Kindling Hope

Kindle – to inflame (eg the passions); to provoke, incite; to be roused

Does the phrase “lose yourself in a book” mean anything to you?  Well it surely does to me, and in the very literal sense.  I believe that the actual saying is “lose yourself in a good book”, but I’m not choosy.  I can lose myself completely in anything - all sense of who I am, what I believe in, what I feel.  And not just for an hour or so, while I temporarily drift off into a fantasy world, and get caught up in the story, and someone else’s life.  When I return to reality (IF I return) then it doesn’t stop there. 

The book may have ended, but the story persists...  at least in my mind it does, where the characters continue to exist as real people.  So, not only have I lost myself but, in return, I have breathed life into a bunch of ostensibly fictional individuals – my life for theirs.  I still exist, but that’s about all I’m doing, while they thrive and grow: and I come to resemble the living dead.

And I could have been mistaken for a zombie, just lately - all because of my love of reading.  Or, more accurately, because of my resistance to being chained to this thing called reality.  And then there’s that other peculiar characteristic I have of becoming emotionally attached to objects.  Books and words, in this instance.  E-books, to be precise.  On a Kindle, to be even more specific.

Yes, I recently joined the multitudinous ranks of Kindle owners.  And, just as quickly, I became a disowner: though, hopefully, this state of affairs is only temporary, until I learn to become a responsible owner who doesn’t abuse their Kindle mercilessly!

It was given to me for my birthday in July, the shortest-lived present I’ve probably ever had.  By August I had to give it back, for safekeeping.  Safekeeping from me, that is.  In that short span of time I managed to download nearly a hundred and fifty books (possibly more, with the ones I had read and removed before The Great Purge), most of them free, and chosen from the romantic fantasy section, which encompasses countless sub-genres (like steampunk; urban fantasy; historical; vampires and the rest of the undead, etc) – my taste is nothing if not eclectic.  And I’m not picky.  Well, not about books, anyway.  Unfortunately.  It is this regrettable lack of discernment, when it comes to reading matter, which has got me into trouble.  Yet again.

Before the Kindle, it was reading ebooks on the computer.  It was for this reason that my friend bought it for me, in order to save my eyesight from the strain it was suffering, due to the all-day reading marathons it was being forced to endure.  And in the hope, perhaps, that my compulsive reading would be found to be directly attributable to the stimulating effect that the computer seems to have on my brain: and that it would, therefore, dissipate when confronted with the non back-lit screen of an e-reader, which more closely resembles the experience of reading a real book.  No such luck. 

It is an unmitigated fact that I have been having trouble with reading since long before I acquired a computer.  Libraries and bookshops used to be my favourite places in which to hang out.  I would spend hours loitering with intent: so much so that on one occasion, whilst lingering in the local bookstore yet again, I was accosted by the slightly disgruntled salesperson, who seemed to take offence to my habit of flicking through the pages of the books during my weekly visits, but never actually buying anything.  I didn’t have any money, and I just couldn’t stay away from the shop, but I couldn’t explain that to her.  I just loved being around books – rows and rows of lovely books.  Heaven!  And, in the library particularly, I felt safe: it was a haven of peace amidst the clamour of the world, a home away from home.  In fact, it was often preferable.  And now I’ve discovered I can recreate the same experience, hanging around the virtual bookshop that is Amazon’s Kindle store!

 

The truth is I love reading.  I always have, and I have always had a prodigious talent for it.  In books I found not only a source of information, entertainment, and stimulation for my brain, but also a means to escape the realities of life.  And it is my use of it with the latter intent that now causes me grief, especially when combined with my lack of sagacity and discrimination in my choice of reading material.  In short, I don’t care what I feed my mind, just as long as it serves my purpose.  And my purpose has always erred a little on the side of the nebulous. 

Back then there was good reason for wanting a bolthole - living, as I did, a drab, mundane, limited existence, imbued with fear, anxiety, and an ever-increasing sense of hopelessness and confusion.   But that was back then.  The value of that particular reason for reading is now defunct, and yet I continue to employ it.  What once was habit has turned into compulsion – a driving force that resists all logical reasoning to assuage it.  

