The Art of Delayed Gratification.

According to the great sage of the Twentieth Century,
Edward P. Bear,
It is not in the actual eating of the honey,
That the true pleasure is found.
It is in the anticipation of eating the honey.
Those moments before,
Where thoughts stray to,
What eating honey shall be like.
Thoughts that are the culmination of
All prior pleasant experiences of eating honey,
With the heightened expectations
Of what this latest honey experience,
May be like.

This is why when expectations are not met,
For example if the honey jar is empty,
It can be so disappointing.
We cease to feel the pleasant feelings of anticipation.
Likewise;
If we have too much choice,
We also miss out on this wonderful feeling.
Where honey is on tap for example,
There is no joy in anticipating eating honey.

Live in the moment and find joy?
Nup!
Discover the divine practice,
Of the Art of Delayed Gratification.
Practise temperance,
Be grateful,
And find healthy experiences to look forward to.
Honey in moderation.

Heat

In days pre air conditioning,
The populous,
Those wealthy enough,
Would escape to the cool climes of their mountain retreats.
But today,
It is hot even in the mountains,
Where we presently swelter.

We are of the less modern ilk,
And scorn such extravagances as reverse-cycle air conditioning.
We live off grid.
So it is just hot.

No balmy sea breeze takes the edge off.
The water-tank filled swimming pool,
Is not even wading deep.
And the stagnant air is warm,
Beneath shady trees.

It is on these rare days,
Where lethargy and fractiousness reign,
And no productivity is possible,
That indolence and idleness should be embraced.

Escape

The water is warm.
The curtain creates a child cave.
I am hiding in the bath.
The exhaust fan issues a droning warning.
"Occupied do not enter."

For me,
It has been a TOO LONG period,
Of fraternal stimulation.
Guests,
Their physical needs,
And their mental anxieties catered for.
The mess of new high traffic areas.
The kitchen, the toilet bowl,
And where the children play.

There's the stress and strain,
Of an expanded nuclear family,
Who has indiosyncracies you are unaware of.
The inordinate amount of food preparation and resultant dishes.
Willing helpers whose ignorance of your household,
Makes them a hindrance.
Then there are the social dynamics.
Who will tolerate who, and for how long.

So for a least a while,
And perhaps a LONG while,
I shall recoup,
In this bath.

The Broken

When you,
And strangers come together,
And live,
Even temporarily,
You begin to understand,
That there are many broken people:
Couples,
Where one has lost their way.
And can't settle.
A cosmopolitan family,
Who cannot locate their home.
A man who has discovered his childhood sweetheart,
No longer is,
After fifty years.
And the one who must find herself,
In the approval of  others.
Fills the gap with strangers she meets in cyberspace,
Trusting no one.

Packing

Strewn,
Articles of clothing,
Packages which once contained,
Toothpaste, insect repellent, socks.
Amidst this,
The detritus of everyday,
The clothes of yesterday,
Maintaining some of my body's shapes.
Shredded vertically.
A cold cup of tea,
The cream a stagnant scum.
Bed unmade,
And around the room,
Piles,
In their multitudes.
Piles that make sense,
Like with like.
Piles that are a cacophony of clutter.
And beneath one of these,
My bags half packed.

ASD

I hate that Aspergers is described as a disorder.
In fact I hate that Aspergers doesn't exist,
Since it was dropped from the new DSM 5.
And what would those phsychologists know anyway?
Do they have the amazing sensory processing experience,
That can be described as Aspergers?
Well of course not.
Ah but we do,
And we know what it feels like on the inside:
The logical rationality.
The precision.
The super dooper focus.
Having the nose that knows.
Being so in tuned with others emotions,
That we are overwhelmed.
No empathy?
Bullshit!
Hyper-empathy!
Honest, loyal and way smart.
When my world is dishing me up a fair deal.
i.e:
Exhibiting honesty and integrity,
And speaking in precise English,
Not body language mega-babble,
Mixed with innuendo and emotional clap trap,
And exhibiting insecure tribalism.
Then there is no disorder about it.
And I can let my Aspergian super powers,
Soar...

