The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Self-Redemption and Art

The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

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The Flying Monkeys Of Oz

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The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

A few days ago I attended an art and writing workshop at Broadacre House in Newcastle run by Launchpad.  The subject of the workshop was stigma.  The day was very good.  Lovely people.  Lovely conversation.  And we all enjoyed ourselves.  After some exercises to get our creative brains working we were told to write something about stigma with a view to creating a piece of art related to the subject by the end of the four hour session.



We were given a whole twenty minutes to write.  Later in the day our writings were taken and typed up.  I wish I'd proof read the typing on the day.  There are mistakes in it.  That's a shame because all of our writing and art from the day is going on public display in two locations through mental health week.  I may have to go along on the first day with Tippex and a pen!

Twenty minutes.  I spent the first five of these minutes boiling a kettle and making a much needed mug of spiced tea.  So fifteen minutes.  Here's the result.  I finished before the fifteen minutes were up too!

Self Redeeemed

Don't speak to me and I won't speak to you.

Won't mention it, imply it, talk it out.

It's a private thing you say, too much for you.

“Why don't I just stop?” you say.

“Stop being autistic, difficult, so bloody selfish.

Snap out of depression you ungrateful bastard.

And if you mention a personality disorder again?”

But I didn't mention it. You did.

And yet, the biggest stigma was in my own head.

Autism? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

Not shut in. Not melting in the street.

Not much anyway.

Not some mono-focussing idiot savant,

The local Rain Main equivalent,

Or as socially inept as a Sheldon.

BPD? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

It's just wrong, like all the other diagnoses were wrong.

I'm not like that.

And they only ever said I was because of the cuts.

It's bull. Stupid psychiatrists.

BPD? Nonsense. Just like the rest.

I'm not bipolar, schizoid, schizotypal, schizophrenic. Or any of them.

Yeah, I received stigma. Internalised it. Just another reason for self hate, calling myself a monster.

Couldn't accept the truths because I was raised proud, raised pure, raise to not be disordered.

No ASD or BPD. No Ds at all. Or they'll see me for what I am and hate me just like I deserve.

Freedom is worth fighting for.

Coming back to what I thought false myths and accepting the facts. Facing down the myths I believed and rejecting them.

And now?

ASD, BPD – and my queerness, my irreligion. So what? Inside I will broach no stigma.

I will stand. Out and proud. Out. Public. Self-accepting. Self-believing. Under no illusions.

No. Less illusions. There are still stories I tell.

Lies I kid myself with. Lies of the old monster kind.

Lies. Stories.

Can't write. Can't sing again. Can't hope.

Lies. Stories.

And they will fall too.

Now is the time to live. Free. Self-redeemed.

No matter what they say.

And they do say.

But less than I ever believed they would.

I believed they would damn me.

Because I stigmatised myself more than the so-called society ever could.

I am out and proud.

Free and self-redeemed.

Then it was time to do some art.  I can panic at art.  Panic at paint.  To be given paper or canvas and some paint and be told to create something is a thing of dread for me.  And yet.  I made something.  We all did.  Each piece arising from the honesty of our own situations and experiences.

The words in the red sections represent words that have spoken to me.  The words in that strange looking face are questions I've asked and stories I've told myself.  The words round that face are positivity.  In the midst of all the rest I am determined that those words are part of my truth.

It's not an artistic masterpiece.  But it's mine.  And I'm proud to have done something without guidance, without help, and without having a meltdown.  That's a joy for me.  Seeing the work and hearing the words of the other people in the workshop was also a joy.

As for that exercise to get our brains loosened up.  We were given a sentence to free write from.  As it turned out we were given just enough time for me to fill a page.  What we came up with was great, each person happening to go in a completely different direction.  Here's my direction.

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.

She looked at him in horror.
"C sharp major? You've got to be kidding me.  I can't play that."
"Well that's going to be a problem, isn't it missy?  I've paid for you to play and you're going to play.  Don't think I won't report you if you play it wrong."

Life as a music slave was not the worst way to survive in the new world.  At least there was food.  At least there was the transfixing joy of playing from your own soul when you weren't working.  Kate wondered.  Was this difficult, angry customer really a music expert from the old world?  Or was he just being harsh out of cruelty?

She decided to risk finding out, risk playing in a way she knew her rendition of the piece would be perfect.  Kate liked playing Bach, even with difficult intervals.  But even the master himself would never have chosen a key with seven sharps.  Kate wondered what he would think if he knew his music was being played by slaves on another world, what kind of sonata or cantata that knowledge would inspire.

She decided.  The risk was worth it.  Even if discovered the punishment wouldn't be much worse than that for playing badly.  The thought of being separated from her precious piano for a day, a week, longer, was almost unbearable.

Kate looked at the man.  He was sweating in anticipation of hearing.  He looked more a fool than a musician.

C sharp major.  No thanks.  Kate knew she would be playing the Goldberg Variations in C.  Just a semitone out.  And no sharps.  He wouldn't notice would he?

She placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and began her performance.

The Magician, Her Hat, Tea Leaves, And The Shadow of Byker Wall

A post about the reading of tea leaves.  This is the fourth and final post of short pieces that were written in Writers' Cafe sessions this week.

Personally I don't believe in the power of the tea.  I believe in the power of the reader of the tea.  Not to read the tea of course.  But to see into a situation and form ideas and pictures based on that situation and upon human psychological skills to instinctively see or cognitively analyse and comment based on what's in a person's head rather than what's left in their tea cup.  I believe the same about other methods of divination and analysis too, from palmistry to tarot to numerology and the roll of dice.  Feel free to disagree and ascribe power to lines and cards and leaves or to a mystical, prophetic guide who places the leaves and cards in the right order for a situation.

