Rediscovery

It’s been a while since I did a ‘Tikaani’ post. So why the hell not.

I have been doing some re-examining on Tikaani’s sexuality and gender identity and it’s been pretty interesting and over frustrating. I am one of those kooky folks that see my muses having some sort of free will and usually have habit of telling me things that they want to tell me rather than me wanting to know. So I usually get a lot of interesting tibits useless info…like Tikaani not liking the color orange. 

He and Mai should hang out.

But his sexuality was a giant unknown and mostly I just throw darts at it until something sticks. For a while I thought he was rather ‘meh’ sexual. Like sex was ok to him but it wasn’t important or something he sought. But Tikaani has always been a sensory seeker. I mean when he was younger he wasn’t fond of touch until he was bit older. So now he enjoys cuddling, touching, and kissing. Those things, but actual intercourse didn’t matter. Until I started exploring a long-term relationship he has within the current canon of him being a shaman of the Northern Watertribe and him being in relationship with a deaf shaman and him learning a form of pidgin sign. It occurred he was pretty fucking kinky and totally ok with sex as a general note and that ‘sex’ to him wasn’t the same as it is to others. 

Themoreyouknow.

The more I prodded and pushed on him growing up and falling in love and dealing with people and relationships it became pretty clear that Tikaani was bisexual and homo-romantic. It seems he prefers courting men only because feels rather awkward around women. Tikaani is terrified at the thought of fathering anything. So eventually he sticks with courting men, only to avoid knocking someone up. He is pretty anxious around children. However he adored his second-cousin Uluu, despite being rather reactive around him as an infant and generally he gives most babies a wide berth. His partner on the other hand at one point desired children but relented to simply raising Uluu and staying at Tikaani’s side. 

Tikaani’s gender was also something of a mystery. Granted, he doesn’t care what pronouns you use, and he will probably use ‘boy’ in most circumstances but something jumped out of me as I continued to re-explore him. He was probably nongendered. Or rather apathetic to his gender, it was something that didn’t occur to me after working on him from sometime that his gender wasn’t important to him and that he will take on any role in the lodge. It’s something that I am still working on, but it’s pretty clear that he is not cis at all. 

Exploring a developed character can be enlightening and rewarding it’s also parallels real life, not everything you know about a person stays the same, everything can be dynamic and changing and it’s important to recognize that. It something to consider when you found our your friend is gay and your read him a straight (or hetronormative) when your friend is trans* and you read him as cis, or autistic and you read him as allistic. As someone that spent years writing Tikaani and discovering this strange muse of mind, I find it enjoyable to learn new things that I once thought it was obvious and right in front of me. Learning new things about old friends should have the same kind of joy.

The Monster That I Am

art work by Lucy Dreir aka Thug of my 'satyr-sona' Kalypso.

After spending about 5 years in disability right and identity politics, I have learned that I stopped caring about language and personal labels. What people call themselves is none of my business what they reclaim isn’t my problem until it comes one. But I guess this is a commentary on a word that I took offense to that now I want to actually redirect and reclaim. 

For those that have seen my art, I draw a lot of satyrs and fauns. I have bit of an attachment to them and other fae like creatures. I have made pair of satyr dolls (Santos and his mate Krysanthe which found loving homes when I raffled them off at Beltane) and I working on a third one and I have project in mine for a centaur doll. I don’t know when this attachment started or if this is a special interest but I’ve always filled my pages up with fauns and satyrs, dragon people, snake people and various kinds of nonhumans. I write about them and their lives in my stories as well. To me their lives are more interesting than any of the humans I write or draw. In some way I have appropriated my character’s nonhuman identities in regards to myself. I know that this is probably a response to the years of abuse and marginalization in which my humanness has been taken from me. As an autistic, I’ve been pretty much been swamped by the “changeling’ label and I’ve discussed ‘changeling culture ‘(the idea that our children has been taken by anthromorphed disabilities and we need to ‘free’ them from it) at length and frankly this isn’t a re-hashing of old news. In some way I took that label of ‘monster’ of ‘nonhuman’ and I embraced that metaphor. If I am not human to you, then a monster I’ll be. 

