Photo Fix It

This is just a brief post to say that I finally "fixed" the problem of not being able to get my photos of my artwork uploaded to my blog (as I reported in the post 'Still Alive!' in May), with a little help from my friend, who is the techno-loving polar opposite to my techno-allergenic self.  It turned out to be rather simple in the end - I just had to set up a Google Photos account and post my photos in there in order to be able to upload them on here, because Google won't accept them from iCloud, where they are now saved.  A bit of a faff, but there you go.

So here is some of the artwork I did during my three month painting period at the beginning of the year.  And just to note that I was trying to experiment during this period, attempting to loosen up and play a bit, and break free of the habit of rigidly trying to reproduce what I see in the photos I use as source material: hence the less-than-realistic colour schemes on some of them.  It was intentional and not an error on my part, brought about by a sudden bout of colour blindness!  Suffice it to say, I haven't done any more art since that period came to an end in May/June - as is my way.  As always, in this world of uncertainty, I can be depended upon to be reliably unreliable and consistently inconsistent.

    

Seriously Humourless

Hello, I’m back.  Fret-ye-not, I’m still here.  I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, or into a black cloud of internet doom.  Or any kind of doom, actually.  Though I have to admit that part of the reason for my absence of late has been due to one of my tediously frequent world wide web wanderings.  

But that’s not all that I’ve been doing.  No.  I’ve also been getting myself entangled in the words of a post I’ve been labouring over (labouring being the operative word), which I finally worked out was not coming together because:

a) I was being literal in my interpretation of the words of the quote from which I was working;

b) I was thinking too much, and too hard, about the meaning of the words, and what I should write; the resultant dodgy combination equates to ‘me + thinking = catatonic inertia’;

c) I appeared to have misplaced my sense of humour.

This last point in particular is most important, as without it I’m only half a person (not literally, of course.  Think how weird, and confusing, that would be).  

I am extremely serious by nature, but God has seen fit to balance this out by bestowing on me a sense of humour.  It may be dry, irreverent, and impenetrable to a lot of people, but I’ve definitely got one.  I’ve checked with Someone Who Gets It.  It helps to keep me sane - as much as that is a possibility with a mind as loopy, and prone to depressive donkey mode, as mine (think Eeyore, without a balloon to cheer him up).  Can you imagine what I would be like without it?  Dead, probably.

Unfortunately, I sometimes forget that I’ve got one, and then life becomes REALLY hard work…  

And you can see when I’m suffering from a humour-bypass because it manifests itself in my writing.  My blog posts turn into laboured, tedious, repetitive, formal, clod-footed, minutiae-obsessed lectures.  

This particularly happens when I’ve decided that the topic on which I want to write is meant to be serious.  Like recovery, for example.  Hence ending up with the pompously meant-to-be-clever-but-is-actually-pretentious sounding title of ‘Recover Your Self’ for those segments of my blog.  Shoot me now.  (I am going to change the title.)  

It sounds like the name of one of those awful self-help books with which I used to be so enamoured, with titles like Dying Of Embarrassment (yes, that’s a real book - and totally useless for an autistic with anxiety); The Drama Of Being A Child; and all of those endless Co-dependent No More books with their sequels, prequels, and off-shoots - like one of those film franchises that never end, which are so prevalent now. 

And sure, recovery is important, but that’s not the same as serious. Don’t ask me what the difference is, because I’ll give myself an aneurysm trying to work it out.  I just know that it is.  Even reading the two words gives me a different reaction.  ‘Serious’ just sounds really heavy, and doom-laden.  I feel the weight of expectation in that word, and in that ‘Recover Your Self’ title.  And I never work well under those circumstances.  

All creativity flees screaming from my being when confronted with expectations, and seriosity (no, it’s probably not a real word, but who cares?  It’s my blog, and I’m in charge).  I’m beginning to think it has more sense than I do, the dodo who goes boldly (and stupidly, not to mention repetitively) forward to embrace such things as have been proven to be anathemas to my soul.

We have a quote in AA for this (we have a quote in AA for everything): “Recovery is to be enjoyed, not endured.”  (This can, of course, be interchangeable with the word Life, for those not in recovery from something - is there actually anyone out there who isn’t?)  