I've been to a place sometimes and we've drawn cards to represent our lives.  Everyone goes "Wow!" at the interpretations given.  The next week we're there again.  We draw different cards.  Everyone goes "Wow!" again.

Have all of our lives changed so drastically in the course of a week?  I don't think so.

Divination, I believe, teaches us of ourselves.  It can be useful - or it can be dangerous.  Sometimes it's just a bit of fun.  And on occasion, a rarity, it can be a writing prompt.

So it was at the Writers' Cafe.  Each of us had our tea leaves read.  With mint tea because the leaves were more varied than those of the tea tea in the cafe.  The woman who runs the group read us.

Here's my cup.  I ask you.  What do you see?  A friend just saw a cup that needed cleaning.  Another friend saw Jesus - but she is a Carmelite lay sister so she sees Jesus in many things.

Our group leader saw a magician with a wand.  She decided that the magician had lost her hat.  She said other things too but as a writing prompt the magician appealed.  Can you see too?

Here's the writing, the same words as were freely written in not many minutes at the end of our session.  I gave myself a D minus for it.  People seemed to like it though.  That, I suppose, is magic.

Byker, for those who don't know, is a district in Newcastle Upon Tyne.  A children's programme was set there but not filmed there.

Byker has a wall.  The wall contains 620 flats and homes and encloses the Byker Wall estate.  The whole place is architecturally famous and is now Grade II listed.  Fame doesn't imply beauty of course.  Some very ugly places are listed.

Some will speak of the estate in terms that say "Abandon hope all ye who enter" and imply that just walking into that estate will lead to a consequence somewhere between losing your possessions and losing your life.  Others speak of the estate in terms that say "I really like it here.  There's an amazing community and loads of artists."  I find I have friends there.  It's not a rich estate.  The millionaires live in other parts of the city.  And it's had its problems.  Every impoverished city estate does.  We were told when moving to the city, "Don't, whatever you do, move to Byker."  We were taught to fear a dangerous ghetto behind the Wall.  It must be admitted that crime levels in Byker are higher than those where I currently live.  The crime map for that area has more than twice as many reported crimes as the map for this area.  But most people of course are just getting on with their lives.  And there are loads of good people in the area too.  Yes, including artists.  Including friends.

It took me six years to enter the estate.  And at that moment I fell in love.

The magician lost her hat.
But somewhere, under the shadow of Byker Wall,
Her magic will be returned to her.
In the Wall is life.  In the wall is death.
In the Wall the elemental gods play together.

Under green wood and rainbow rooftops,
Among addictions and artists,
Within the underclass and dispossessed -
The purest of humanity.
Above Tyne waters returning to ocean,
Full-felt, full-flung source of Poseidon's blessings.

Through sacred seclusion, close community,
The magician will not find her old hat.
But she'll weave, spin, breathe a hat
Fine enough that the original may be gladly forgotten.

Replaced, reborn under Byker Wall,
The magician will learn to speak.
In the new beginning was her Word.

Living Under The Wisdom Of Guru. All Praise To Guru.

This is the third of four pieces written in writers' groups this week.  Most weeks during school terms the Writers' Cafe meets on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.  If you're in Newcastle Upon Tyne look it up and come write with us.  All are welcome.

The prompt given for this related to the origin stories of different types of tea.  But we were allowed to write about our favourite drink if we weren't so keen on tea.  We were also allowed to be very liberal with the truth - origin stories being, after all is said and done, just stories.

What follows is what I wrote.  Free written.  With only one word crossed out on my page.  I haven't changed a thing when typing it up except to alter the spelling of the drink.  Adding an "h" somehow made it seem more spiritually appropriate.

The drink in this picture was real.  An actual product.  Sold as seen.  And blessed by a priest.  It's not the drink in the story.  I was thinking of quite a few spiritual leaders, scams, and odd beliefs while writing including some products and people that friends of mine believe in and continue with undented belief even when contrary and sometimes conclusive evidence is given that the products don't work or the people are liars.  The story uses the word "manifested."  As I wrote that the image of Sai Baba came to mind.  He's faked a lot of miracles through basic conjuring skills.  That's been proved - and the evidence for his paedophilia is pretty damning too.  But people still believe.  Just as in this story.  I thought of Millerites and Jehovah's Witnesses and other groups whose followers continue to follow even when the prophecies and "clear word of Scripture" goes wrong.  I thought of spurious health claims and how we need to be a lot more careful with who and what we grant the assent of faith to.  I did a lot of thinking in that ten, possibly fifteen minute writing period.

Guru was wise.  Guru was just.

Guru could read your soul and work miracles.

Guru manifested gold dust and once caused the tigers to roar and retreat.

Guru convinced me in his smile, in the way he opened Scriptures.  Or left them closed.  His words were as much life as anything from Vedas or Christ.

So I moved to guru's commune, gave up my life of chasing the world.  I lived alongside Guru.  Or at least in the same town.  I was hardly worthy to walk in his divine light footsteps.

Guru's blessing was sold to the world.  We all knew the story.  How as as child he had discovered his holy well, deep in the tunnel beneath his bed.  Guru was guided by Lord Krishna himself to dig through his floor and the spirit of Lao Tzu lit his way; showed direction through the antediluvian passages to the spring.

Guru was enlightened in the drinking.  God granted him a special gift.  Later, Gautama led him in his earthly mission.  To bring not only the word of spirit but the liquid nectar of spirit to all who would hear.

And so, three years before I followed him into the communal seclusion, Guru revealed Kalamah to the world.  Drink each day and it would help purify you.  Body.  Mind.  Soul.  Spirit.  It would detox you.  And who knows?  Perhaps, were it in the beneficent timing of God, you too would be enlightened.  Just like Guru.

But Kalamah flowed from a single spring.  It was scarce.  It was costly.