This is not to say that I am not human at all or that I don’t deserve to be treated like one. If there is an ongoing theme with my nonhuman characters, is that they don’t asked to be treated like a human, to subvert what makes them a merman, satyr, dragon folk or whatever. But rather for people to accept that difference, as valid as their humanness and that their satyrness isn’t something that needs to be tamed in order to live among human society but instead, for it be recognized that it’s ok. That it is alright to be something other than human. Granted, authors have been waxing identity politics with using fantasy races, aliens and robots or whatever, as a metaphor for race, gender, sexuality or…whatever. But in regards to that, I’ve noticed it’s always the human being the protagonist. He or she is face with the racism and oppression as someone that benefits from an unfair system and it’s about her or him realizing it and undoing it. It’s rarely about the nonhuman dealing with the unfair system and the expectations forced on him through it and when it is, there is the human acting as the audience avatar or translator. I never found that necessary really. I don’t need a normal person translating my autistic or transgender experiences to a cis or allistic person. This satyr doesn’t need to explain himself or why he does the things does, to you or anyone else. 

When I was working  on “Drinking the Styx, “ I wanted to make sure there were no humans in my story as part of the main cast that cast was going to satyrs and their experience didn’t need to be translated or explained away by humans or human sidekicks. I wanted to be clear that Hermes isn’t a human it’s one of the reasons I spent so long drawing him and his design. I wanted his eyes to be alien and strange, to be hard to relate to at first but eventually you see him with all of his satyrness, daddy issues and problems with mental illness. I shouldn’t have to soften him, maybe him less goatish for my readers. I don’t compromise. 

It’s the same reason I refuse to make Tikaani completely verbal, it’s the same reason I don’t always submit to the idea that I need to wear my ‘mask’ in order to be valued. I should be valued even when I am flapping, shrieking or talking to you plainly. My worth shouldn’t be based on how functional I am or how well I pass. Yet, it is. My identity as a ‘monster’ is measure how well I can hide my fangs, my horns, my long floppy ears any everything about me. It’s how well I can make eye contact, how well I speak, how articulate I can be, how well I can follow verbal cues (when I can’t process them very well) how well I can sacrifice myself for someone with little respect for my own needs. Those are things that people want from me, from others. 

When I do pass, I am seen as ‘over coming’ that I am ‘rising above’ something .  My disability mainly, no one actually realizes how much work it is and many autistics have explained this. But I want to continue to make it clear on how aggravating it is to pass, even when in spaces it’s ok to flap. Because in the end someone is going to see your fox tails and or goat eyes and jump twenty feet in the air and go “Wait! You’re not human!?”  I don’t see my disability as something to be compromised to make you feel better; I don’t see people being friends with a goat man like me, like it’s an act of charity. You’re not a better person for not starting at my horns or hooves. You don’t get good karma cookies for not mentioning that I am walking on my toes or chirping.

It’s being a decent human being, to a decent satyr.

 

On Being 'Human'

This is an essay on the character Aya from Green Lantern the Animated Series An essay on Aya and autistic narratives In discussing with Isaia last night I showed her and essay in which I discuss the race of aliens in Mass Effect, the Geth and allegorize them to autistics and autistic narratives. I am sort of going to repeat myself a little bit but I will try to discuss why I connected with Aya as an autist and why writing autistic narratives can be so bizarrely tricky. Aya is by far one of my favorite characters. I haven’t connected to her so strongly since Avatar: TLA with Sokka and Aang. She developed at a pace that wasn’t forced or contrite, nothing about her character seemed like a cliché and everything about her seem to sit with me in way I had trouble describing. I really liked her, a lot.