Procrastination or Disorganisation

I just can't get my shit together.
It is taking an inordinate amount of time to organise,
My bedroom, my house,
And my life in general.
I can see in my minds eye how to do it.
But the details,
It is always the details,
Oh and the interruptions.
And then there are the wasted journeys,
When you find yourself somewhere,
And you cant remember why you where.
And the whole process is just so fatiguing,
That you lie on the bedroom floor,
And feel panicked at how much time has elapsed,
And how little you have achieved.
Being organised is my preferred state,
But getting organised is always a challenge.
I work very very hard at it.
I do not suffer from procrastination,
Just disorganisation.

Little infatuations

He described infatuations as one of the great pleasures of his life.
His were moments of alchemy.
Where two beings have a sudden and intense connection to each other.
I'm saying 'beings' because I think one,
May even become infatuated with a small furry animal,
But this tends to be one sided,
Much like infatuation with babies.
But sticking to adult infatuation,
I see it as like a small crush.
It doesn't have to be for a person of the opposite sex either.
Infatuations can be flirtations and sexually charged,
But they can also be mental attachments.
Their commonality is their level of intensity,
And their fleetingness.
If an infatuation starts to become passionate.
And of less fleeting duration.
If you really begin to miss the other,
To the point of physical and mental anguish.
Then watch out.
This is no longer infatuation.
This is heading towards love.
And who knows,
Even marriage.

Christmas Beetles

"Is that one, Mummy?"
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.

Paranoid Hysteria

In a small country community,
Every person counts.
What I mean by this is...
Unlike in a city,
Where a person's decaying remains,
May lie festering,
In a lonely flat above a kebab shop,
For years unnoticed.
In the country,
It is like God numbering the hairs on your head.
Everyone counts.
We are disparate.
So when any of us is afflicted in anyway.
There are always strong ripple affects.
And word of mouth is everything.
So if someone has a personality disorder.
Like Paranoia,
The ripple effects can be far reaching.
And because we are polite and not qualified psychologists,
We may make little gossipy comments,
Amongst our clique,
But don't have the confidence or gall,
To deal with the issue straight out.
Instead we stand back and watch the divisive speech of the paranoid,
Turn a snowball into an avalanche of ill will.
Which threatens to engulf and divide the community.
By means of paranoid hysteria.

My Fergie

He's a classic,
Massey Ferguson 35 X,
He is his original red,
But that doesn't make him racy.
He putts along at a walking pace,
As I slash the tussocks.
I am in low range,
Because the tussocks and cutty-grass are thick.
He can still give me a start when he picks up speed downhills.
Or if one of his big wheels,
Suddenly discovers a wombat hole.
Despite his loud hoarse monotone.
I find riding him,
In slowly diminishing circles,
Almost meditative.
Getting the PTO into gear is a feat of agility.
I use the wrong foot to double clutch,
So the other is free,
To whack the lever, grinding, into position.
Of beings mechanically inanimate,
I have a precarious relationship.
Which means I am a poor driver.
I find the throttle, slasher raising, gear changing and braking,
Sometimes beyond my motor planning.
But as I disengage the PTO,
Lower the slasher and pull on the brake.
I feel a real sense of achievement.
That we have survived another excursion together.

Chained to the sink.

Cooking up a storm,
Cyclone Tracy,
Post Christmas seventy-four.
My kitchen is laid waste.
But unlike Darwin,
The mess requires only a little elbow grease,
And I have more to show for it than flattened stilt houses.
Currant jelly.
A shoulder of goat in white wine and rosemary.
Mutton pie,
And from that colossus of the garden,
The veg that can neither be named or given away,
Zucchini slice and a zucchini chocolate cake.
Yes a fine bounty but the cost.
An inordinate amount of,
" You're soaking in it!"
And wiping of bench and tabletops.
Chained to the sink.

The Importance of Words

Synaesthesiacs may see numbers as colours.
But I see words as pictures.
Photographs and home movies,
From the albums of my life up till now.
Discovering a new word,
Is like opening a brand new picture book.

I love metaphors and similes,
I collect them,
Like postcards from holiday destinations.
I even make them up.
"He was being a frock"
It is soft, flouncy and has tiny blue flowers,
Gathered at the waist, long puffy sleeves with cuffs.
" She is as crazy as a cut snake "
The one that writhed about headless on our back patio,
Three years ago.

I read books I can cope with.
Some images I do not want in my head.
So I read the last pages.
Why invest in a relationship,
With a character who meets a ghastly end,
That I perhaps may never forget?