In the commune we drank for free.  One sip a day.  And we praised Guru.  Bowed to him.  Our hope.

What remained was bottled.  Sold.  For a price befitting a product of such eternal value.

After five years in Guru's commune I advanced and was accepted into the inner sanctum.  Into Guru's confidence.  It was there I learned the secret of Kalamah.  At last, Guru led me to the spring, the source of Kalamah.

I learned this:  There was no spring.  All there was were cartons of pear juice, bright red food colouring, and tinctures of liquorice and rosemary.

Initially I was disappointed.  Until Guru showed me how God led him to sell Kalamah for the greater spiritual good.  Guru showed me how precious his blessing was.

He was Guru.  He was enlightened.  How could I not believe?

All praise the wisdom of Guru.  All drink from the spring.  Find enlightenment.

Guru's blessing is the Light of the World.

The Remains of the Life. Mister Cohen's Attic

This is the second of four short pieces written quickly in writers' groups this week.  This one finished in a completely different place than I thought it would.  It was all going so well.  Until that sudden change of direction that took it into a place I didn't particularly want to be.  You will see what I mean.

The line structure is as it is for one reason only:  I was writing on the right-hand third of a sheet of paper having filled the left-hand two thirds with the poem I posted yesterday.

Tomorrow I'll post the first of two pieces from the writers' group the following day.  The prompt given for that related to the origin stories of different types of tea.  I didn't stay within that box.  At the Writers' Cafe we're very good at leaving boxes behind and just seeing where the words carry us.  Every time there's something produced that leaves me in awe.

After the auction of the house
Of the late Mister Cohen
I found his forgotten family waste
In the loft of my new home.

Three torn cookery books.
A broken framed, scratched photo
Portrait of an unknown soldier.
Worthless antiques.
A pair of porcelain potties.
Souvenirs of holidays in Taunton.
Silver plate spoons.  Half a set.
Tarnished beyond hope.
Moth-eaten wedding dress,
Once white, once born of love.

He left me newspapers:
Bundled.  1960s Daily Mails.
A Victorian taxidermy display
Of birds.  Decayed, under broken glass.

And in the locked chest
I had to break, forced by chisel
I found my prize.

Coins.  Stamps.
And a collection of Herr Cohen's love letters.
Each one from the Fuhrer himself.
Each one sealed with his kiss.

Consequential Loss - Notes On A Radio Play And Autistic Theatre

I recently took the plunge and joined up with a theatre group for autistic people.  It's a pretty new group and the people there are varied.  There autism is as varied as they are.  What everyone shares is enthusiasm.

The core group meet currently for one day a week, being joined for the morning by a group from a local college of ESPA (Education and Services for People with Autism).  We have fun and are supported in what we do by two paid staff members who work more or less full time for the Twisting Ducks Theatre Company which is run for people with learning difficulties and (now) autism.

I feel very fortunate to be able to go and have fun with the people of Spectrum Theatre - the autistic child of the Twisting Ducks.  It is hoped that in the future some extra funding can be obtained which would mean that the work of Spectrum could develop a lot further.  Also in the near future there's going to be an eight week creative writing course - which we're really meant to call creative storytelling in recognition that there may be people on that course who have amazing imaginations but who can't write or can't write well enough to set down their fantastic stories on paper.

I'm also very fortunate in that the current funding obtained for Spectrum means that the day that's laid on for we autistic people is free of charge.

I've met some great people in Spectrum, all autistic and all experiencing joys and trials that accompany our condition.  And it's just one more way for me to open up to my own creative possibilities and the possibilities of others.  For now it is a place I will stay.  I make no predictions for the future.

Almost the first thing the core group were asked to do was to write a radio play.  Each of us would write, with the idea being that we will record the plays and put them out on a local community radio station.

I've written quite a lot in the past year, though not as much I would have liked.  But I've never attempted a play either from scratch or from adapting one of my crazy stories.

I have now written a play.  And then it had to be edited - the censor's pen had to be used.   The broadcasts would be daytime and I accidentally wrote something with adult content and language including rather more swearing than families would appreciate.  I'd written a late night show or something to adapt into a theatre piece with a 15+ age warning.

I've been my own censor though.  The fruity language has been removed or toned down and I wonder in places whether I've lost realism.  I've adjusted quite a few lines.  Watered down sex references and some imagery that the BBC controller would have banned.  I'm glad the actual plot is unchanged.  There's still the darkness and light, the despair, the betrayals, the hope.  I'm glad I haven't been asked to make the plot insipid

There's also the matter of religion.  One of the characters is a religious homophobic bigot.  I can write religious bigots.  I know the subject first hand!  The character is quite extreme but I've known people who are equally extreme and equally nasty about it too.  I thankful I didn't get quite that bad myself in my own years of religious homophobia.  I think that the character worked as I wrote her.  She's still there too.  She's surviving the censor.  But her language and bile is a little mellowed.  I also considered the intended audience and wondered whether they would be up in arms about my attack on the Christian faith.  It's not really that of course, just an attack on a particular manifestation of the faith, the version that names people like me as abominations.  For a late night broadcast or a theatre I'd let it stand.  But not for this intended broadcast.  So I've taken pains to point out that not all Christians are like that.

Since the broadcast will be in Newcastle I've pointed to a few of the churches here in which being queer won't result in the preacher abusing you or consigning you to hell for your sexuality and gender.  Who knows?  Perhaps someone will hear it who is a Christian and is queer too but hiding the truth and fighting against themselves through guilt.  Just as I did.  Perhaps someone like that will hear and something will be planted in them that helps them seek out a place where they can live their faith in more freedom.  I can live in the hope that a radio play might do some good.

I've deliberately kept the scenes simple.  Deliberately linked them with narration from the main character.  I think, as a first attempt at writing a play, it has worked out well.  Unfortunately I now want to re-edit it to put some of the fruitier language and imagery back in and have two versions of it to play with.