The point is, it tends to get forgotten.  I certainly forget it.  Oftentimes I’m not even sure what it means…  “Enjoyment?  What’s that when it’s at home, then?”  And off we go on another existential tangent, seriously contemplating the meaning of joy.  An oxymoron waiting to happen if ever I heard one.

And the other reason for my absence from my little corner of the blogiverse is that I have been on a retreat from all things computer-related.  Again.  I have spent the bare minimum of time on here (which has meant one hour, three times a week, for my Skype sessions with my sponsor/best friend).  The rest of the time the computer has been switched off.  

I was intending doing some blog writing - just the ‘old school’ way, with pen and paper, ready to type up on the computer so that I wouldn’t be spending as long staring at the screen - but I haven’t felt much inspiration.  Instead, I’ve done a lot of journal writing, reading, and sleeping.  Yep, I give up the computer and, rather than the promised better sleep (in all of those articles I’ve read about digital ‘detoxing’ - now there’s a word that conjures up seriosity), mine goes to pieces.

Despite the sleep thing, I have felt better.  I’m always amazed at the difference in me when I manage to stay away from the internet, in particular, for any length of time.  It’s like a fog is lifted, one in which I wasn’t even aware of being engulfed, and I start to think clearly.  

It’s phenomenal.  I have my own thoughts and opinions!!  What the hell am I doing reading about the best jobs for your zodiac sign?!  Or the life-cycle of the lesser-spotted, three-legged, antipodean, ridge-backed newt?!!  Or how to cook lentils twenty different ways (I already know how to cook lentils; I don’t need twenty alternatives - having more than one option confuses my brain.  What, in the name of arse, am I doing)?!!!  

But then I forget what happens to me, and I want everyone else’s thoughts as well - except that it seems I have to let go of mine for theirs to replace them, because they can’t cohabit.  A bit like me.  It’s why I live alone.  Put me with someone else and I disappear.  

So, there we go.  Or that’s where I’ve been.  And now I’m here, but I’m going.  If I can manage to bring this to an end.  Which, at this rate, could take a while.

I wish you clarity and peace of mind, and time in your day to retreat from the world (especially the web part of it).  And may you find the humour in everything, to lighten your way.  (Sounding a bit Yoda-ish now.  Definitely time to go before I start sprouting tufty ears.)

Śanti  

I Don't Speak Text

Do you ever wonder whether we, the human race, are still progressing, or that we have come as far as we can, and are now in a state of retrogression?

The question occurred to me the other day, whilst I was compiling a list of words for inclusion in a poem (hopefully, having found myself in a rather rare poetic mood) - wonderful, juicy, full-bodied words to get one’s teeth into, chew over, digest, and enjoy, like a good, solid, satisfying meal; words to contemplate and admire for their simple ability to encapsulate within their singularity whole concepts, and to fully communicate their meaning; words which give a solid foundation on which can be constructed a sentence, a phrase, a line of poetry, an essay, a story…

And whilst rhapsodising thus over the beauty of language, my mind wandered forth onto the subject of text-speak, with its use of acronyms and contractions: a form of language no longer confined within the sphere of mobile phones and computers, but now proliferating like a fungus everywhere words are used - including in books, and other forms of literature. 

From there I was reminded of a poem I wrote, called A Yorkshire Sonnet (it’s on the Poetic License page, in the side-bar), in which I employed a broad Yorkshire dialect.  I have to confess that, whilst I am a Yorkshire lass, born and bred, I’ve always had a love of the English language, which has been developed and expanded through my extensive reading; as a result of which I seem to have been safeguarded from developing a broad Yorkshire accent or speech pattern, despite having been surrounded throughout my life by people who actually say things like, “Does tha know?”; “I were in shop other day…”;  “Gee oar (the ‘g’ is soft, as in ‘go’, and the phrase means “give over” - obviously); or my favourite, “Nayou” (that’s ‘no’ to the uninitiated).  Despite this lack of development of broad Yorkshire, I can employ it when necessary.  Which, funnily enough, is not right often. 

It struck me that there appears to be a similarity to text-speak: two examples of  seemingly underdeveloped versions of the English language (similar to olde English), with their predilection for shortening words, as if the speaker doesn’t have either the time or the inclination to give voice to fully-formed words and sentences - kind of like one step up from our linguistically-challenged prehistoric ancestors.