Being male identified, I had to pick out why I connected to Aya so strongly and why I wanted her to be happy the most. It was when I was running through the blog-gauntlet being ‘Autism Awareness’ month (aka, Month of Hell) and I was busy readying over blogs for my disability activism then it hit. I attached to Aya because she is an autist like me. Now bear with me, this isn’t as crazy as it sounds, nor am I projecting (I might a little), I spent years studying autistic narratives in fiction and analyzing them, I write fictional autistic characters, and I notice things. It was when I had that epiphany I knew I had to talk about it somehow. As I stated previously, Aya was paced well. Meaning her development came organically and unnoticed. You don’t noticed that she was falling in love with Razer because the writers didn’t expose it and learn to show not tell with it. Her evolution of gaining momentum over the course of the season and it was interesting watching her develop. When I realized what she symbolized for me everything seemed to be colored differently. The way she interacted with people, the way she talked, learned reminded me a lot of my own experiences and a few of my peers; to me despite being a robot, she resonated with me how an autistic person should act in fiction or narrative setting. She wasn’t helpless, she wasn’t a permanent child constantly needed the ‘neurotypicals’ to explain things to her, she wasn’t obnoxious, or made to be plot furniture. She was socially clumsy interacting with organics, communicating them had occasional snafus and there were more than one moment in which Hal yells, “Ayaaaaa” in frustration. Yet, she is brilliant, powerful, beautiful, and so wonderful to watch grow up. Watching her interact with Razer was so breathtakingly amazing to see how Aya evolved and became more human. Not by the will of her love interest but by her will and desire. It had nothing to do with Razer but everything about her own agency. And at the same time, I was frustrated. They have made a wonderful autistic narrative, but Aya wasn’t an autistic, but a robot.

Despite autistics being stand-ins for robots in many modern narratives these days. I know Aya wasn’t an inversion and most of my observations could merely be projections of my own want of a clear story of an autist that is not written just for neurotypicals. Not everyone shares my view point on Aya, and I respect that. Aya though is example on how I want autistic narratives to be written. With that same well-paced, organic feel that isn’t full of preconceived notions of what autistic should be or has to be in the eyes of neurotypical society. There was no need for a ‘Velveteen Rabbit’ story for her, meaning in which, a non-human or disabled character is turn normal or human by the loved of another. Usually a male non-human turned human by a female. Aya had her own agency and decision with her own identity. It wasn’t made as I mentioned earlier, for Razer’s benefit. But hers, Razer loved her for her. Not to make her normal or organic but truly accepted her for her. In some way, watching her in pain and anger while she was in Aya-monitor mode, made me both frustrated and in pain with her. I wanted her to be ‘saved’ but because she was hurting so much and I understood the moments of shear cathartic anger and rage at the discrimination that we both endured. I didn’t want her to burn away like I have so many times before. I think the most striking thing about Aya and her narrative, is that emotions and feelings were there and watching her build them to empathize with her human crew and still getting treated like she was soulless machine; was rather heartbreaking. I have experienced that, the idea that as an autist I can’t love, or that love is too complex for me and I lack ‘theory of mind’ to understand love; and its nuances. Watching Aya defy what was expected of her condition was amazing and so beautiful. She did feel and love, and seeing that being told was very rewarding and satisfying.

 It was proof that autistics and robots. Do have souls.

Sound of Rain (Fiction)

I wrote this back in April.

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Sound of Rain

C. Kramer

Hands against the foggy glass, Ian looks out watching the drips cascade down the bay window in his apartment. Slowly falling, the rain makes the sandy hair boy laugh as lightening dances in the surly clouds. He pulls away flapping his hands and rubs them on his face. A celebration of some sort, one that his lover never truly understood but empathizes in a way. Ian flapped again bouncing on his toes, swaying to the rolling roar of the thunder. A May storm always gives him such delight. A fixation that Mattie let him indulge him in once in a while; ridged schedules, planning things in advance, and a life of routine left their lives little room for things like spontaneity. Mattie couldn’t always go parties he was invited too, he left work early sometimes to deal with incidents. His life has been route and organized. All to keep Ian at peace in a sea of noise and faces, if one thing goes out of balance. There was chaos.