Each of us in that core group has written a play.  They are as varied as we are.  I've ended up being the only one of us to include nothing from the realms of science fiction and fantasy.  Much as I love those genres - and need to get back to working on my post-apocalyptic dystopian novel - I've ended up firmly rooted in the real world.  The other plays are each filled with their own surprises and it's a good thing that they are such contrasts from each other.

My first scene was initially written at a Spectrum session.  We were all told to write a scene.  One simple idea popped into my head and it just flowed with hardly another conscious thought.  Two friends meet in a cafe.  One confesses to the other that she is having an affair.  She was having it with a man named Graham.  But as I wrote his name my pen paused, almost the only break it gave to my writing hand.  My pen considered its options.  Crossed out the word Graham.  And wrote the word Erica.

Since that day I haven't made any enormous changes to the scene - just a few, arising from details the characters gave me about themselves as they wrote the rest of the play for me.  It's always nice when people can hardly believe that I've just written something from scratch in a writing session.  That happens sometimes.  Other times I can hardly write anything at all and any words that get miserably scrawled should really only be filed in the embarrassing section.

I hope that writing the play has taught me something about the process.  Something I can put to good use later.  I hope too that it will give me a little more confidence in writing conversations.  I never used to include much in the way of conversation because I didn't think I understood the rules of conversation well enough to write one.  I hope that this play is a step on the path to being able to write realistic and engaging talk.  I don't think I'm there yet.

Sometime soon I'll probably post the whole play here.  Unless I go crazy, edit it more and try and get someone more professional to record it.  That's always a possibility.

So, onwards with Spectrum.  See where it leads.  I'm guessing it may throw me in a few surprising directions.  And I'm happy with that idea.

The Lament of Asherah, Creation Goddess, Bride of Yahweh

A lament from Asherah, bride of Yahweh.  Free-written in a writing group in a Newcastle cafe on June 13th.  Do any of you wish to follow her call?

Image saved from https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/381046818447394805/

I am the forgotten one.
I am the one who walks in the fields;
Leaving behind her the trails of trees,
Creating the life-springs, homes for my birds,
The smile sanctuaries of squirrels and sloths.
I am the springer of springs,
The overflow of life in a thousand rivers
And a billion glasses of iconic crystal clarity.

I am the forgotten one.
I am the obscurity who once was worshipped.
Where people sheltered under my shade protection
They now strike me down in rain-forest deaths.
I am still here: Earth protector, restorer,
The pattern for the turning of worlds.

I am the forgotten one.
I am your Asherah, the rejected goddess,
The impulse of compassion lingering in the
Religions of men.  Monotonal without my feminine.
I'm Diana, Luna, I ride the fire as Hecate,
Waltz as Demeter, and I sprinkle wisdom dew
Each morning, longing to hear again the name
Of Astarte or Isis on the lips of the bold.

I am the forgotten one.
I am the one whose altars were destroyed in hate
By those who replaced my free spirit
With a god they could only present as jealous.
The religious slaughtered me through time and space
Breaking themselves apart in the killing
I wept for the sons of men but they beheld
Only a manly touch in the spreading of rainbows.


I am the forgotten one.
I wait for you, my child, my lover
To embrace my joy, cherish your footprints
And rest again under the holy greenwood tree.

A Letter To The Telegraph About Autism and Special Interests

A letter to The Daily Telegraph.  I'll explain it afterwards.

Image taken from the page mentioned below

Dear Sirs,

I read with interest your article of June 12th regarding the difficulties of being autistic.  I note that the article was written by someone who is not themselves autistic and am dismayed to see that his portrayal of the autistic experience was overwhelmingly negative.  I am writing to you as a happy autistic woman in order to correct this portrayal by focusing on a positive aspect of being autistic.

Being autistic is a trial.  No doubt about it.  You wouldn't ever look at us and say, "Wow!  I wish I was autistic too."  Not with everything we go through.  Your article was right.  The autistic experience can be excruciatingly difficult.

But it can be a great joy too.  People talk of autistic ecstasy and that's a thing.  It's real.  For me at least, and I choose to focus on the joy.  When I can.  Sometimes that overwhelming overloading collapse of everything within takes over.

I'm not going to list the joys and the total fun I have.  I just want to tell you about one aspect of it.  You see, we autistic people tend to focus in on things.  When we find that particular thing our brains scream out, "Wow! Wow! This is for me!" and then we don't ever let go of it and seek to find an everlasting corridor filled with more and more and more of it.  It's not an obsession.  Oh no.  Not quite.  We call these things our special interests.

We all have them and we discuss them too.  Join an autism group and inevitably the subject will arise many times because we like our special interests and there's always this part of us wondering why everyone doesn't share them with us and why they switch off when we infodump at them.

So.  Imagine the online conversation.  Me?  I don't have to imaging.  It's already happened.

New member:  Just out of interest, what are everyone's special interests?

Old members:  Trains.  Helicopters.  Tapestry.  My Little Pony.  Or, and these are all common, Nazis.  Serial Killers.  Murder.  And darkest of all, weather forecasting.

They read about these things.  They know everything.  Collect ponies.  Become meteorologists.  They don't actually become serial killers of course.

Then it's my turn.  They ask me, "What are your special interests?"

Me:  Fraud, bigamy, and highway robbery.

You read that right.  I should explain though, clarify a little.  Because while fraud and bigamy are true and perfect special interests, robbery is just a hobby.  It makes me happy.  After a hard day, when autism has given me problems and my brain feels like it's going to implode and explode at the same time, after those days there's nothing better than popping out for a bit of highway robbery.

Being outside helps me.  Under the bare black night sky when the rushing clouds call to me or the stars send messages that it's all going to be okay.  I'd be out there anyway, even without the robbery.