And so to the present, bypassing my sundry attempts to control my progressively intractable obsession (including giving it up entirely for a while).  And the advent of that amazing reading device, which allows access to hundreds of books instantaneously, without ever having to leave the comfort of one’s home.  What a marvellous invention - when used responsibly.  I guess that would be the bit that I've been missing, then, yes?

As a consequence, my life has been put on hold whilst my compulsion has raged free and unabated, until it has become necessary to make a choice – a real life, or a fantasy?  Living my own life, or reading about someone else’s, while I slowly slip into a spiritual, mental, and emotional coma – the body still functions, but that’s about all that’s happening.  There’s a light on, but everyone’s vacated the premises in favour of the Kindle store.

Therefore, having placed my Kindle in the safe custody of my friend, until such time as I have been restored to some semblance of sanity with regard to my reading behaviour (and my dubious choice of literature), I am sticking to reading my ‘real’ books for now: the kind I used to read, which engaged my mind, lifted my spirit, and imparted words of wisdom, often from unexpected sources (have you read A A Milne’s Winnie the Pooh?  Or The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett?)

This is in preference to employing my classic manoeuvre of going from one extreme to the other, and deciding that I’m not meant to read anything at all.  Instead, I’ve come to the long-overdue conclusion that it’s not the fact that I read that is the problem, but rather what and how – much the same as with food.  When I read the literary equivalent of junk food, I get the same result that I do with food – I set off the compulsion for more.  I have never yet found myself driven beyond reason, and sanity, to keep reading Winnie the Pooh, or The Chronicles of Narnia.  Nor will you ever find me bingeing on broccoli, mung beans, or rice.  Somehow they just lack that certain je ne sais quoi.

And so, having been de-Kindled, I find that hope, and the possibilities for change, have been rekindled.

More Than This

“As an aspie, autism makes me who I am, but doesn't stop me being who I want to be.” 

“As an aspie, the "Asperger's" label is to aid understanding. It describes me, but doesn't restrict me. It doesn't scare me either.”    Leigh Forbes 

Have you ever noticed how many labels get attached to you throughout your life?  Or, for that matter, how many you seek out and voluntarily apply to yourself?  I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel like a piece of well-travelled luggage. 

If I believed in an actual place called Heaven (which I don’t), and the human personification of God as some ancient, white-haired, Father Christmas-type bloke floating above the clouds (which I also don’t), then I would imagine myself arriving, covered in labels, at the pearly-white gates, where God would proceed to remove them from me in order to get a clearer view of just who was hidden behind all this extraneous  detail, and return me to my true Self, that which cannot be categorised because it is All (God is All, All is God, I am part of the All that is God: nuff said!) 

It would be like the luggage area in an airport – those about to depart (gives a whole new slant to the phrase, “Dearly departed”), and those arriving.  Instead of luggage, people would be sitting on the conveyors, waiting to be claimed (by God, or His minions: the ultimate baggage handlers), or to be launched out into the ether, on their journey to earth.  And then there would be the lost baggage department, for those who don’t know where they are, or where they’ve been, and who end up going back down again for another go – the reincarnated lot, who don’t stop long enough to take stock of the last life they led, so are likely to end up repeating the same mistakes ‘cos they can’t remember any of it.

Of course, when I arrived here on this planet, and this plane of existence, I didn’t have a single one.  At least, not that I was aware of.  But, even before I was born, the rush to stick a label on me had begun – the first significant one being “It’s a girl!”  And, based on that, the race to compartmentalise, and treat me like ‘a girl’, began.  I was going to be dressed in pink, because that’s what girls like – and, for those unfortunates who can’t tell the difference between a male and a female, it helps identify which is which, of course.  Pink for girlies, blue for boyos, and yellow for the undecideds.  And I’m sure that someone, somewhere, must have come up with a theory to explain homosexuality, and other such gender ‘issues’, as being due to the confusion produced by being dressed in yellow at birth. 

And frills, of course, ‘cos girls really love all that frilly stuff, apparently - no matter that it might make you look like an enormous, multi-tiered wedding cake on legs, or itch the arse (or tits) off you, the way my first bra did – AND it was pink!  (And no, I didn’t get to choose it.)  And be given dolls, tea sets, and miniature cookers and washing machines (already being primed for the role of mother and housewife, eh, just because I happen to have a womb and ovaries?), and other such ‘gentle’ toys.  What a shocker it must have been for my mum when I arrived – boisterous, rambunctious, unmanageable, and chronically averse to being ‘girly’.  Anything but gentle.

