By Myself

I read a book once called "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime" which was about an autistic boy trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Making sense of life was frustrating for him to the point that he wished he could be the only person in the world.

But don't we all wish that? Or don't we wish everyone could be exactly like us, or at least understand us and do what we want?

I want to go on a road trip again, by myself. I don't think I'm autistic. Nobody has told me I am.

Have you ever wondered if you're mentally retarded, impaired, or I'll and you don't know it because you're you? And nobody has ever told you? Or if they have you thought they were joking? Scary stuff. Or maybe not scary, if you're content with your life, unless you're worried about burdening others.

I would get lost as often as I wanted and not care. I would make as many stops as I wanted, or not stop at all, and I would pull over for every photo op or none of them. I would also listen to MY music or none of it. I could pray out loud and stay at grimy hotels or sleep in the car.

I wonder if I've blogged about this before. It sounds familiar. It also sounds kind of selfish.

Is the world meant to be seen with others or by oneself?

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I'm coming to realize that I use sound effects a lot more than I thought. Onomatopoeia. I thought sound effects were for comedians, class clowns and beat boxers, but it has become apparent that they are for me as well.

I noticed when people started commenting on them that I was using sounds instead of words, like "ploop" and such, to describe tasks and recount events.

I always admired the above-mentioned types of people to whom onomatopoeia came naturally. Now I admire myself.

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You know those songs about the "afterglow"? How they sound so gut-wrenching and thoughtful and pensive, because they use that word?

But I never really thought about what it meant until the other night when I turned off my light and the lightbulb kept glowing in the blackness. Not just burning on my retina, but actually glowing with leftover energy.

" Oh," thought I, "this is afterglow."

Something ends and it almost feels like it hasn't, and you can make yourself believe it hasn't, for a minute. When people sing about the afterglow of something, they are singing about a pointless extension of hope.

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My grandma showed me balloon flowers on the 4th of July. Before the violet flowers open, their petals are folded together to form hollow lantern-like "balloons." Grandma has been considering mortality lately. No reason, she says, except that she is almost ninety.

I think she may be the next Enoch, just walking away with the Lord one day without actually dying.

Either way, though, she's starting to worry about having so many possessions for her children and grandchildren to deal with after her passing. It was a disquieting Fourth of July conversation topic, but I kept calm since Grandma is always so matter-of-fact about these things.  

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One last thing: at Landis Homes, one of the residents had some art on display which I made a point of seeing.

Dad asked me later how I liked it.

"It was crappy," I said without thinking - a heartless remark. I corrected myself: "It was not to my taste." Nobody's art should ever be described as crappy if it is evident the artist has put effort into it. Especially if that artist is dying of cancer.

I learned the "it is not to my taste" phrase one thanksgiving when I told Aunt Linda I only wanted a small piece of the cake she made in case I didn't like it - and my family laughed and someone suggested a more polite way to say that might be "I would like a small piece so I can determine if the cake is to my taste."

How genius.