And people do ask: “Why do you even bother?”

The answer wasn’t simply “because I love him”, though that is part of the answer. For Matthias Shepard, life was as sea of noises and faces too. There was no reprieve for him; he went through life feeling though the ocean of emotions and thoughts constantly drowning in them. Every day, he was drowning and on one cold January evening, that is when he found an island. Ian Farthing was that island. A man who spent his life living with siblings, parents and at one point in a men’s home; never really having a place of belonging. He was a burden to some, a liability to others, but Mattie saw him differently. Telepathy with a secondary talent of empathic awareness, are heavy weights to wear. And since people never shield, he was always privy their intents, to their feelings, to their secrets. It was maddening for Mattie. Ian being autistic was relief from that. His mind functions so differently that picking up emotions was foggy and hard to pin point and telepathy was equally hard. His thoughts were various word-pictures, sounds, smells. They were in differently complex patterns that are hard to cipher though. It was perfect peace. He wasn’t open and naked like the others. He wasn’t a pulsing mass of ethos. Finally Mattie found someone that he could truly get to know, talk to, and discover.

Ian found peace with Mattie. Shoved aside by family members who saw him as a non-person; Ian found himself with little control over his life. It wasn’t until his sister Jane saw his landscapes, and then people started to care. Not about him, of course not. Just of what he could produce. Rich and vibrant fields, busy streets and stormy evenings; the latter is his favorite. Watercolor was his medium of choice and spent many of his days holed up in his room painting. Only eating when made to and only leaving the room when he had to piss. Ian spoke to his sister in the same short clipped voice explaining in great detail what he trying to say in his paintings. He went on about techniques and new methods, watercolor vs. gouache and things that Jane couldn’t give a damn about. But he made money. And greed was strong in her. So against his own needs, she made him do tours, sell in pricy galleries and showcases, dragging him around like a dancing poodle. It was that January when Ian was showing his watercolor paintings in gallery opening, the one that Mattie was at.

Swaying side to side, Mattie found a shaggy hair main with wide rectangular glasses staring at a painting of a sunset from a roof top. Mattie was drawn to him, while trying to escape the environmental noise and the psychic noise too. It was quiet where Ian was. Surprised, Mattie stood next to him. Pushing back his long black hair he took a sip of the chardonnay and started a conversation.

                “Nice contrast, I like how the red bleeds like that against the start black.”

                “Oh.  Thank you. Took me months to get that,” responded the swaying man.

                “You’re the artist? You’re Ian Farthing?” Mattie raised an eyebrow and turned to Ian with a fascinated look he is so….silent. I can’t pick out any outward resonance from him. It’s like he turned off or damped his emotions. I can’t pick them up. Mattie offered his hand to Ian, a smile forming on his tanned face.

                “Matthias Shepard, it is an honor to meet the talent behind these paintings.” Ian carefully shook his hand. Mattie’s hand swallowed the clammy artist’s, and he had to actually concentrate for once to pick up a resonance. He hates it here, he doesn’t want to be here I get those emotions, but his thoughts there are, images, some are words…but I can’t translate them right away. This…this is incredible. He’s a Dampener. Those are hard to find. Shaking his hand for a moment, Mattie turned back to the painting.

                “Does it mean anything?” he asked, Ian’s response was simple:

                “It was just a practice piece using some new tubes, but I guess people can stick whatever meaning they want to it.”

                “It looks…somber almost. Like there is a kind of dinginess to it, but seriously; what does it mean to you? “

                “It’s isolation. Feeling of being cut out from society. The roof has nothing on it, it’s bare and void and sun as its setting casting a glow to it; almost if it’s judging it.”

                “Do people judge you Ian?”

                Ian looked at Mattie with a hurt look, “Of course. I am autistic. Of course they judge.” Mattie was going to probe deeper when a stern blonde woman walked up to them. She ushered Ian way saying that some folks wanted to buy a piece from him. Mattie looked at the title of the painting that they were discussing. It was entitled: Scathing Glare.

