefore the subordination of women that she sees in Islam, but not necessarily in the Qur’an.

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I am becoming am much nicer person, but I am not ever abandoning being true to myself. I am not giving up anything, I am just adding things — like being more compassionate and loving everyone and everything (not rejecting anyone or anything).

Non-traditional me: no coercion tolerated (not by me nor from anyone). No demands or expectations: neither from me to anyone nor from anyone to me. A life of my own; a world of my own. True to MY SELF. Freedom from family ties and obligations.

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Someone said to me this morning that Ojai is the kind of place where people come to get divorced. He said people who grew up here tend to stay married, but people who move here when they are married tend to get divorced! Ha ha. He attributed it to spiritual searching and growth that go on here; I agree and will add the general climate of creativity. Ojai has a long tradition of these things.

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At the San Francisco hotel (on the corner of Van Ness at the edge of the Tenderloin) Megan and I stayed in when she was in first grade, Miss Ellie taught Meg and some other kids to steal. Now, it’s really funny. Then, I thought it was terrible, and I forbade Megan to go out “shopping” with Miss Ellie.

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May 11

On Greyhound, pulling into the L.A. station. Everyone is sleepy because they got on the bus at 1 am in San Francisco.

Stayed at Chuck’s last night, camping in his yard. He’s such a good guy. We watched his Burner Moon Tribe’s favorite movie last night, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Now, I’ll have a few hours layover in L.A. (time to have breakfast: salad and hot chocolate $7+); then, off to Long Beach.

The L.A. Greyhound station next to skid row. I don’t wander around outside the station too much when I’m on layovers here, especially not at night. Can take local L.A. city buses from a nearby corner.

It’s 9 am, and my bus leaves here at 12 noon; it’s about a half hour trip to Long Beach. The station is full; lots of people going places today. It’s a weekend and tomorrow is Mothers’ Day.

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It’s nice now to have internet on the Greyhound buses and in the stations. And I have on my iPod. It’s so awesome! I can be in my own world when I travel. Not-being-afraid-of-people to me means being able to ignore them and to ask them for help when I need it. It does NOT mean talking/listening/relating to others for hours on end.

I have already mastered the Being-Friendly thing; I know how to laugh, joke, and endure or enjoy most people. I know how effective a smile can be. I don’t give a damn; I use my people skills when I feel the need. Sometimes relating with others is gratifying, and often it is not.

Lots of people bore or annoy me: especially people who complain incessantly, talk incessantly, are critical,  want attention, or are judgemental or small-minded. When people are too different from me, it’s often hard to find common ground. I won’t put up with anyone putting me down, and when (some) people (so–called “friends”) know too much about me, they tend to berate and discourage me. (That’s not friendship.) Much of the time, I’d rather be alone or in my own world with my iPod and computer than talk to them.

A lot of travelling is about ignoring people and things. It’s a job requirement. On the road, I encounter so many new people in one day alone that it gets tiring. For example, here in the Los Angeles bus station so much is going on all the time (during the day) that I have to ignore most of it for the sake of my nerves and my sanity.

I know how to look at people (as individuals or groups) without making eye contact so I don’t have to relate to them. It’s a game, a skill, a life-saving device, and it’s good for my physical and mental health to detach.

I have no qualms about saying to someone, “I need to be alone now. I don’t want to talk. Sorry.” Translation: go away and leave me alone. Lots of time I think people look at me, an old lady alone, and they form stereotypes– she wants company; she looks lonely; she must want someone to talk to, etc.– all of them wrong. Even little kids who are used to subservient grandmothers who have no life of their own expect me to look at them and smile, etc., ad nauseam.

Later today, I’ll be at Carla’s with a couch in the living room (no private, get-away space). My computer and earphones will be indispensable. Relating to people constantly (or even to dogs) is not only exhausting, it’s got a time-limit. Even being with people I love has an expiration date (usually in hours). After that, I need to be alone or in a world of my own. I’d like to put up my tent in the living room in places where I don’t have my own room.