And I say all this in the groups.  Explain how I get a thrill from all the logical steps you need to successfully get away with fraud.

I talk too about how you need to be very careful when indulging in a spot of bigamy.  Or biandry.  Polyandry really because right now I have four husbands on the go.  James is alright.  But the other three are complete shits.  I'm looking forward to divorcing them but it's a complicated business and I have to follow all the logical plan perfectly.  I love logical plans.  They make me tingle inside.  It's hard to get a worthwhile divorce settlement from your rich shit of a husband when you're not legally hitched in the first place.

Sometimes the things I say produce less than positive reactions, even in an autism group.  I don't know why.  I mean, trains and My Little Pony?  How dull can you get?  But I don't moan when people are into weird things.  Some of those people don't grant me the same respect when I'm sharing my happy things.

Fraud, bigamy and highway robbery.

Talk about autistic ecstasy!

Pointing a pistol at a tourist and demanding their cash and valuables.  Now that's ecstasy.  You wouldn't understand it.  Unless you're autistic too.  I would ask therefore that all future articles you publish about autism would be more positive than the one I read this week in order to reflect the deep wonder we can find in this world.

Yours Faithfully.

Ann Meders



On June 13th I attended a writers' group.  The subject of the morning was female highwaymen, or highwaywomen depending on your preference.

During the course of the session an article was read about several of these women.  If you care to read it you can find it here.  One of the sentences reads, "Alongside highway robbery, Ann Meders born in 1643, made fraud and bigamy her special interests."

That was enough for me.  Out of all these women, the bored and the desperate, out of all their deeds, I couldn't leave that sentence behind.  Hence the above letter.  It was actually free written in the cafe as a monologue.  I've altered it a little to make it a letter, but only as far as necessary.  Ann Meders was hung at the age of thirty.  I think my fictional autistic Ann would get into trouble too after sending that letter.

I will stress that while I have my special interests, and while special interests do get discussed sometimes in groups, I do not share the interests of Ann Meders and I haven't seen Ann's interests raised.  I've seen all the others she mentions in her letters.  They're real.  But I haven't seen anyone plotting how to defraud their illegal husbands.  I also have no good reason to claim Ann as an autistic woman or to place a seventeenth century highway robber in the position of being able to join online autism groups. 

This Transgender Woman Says, "I Am A Woman. Don't You Ever Tell Me I'm Not."

I feel sorry for my friends sometimes.  Because when my head really focuses on something it REALLY focuses.  Conversely when it doesn't focus it REALLY doesn't focus.

 

A case in point today.  I was out walking today and as I sat and had lunch I got to thinking.  Maybe being misgendered again by an old friend affected me more than a null amount.  Maybe I'd taken in more about some transphobic abuse recently than I thought.  And maybe reading this morning about the suicide of another abused transgender person made me more sad than I'd realised.

 

But I got to thinking.  This thought.

___________________________

 

Thoughts that sprang up as I sat by a field today. They're quite long. Sorry about that.

There are phrases I refuse to use and really hate to hear used about me:

Clare identifies as female.

Clare identifies as a woman.

Why this refusal, when these things are of course a part of my identity?

Simple. It's because a cisgender woman would never be told they "identify" as a woman. They would just be seen as a woman. Full stop.

So no, I don't just "identify" as female, as a woman.

I AM female.

I AM a woman.

Full stop.

A woman, just like any other woman. I just happen to be a woman with a penis. But my genitals don't define me.

To insist on saying I "identify" is to place my womanhood in a different category to that of a cisgender woman. It's a belittling of my womanhood. Almost a denial. It leaves room for doubt a place for saying "Well it's all very well her identifying that way but ..." Or worse - him. Yeah, I got misgendered on Facebook only yesterday. Which stinks but in this particular case I forgive the offender.

I AM a woman. I AM female. Full stop.

Accept it. Because anything less than your acceptance of this truth is unacceptable to me.

I know most of you are fine with this. For most of you there's not a doubt in your head that I'm just as much a woman as your own mother is or was. I am safe with most of you and know that, even if we have arguments and massive disagreements, you will treat me as the woman I am.

If you don't accept this truth - that I am she, woman, female - then feel free to unfriend me because I really haven't got time or energy to waste on people who can't or won't accept such basics about me.
And if there happens to be anyone reading this who would ever dream of deliberately calling me "he" then just go. Please go. My life will be richer without you.

_______________________

 

I posted my thought on Facebook.  Responses happened.  They included this one:

 

Like most people, your spirit is female, your mind is male and your body... well, you can't really argue with that can you? Well you can... You can argue until you're blue in the face, but it doesn't really change the world or stop poverty and homelessness now does it? I quite often feel like a man trapped in a woman's body, but I expect most normal women feel that way depending on their mood and men the same. It is NORMAL!!!! Going on and on about gender just feeds and breeds sexism and gender stereotypes. Sexism causes arguments and repression so give it a rest eh? Right, time to do the washing up.

 

And that's where I start to feel sorry for my friends.  Because I couldn't let it go.  Not at all.  My little autistic brain collided with my transgender nature.  Pow.  Pow.  Explosions.  Fire.

 

And this happened.  The tone police may be in contact with me very soon: 

________________________________________

 

What evidence do you have that most people's minds are male and spirits female? My mind feels pretty female to me thanks. And my body is mine. Since I'm a woman it must be a woman's body. QED. It's quite simple really. It's mine so it's a woman's. Just one that happens to have a penis attached. Which has made for a much harder life. Much, much harder.

Try to understand just how much harder it is to be transgender. And then you'll undoubtedly decide you're not in a position to tell us how it is. You'll be happy to not kick us from your social position above us.

