My fave part: “It’s white supremacy disguised as feminism. This march would not be existing if Hillary Clinton were in office. There would be no pink hats because in the mind of white liberals, all oppression would end magically by a Hillary presidency.”
The International Civil Rights Center & Museum is in the running for the top Best Readers’ Choice travel attraction in North Carolina.
IT’S HOW YOU SEE THINGS, NOT HOW IT REALLY IS
It’s when all your words come out in in monotone or in low volume or they don’t come out right at all. Your brain thinks the right word but the wrong word leaves your mouth. Or your mouth trips up the words. Or your brain just stops in mid thought.
And this angers people. They say, “What?” with aggravation. They want you to repeat yourself and you do but this time you take a deeper breath and you shout out what you have to say. It’s a lot of work and leaves you tired. Communicating verbally is so exhausting.
Why can’t it be easier like when you write music or stories or paint pictures…wait, no. They don’t understand those forms of communications. At least, not the deeper way you communicate through them. Or do they even care to see/read/listen to your art?
JOIN UP WITH THE CROWD
It’s when all the people are talking, laughing, shouting, screaming, clinking glasses, banging plates, and blasting bad music at once. Good times swirl into a into a sonic tornado that rips into your head like Pillsbury thorns and makes you want to cover your ears with a pillow or run out of the room or the house. You feel the eyes on you and can’t help but think they are wondering about you. Society states there must be something wrong with you. And there is.
You never feel this way at a concert/fest/club, standing in crowd, listening to four people you always loved playing music you never grew tired of. Maybe because you can hide your rocking/stomping/wiggling. Maybe because you can screw up the words as you sing and no one will hear you. Maybe because you’re invisible.
YOU NEED TO INTERGRATE YOURSELF
It’s when you sit in a crowded room and eat the food or stare at the television. Guests walk in and they say hi to you. You wave back. You weave through the crowd to get a drink. You say hi and smile. You climb the mountain. You socialized.
You could stop to interrupt their conversation with other people but that would be rude. It would be doubly rude to talk to them because you know what comes out of your mouth would not be proper. Your life and interests are worlds apart. You’re frank and honest.
Not because you’re a hurtful person, it’s because you are frank and honest. Illusions are wasteful. Politeness is pointless. You want to show your honest self, warts and butterflies. But that’s not how it works.
In the past you got polite laughter from them. Wide eye exchange. Mouths distracted with sipping drinks. Dying conversations. You die too and hope the Earth opens up under you. But all you can do is leave the conversation and go back to your chair. Keep eating. Try to keep still because you want to rock back and forth or bounce your leg or wiggle your fingers.
The only other option is to stand and stare while two other people talk. You nod, smile, and say, “Yep, yep,” and sip your drink.
No. Those are both horrible. Both tiring. Exhausting.
You should go back to your chair. Sit. Watch the television and wait for it’s time to leave. Take breaks to leave the house/apartment.
Or find that other freak in the room. Or maybe you should bring one with you.
I know I will.
Happy Holidays to my weirdo, freak, loser, geek, and monster brothers and sisters. And good luck.
And research goes on. Focusing on Albert Fish. For those not in the know he was a cannibal who ate children and was caught in the 1930s. He was in his sixties when the police apprehended him. A sick fellow who always fascinated me.
For decades I was only able to find him in chapters in other books but finally found a slim pb that covers his last crime, arrest, and trial. I think someone on a bb recommended this book to me as one of the best books on Fish.
One of the villains in Cities That Eat Islands will be based on Fish, something I’ve always wanted to do in a Miki book. Maybe if the character survives this story I can still do it.
Was another terrorist attack in NYC day before yesterday. Local news covered it but social media was kind of quiet. I saw no mention of it in my Facebook feed. A young man who has been in this country for seven years made a pipe bomb and brought it to Port Authority. It went off. No one died and the young man was arrested. He was tired of Trump. An American made terrorist. Shrug. Many of us are tired of Trump. I’m surprised there aren’t more American Made Terrorists around.
I guess it’s getting so that terrorist attacks are slipping through the cracks like school shootings. In the last few weeks I read about two. One in New Mexico killed 2. The one in California killed 4.
Is this all part of not being shaken by the violent perpetrator?