The months that followed ebbed and flowed. Mattie spent evenings visiting Ian, at his studio. Bringing meals to him when he forgot eat. Watching him paint and the conversations dripped down like steady rain. Mattie explained to him that he was only child, and grew up rather sheltered. It was only when he hit middle school things began to change. His psychic powers manifested and nothing was ever the same after that. Ian seemed interested about it. He has met some “psychics” in his life. Most of them were just empaths that were good at cold reading. True telepaths were hard to come by and meeting one for real, was quite an opportunity. Ian started to feel a strong connection to Mattie after spending several evenings, and afternoons with him. He started to take more breaks from paintings and started visiting him at his clinic where he practiced. He made an effort more to try new things and slowly Mattie watched him come out of his shell. He was vibrant and exuberant about everything. Paintings of Ian had richness that Mattie noticed more. Real happiness, and as the months that followed from carefully nurturing the relationship that they have sowed together, the happiness flourished.

Getting Ian off of Jane’s hands however was not simple as Mattie thought. Before Ian moved in, Jane struggled to keep Ian for herself afraid her little hen will not lay any golden eggs for her. Yet Ian convinced her that he can give her some of his money he made from commissions and galleries to her once a month. Deal placated her, and without that complication, Mattie and Ian can begin their lives together.

It wasn’t always perfect. Mattie knew what was he was getting into with having a relationship with an autistic. The beds have to be always made or Ian will rant and be surly for hours. If they were late for a gallery show or a meeting or anything, Ian will panic. Mattie was patient and rational but even his own patience was tried when they got into spats. Mostly out of miscommunication than malice. Explaining things over and over was exhausting. Still despite the rough spots in their relationship. Things sometimes seamlessly flow together. Ian was tirelessly observant, Mattie often comes home late and dinner would be prepared for him. Small paintings of flowers and fresh fruit will be in his briefcase and the simple peace of them just together in the apartment was fact enough on how much it was worth it. Living with Ian took effort but all good things take effort.

In Ian’s case, Mattie was also a challenge. Like autistic symptoms, psychic powers also have its set of inferences. Ian can tolerate crowds as he was use to them in the gallery parties. Mattie can only tolerate them for an hour or so, before he started to break down and hide to escape the constant sea of resonance. Movie theaters were out of the question. Mattie had a hard time eating out too. Because even the food has resonance and nothing killed the mood more than trying to eat a steak with the sound of mooing and the crackle of static from a stun gun(One of the reasons Mattie often went vegetarian). So it goes without saying that eating out was once in a while and only if Mattie wards from various resonances and impressions. When Ian had enough of people and the mask of “normalcy” falls off; he shuts down, rocking back and forth and hands over his eyes. He will scream and try to run away. When Mattie gets over loaded, he gets violent. He made damn sure never to show that side to Ian. Until one afternoon…

It was another gallery show outside of town at someone’s property. It was warm and bright and Ian was more involved with the guests than use to be. Shaking hands and showing them some of his new pieces. Mattie was oddly more worn that day. Quiet as he followed his lover behind him watching with proud but tired expression on his face; happy to see him so social for once. He took a beer from the cooler and walked outside to get a break from the party and drank on lawn he found himself wandering to an area outside of the man celebration when felt a wave of psychic energy. He furrowed his brow as he touched a hammer that lay in the grass next to a tree stump. A sick feeling welled up in Mattie as he rolled his eyes back seeing an image two men beating the shit out of another man. Words and slurs were being thrown around muddled with the hazy image. Mattie choked back his nausea as the boy who was probably gay was beaten by two men, high school age. Dropping the hammer Mattie staggered back, beer left in grass by the weapon. He had no idea if the boy lived, or not. He didn’t stick around to find out. His own mask dropped off as he stormed to the car not noticing that Ian was behind him. His grey eyes filled with concern.