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This whole Alaska/Yukon trip seems to me like a round about and very interesting way for me to get back to New Orleans. I’ll be seeing Sam in Boulder, Colorado which I look forward to; I wish I could take him travelling with me.

I am not complaining anymore about what I don’t have; I am focusing on and enjoying what I DO have. It’s very satisfying. I am not a victim; I’m a survivor.

Let it all go and dwell in my own Highest Self (the “I”). Too much of great importance is going on in the world, and for me to focus on my petty little problems is dumb. See the Highest Potential in everything. Be my own Higher Power (“I”). I am my Higher Power.

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This bus station is sort of large, and the people who ride Greyhound are lower middle class/working class. You always encounter surly people here, angry people, jealous people, mentally ill people (ones who haven’t gotten therapy), attention-grabbers, greedy people (like in the higher classes!), women who have some sort of passive/subservient thing going on, aggressive men, and petty criminals (thieves, etc.). Sometimes people from skid row slip in (the security guards try to keep them out) and ask for money. I rarely ask anyone to watch my bag for me because, no matter how nice they look and how well-dressed they are, they could be a thief.

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As an Aspie, I have been the target of bullies for many, many years. Here are some reasons why this happens: bullies sense that I am “different”; I don’t act “normal” or conform to how-one-should-act (yet I am doing nothing they can actually put their finger on); my intentional distancing from them makes me appear aloof and superior (it’s actually based on a natural detachment and love of being alone); I am usually smarter than them (and they sense and hate this); they have egos that are either too big or too small.

Our Aspie focus on things we love infuriates some people. We aren’t trying to disturb them; we are just doing what we love, and no distractions (like them) are tolerated. Anxious and/or angry people take Aspie-style personally. They get mad at us and at anyone who is being REAL (i.e., acting naturally, not being afraid of being themselves, and flying in the face of the status quo).

I have learned how to do two things when I am bullied: first, the “lower” action, play it back on them with mental (psychic/mind) games; this is a waiting game. This is the action of the protective Eagle (the second evolutionary phase of the sign of Scorpio). Second, let it go; just see my thoughts floating up  into the air and away. The second way is the way of the Dove (the third phase of Scorpio), and it’s freeing. The first way is vengeful and satisfying, but it’s a short-lived satisfaction. The Dove’s peaceful way is endlessly satisfying.

I think an Aspie’s main rationale when dealing with people is: you are responsible for yourself! I am responsible for myself! Don’t expect me to meet your expectations or solve your problems or live out your karma for you. That’s not my job, it’s yours. So, fuck off.

Of course, Aspies hate confrontation, so we don’t say “fuck off,” but, believe me, we think it. At least I do. I’m a very contented, peaceful, confident, self-loving, happy person, so even when I think “fuck off,” it’s kind of funny and amusing to me. I don’t hate anyone. And I love my life. I have lots of compassion, and by now I have so much life experience that I can relate to and find common ground with MANY people. I’m doing alright.

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At the Oxnard Transit Center this morning, a woman and her teen-aged daughter were going ahead of me in line. I said, “This is a line.” She rolled her eyes at her daughter, which pissed me off, so I said. “They oversold this bus,” (the ticket seller told me this), “and we may not all get on” (three people were ahead of me in line). “I’m not going to let you get ahead of me. You might not like it, and I’m sorry.” She took it well. We all did get on the bus, but that woman didn’t. Maybe she wasn’t trying to cut into the line after all. I appreciated the practice I got in speaking my feelings.

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In “The Great Game” episode of Sherlock (BBC), John Watson gets mad because Sherlock  doesn’t CARE  about people (and refuses the mantle of “hero”). Sherlock helps people and hunts down criminals with LOGIC. It’s much more helpful than caring (which is nice and sweet and makes people feel good but doesn’t solve crimes).