And then it occurred to me that the advent of text-speak, despite its connection to the world of technology, and therefore supposedly a sign of our intellectual advancement, could be seen as not so much an example of our evolution, but of a devolution: an indication that we’re in retreat when it comes to communication.  People, it seems, aren’t interested in fully or deeply communicating with each other; or they don’t have the time for anything other than shallow, alphabetised conversations, and jargon-laden interactions. 

Perhaps it’s a sign of things to come?  One day, in the not-too-distant future, we’ll all be speaking in acronyms; from whence it’s only one small step back to where we all began - mute, apart from animal-like grunts, and hand signals.  

Well I guess it’s one, albeit rather extreme, way of removing the distraction of words from my life.  Maybe then I'll get something written.


PS It wasn't until after I'd posted this piece that I was struck by the irony of a woman who struggles to communicate at any depth (surface included), despite her extensive vocabulary and proficiency with the English language, writing about the apparent lack of communication between non-autistics.  What do I know about why they choose to interact with each other in shorthand?  I barely understand them when they do speak in complete sentences.  Perhaps I'd actually do better if we did go back to the days before words.  And think of all the stimming we could do without anyone thinking we were odd.

Weapons Of Mass Distraction

When I gave away my television fifteen years ago, I never imagined that I would one day have to retread the same ground, with what has inadvertently turned into its successor - the computer.  

At that time I had an old, slow, desktop version, which I barely used; and, hard to believe given my present cavalier use of the internet, back then I was loathe to surf the web (barely sticking a toe in), and wouldn’t shop, bank, or do anything on-line which involved money, not trusting at all the safety of such procedures.  I was still choosing to use dial-up when broadband became widespread, and had to be coaxed, cajoled, and coddled into upgrading, which happened only when I bought my first laptop five years ago, and despite my attempts to remain a dial-up dinosaur.

So attached was I to my t.v. that I can still vividly remember the circumstances of its final relinquishment, including the last thing I watched (the Williams sisters contesting the women’s Wimbledon final).  And what is also indelibly imprinted in my mind is the aftermath of our separation.

As the decision to get rid of it had taken months, maybe even a year or more, to reach (involving countless failed attempts to control my compulsive viewing, and deny or minimise the suggestion of it causing me a problem), it shouldn’t be a surprise to find that I felt quite bereft, and lost - though this all occurred ten years before I found out about my autism, and that, as such, attachment to things is an innate part of my being.  

Therefore, not only was I mourning the loss of the activity itself and what it did for me (helped me to lose myself, and avoid dealing with reality - much like alcohol, and  food, for which it had inadvertently become a replacement after I stopped drinking, and compulsively overeating), but also the object.

So, here I was, only three years later, discarding what had been one of my most prized possessions.  The question was what was I going to do with myself now that my primary source of entertainment, distraction, and information had gone?  How would I live without my weekly dose of Buffy?  How would I know what was going on in the world (having also developed a compulsion for reading the teletext pages)?  How would I fill my time, not to mention the physical space which the set had occupied?

I did what any self-respecting distractible, executive functioning-challenged person would do - I started using my much-maligned, and under-used, computer to read up on what was happening in the final series of Buffy, and to check on other things of major importance (like the sports news).  Additionally, I found something else to replace it - the local library, and its endless bounty of books in which to lose myself.  Oh dear.

All of which turned out to be merely the entree, an appetiser to the compulsion which would once more escalate with the purchase of my first laptop (with integrated dvd drive, and large screen - specifically chosen in order to recreate, as much as possible, the experience of viewing films on television; plus my introduction to the world of broadband, and instant internet access); my first Apple product (an iPod Touch, on which I initially discovered the world of on-line book reading via the iBooks app); and the failed experiment of the Kindle (now permanently removed from my life, with no hope of a reprieve.  *Sigh*). 

As to the gaping physical hole which the television had left in my home, that I did not immediately fill (bloody typical).  For the remainder of that day, and continuing on for a week or maybe more, everything remained exactly as it was, except for the rather large space where the shrine to moving pictures had dwelled.  And there I would sit, gazing into the void, imagining my t.v. and the noise it used to make when I switched the on/off button - a solidly reassuring “thtunk” sort of sound.  I can still hear it now…  

Fast forward to the present, and imagine my dismay to find myself once more embroiled in obessive/compulsive technological torture; and to discover that, ever since I purchased my first laptop and launched myself onto the internet, I have been unwittingly attempting to replace the television, using it primarily as a source of entertainment, and a place in which to lose myself.  