                “Mattie? What is wrong, you lo-“Mattie whirled around to strike whomever was behind him, but Ian caught his fist. Grey eyes now filled with deeper concern. “What the fuck happened? What did you see or pick up?”

                “Back off Ian, I just need space.”

                “No you’re going to calm down first. You’re seething, what happened?” Ian was insistent and didn’t let go of Mattie. Both of them looked back for a second before getting into the Jetta.

                “I picked up something in the back of the place, some kid got beat to shit.” Mattie admitted rubbing his face.  “We need to go now. We can’t be here.”

                “Do you want to tell the police or something?” Ian tried to help.               

                “No I just want to fucking go! I am tired to death of being here.” Snapped Mattie

                “Mattie we can-“ Mattie fell into the resonance loosing himself to the impressions he found. Everything feel away from him nothing was stable or real anymore as he found himself looking into the eyes of the boy that was beaten, Ian didn’t even finished his sentence when Mattie let out a deluge of words anger flavored them like hot sauce. Ian couldn’t process them fast enough but without thinking, he grabbed Mattie’s shoulders and forced him to look at him.

                “Stop! Breathe. Now. Push back the onslaught. I am gonna talk to the host, I am gonna get to the bottom of this. We will go home, get out of the ocean Mattie you will drown.” Ian solid words, and own dampening ability stopped the resonance from continuing. Mattie took a breath and managed to put himself back together.

                “Right you do that Ian. I am going to chill out here for a while ok?” Mattie said wearily as Ian slowly got out of the car and walked back to the house. Mattie rubbed his face as tried to hold on his mind. He needed Ian more than Ian realized.

Bringing himself out of that memory he watched Ian rocked to the sound of rain and heavy thunder. Mattie got up from his seat in the living room and put down his laptop. Coffee in one hand and idea in his head he got Ian’s attention.

                “Hey, Ian c’mere.” He said as he put his coffee down. Ian laughed and joined him in his favorite chair looking outside the window, still engaged to the conversation.

                “Something on your mind?”

                “Yeah Ian” there was a pause, “what do you think about the phrase ‘high functioning’?”

                “It makes no sense honestly, but in what context?”

                “What about in the autistic sense?” asked Ian sipping his coffee letting the mellow flavor relax him as Ian took his time thinking.

                “I still think it makes no sense. I am only considered high functioning because I can talk, but most folks look at us and they don’t see a gay couple. Most people think you’re my brother and get shocked when I kiss you in public. Rest of the word sees me as, semi-functioning or something. They notice my disability and see it as a flaw. You’re not even high functioning at all and they call your disability a god-damn gift.” Ian rambled.

                “You don’t think I am ‘high functioning’?” laughed Mattie.

                “Generally, you can pass. But I know you struggle daily to keep from falling into whatever resonances or psychic entropy you find. You get sick and you tire easily. I take care of you more than you take care of me Mattie. I mean. I don’t want to seem like I am complaining. This is just my-“

                “Observation, I know,” finished Mattie, “I know you’re not trying to be hurtful. So many people see the relationship as one sided. Some even think I am taking advantage of you, but you’re right Ian. It’s the other way around. Sometimes you get lost in environment yourself. Sound drowns you but you always manage to bring yourself out of it. If I start to drown, I can’t seem to pull myself out.” Mattie drank his coffee quiet now.

                “The sounds of rain Mattie, people hear the rain and are calmed by it. But when I hear it I am driven. I want to rock, flap, dance, spin in circles. We all respond to the world differently. I don’t think that means you’re a high functioning psychic or low functioning one. It means you respond to the sound of rain differently. I can’t tell you how to dance to it. But one day, you will find your rhythm to it.”

-End

Saviors and Sinners

I haven't been posting a lot lately mostly because I just felt so out of it (FTR I have LJ too that has been neglected as well) and posting hasn't been on my priority list. Well to change that I decided I wanted to put forth a recant of a topic that I like talking about.