I like my words to be precise.
I have MY pictures for their meaning.
I have little tolerance,
For thoughtlessly chosen words.
Arguments have even turned nasty.

Despite this,
I often can't find the right word quick enough,
To maintain flowing conversation.
Then,
I resort to swearing.
Funnily, these hard callous words,
Don't have pictures.

Washing up

Billie the baby is six years old.
She is just finishing her diary entry.
"How do you spell Miss Mandy?"
She asks.
Her grip is correct and her writing deft and efficient.
As a teacher and her Mum,
I feel a bubble of pride warm my chest.
Now what to do?
Her earnest little face asks.
"Would you like to help me with the dishes?"
Her answer beams from her face,
And my chest again re-inflates.
Aprons donned and a small chair reversed acts as stool.
The rinse water, child's blood-warm.
She uses a bottle washer to help the rinsing process.
And carefully places each glass and utensil into the dish rack,
Up side down.
She is meticulous.
I watch the mid morning sun pick up the flecks in the rinse water.
I breath in and inwardly smile,
At this perfect Summer idyll.

Release

Of late,
The hurt and despair of disappointment,
Has been great,
I have been to the brink.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
Those who know intimately,
The acronym ASD.
May empathise.

But having returned from the abyss.
I find that there is still one threshold to cross.
It is difficult to explain,
But to venture into a place of such mental anguish,
Requires a similar return journey.
The cocktail of cortisol,
Mixed, not stirred,
With dry disappointment.
Leaves the brain numb and on high alert.

It takes a physical release,
A letting go,
To come back.
A long loving embrace,
Or even orgasm,
Achieves this state.

But today I discovered another way.
The reaction was identical,
Long sobs racking my body
Turning to hyperventilation.
I crumpled with the weight of it.
And the cause.
I just sang.

Fermentation

Today was spent in fermentation,
Both metaphorically and literally.
The old year is drawing in,
Like my tightening post Christmas waistband,
My mind is slowly,
Pickling the plans and ideas for the new one.
I ruminate,
And cut up red slaw for sauerkraut.
The past and recent hurts are mouldering.
I discard them like the dregs of the Merlot,
I have just siphoned into bottles.
Gulps of wine swallowed in the process,
Leave me verbose,
And slightly adled.
I sing carols expressively,
Two days late,
(no visuals required)
And I make yoghurt.
The dramas of the festive season curdle in my guts.
While sour dough bubbles neath its plastic sheath.

Plain Speaking

I do not understand:
When a pronoun is used before the noun is stated.
"There is so much stuff going on. Things are getting too much"
When time is not set within margins.
" I will tell you later."
When a place is not specified.
"Let's go for a walk."

I can't see the point of:
The tribal bonding of banal small talk.
"Oh how terrible for you.
You are such a nice person for not getting too upset.
Oh I couldn't have coped ...blah blah blah"

I do like it when someone looks at me,
And talks to me earnestly.

Is that so weird ?

Generational Disappointment

It seems I belong to a family,
Who suffers a terrible inheritance.
For some of us it is genetic.
For others,
Environmental.
It is born of unmet expectations,
Insecurities,
Insincerity,
But mostly,
A clash of cultures.

The objective but confused culture of the Aspergian.
Diagnosed or not.
Versus those more emotionally volatile neurotypicals,
Who attempt to love us.
The result,
Is much like its cousin,
'Generational Poverty',
Which is similarly, a cultural construct.
'Generational Disappointment' is a deficit,
Affecting the soul,
Rather than the wallet.

Hating Christmas

It sounds extreme,
Hate.
The opposite of love,
The harshest word,
 (That is not a curse)
Not to be written or stated lightly.
But yes I can say without hesitation,

I hate Christmas!

Why:

Asperger's dislike of all faux,
The superiority of a dominant religion on parade,
The obligations,
The rampant consumerism,
The overconsumption,
And the machinations of insincerity,
Bah Humbug.