Sherlock is bullied, but he gives it back, as good as he gets. I think Sherlock is at least part-Aspie. (So is his brother Mycroft. Mycroft is an important part of the British government and not counter-cultural, so he’s less visible and obvious than Sherlock.)

Like an Aspie, Sherlock’s thinking is: I am not here to take care of you or live up to your expectations. Fuck off! He does what he does–”the work”–because he loves  it!

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Some of the hostility I invariably encounter (and do nothing to discourage) in public comes from other sources. Some men (and some women) are enraged when women, especially OLD women, are clearly smart, liberated, and unafraid of being and enjoying themselves in public. Some people don’t like old people in general to be anywhere but in the background. And then whenever I am a minority anywhere (and even when I am not)–which is often– I get the flack about my ethnicity (Caucasian) and nationality (USA) thrown at me (sometimes verbally). Why get upset? These people’s faults (prejudice, ignorance, etc.) are not my problem; they are their problem.

Awareness of the extreme importance and incomparable significance of self-expression and individuality is such a gift. And not everyone, by a long shot, has had access to this information; many people can’t even imagine it. People who grow up with no inkling of their individuality (eg. with their own thoughts, feelings, needs, desires, etc.) and without the experience of expressing their individuality are severely limited in this respect, and they may never be able to conceive of the possibility. In fact, they may actively resist it. Individuality flies in the face of service to others, and these “others” will keep their servants and minions dependent and helpless as long as they can.

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We open “portals” for our children. I mean that we parents, or me anyway, open POSSIBILITIES for our kids. We hold them out like golden apples, like magic, like diamond drops of wisdom: “Here. You can have this. I give you this jewel.”

Einstein said (if you can believe all the quotes that are attributed to him): “Imagination is better than knowledge.” So I’d be, like, “Hey, you can do this or do that” or “You can be this or that.” I’d give my kids huge possibilities and let them run with them, figuring out what they liked and what they wanted and needed.

I showed my kids–and Sam (whom I helped to raise until he was five)–how to live in such a way (cheaply, simply, creatively, originally, definitely outside the American mainstream, etc.) that their possibilities were maximized and enlarged (not confined to the status quo’s options). I tried to show them how to attain things (NOT material stuff) they wanted: I opened up the world for them, showing them that all different lifestyles were acceptable (not hurting other beings, of course) and that all people and things are worthy of love and consideration. I showed them this by DOING many unconventional things myself (things mainstreamers would–and did–call bizarre). The Buddhists love to say how wonderful intention is, but for me there’s no substitute for action. Doing something yourself, and showing your kids how to do it, is, as they say, worth 1,000 words.

I think I raised my kids with MAXIMUM INCENTIVE to try things, and to invent and create things, and to learn and live the way they wanted for MAXIMUM personal evolution.

Parents, once we open these portals of possibilities, have the huge, overwhelming job of keeping the fucking portals open. The world (i.e., people) constantly try to tell each other, “No, that’s not possible. You just have to follow the crowd and do what everyone else does. Otherwise, watch out, Dude!” The tendency is to crush children’s imagination, hope and dreams. Well, lots of shit goes down about how hope is not such a good thing, but it IS a good thing. It’s a wonderful thing (unless you analyze it to pieces and destroy it). So, parents have this awesomely awful job of keeping these portals open (until the kid is about 18 and able to keep open for themselves their favorite portals). A portal, by the way, is a window into the future and into alternate realities. It’s real, but the world usually doesn’t acknowledge it. That adds to the parent’s job of keeping the portal open.

May 5, 2013

May 5

Have I been shamed (“gently persuaded”) into faking emotions, etc. that I don’t really feel? And do I now, think/believe these emotions, etc. are mine (but they are not; they were forced on me by others [parents, friends, society])? Yes, I think so.

It takes lots of self-awareness to pick out these things which are lies I have been told about what I should feel, think, do, say, etc.