-Writing autistic characters

I state this topic a lot, but I approaching this from another side. A side that has been touched a lot but I never really discussed it; and that is writing from the perspective of an non-aut parent. Writers do it a lot to the point of creating a bizarre schism between the main perspective and the alternating one. It's seen with 'House Rules' mostly and even with 'With the Light' there is the same parallel POVs. One reason this happens is because the writer (NT mostly) envisions that that autistic view point is so alien that the reader will never understand and we need an NT guide (the parent) to make sense of it or to have it as the main view point because we certaintly can't focus it on the autistic.

This is frustrating as an autistic person, because while parent focused stories are awesome and full of jazz, the autistic POV stories are few to none, and if done, often have 'translator' character to help the reader. Autistic characters are different to write yes, but they are not impossible to empathize and connect. I got a lot of push-back and arguing from beta readers and ex-RP partners that couldn't relate to Tikaani. I would take it seriously if I didn't work my ass off to make sure Tikaani could be approachable to NT readers. The thing is though I didn't have to make him approachable to NTs at all, I could make him a character for autists alone and tell all the NTs to GTFO. The thing is I wanted Tikaani (and at one point Wilson another autistic character of mine) to be teaching character. To be a reference point for readers, if they can befriend and connect to a fictional character. Maybe connecting to a real autist wouldn't be so tricky.

The deal is that people find it tricky. Enough that most autism narratives (fictional ones and non fic) are all done with parents. Writers never consider the autistic perspective unless they want a "exotic" and "foreign" viewpoint. Autists are never normalize or seen as regular people. They are done either to be "sooo straaaange" or be a character obstacle for the parent to defeat. It's is done time and time again in media. What is really haunting about this. Is that in real life a similar effect is also happen. If I am a non-autistic parent raising an autist. I will get a lot of readers and support. As an autist myself with his blog, non aut readers like to read my blog to 'gawk' or say how 'brave' and 'inspiring' I am. Parents will bring up their kids and compare them to me. In fact in many circles, autistic children have been used as "street cred" measuring sticks. I have seen parents time and time again use their own kids and compare them to an autistic adult to validate adult's DX (Well you seeeeem like my son so you must be on the spectrum) it's mind boggling but common.

The point of this is bring up a fact. Autisitc perspectives in fiction are not "weird" or alien. Writing them and making them relatable is not hard. It says a lot about a culture when and about you, you think you can't relate to me because of my DX.

Movie Review: Mary and Max

I saw this on netflix out of shear serendipity, it's a cute claymation movie called Mary and Max. Mary Dinkle is a 8 year old girl from Australia and Max is a middle age man with Aspergers and lives in New York and they are pen-pals. It look like a cute movie, so I decided to give it a shot.

Right away I like the animation it reminds me of Wallace and Gromit. It's rather cute and whimsical with narration and the textured desaturated claymation. Mary has a pet rooster named Ethel, makes her own toys from things she finds, her mother is an acholotic that shop lifts and her dad never talks to her. Despite that, she is sweet cute and I seem to like her. Max is obviously aspie, over eats but is also good natured. He's also Jewish and mother committed suicide.

It's also strangely heartbreaking, because Mary is constantly teased, on her second letter to Max she is crying because of the constant bullying and asks Max for help. It's not really meant for children really, because of some of Mary's questions and some of Max's own responses, but it's not our right R. Max also has a severe meltdown and is sent to a pysch ward. It's powerful how while funny and kinda adorkable, it's also painfully real and raw on their lives.

(Bonus Max wears an Aspies for Freedom shirt and I laughted a little)

Max does explain to Mary (in his simple monotone and frank way) what Aspie is. He states to her which nearly made me tear up again. "I like being an aspie, I do not want to change it. As it like changing the color of my eyes"

It's very raw, cute and heartbreaking. It's different from most cartoons and stories with autistic folks. Which why I give it
5 out of 5 hand flaps.

Exit Though You (Fiction)

This is an old fic I did of my character Wilson. He's an original character and like Tikaani he is also autistic but with the gift of psychic powers. I will be talking more about him and Tikaani when I do my lesson on making Autistic characters.