I don't go on about gender much. I mean, you're the one who went on last weekend about how you were telling your child that I used to be a man and then quizzed me about what my name used to be (which is none of anyone's business whatsoever unless I voluntarily share that information). I didn't bring up my gender. I didn't think about sharing with your child that I'm transgender. You did. Not me.

And why the hell did you want to know my old name anyway? Why did you think that was your business? What does it matter to you?

I don't go on about it much. But it gets thrown at me:

Every time I'm treated as not a proper woman. Every time I get called he or stared and glared at or called shocking or an abomination. Every time some shit comedian makes a joke in which trans people are the joke. Every time someone wants my old name. Every time I'm misgendered to my face. Which hasn't happened to me since, oh when was it? Ah yes, it was yesterday.

Every time the person doing it tries to justify why it's okay to do it. Every time someone asks about whether I've had "the op" YET. Every time I get some dumb ass - often from the US military - sending me messages on Facebook because ooh they fancy "trannies". That time I was told I was shocking or that time a guy threatened to set me on their child because I was such a monster. Every time I'm told I'm not welcome in a space because it's for women. Every time I'm told I'm not as much of a woman as one with a vagina but the man who sexually assaulted me didn't seem to care about that did he?

Through all the days and years of fighting just to be me. Fighting to get my own gender on my own passport. And I needed a psychiatrist's letter for that. Have you ever needed psychiatrist's letters in order to convince organisations that you're a woman? I have.

And every time I hear about another abused and bullied trans person committing suicide. Which I haven't heard about since, oh when was it. Ah yes, it was today.

All we want is acceptance (never just toleration) as who and what we are. That's all. Acceptance. Full acceptance.

And we're not ever going to bow down to anyone who tells us to shut up about it and give it a rest. Not until we have that full acceptance. Not until people aren't disowned by their families for being trans. Not until people aren't bullied and abused in the street by strangers.

Not until people stop telling trans women they've got men's bodies and trans men that they've got women's bodies.

Not until we have a legal system in which we can define our own gender without it needing cash, boards of psychiatrists and supporting evidence from medical professionals.

And fuck it. And I don't in any way apologise for my language. I know that trans people being accepted isn't going to solve world homelessness. So bloody what? What the sodding hell does that have to do with it? I'll tell you. Nothing. At all. But what it will solve is the agony and pain and everything else that trans people suffer. And that's got to be worth it.

And guess what. There are plenty of people who have been chucked out of their homes for being transgender. Plenty more who have been chucked out for being gay, bi, lesbian. In fact about a quarter of young homeless people are homeless because they've been rejected.

So yeah, actually, talking about this and fighting for acceptance will solve some of the problem of homelessness. Because one day we hope to see a country in which no young person is chucked onto the streets because of sexuality and gender. Let's keep talking. Let's contribute to solving this thing.

And fuck it again. Do you really think we would have got as far as we have on this road to acceptance if people hadn't talked about it? Lots. We wouldn't. We'd still be back where we were decades ago when being trans was seen as a mental illness and when people tried their best to cure so many of us - just as they did to gay people.

We talk about it because talk changes things. It creates the better future that we want to live in.

And damn it again you. What do you mean "most normal women?" Are you in that category? Am I? Damn you if you think I'm not a "normal woman" when I'm a woman. You know what? If you believe that then feel free to unfriend me. Don't just feel free. Just do it. Please.

Because I am in no way a "woman trapped in a man's body."

I can't help what you feel. But me, I'm just a woman.

Thanks for listening.

________________________

 

Yes.  I feel sorry for my friends sometimes.

 

 

Lost In The Bubbles Of A Drink, I Took Up My Cribble

Today I sat for a while in a cafe.  I'd gone into the city centre but hadn't made it there because I was not up to it.  Mentally I was a knot of anxiety.  Physically I wish I was well again.  This evening I'm really not in great shape.

However, the cafe.  While I was there I began a set of writing exercises given by the writer Ali Smith, who doesn't enjoy giving writing exercises.  There are seven of them and I played with the first two.  This blog post contains the results.  Unedited.  One day I will edit something.

I find that both of these results are almost autobiographical.

The triumph (for me) today is that I entered a writing competition.  I have a marginally greater than zero chance of winning a prize for the three pieces of flash fiction I submitted.  It doesn't matter that there are many better writers than me who will have entered the competition.  What matters is that I enjoyed the writing.


The first exercise involved writing a few sentences and emotions in a particular way.  The instruction then was to choose one sentence and write from it.  This happened:

Separated from her peers, she could only watch each bubble as it burst into nothing at the surface of her drink.  It was one of her bad days.  A glass of coke was all her mind could process.  Falling into herself, falling into an almost infinitesimal galaxy she fought with each heartbeat for her own survival, hoping the world beyond the glass would not intrude upon that centre of chaotic calm.

She shut out the people, the conversations.  Shut out the music too.  Initially she'd been enjoying listening.  Jazz playing softly.  For a while.  Then it became like a broken cacophony, as if Stockhausen were playing a cruel joke on Schoenberg.  She blocked it out, blocked it out, "I WILL not hear it" and shut down one mental and emotional faculty after another.

Now only the glass remained.  One focus.  One life.  One eye in the hurricane.  It was as though each single bubble sang one note of a song, sang the language of purpose, shining brightly as it burst.  Consider the bubbles.  They grow and die in a moment yet God arrays them with joy.  She was content to watch.  Content just to be with her drink, resisting all temptation to try to impose order, knowing the apparent patterns of popping were just illusions.

And then she realised.  The bright light of the bubble was its unfettered death cry.  The bubble only had purpose in her drink when it was nothing.  The moment it birthed itself, called out its own vigorous shape, that was the moment it died too.  Lost in the air they became a nothing of greater or lesser magnitude.  She knew in that instant that death was life and life was death and that her bad day and her reduction of the world to bubbles was more real than each time she shouted her own importance to the world.