So, labels, I have discovered, have a major impact on me (tell me something that doesn’t).  They are a double-edged sword; on the one hand, had I not finally found out that I am autistic, and been ascribed the label Asperger’s, I would have continued to blunder my way through my life, with nary a clue as to why I couldn’t get very far in my attempts to change and progress, all the while becoming more and more frustrated with myself.

On the other hand, because I tend to take things rather literally, seriously, and personally (after all, who else could they be talking to?), I have since found myself becoming impeded by self-limiting beliefs based on the attendant information and myriad opinions that I have read, a great deal of which are along the lines of how limited autistics are due to their illness/disease/disability/impediment/disorder/handicap/ailment/affliction/malady (delete as applicable). 

It’s not intentional, nor am I even aware that I’m doing it most of the time.  It’s part of that sponge-like ability I was born with, to absorb everything around me, especially if it’s negative.  It’s taken a long time to recognise what’s been going on, and then to actually accept that this really is true of me in order to become conscious of, and try to curtail, the very behaviour that propels me into this mess – going in search of other peoples’ opinions of what autism is, and what they decide I can and can’t do.  And ditto with ADHD, obsessive compulsive, being an artist, a writer, a yogi, a crafter, single, childless, a redhead with blue eyes and freckles, a female...

Labels, I believe, were primarily intended to make things simpler, an aid to identifying and understanding.  Unfortunately, due to the tendency for human beings to complicate things, they often end up adding to the confusion because people will redefine the original interpretation, adding on extra bits, and using the terms indiscriminately. 

And rather than viewing them as the starting point to guide you in the most productive and effective ways to help you attain your goals, and to grow and change, some people use them as the defining parameters with which to keep people boxed in, reinforcing the idea that this is 'The End’ result, rather than simply the beginning.  (It’s the name of a song by The Doors: that’s why it’s in capitals, in case you were wondering).  I have to admit to being one of these people, having drifted in and out of this category during the last three years since I got my diagnosis.  I’m hoping to put a stop to the drifting now ‘cos it makes me feel a bit disoriented and rootless, like a piece of fluff, blowing in the wind.   

It’s true, being autistic is always going to influence the way I view, and interact with, the world – but so what?  These are the raw materials I was given by God, to build and create with as I please: I can either build something akin to an outdoor toilet (affectionately known as a brick shithouse in certain parts of England), or something beautiful (and a little more pleasingly fragrant).  Or I can refuse to build anything at all, but just leave the pile of materials there to rot and disintegrate.  

And the great thing is that God allows me the right to choose to do any or all of these things, without punishment.  S/He’d probably like it if I progressed toward building something beautiful, and that I did it sooner rather than later in order to alleviate my suffering, and give me longer to enjoy the wonders of life on this mortal coil – but it’s down to me how long I take.  Which is a relief, considering how slow I am to change.

It’s rather amusing to note that the label ‘Asperger’s’ is now, apparently, defunct in America, where the American Psychiatric Association have deleted it from their diagnostic manual.  So, according to a bunch of people who are not autistic, I no longer exist as an Asperger – I now have ASD (Autistic Spectrum Disorder).  Doesn’t roll off the tongue quite so easily, does it?  “Hi, I’m Lisa.  I’m an ASDer... an autistic spectrum disordered person?”  It’s not designed to make my life any easier.  Figures. 

Which goes to show that you really shouldn’t place your dependence on labels defined by other people, to determine who you are.  Our labels are not the sum total of who we are – they are a man-made invention, developed for convenience.  I don’t believe that God sent forth Her/His creations with name-tags attached.  In the world of the spirit I am beyond my labels, my capacity for growth is limitless; I just have to believe it, and stop reading those bloody depressing, limiting articles by people who can’t see beyond the boxes they keep constructing for me.  I am, and can always become, more than this.  Bloody good thing, too, or it could get very tedious down here on this planet.  And you know how much I hate boredom!

  

Twitter Ye Not

I fear I may have inadvertently become an internet stalker. 

I’ll try to keep this short and tweet. 

What began as a bit of loitering, has gradually progressed into lurking, only to finally evolve  into stalking.  I am talking here about having discovered the world of social networking – Twitter, in particular.