Humanity on Parade

Stuck in Town.
Now I am a retail prisoner.
Before me the 'Food Court',
Saccharine smells,
Blend with coffee and grease.
I scan looking for the rest rooms.
A long narrow passage lit with blinking fluorescence.
Meanders into the Bessa-brick anals of the building.
Framed posters of consumerist decadence on peeling paint.
"Ah a bookstore",
Perhaps it has the new book,
I heard about on the radio,
In my, 'next bookstore four hundred kilometres', rural home.
But no,
False pretences,
Book clearance centre in guise of 'nice rustic book emporium'.
Chain stores and bargain, clearance, retail outlets.
And walking like zombies,
Overloaded with Christmas shopping,
Those for which this retail experience is normal.
Humanity on parade.
I make my escape,
With only a couple of completely superfluous purchases.
I feel almost dirty with the shame of it.
I am off to find a public park,
And a shady tree.

Conquer Kozzie

We came, we saw,
We conquered Kozzie.
No mean feat if you are three years old,
Or if you are scared out of your wits by the heights,
Encountered on the chairlift.
Funny going up was much easier,
The down will be described in all its,
White-knuckled majesty,
Later in these prose.
But for those,
I will not say of us,
Because the chairlift puts me in the same category,
As the three year old,
But for those of able limb,
The thirteen kilometre return trip is...
A 'doddle.'
Seven made the pilgrimage,
Ranging in age from six to forty eight.
The nine year old Aspergian required constant 'chivvying.'
And only completely lost it,
Near the summit.
"Too windy,
Too high up."
After all this was the highest point in 'Ostraya',
And way way too scary.
Nine year old Aspergian geniuses can count.
Four hours to dawdle and whinge six and a half kilometres.
Well that adds up to,
Too far.
"Can't we go back now?"
Luckily for us the way back is blissfully,
Downhill.
The scenery was superb,
But greatly marred by gale force winds,
That buffeted the petite six year old against the summit cairn.
Perhaps the junior Aspie had a point,
But he was hunkered in amongst the boulders.
So at pace we returned.
Only one spill on the steel boardwalk.
And at last sun and wind burned,
The time had come for the chairlift descent.
The blind led the blind.
And blind we were with our eyes tightly closed.
The three most terrified on the same chair.
At the base, walking jelly-legged,
It was then I noticed the imprints of my fingers,
Indenting the soft flesh of my children's,
Small hands.

Carols by Candlelight

The air was slowly cooling,

Thank goodness.

People were gathering,

With full eskies, foldout chairs, 

Or blankets on the drying grass.

Small children as diminutive Santas,

Tinselled elves or barefoot Christmas Angels,

Ran about squealing with excitement.

This ritual, repeated in the daylight-saved twilight,

Of each small town across the country.

Is about to begin here, in my town.

Our choirmaster, in readiment, lifts his arms for the first up-beat. 

Then booming out across the lawn our combined acapella. 

"Joy to the World the Lord is come!"

The Swag

A marvellous invention,
Of antipodean origin,
Humped on the wallaby,
A non-complaining partner,
Who will let you lay as is your want,
Keeping out cold and rain,
But allowing a vista unparalleled in beauty,
The majesty of heaven itself.

The subject of verse and song,
Or meandering yarn,
Told at leisure by a campfire.

When a long day of crutching,
Or mustering or marking lambs,
Fishin or huntin,
Is at an end,
Or after a night partying too far from home,
This is the time,
To find a soft flat piece of ground,
( or the back of a ute,)
And roll out,
Your swag.

Sleeping Out

Lay my bed in soft dry grass,
On the dependable earth.
Make my blankets reassuring lambswool,
And my sheets, sun-kissed cotton.
My bedroom, a hill-top,
And my window the star-filled skies.
Let me hear the sweet music of the breeze,
As it plays 'piano' on the leaves,
With the accompaniment of nocturnal animals,
Rustling about their business unobserved.
Let the fresh wholesome scents of air and earth,
Waft gently into my olfactory recesses,
And lull me into rejuvenating sleep,
'Neath the trustworthy radiance of the moon.
Let me lie unmolested,
By any troubles of mind or spirit,
But go in and out of restful dreams.
Until the coolness of the predawn awakens me,
And I may greet the day.

Friendship

In the cynical world,
Of false facebook friends,
Where people measure themselves,
By the number of 'likes',
And how quickly people respond to their 'posts.'
Where the fear of being 'unfriended' guides,
Their obsiquious actions.
In this ego-preening, face-saving,
Shallow, commercialised, 'dog eat dog' world.
We can, if we look past this smorgasboard of,
Mistrust, fear and self preservation.
Recognise the scared person within each of us,
And reach out to another,
Genuinely.