Despite choosing to buy a laptop with an integrated dvd drive, and the biggest screen I could find specifically for the purpose of film-watching, it never once occurred to me what I was doing.  Until the most recent manifestation of my compulsion: a hard-drive filled with over two hundred films, for my instant-access viewing pleasure - like locking me in a sweet shop, and expecting me not to eat everything.  Dumb.  

And a fortnight is all it took for what was meant to be a thoughtful gesture on the part of my friend, to be revealed to be yet another error in judgement a la the Kindle.  Actually, it took two days for my behaviour to become apparent (sitting and watching as many films in a row as I could fit into the day, whilst everything else got forgotten), but we were trying to give me the benefit of the doubt, holding onto the hope that the novelty would wear off, and I would settle down and learn to manage it.  That’s what I kept hoping would happen with the television.  It never did.

Therefore, after only two weeks, I had to relinquish the hard-drive full of films to my friend, for her to wipe it clean and send it back to me… empty: to be used for something productive.  Bugger.  *Deep sigh*.  I even checked it in the forlorn hope that perhaps she had left a few on there, by error or design, but she hadn’t.  The only evidence remaining was the title ‘Lisa’s Films’, sitting there on the desktop, taunting me with the memory of what had been. 

So, having diced with yet another weapon of distraction, I can only surmise that if God had intended for me to spend large amounts of time on the computer, I would have been born a technogeek - which I positively am not.  On the other hand, my autistic friend is.  She can spend hours engrossed in playing, and sorting out difficulties, with technology.  She loves it when it develops a problem, so she can spend time sorting it out.  Yet she doesn’t get distracted, like I do.  On the contrary, she’s in her element, happy as a pig in a truffle field.  Her interactions with technology are creative: hence, she doesn’t lose herself on here, but rather connects with the part of herself which is technologically-minded.

Not so with me.  When I try to play I get lost, bored, and end up trundling off to the internet to try to reignite my synapses - which is my idea of playing on the computer, and is kind of the techno version of mall shopping: there’s a whole lot of consumption goes on, but nothing creative happening.  How, in the name of Santa’s socks, does one play with a computer?  It simply doesn’t compute for me.  

I’ve also realised that it’s not just that technology makes me anxious, but it just bores the arse off me.  I’ve tried to get excited about it; to do what my friend has suggested and play with it; to basically copy her; but it just isn’t happening.  The only thing that excites me is surfing the internet (which is not good for me), and typing up my writing (which I happen to be good at, fortunately love doing, and which isn’t difficult to do on here). 

Where I connect with my creative self is in writing, art, and, in a different form, yoga (where I create calm, harmony, and a sense of order, in my body, mind, and spirit - well, that’s the theory anyway, yoga being about the union of the whole.  Can’t say I’ve quite mastered the art yet… but I have fun trying).  And even with these things I’ve found it difficult to embrace the concept of playing, but I understand how it can be done.  

However, to my friend the idea of yoga is as tedious as watching paint dry - the moment I even mention the subject, a fixed smile settles on her face (almost as if rigour mortis has set in), and her eyes glaze over.  Exactly as I do with computers.  See, it’s all a matter of personality: we were not all meant to like, or be good at, the same things.

So I’m having to adjust my perception of the purpose of my computer, and alter the way I use it accordingly.  Which, for me, means it’s primarily a tool for my writing, a means of connecting with other people (which I do very little of), a source of shopping, and a way to play my Kundalini yoga dvds (Maya Fiennes - ‘Detox and De-stress’, and the series ‘A Journey Through The Chakras’). 

I’ve realised that it’s a bit like maths - I can do enough basic maths to serve my daily needs, and that’s enough.  I’ve never found a need for logarithms and the like, nor a burning desire to try to master them.  Yet with my computer I persist in the belief that I’m meant to understand and be able to utilise every app and function, of which I have no need, rather than accept that, like maths, I have enough basic skills for my purpose, and that my use of it is meant to be limited: if it wasn’t I’d have no time to write, paint, or do yoga.  As it is I often have no time to do those things anyway because I’ve got caught up on the web.  Never was there a more aptly-named instrument.

I guess I’m just going to have to find a technology-free zone, and go live there.  So, it’s back to the 1970’s then.      