 As I may have mentioned before, I have this ‘thing’ with the internet.  ‘Thing’ being a mild way to describe the driving desire I experience when I come on here without strict guidelines and a specific goal in mind.  Otherwise it’s akin to sending a lone child off into a sweet shop, with a credit card – don’t expect me back any time soon, or without having bought or eaten everything in sight.   

Apart from my insatiable desire for seeking out information on any topic which randomly distracts my mind, I have a particular ‘interest’ in reading ebooks – an extension of my love of reading the real thing.  This unfortunate turn of events came about as the result of acquiring an iPod Touch a while ago, when I was suddenly catapulted into the world of apps. And, being of limited imagination when it comes to using technology, my attention was drawn to the familiar and comforting world of books – available instantaneously on my iPod.  Oh joy!  I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.    

Then, oh double joy, I found that they were also accessible to me on my computer.  All this time and I hadn’t known I’d got an instant library at my fingertips.  Out of my mind went the tiny detail about why I had given up going to the real library (because it’s full of books, and I would bring as many of them home as possible, and promptly get lost in reading them all, whilst neglecting other areas of my life – like sleeping, eating properly, getting dressed, and suchlike.  You know, the trivial details). 

So I failed to make the obvious connection between an internet library and the real thing, but instead made up for what I’d been missing out on, promptly going berserk, reading round the clock, and probably doing untold damage to my eyesight, and my brain, in the process.  All attempts at controlling it didn’t work, due in part to the fact that I couldn’t think of anything else to use the iPod for, other than to listen to music (which was the original purpose for buying it).

In the end I did the only sensible thing – I got rid of it.  However, a monster had been unleashed, and now demanded to be kept fed - the love of on-line reading.  I’ve always been a voracious reader, and here I’d found another way of doing it, with access to a whole world of literature I’d never have otherwise encountered, or wanted to pay for.  Or wanted to be seen in the company of.  This way I could have access to books which I would not consider checking out of a library, or buying from a bookshop, because of the embarrassment.  I have my image to maintain, don’t you know.

In the process I discovered a particular author whose books I found I liked.  That would not have been so bad had I not also discovered that she has a blog, which I proceeded to follow.  And then I found ‘THE LINKS’ – yes, there they were, sitting innocently on the page, under the heading ‘Want to get social?’  And, of course, the social butterfly in me (yeah, right – she sits alongside the maths genius, the computer geek, and the musical maestro), she piped up and insisted that yes, she did, that she’d like to stretch her wings a little, and that it would be okay just to have a little look.  Really, it would only be a peek.

And the rest, as is so often the case, is history: meaning a repetition of the same old thing, with the inevitable conclusion - I am now a Twitter obsessive.

However, this does not mean that I have joined the ranks of the Twitterers, and am now gaily interacting with the inhabitants of that strange on-line world.  On the contrary, I merely sit on the sidelines, reading tweets, feeling a familiar sense of detachment, whilst being fascinated with the conversations taking place.  It actually feels like I’m reading a book, or watching television (another medium which I had to rid myself of, ‘cos it was sucking the life out of me).  I begin to live vicariously, whilst my own life gradually fades into the background, eventually almost ceasing to exist. 

I have gone so far as to calculate the time difference between the countries of said author and myself, in order to be able to work out when I can next expect new tweets to appear.  This is on account of the fact that I initially spent a great deal of time checking and re-checking every few minutes, only to be frustrated to find there was nothing new to read: until I realised that it was the middle of the night in America when I was doing most of my twalking (a new word for tweet stalking).  Yes, it’s got that bad.  If I carry on like this, I’ll be plotting out her day!

I feel a bit like a voyeur, which is faintly disturbing, even though there’s nothing sexual in what I’m doing.  But then our world has become quite voyeuristic, the way we are able to read about or watch what’s happening in other peoples’ lives, via the news or reality television, newspapers and magazines, and the internet.  Me, I find myself strangely fascinated and enthralled by the way people discourse with each other.  I imagine this is how an alien would feel, peering through a microscope at an entirely different species, studying how it works.  

Or perhaps it’s ‘cos it’s a bloody effective way of avoiding my daily routine!

Whatever the reason, the fact is that Tweeting is bad for my health, and I think I should leave it to the people who can do it without abandoning the rest of their lives.  And to the birds.  Tweet tweet.