I am publishing this essay unedited so you can have the delightful experience of what it’s like to me inside my Brian (my Brian to be explained further down).
Neurodivergency is in now! And boy oh boy does this make me happy because now I get my childhood wish to be a normal girl! I used to gaze across the street at the Mormon family with two slender blonde daughters, close to my age, but worlds apart from my Abby Normal experience. When I learned that Mormons did not drink coffee or booze and the ate meals at the dining table, I was enchanted by the idea of normal. Their presence in the neighborhood gave me hope for a normal existence, but sadly, in the long run, the idea of Normal is quite unrealistic.
Not that I had never experienced the elusive normal state, because I had some Normal during assorted hiatus parkings at my Granny’s house. Mother was “ill” so I spent school years with Granny and the Colonel. Yes, that is what we called them. Maybe not so normal after all, but still when emerging from a clown car and visiting the peaceful asylum with lovely grounds and regular meals, it is more normal, though not Mormon Normal.
The capitals make it a “thing.” I capitalize to give my ideas a persona. My capitalizations say, “This is a person.” Need I explain? Yes or no. Please tell me in the comments. Smiley face.
Mormon Normal was a Thing to which I aspired and to this day I cannot achieve because I love coffee. Coffee is medicine for this neurodivergent Brian.
Yes, my brain has a name. His name is Brian, so named by the computer that changes words as I type them into the tiny keyboard on my communication device, formerly known as a telephone. But we dropped the “tele” long ago. Keep in mind that Brian is the left side of my gui radio receiver. The right side has a different name, which is not clear to me at this time, as the thought entered only minutes ago. Truth moves.
I am a Normal Modern Womun, now that neurodivergency is common. And yes, I make up words, it’s what I do as a Gemini with Pluto ruling my third house, the kitchen drawer of words, thoughts and local errands. It is about time the world caught up with me. It was lonely here in the world of lost keys, forgotten friends and the inability to calculate numbers inside my blind Brian. But now I fit right in, because, evidently, modernia makes us all nuts, inattentive, disconnected, fearful and lost.
Back to the subject at hand:
Two reasons. (For what?) I can’t remember this train of thought and I’m too impatient to read through the above text. It’s important, because God made me say so. Help! I’m empty and Gods are filling me with impressions. Justified! God stuff is so easy to blame and to claim, and glory to Left Brian for the details and declarations and explanations. He’s a hoot.
Never mind. I forgot what I meant to say. No worries. Brian will spit it out as I wander through blowing sand at Bastendorff Beach.
Here it is - This is about the chaotic versatility in the Moderian experience. Endless possibilities of performance and presentation and yet we are still trying to squeeze into small boxes like cats seeking the security of a tight space.
Where was I? Number one is long gone. Number two - I get to try on this interesting label for a while. I cannot think through anything. You may think these words are thought out, but they are not. These words are reportage. The Youth is a journalist without imagination, but with keen observation skills.
The Youth of my story doesn’t breathe air. He is a mammal in water. He lives deep where the fish are blind due to lack of light. How do they navigate in the cold, wet, dark? They wear knowledge like clothes. They can’t see, so they smells the coat of many colors. They taste the threads. They feel the smooth texture. It is my fate to try on all the outfits before buying the One frock. All my closets are neurodivergent.
Words and thoughts happen on Mercury’s watch - The Young Mind, a Puer Aeternus, the Eternal Youth. In this context The Youth is a boy of twelve years. If we were to discuss the feminine counterpoint, she would be called the Maiden and she would be more emotionally mature and a bit taller.
The boss of my story is the Young Mind, Mercury, delivering messages around the galaxy of my bubble. This Young Messenger lives in a house located at #12 Moksha Street. He writes the play and acts all the parts. A one boy show with a cast of hundreds, or tens, depending on several factors of fractiles and crash landings because he simultaneously plays the Roadrunner and Wiley Coyote. Thus, the twin reference because he is both Smart and Smart Alec.
Masking
An Autistic can cloak her weirdness with masking, but I call it acting or pretend. Which character shall Mercury talk to today? Which mask? So many to choose from because the house at #12 is the wardrobe closet for all the plays ever produced in eternity. It’s a big closet.
Which sign shall you wear today? If you are courageously fighting for a cause you have adopted the Aries mask and cape. But what if you want to hide a dose of shame? Then perhaps a shield of Justice will calm the wound. The Libran need to stand in the shoe’s of others can be a grand distraction, both elevating self esteem while doing a solid for an underdog.
Put on the mask for stage and screen so you can live as a heartthrob.
Combine Mother Moon with Neptunia, so that you can dine on the deck of extended cruise to dreamland. With this mask you can be nice enough, when when present, but you are seldom fully present, because watching multiple paths, as you do, observing walls and windows as they open, close and slide through ever expanding verses, multiverses, you become a stream of consciousness uninterrupted by troublesome punctuation and/or meaning, because in the cosmic vision of it, like an extended run on sentence asks …. Who knows, really? Truth moves.
And… this Moon story has a genetic thread that unravels from the past into the future. You wear the mask, standing on the shoulders of giants as the dragon’s headless body, Ketu, the South Node wriggles hopelessly lost without direction, reacting to stimuli, trying, trying to be fully alive. But truly, what is an asshole without a mouth?
OCD/Autism Overlaps
Mercury square Pluto: Unwanted obsessions and compulsions that are time consuming and get in the way of your mundane life. Intrusive thoughts, images, urges. Aggressive or horrific thoughts.
contamination, cleaning, fear of germs, dirt. excessive washing, avoid the dirt. A preference for comfort around the body. Clothes must fit ‘just so’
symmetry and ordering. objects properly arranged. arranging and rearranging.
