saturday 22 august 2009

Page Twenty-three                                                                                                                   


It appears I have one person reading this new journal, at leat. I’m writing, I guess, for that one person. Whoever you are, thanks.

There were so many songs in my own life. Bits and pieces of them sing themselves in my head from time to time, tempting me to sing them with my voice. I can’t lately, though there have been other times when I could. All the music I learned over my whole life was learned mostly in the presence of animals, in a home, sung in a home where the animals heard, sung at times especially for the animals.

Back in June and July I could still listen to a very few of the many public radio shows my animals and I used to listen to. Now I’ve had to eliminate even those, and am always lying in my room in silence or with an audiobook playing. Audiobooks were a big part of my own life too, but they don’t hurt me as much as the radio shows do.

There seems to be no hope of getting an apartment anytime soon, where I can have my hundreds of taped journals back, and listen to them, and cry as much as I like, and retreat back into the memories of what was my own life as much as I like. I’m not one of the people on the autism spectrum that desire a truce with the neurotypical world. I desired that for decades, and couldn’t get it. Seventeen months ago neurotypicals destroyed my life, and did other mean-sprited things as well.

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(tree of life leathers at