Head In The iClouds

WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS QUITE A LOT OF SWEARING.  PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED ANY FURTHER IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED!!!

Luddite - one of a band of protesters against unemployment who destroyed machinery in English factories about 1812-18; hence, any opponent of technological innovation, etc.

If there’s one thing guaranteed to drive me round the fucking bend, induce an almost total meltdown, and disturb my yogic bliss, it’s having to deal with technology - especially computer technology.

Which sadistic arsehole came up with the idea for computers?  I would really, REALLY like to meet that person, and shake them by the scruff of their neck.  Did they have no idea of the stress that they were unleashing on the world?

I bought a new laptop a couple of weeks ago to replace my old one, which has taken to overheating and spontaneously shutting down (a bit like a menopausal autistic female): and I decided to take the plunge (hoping like fuck I didn't drown), and invest in a supposedly much more user-friendly Apple MacBook Air.  All I can say at this point is, I don’t know who this user is to whom it’s supposed to be so fucking friendly, but it certainly isn’t me.  

I know there are many autistic people out there, women among them, who are positive geniuses with computers (probably one or more of them are responsible for developing the bloody thing in the first place) - but I’m not one of them.  I don’t see patterns, especially not in computers - I just see a random, confusing, fucking mess.  I am almost totally computer illiterate - you might as well write the bloody instructions in Swahili for all the sense they make to me.

Today, I finally got around to trying out my new external DVD drive, which I had to buy ‘cos the Airbook doesn’t have one (pay more money, get less hardware).  It’s only been sitting in its box for the last two weeks, while I’ve continued to watch DVDs on my old laptop with its integrated optical drive - did I ever mention I don’t like change very much?  And right from the start I managed to get into a pickle, simply by running the instruction DVD which came with the thing (but which, according to my best friend, is only necessary for Windows users.  No wonder I couldn’t follow the instructions - there weren’t any to be found for me to follow!)

In the end I had to rope in said best friend, yet again.  Fortunately, she also has an Airbook, and the same DVD drive: and she absolutely loves technology, and sorting out problems.  I think she’s quite loopy, personally, but there you go.  It takes all sorts.

So, for over an hour and a half, we fiddled and faffed about, trying various options, including downloading a different video player - but nothing worked.  Whilst I despaired, and my mind and nerves unravelled, she delighted in trying to unravel the conundrum.  

Finally, having exhausted all known options for why the fucking thing wouldn’t do as it was supposed to, and simply plug in and play, she suggested that I unplug it and then replug it into the USB port on the opposite side of the computer.  I thought she must be really desperate, or taking the piss, and visions of having to buy another computer with an integrated optical drive, just in order to be able to watch my DVDs, started to filter into my now overly fraught mind.  But I did what she asked and, lo and fucking behold, it worked!  I then tried it again in the port from which I’d just removed it, making sure to connect it firmly like she had said it needed, and it worked.

Un-fucking-believable!!  All that time and, for me, hair-pulling stress, and it came down to not having plugged the bloody thing in properly.  Talk about Not Keeping It Simple!  (Keep It Simple is a slogan we have in AA, but often don’t use - case in point).

Technology often makes me want to chew my own foot off and use it to club to death whoever was responsible for creating it in the first place.  Do they seriously not realise how much stress they released into the universe with the advent of this stuff?  Mental, emotional, and physical?  My computer takes over my whole bloody world - it becomes my higher power, a God at whose altar I sacrifice my peace of mind, physical well-being, and sanity.  It makes me loopy.  As if I needed any extra assistance.

Well, after today, I’ve decided that I’m not doing it any more.  I’m not giving it that power - it can sod off.  I think this is God’s joke on me, an additional source of humour about which I can write, and laugh at myself for my Luddite predilections.  Seriously, I think I have a prehistoric brain.  Or, at least, some areas of it remain stubbornly underdeveloped and resistant to the evolutionary changes which the human race has undergone.  Why else would I have such difficulties in dealing with the multitudinous stresses of modern life?  My nervous system just hasn’t adapted to it.

Of course, the flip-side is that if it weren’t for the computer then I wouldn’t be able to be sharing this with you now.  Nor would I be able to do my shopping on-line, thus minimising one of the other sources of stress in my life.  Like many things, it’s a double-edged sword.  I just have to be careful not to stab myself or slice off my own limbs whilst manically, and carelessly, waving the thing about.