Coercion of any kind is not a good thing, whether social, familial or between friends. I find that women who have followed more traditional roles want other women to conform to those roles. (These people are like the women who carry out clitoridectomies in some countries or wives in countries like India who abuse their daughter-in-laws after being abused in the same way themselves.) A few women (both young and old) have expressed horror and outrage and condemnation of me when I told them how I feel about my children and grandchildren. They judged me harshly and refused to accept my choice as anything even NEARLY acceptable.

The role these women hate so much is a respectful relationship with a lot of distance between myself and my kids. When Myles is born, it’s OK with me (and with Seth) if I am not around to see him during his first few days. I just want to know the baby and his parents are doing fine. I can see Myles on Skype and get all the info I need from Seth on the phone. I will see Myles within the next year. That I had chosen this untraditional way of relating to my family was appalling to these women. Would they judge a man as harshly?

I was “encouraged” by all three of my children to allow them to be very independent of me. And I accepted this position with tremendous delight and joy, maybe not at first, but with time. At first, I wanted the very traditional mother and grandmother role; slowly, I saw the benefits of my new life. I was able to create A LIFE OF MY OWN. Now, I am not tied to my kids in any way, nor are they tied to me. We are all free agents. I miss Sam, but we will be reunited again. Anya and I keep in touch by phone, and Seth and I are also in touch by phone. I am very satisfied.

I refuse to feel sorry for myself and groan over what I don’t have. It is so much better to let go of the past, move on and find the beauty in a new path.

Life is constant uncertainty, excitement and stimulation. Pachamama (my spirit mentor [who may be My Own hidden, higher SELF]) tells me to reject nothing/no one; to love it ALL. That way, nothing gets in my way, slows me down, or makes demands on my attention. My negativity attracts other people’s neediness and demands.

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May 7

My commitment to myself is to be AUTHENTIC. I want to CREATE the real, true me.

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Some quotes from Fragments of Grace: My Search for Meaning in the Strife of South Asia by Pamela Constable (2004):

“I took pride in traveling fast and light, fitting into new cultures, absorbing new realities and putting them into prose. I became expert at making entrances and escapes” (p. 257).

Pakistan: “…the control of women is a major obsession, and fer of European-style women’s liberation is a major factor… in the growing anti-Western clamor from Pakistani pulpits. The issue resonates deeply with men, especially those from impoverished, illiterate  backgrounds…. (p. 90).

“In the minds of many Pakistani men, Islam’s constraints on women are a convenient cover to exercise absolute control over them, while its emphasis on mercy and restraint may do little to rein in men’s violent impulses” (p. 91).

“In Pakistan, there was simply no such thing as a female free agent; the very idea was unacceptably subversive” (p. 95).

“To me, it was a luxury to spend an entire afternoon in a refugee camp or a brick factory or a used-clothing bazaar. I learned more about (Pakistan) in a few hours at a shoemaker’s workshop or a school for street children or a clinic for drug addicts than I did at a dozen news conferences by men in suits and uniforms. I was much happier wandering on my own with a translator among the bazaars of Rawalpindi or Peshawar than shouting to make myself heard while squeezed among a dozen TV cameras in an Islamabad ballroom” (p. 105).

“For a few hours, I will feel jealous of these settled lives and emotional certainties, of friends and relatives who have been steadily adding accoutrements to their comfort and generations to their tree. I will wonder briefly what is wrong with me, why I have never really wanted to settle down and raise children, why I keep shedding possessions and relationships when others are accumulating them” (p. 107).

“My husband began working his way up the American ladder; I wanted to plunge into distant struggles and terrain” (p. 108).

“…sometimes he struck a pure, painful chord in me, especially when he talked about the emptiness of celebrity and the need to pare away everything–possessions, personality, pretensions–to the bone… I knew he was right” (p. 109).