Circumstance

Circumstance,
Somehow the stars had not formed that fortuitous constellation.
Trust was put into those jaded by disapointment.
So it did not happen.

It was not down to anything lacking,
In personality,
Other physical attributes,
Or qualities of character.
It was not that they were somehow,
Not deserving,
Or not tried hard enough.

It was merely a matter of chance,
That they had not had the opportunity,
To open themselves completely to that one person,
And have it reciprocated.

The Casual Affair

Why is it,
He cannot allow himself to love her?
To give his whole self,
Openly and honestly.

Yet he longs for her caress,
Her lithe body against his,
And her voice in his ear,
Soft and low.

She will give,
And give, to her very soul,
Yet he does not trust.
He is honest when he tells her,
That he cannot commit,
But she hopes he is lying.

For fear that he will be hurt,
He holds back,
And hurts them both.

Holding on

The trust has been dented.
And now I'm clinging, white knuckled,
To the barricade,
I built, to protect me.

I am not yet giving in to the maelstrom of emotion,
That will wash over me like a tsunami.
Toss me and leaving me gasping for air,
When I do go back;
To the relative safety of his embrace.

The hurt is great.
The return, slow and painful.
He, who was supposed to be my rock,
Crumbled into dust
Before my sadness.

I, in despair.
That he,
Who should,
Did not recognise me.
So I drove him away.

And now I am left,
Just holding on.

Broken

When she found herself alone.
She had the belief,
That the cruel exclusions,
And the hateful barbs,
Could all be endured,
If he came and found her;
If he 'had her back'.

But she found herself fighting alone.
And then he sought her.
She, wounded by battle,
Had nothing;
Certainly nothing to give him,
Or anybody else.

We he found her alone and in despair,
He tried to soothe her,
With his excuses and explanations.
She covered her ears to the assault.
But he persisted,
Until she broke away;
And broke down.

Now she finds herself alone,
Shamed and broken.

Shame

Shame is a loss of 'Self':

Self confidence;
That you are capable of losing control,
And doing,
The appallingly unthinkable.

Self respect;
That you do not feel,
Deserving of respect from,
Anybody.

Self worth;
That your inability to remain,
In control of your actions,
Makes  you of lesser value.

How does one come back from that?

The Painting

I see the image in my mind's eye.
And put it onto the clean canvas.
My pencil strokes mark the outlines,
Keep the perspective true.
The portrait is for my friend.
She is naked in her vulnerability .
I place her chicken arms into a boxer's pose.
Her skinny leg is placed on the head of her assailant.
Her gaze penetrating and her hair crazy-free.
In contrast my friends self-portrait is dark.
Her cyclops eye is staring in disbelief,
Her body compartmentalised into broken pieces.
This is how she is now.
My portrait,
Is how I want her to be.

She just didn't Love Him

She was surprised,
That she was not heartbroken.
She expected to feel sad,
That they had been torn apart.
She did not even miss him.

There had been good times.
And they had been together for a year.
And it was not that he had betrayed her,
And watched as she was beaten.
She was not bitter or vengeful,
Just confused.
She didn't care to ever see him again.

"Well, you just didn't love him,"  I said.

"I suppose I didn't, "  she replied.

Broken

The brave face is a charade.
Quick step with resolve.
Dark sunglasses, tight jaw.
Not waiting for the change at the checkout.
Shaking hands, and trembling lip.
Three inches deep,
Instant coffee shaken into her cup.
And a packet of cigarettes,
Burnt into smoke rings,
Go up her nose.

He has broken her.

And they Walked

There is no-one untouched.
"I don't know how many laps I can do?
But I'm walking for Carol."

Carol is on morphine now.
A few weeks ago she was among the sopranos,
In our community choir.

Penny and her sisters have raised so much.
Ignoring the signs,
Like a man,
Their dad succumbed after only a few short weeks.

As night falls,
The candles are silent sentinels.
Their scribbled messages,
Each tell a story of loss,
Or sometimes hope.

I walk for the collective loss.
Those of my friends.
Their sister, daughter, aunt.
His mate, a long way away.

I walk in gratitude of good health.

Relay for Life.