Exit Through You.

Accident in the shower I forgot to wash my heart...now the dust has turned to mud since we've been apart.....

A feeling of emptiness settled in Wilson's gut. He wondered if this is what it's like after a break up. A gray sort of blankness that hovers around you. A kind of fog that you can't shake off but gradually it evaporates.
She wasn't really that great of a girl Wil, she had a Down Syndrome brother...she felt sorry for you. Said ever familiar voice. Not his own, but someone else. Wilson didn't know if 'Refuge' the angel that been at his side since he could remember, was really a metaphysical being, or a schizophrenic hallucination. Maybe Refuge was a little of both.
“She gave me a chance though Ref, how many girls will ever give me a chance?”
You can't just hook up with a girl because they have some vestigial echo of empathy. You could do so much better. Refuge argued, his deep and timeless voice resonated around Wilson as he leaned back in his computer chair and took off his glasses. He has been working on his thesis all afternoon. Home sick with a flu-bug, Wilson took the opportunity to finish homework. He sighed and put his square framed glasses on the oak wood desk and got up to get some soy milk. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. Wilson checked his schedule, it was time for yoga and then an hour of playing on his Wii. Wilson drank the chocolate soy milk as he walked over to get his yoga mat. Just like Refuge, he has been on well managed schedule as long as he could remember.

Mrs, Grandam it's apparent your son has autism. It's a neurological condition-
I know what it is...my younger brother was institutionalized because of it, so can you get me some phone numbers so I know what to do next?
You seem prepared for this Mrs Grandam...did you know your son is autistic?
Of course, you just confirmed the obvious, so what do I do now?

Wilson's mother never was afraid of anything. Her brother Mikkael was sent to an institution when she was thirteen, she loved her brother even after his death. She promised that Wilson will never know those walls and he will find away to overcome any odds and now Wilson was in college in Philadelphia. Yet it seems that it was obvious to his mother that he would be verbal and independent. Years of occupational therapy, ABA and speech therapy and Wilson was high functioning enough to hide his disability. Of course every day he had to tell himself to look people in the eye, don't ramble about genetics or mushrooms, don't flap your hands. He felt like a puppet on strings most of the time. Imitating people.

“Calliope said I had no empathy Refuge, that's why she broke up with me. She couldn't connect to me.” Wilson noted with a sad wryness. He arched back into a bridge position his slate blue eyes looking at the ceiling fan. He kept wondering if he was really just a puppet. When is the Blue Fairy going to turn him into a real boy?
You have empathy. You remember when your gay friend Ryan committed suicide, weren't you there holding his boyfriend his arms? Refuge recanted to Wilson as he continued to through his asanas Wilson brushed his dusty brown curls out of his face and finally collapsed into the the 'child-pose'.
“Only because KJ asked me too, and I liked KJ and yeah I was really upset, but...I don't grieve that long maybe because I still hear Ryan's voice or an echo of his voice.” Wilson's clairaudiance was rare gift, most psychic powers or gifts of divination come visually, for Wilson he could hear the dead the past and the future. It was that gift that allowed him to know that Ryan shot himself. Being called a fag for so long can do that to you. Wilson understood, how many times did the word retard do that to him?
“She also thought I needed to be medicated.” Wilson added, Refuge's retorted back.
She thinks everyone needs to be medicated. Weren't you on anti-psychotics for a while? Wilson grimaced. Those were some very quiet months, his mother took him off of it because he stopped talking, stopped doing...anything. Just made him still. Wilson checked his watch, now it was time for some Wii, he stopped for a moment and check his watch again. He washed his face and grabbed his hoodie and his wallet.
Breaking routine today? Asked Refuge as Wilson headed out locking his apartment door. He walked down the steps into the smoggy Philly air.
“Maybe...maybe I am just trying to be less like an android.”

I am sorry Wil, you're so sweet and thoughtful but, I don't think could work out. There is something about you that I can't connect with some days you feel like a robot..