“At an age when  most sane, successful people measure time and progress by annual raises and Christmas cards, I am still living for these few, fleeting moments of inspiration and insight and raw emotion, for brushes with near-death and impossible love” (p, 109-110).

“I may eventually discover that a succession of intense experiences and epiphanies add up to nothing, that I have lost more than I have gained by rushing off to another distant revolution or earthquake instead of leading a quieter but more cumulative life, closer to those I love. In the end, though, the choices were mine, both the mistakes and the redemptive moments. That in itself is a privilege that my sojourn in South Asia has ensured I will never take for granted again” (p. 110).

“I jet in and out of other people’s sealed fates, I devour their pain and transform it into prose and move on, clutching a passport from the most powerful nation on earth” (p. 131).

“…I was a lonely traveler… ‘Being a foreign correspondent means catching planes with no one to see you off, and landing in airports with no one to welcome you’” (p. 132).

“I myself was an adopted child, taken in as an infant by two people who loved me but did not look like me, who raised me in an atmosphere of care and privilege and purpose but knew nothing about my genealogy. In a profound sense that is no reflection on them, I do not know who I am, and I am not connected to anyone. I know the magic access codes and mannerisms of the American aristocracy, but I am much happier among the anonymous wretched of the earth” (p. 133).

“Perhaps the qualities that make me a good journalist [a light traveler, an empathetic observer, a quick study, an emotional extruder] are exactly the same ones that make me a flawed person, that keep me from making the transition from hotel to home, from passion to commitment, from child to parent. Perhaps I am searching, in a thousand exotic places and faces, for clues to the puzzle of myself” (p. 134).

“I was always moving too fast to allow my memories to accumulate, always rushing my experiences into print instead of savoring them and learning from them, always writing for strangers who could erase me just by turning the page” (p. 157).

“We (journalists) also shared a horror of surrendering to the complacency of desk jobs and comfortable suburban lives, where the worst one had to face was an appointment with the dentist or the IRS and, perhaps, the occasional, vaguely disturbing reminder of paths untaken, novels unwritten, dreams deferred. To chronicle others’ hardships and conflicts was a way to stay alive, on edge, engaged, even if our Western passports and credit cards usually allowed us a quick exit from looming conflagration

“Finally, we both admitted that morning, there was that heady assumption that we could survive anything, peer over the brink of an abyss without falling in, fly close to the flame of revolution or riot or religious wars without being seared” (p. 202)

“Afghan family life was ruled by pride, shame, obligation, and fear of gossip; individual feelings were irrelevant, especially for women” (p. 229-230).

“My friendships with Afghans were limited in a different way; some seemed open and modern at first, but I gradually discovered that their family lives were a dense thicket of obligation and rank and ritual from which no one could escape. Even without the Taliban, Afghan society remained closed and conservative, a place even the most adaptable foreigner could never really feel comfortable or at home” (p. 251).

Pamela Constable loves getting dirty, literally and figuratively. She writes about the “guilt” she feels about her privileged upbringing. I love Constable for these things (and more). I read the book in two days and cried after finishing it.

Wrote Pam Constable a message on her Facebook site.

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It just rained and was cold for two days. I stayed in the big, empty, Airstream trailer on the Heitz’ property out in the East End. Cliff is the caretaker, and he very kindly let me stay there.

I wandered around the property and memories came back. The house burned down quite a few years ago after True and Larry had a messy divorce (his choice). But the old chimney and the house’s foundations are still there as are two of the modules Larry built for the kids. There’s a new cabin now (built about ten years ago or more) where Cliff lives.

I started hanging out on the Heitz’ property, at their house, around the time that I first came to Ojai at age twenty-two. Actually, it was probably a year or two or three later because when I first got to Thacher, I was still very young and naive. I had no idea who I was or who I wanted to be; I knew very little about the world.