We will not be terrorized.
We will not let them interfere with our lives.
Life will go on. Death and violence will not faze me.
See my smile.
Now go back to work.
Say Happy Holidays (or if you’re a fascist Merry Christmas).
Listen to Billie Christmas, pass the cranberry sauce, and pretend that sound is just thunder.
No new writing this week. Just don’t have the motivation. But I have been doing a lot of research. A lot on Ellis Island and the 1920s for the new book. Tentatively titled Cities That Eat Islands. I’m leaning towards a large piece, combining the prospective trilogy into one book to save time. Give myself a mountain to climb while I’m young.
Noticing a lot of the same problems with immigration in our government in 1920 that we have now. They totally cut it off immigration acceptance later, no one was allowed in. Worse than the first proposed Muslim ban earlier this year.
Racism is a little different but the same. Jews are still hated but Italians not so. Italians were treated like Mexicans back in the 1920s. Shit, Mexicans were treated like Mexicans in the 1920s. Communists and Socialists and Anarchists were still a threat back then.
Democrats and Republicans were always at odds. Snore.
I imagine the character POV will be easy to write and what the reader will connect with the most. The research has been helping with procedures, settings, and descriptions. Like I did with my last historical fiction novel (Breaking Fellini) I’ll try not to bog it down with historical references and just use it as the character does.
The pictures I’ve been finding in books and on the web are beautiful. So many maps on the web too. Robert McCammon was right; no need to go to the library anymore if you write historical fiction.
I have meltdowns. Not tantrums. And I’m not crazy. People think and say I am crazy when I have/had them. I used to think I was crazy. But now that I know I’m an Aspie I know that they are meltdowns.
“How do you know they are not tantrums or that you are not one angry asshole?”
Because they don’t happen out of anger. They’re not from rage. I don’t hate you. They’re sparked from an information/sensory overload.
I have meltdowns once a week, sometimes once a month, sometimes once every other month. Those spacious times I’m able to recognize when a meltdown is going to happen. I stop, leave the scene, tell my self what is happening and why, and wait for it to pass. It’s all I can do. I wait for the pandemonium to leave and then reenter the pattern.
You see, that’s a big thing for me, patterns. When my pattern explodes into chaos I can’t handle it. I don’t mean the slightest slip, I mean chaos. Like three people in the room getting in the way, screaming and moving things around, while I’m trying to cook them dinner.
So I leave the room until the chaos leaves and dinner is late.
Another thing that sets me off is illogical thoughts and questions that hammer my brain.
This may sound insulting but neuro typical people live very illogical philosophies. Your lives are governed by dead people and those dead people had no idea what they were talking about. I know, I sound egotistical and elitists.
For example: I don’t believe in inequality but most of the people in the world does and when I’m hammered with it over and over in a thirty minute period the illogic spins my brain and pushes me into a meltdown. Or when NTs hammer me with selfishness (I’m a firm believer in altruism) over and over, I meltdown.
Most of the time, depending on whose around, I’m able to calm down before I explode but sometimes I don’t.
What is my meltdown like? No one gets hurt but me. I am incapable of hurting anyone. It’s not about anger. No hate. It’s not directed at anyone. My brain malfunctioned, glitched from the info, trying to balance the logic of my interior world to the overwhelming insanity of the so-called-real world.
I pace. I scream how nothing makes sense. I punch the walls or stove. Throw my arms. People look at me as if I’m nuts. In the end I feel exhausted and I have a wound. One time I accidently hit a pen someone was holding while swinging my arms and stabbed myself in the hand. Didn’t feel it. I have a high tolerance for pain, by the way. I’ve had bruises on my hands and arms. I used to hit my head a lot. Now I got the beginning of a cataract so I don’t do that anymore.
Afterwards, I also feel shame and embarrassment. I wish me and my family didn’t have to go through this. Times like this is when I wish there was a drug that helped us. Not a cure for autism. A cure for overload, for meltdowns.
So that it. My meltdowns. I probably shouldn’t have written about them but I felt it was important to get it out. I don’t see much talk out there about it. It is an ugly subject. Cops like to handcuff kids at school when they have them. I’m sure marriages break up because of them. I’m fortunate. Very fortunate. Which makes me want to try for the longer gaps.