Jupiter in Pisces opposed to Saturn in Virgo: Forbidden/taboo thoughts and compulsive actions: intrusive, unwanted thoughts sex harm and religion. compulsion to pray, repeat certain phrases and count.
harm and checking: fear of self harm or other. checking behaviors. Did i lock the door? turn off the stove? etc. The harm police (Karens?) I must remove that dangerous object?
Transit Pluto opposed Sun in Gemini in #12: That was when I locked myself in a room so I couldn’t get to the kitchen knives. Voices told me to cut my throat. I was afraid. The white coats gave pharmaceuticals and tried to lock me up with Big Nurse, but I ran away.
Mars in Virgo: Intense interests. Intense and focused. Compulsions: Actions one must perform…. Not just being tidy. Seriously neat to the point of religious zeal tidy. The sort of tidy that demands attention in spite of a lover’s touch or a child’s request for humun interaction. Scrub, I say!
Sun square Saturn/Jupiter: Challenges in social interactions. Or is this one Bi-polar?
Mars in Virgo quincunx Venus in Aries: Repetitive behaviors and routines.
Mercury in Taurus: A change is routine is distressing.
Is it normal to count as you perform a task?
Is it normal to arrange things in your environment until it feels right, but it is never quite right? Move it to left one inch. Now forward. No. Put it in a box for later. Oh fuck it! Throw it on the floor hard. Smashing!
Saturn in Virgo in the 4th: Is it normal to have an urge to punch myself in the head? Doesn’t everyone?
Dragon’s Head Rahu in 11th house: Social Anxiety. Is it normal to live my entire life with a golf ball in my throat?
Saturn square Sun: Doubt. Is it normal to question every step I take, if it’s the right pattern? Will this step be the most efficient? Leap of Faith. Take a step. My courage is admirable. Proud of myself. Was that correct? Build a better wall now.
This is Now
I could not think right, so I spent my life trying to understand psychology, sociology, anthropology, astrology, Buddhism, Taoism, Kabbalah. I have been diagnosed post partum depression, regular depression, schizoaffective disorder, bipolar and stupid. I have repeatedly punched my head in public and private so hard that others had to restrain me. This urge plagues me when anxiety rises up from gut to throat.
I cannot remember my life, memories are vague ideas that slip through my mind through a crack where they land in one of my organs that complain. I cannot remember. I cannot imagine. When the yoga teacher tells me to close my eyes and visualize my happy place, I am lost in the dark. I smell memory but can't remember what happened. I see your colors when you touch me. I seldom understand what I read, except for my topics of interest, and even those must be studied and copied onto paper by my hand. I have extensive notes in journals and books. Lately I have changed from books to individual sheets of paper so I can collate and organize the topics more efficiently.
No one believes I am broken or faulty because I am attractive, dressed like a fashion model, articulate when at my "lectern", speaking about mythology, astrology, Taoism, Kabbalah or psychology. I give excellent astrology chart readings that are unconventional from the standard because I interpret the story through my mythic perspective.
I have used the "pretty lady" role to gain inroads into society, but it has never worked. I retreat into my small circle and stay hidden. I can jump into the limelight for short periods but the recharge time is more prolonged.
I have learned to be quiet in crowds. Now and then I give a small diatribe when I see a person's patterns and make pertinent comments. They find me surprising when that happens. Since I was young I have been told to "find my people" and that is what I have done, unsuccessfully, until now. I recently confessed to two friends and they lit up like old fashioned standard light bulbs! Warm light. Comforting. We three on a neurodivergent journey.
Since young, I have searched for the bug that twisted my mother into helpless knots of sorrow and fear. She was a mess. Beautiful, natural artist, a brilliant writer who stayed home, never to pursue her talents. The medical people literally shocked her with electrodes on her head. They gave her downers and uppers and generally broke her into terrifying pieces of self loathing and depravity. This bothered me. I did not like this part because it caused me to hate my own dear mother.
I had to understand better. Was it the non nutritious food? The booze? I never thought, the Brian, until now.
This diagnosis is a miracle. Suddenly, I am not so critical of others. I have a new perspective and expectation of others. As if I had been acting neurotypical toward myself, the ultimate mask. I am an excellent actress. My motto: Monkey see, monkey do. Really, I deserve an Oscar or a Golden Globe for the resounding fiction I present to the world.
No One Is Normal
Laws are not the answer. Proper diagnosis is. Today’s fights over gender are a manifestation of a tribal urge to complicity. A law can never make you understand another. A law will not give you peace from your troubled mind. A law, written on paper, is a Yang thing. A straight arrow, shot at a target that no one can see. Laws should be guides, not religion or faith.
Modernia suffers from a plague of Yang. The target shooting, left brain. The guy who wants to close the case. That’s over. Next. Yang cuts the flow of Yin. He is not bad, it’s what he does. Humuns need to understand what he does and what she does. Yin is the flow. The wave. Yang is the particle, the look-see. Ah, there it is. Right there in that spot. So look, then cross your eyes and the spot is gone. Where did it go? It waved goodbye.
We are in the End Times of Yang. The Mother is already taking back her oil, her plastic and her chemicals, but in reverse, as she does, because the level of toxic pollution created by our entitled humun Left Brians has created an over estrogenated environment where the sperm dies before it finds the egg and one thing I have learned about clones is they are infertile.
An ultra feminine world is a sleeping princess world. She will sleep for a million years and then a single sperm prince will wiggle his way through the brambles of time to find her and wake her up with his magical Yang kiss, the breaking of her shell, her hymen her sleep. They will recreate all that is and we will be there, trying to remember what we already know.
Begendings
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