My main recollection when rambling around the Heitz’ acre or so was realizing that True and Larry lived free, artistic, experimental, creative lives. I knew almost immediately that it was what I wanted: to be like them in many ways. But I wasn’t ANYTHING like that. And I’d never known anyone like them. My main thought/feeling was: “Can I change? Can I ever fit in with these people?” I desperately wanted to go in that direction.

The Heitzes were my teachers, Larry probably more so than True. They both had been raised in Los Angeles, and they knew about the intellectual, creative lifestyle that was so prevalent at that time in Ojai’s East End. Until I met the Heitzes and their friends, I didn’t even know that theirs was the lifestyle I longed for. My dreams and personal, individual desires were buried deep in my unconscious. I was raised at a time when women in the US were just beginning to have lives and thoughts and feelings of our own. My mother, Ann, encouraged me in this, as well as in self-expression through writing.

I had no idea where my pursuit of that life would lead me, but I knew that was where I was going. I used to go to the Heitzes’ house with my husband, Hank, but he was heading in a very different direction, and he didn’t really fit in there (I didn’t understand this at the time). Larry, some neighbors (the Dinkins and the Danishes), and I played guitars, sang, smoke pot, and drink wine. (Maybe not too much pot in those days [1970 or so], but I recall there being some.) It was mind-blowing for me. Soon, I was really changing and growing and discovering a new me and a new world.

I gradually moved away from Hank and Thacher School and everything I’d known and been before. Playing the guitar and singing made a big difference: I really expressed myself and became an artist. (I left playing music behind, but, for a few years, it made a huge difference in my life.) By age twenty-seven, I had made the change to a new life. On January 1, 1974, I left Hank and Thacher School (and Anya, who wanted to stay in the house she knew, and who feared the changes I was going through). By February 1975, Seth and I had moved to San Francisco in a wonderful house-truck: it was an International Harvester, which friends helped us convert into a little dream house. (I was on my way to school up at Cal State, Humboldt, but SF drew me in strongly in those post-hippie days.)  I met many new and unfamiliar kinds of people in San Francisco. I auditioned and tried to get into the music scene there. I did a lot of LSD and smoked a lot of pot and spare-changed on the streets of Berkeley and became acquainted with living in SRO or “transient” hotels.

In the summer of 1975, Hank took Seth away from me (I had full custody of Seth, however.) On October 6, 1975, I tried to commit suicide in Berkeley, California (so many changes over so little time!). By early 1976, I was back on my chosen path and firmly resolved to follow my star. By summer of 1977, Seth was back with me in Santa Cruz. (Anya was still living with Hank, now in Carmel, and apparently happy). Seth and I began to live a life of squatting (at Scott Creek, Davenport, Ca.), living in house-trucks, and finally, in October of 1979, moving north to Eugene, Oregon in our eighteen-foot, Dodge “Swinger” RV. There in Eugene (where our RV broke down), I met Bill Schneider and got pregnant with Megan. Another new chapter began.

Seth was ten years old. In April (or May) of 1980 we hitchhiked from Florence, Oregon back to Ojai with two small dogs. (We left our big Dodge “Swinger” in Florence; it had broken down.)

At first, Seth and I made a home in the bushes at the end of the little dirt road off McAndrew (the road that leads up to the entrance of Horn Canyon). We used to call that road “Casa de Paz” because True and Larry (and later the Danishes) lived in a house up there that had that name (and also its own little chapel).

After a month or two, we were invited to stay at True and Larry’s (in the property where Cliff is living now); we stayed in a room that was under construction. True felt sorry for us, but I loved playing house in that big field. By autumn, we had rented Eileen’s house (she was up at the Dron’s house on Gridley Road) on the corner of Thacher Road at McNell  (she still lives there). Megan was born in that house in November, with my pregnant friend Tracy Lou attending as mid-wife and Tina Cardinalli (and two of her kids), Suza Francina, and Marty Gottesman [Noble] helping.

Seth was present at Meg’s birth. Now, his and Noelle’s baby, Myles, is due. Exciting!