She wept.  Weeping, she saw beyond the glass.  Noticed again the cafe customers surrounding her.  On her table, a single staple, half folded, and she considered where it might have come from.  A staple, failing in purpose as the staper incorrectly stamped it into a government document.  A staple, fallen from a magazine.  A staple out of place and isolated on varnished wood.  She convinced herself she was that staple.  She wept again.  She was wrong.

A hand on her shoulder.  A face, radiating compassion.  A query.  "Are you okay?  Can I help in any way?"

She wept again.  Fiercely.  A hug replaced the hand.

Bubbles continued to sing their joy.

Unobserved.  It didn't matter.

_______________________

The second exercise was one of those "Here are some words.  Choose three.  Put them in a paragraph or story or poem."  The difference here was that I don't know the meaning of most of the words.  That didn't matter for the exercise.  The words could mean nothing or be given new meanings.


"I can't do it.  I just can't do it.  I'm useless."

Jill looked at Lucy with tears in her eyes.

"You can.  I promise.  I know it's not easy for you but give it another try.  You never know what might happen."

Jill tried to calm down, took deep breaths, and bravely picked up the cribble again.

"Okay, I'll try.  If you tell me exactly what to do."

Lucy picked up her cribble and pressed it into the obovate.

"Look.  Like this.  Don't worry about how it comes out.  Just treat it as a game."

Lucy pulled out the cribble and pressed it into the obovate again.  Harder.  So a bigger mark was made.

"Now you do it."

Gingerly, Jill pressed her cribble into the surface of her own obovate.

"This is so scary."

"I know it is.  You're doing great.  You can wiggle it if you like and swap colours too.  Just have fun with it.  Don't try to be a grandmaster."

Jill pulled the cribble out and looked at the mark it had made.  A small pink circle, fading towards the edges.

"Hey, I'm going to do blue next.  And wiggle it like you said."

By the end of the evening Jill was smiling.  Her obovate was covered in colour.  It didn't look like anything in particular but that didn't matter.  It was still pretty and it was her own work.

As Jill was leaving, Lucy hugged her tightly and said, "I'm so proud of you.  You're amazing.  You thought you would never be able to incarnadine but you did it.  That's pretty special."

Jill laughed as she said  "And if I can incarnadine, what might I do next?"

Eyes That Follow You Round A Room - A Poem And A Prose Piece

A day for feeling mentally a little wrecked and I'm proud of myself because I made it to the Writers' Cafe this morning and managed not to walk out even though I was feeling totally nauseous with anxiety and for a while could hardly process verbal inputs among the noises from other parts of the cafe.  And the wallpaper?  Oh God the wallpaper.  I find it difficult on the best of days.  Today it came alive and at times engulfed my whole existence.

Our theme this morning was "Eyes That Follow You Round A Room" based on art work, John Berger and our own thoughts.  I wanted to get out of that place.  Instead I managed to write a few words.  The poem below.  And I had an idea, the first fruits of which are below in prose.  One scene out of what could be a larger tale.  I just free wrote it and the scene was not quite the one I'd had in my mind when I began.

The wall of wallpaper.  Someone CHOSE this paper.

The Joy of Painting

Alone unpainted.

Forced to bear my existence

Among silenced lives.

The don't speak to me.

Except to say their contentment

Is found on canvas.

In paint there's no pain.

Even the eyes of The Scream

Are calmer than my own.

Without words they call:

Join us.  Stretch yourself.  Bare flesh

and blood is your paint.

No walking future.

A blade is the artist's brush

Releasing my life.

In death I'll be preserved.

Freed into quiet.  Lifted high.

Held, framed on a wall.

The Faceless One

Having forced open the French window it was still difficult to climb inside, across a large desk and into Doctor Wilson's study.  On the way I knocked my knee hard into the window ledge, placed my hand down painfully onto something jagged, and knocked something heavy to the floor.  When it landed on the floor the thud sounded to me more like the chiming of the clock in St. Matthew's church down in the village square and I held myself motionless, hardly daring to breathe.  No lights were turned on though and I could hear nothing beyond the ambience of the night.

Once in the study I turned on my flashlight and found that the jagged item had been a crystal of some variety, purple and sharp.  I removed my glove to check my hand and was relieved to see that there was no blood.  Nevertheless I wiped down the crystal carefully.  The thud had been caused by a large paperweight.  I was only slightly shocked to see that the resin contained two human ears and a tongue.  I placed it carefully back on the desk hoping that I'd put it roughly where it had been before.  It wasn't what I had come for and it wouldn't do anyone any good were I to remove it.

I turned and scanned the study with my flashlight until the beam hit the bookcases on the other side of the room.  Somewhere among them was my prize.  I began to tiptoe towards the books, worried that each step would cause an almighty creak in the floorboards and the doctor would wake and discover me.  I didn't want to consider whether I might be able to talk my way out of the situation.  I doubted I could.

As I crept past a green leather sofa in the centre of the room I heard a squelching noise behind me.  Faint.  But definitely present.  I swung round and shone my light in the direction of the sound.  Nothing.  I was alone.  I scanned the room with the beam a few more times to make sure before turning back to my goal.  Two more steps.  The noise again.  I turned.  Was everything the same?  I thought so.  Something was making that noise though and my heart beat faster.  I knew I was beginning to sweat and hoped beyond hope that I could find the book and escape.  The doctor's study would be the worst place for a full blown panic attack.

I took deep breaths.  Willed myself to relax.  Told myself I was alone.  And then, I am almost ashamed to admit it, I crossed myself and said a prayer before heading with greater speed to the bookcases.  The squelch squelch began again and I tried to ignore it.  There's nothing there.  Nothing there.  Nothing there.  I tried to convince myself but in that situation I was the queen of sceptics.

I shone my flashlight across each shelf of books in turn.  Books of anatomy and physics were scattered among volumes of stage magic and actual magic and books of stories and poems by writers so obscure their names didn't even ring vague bells in my mind.  All the time the squelching.  Louder.  Closer.  Or was I imagining it?

I cursed my luck as I didn't find what I was seeking until the final shelf.  A precious book.  At least it was precious to me.  Because it had been mine.  I hadn't bought this book in a shop.  I had hand crafted each page, making the paper and the binding myself.  And I'd filled it with the results of my own researches.  Ten years of work distilled into one journal.  Stolen by Doctor Wilson.  The theft had taken place the previous year and it had taken this long to discover the perpetrator.  I hoped he hadn't been able to decode too many of my ciphered scratchings and drawings.

I hastily took the book and placed it into my bag.  Turning I saw a hint of movement on the dark floor.  The squelching stopped.  I shone my flashlight at the movement and there, in the middle of the floor, I saw two eyes.  Just eyes.  The eyeballs and connecting tissue that would normally hold an eye to a head.  No head.  No face.  No eyelids.  Just eyes.  Staring up at me.

I realised in that moment that the eyes had been following me round the room.  I realised too that Doctor Wilson's experiments had progressed further than I feared.  If he could remove a person's eyes and they could continue to live apart he had followed his science to a level I hadn't dreamed.  Perhaps I could help.  Rescue these instruments of vision.  Perhaps even one day locate the face they had been cut from and restore them.  Maybe I could find a way to communicate with an eye and it would help me find its true home.

Without a further thought I picked up the two eyes and placed them in my bag with my journal.  Thought could wait until I was standing in a place safer than the doctor's study.  I climbed back across the desk and out of the window, sliding it closed behind me.

And then I ran, putting as much distance as I could between myself and the night.

In A Time Of Illness The Blank Page Laughs At Me

Still ill.  I managed to get out on Friday and had a good time.  Then I sank again.  Yesterday was pretty rubbish.  I couldn't write a thing.  Today is looking like it won't be that much better.  By last night I was feverish for the first time in quite a while.  Mostly if I'm feeling rough and take my temperature the thermometer informs me that I am below average.  If I reach 36.5C it's a rarity.  If I hit that benchmark 36.8C it's front page news.  Last night I was way above that.  A proper fever.  Woo hoo!

I'm hoping to be able to write today.  I have a talk to write and the second half of that fortune cookie story.  And I was hoping to write a poem for a performance workshop today.  As it turns out I almost certainly won't be there and that's a sadness for me.

But there is this.  Written just now.  And published slightly later than I normally post these things.  Going away and then getting ill has stolen away any current hope of writing my posts a few days in advance.  I guess I'll get it back.  Just not today.

Blank page image from here.

Through black, blear eyes
I stare at an empty page.
It taunts me, jeers, tells me I am rubbish
For not being able to hold a pen
And make meaningful marks.
Each line shouting too loud
That it's not worthwhile me trying;
That nothing I could possibly say
Would be sufficient.
Each line a blank whiteness
An infinite possibility
And I do not have the guts to limit it
To my possibility, my vision and voice.
The page remains empty.
I look down upon it
More lost than an insignificance
In an ocean of dead calms and fire storms.
I cannot do it, cannot bring myself
To make the first mark
Scar skin with surgeon scalpel precision
I condemn myself too
Belittle myself because yesterday
This page remained just a page
A wilderness snow out in a sixty pence pad
Bought on a desperate day when
The word and sanity went hand in hand.
Today I am not a writer, not fit to be wordsmith
Today I am frightened, fogged, and anxiety asks
Whether I will ever be able to write again
Whether it's unrealistic to walk the artist's path
Whether this day is a sign I should quit.
The page abuses me, breaks heart and mind
Tells me I would only spoil its perfection
With the addition of inky contrasts.
And yet ... and yet?
The page is filled, the words written, almost outside volition.
Dark frustrated pen scratches but they are life
At least, life as I must live it today.
No less worthwhile than any other day.
The page was wrong and this scrawl not be Chaucerian
But it is my truth, undeniably embraced.

On Commonwealth Day Britain Became The Ruler Of Nothing

A free written Facebook status update, morning of March 14th.  (Pi Day)

On Commonwealth Day

We celebrate how Britain

Took over half the world.

A coincidence?

On that day we passed a law

To cut ourselves off.

We fled from Europe.

Ran from our integration

In shared community.

Do we still believe

We have a God given right

To independence?

Does Westminster dream

Of our Empire past? The years

When we ruled the waves.

Hard Brexit or soft?

Let's hope it's a Kind Brexit,

Rich in compassion

For three million

Who now live in fear of us

And our Parliament.

On Commonwealth Day

I sigh to live in a land

Where wealth won't be shared.

Cry for broken dreams

Of full cooperation

With our neighbour states.

On Commonwealth Day

Britain decides to rule again.

Without free kindness.

On Commonwealth Day

The world is afraid of us

And I am ashamed.

March 14th. Morning. After the House of Lords gave up trying to amend the bill in Parliament so it would protect the three million EU citizens currently living in the UK. The Law will now be passed without those protections and the process of our leaving the EU will probably be triggered this week. This is Brexit. We had a vote. But how many of those who voted for leaving the EU wanted to be unkind about it? Hard or soft, I believe most Brexit voters want to be kind. Our government seems not to want kindness and only to railroad through their own monolithic idea of what form Brexit should take.

People didn't vote for that.

We've heard a lot about the three million. What of the one million? The UK citizens living in the EU. Does their future depend on how we choose to treat the EU citizens living here? Should they be living in fear too that their sunny life in Spain might be replaced with a flat in Scunthorpe?