Offering Comfort in Crisis


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Dear readers:

So, I’m Autistic.

In our current times I doubt that having such a disorder is as dauntingly apparent as are those who might be either struggling with jobs, money or, most of all, physical health. Yet, inasmuch as many are truly going through a trying time, I can assure you all that a syndrome such as ASD is as malevolent and even fatal as a respiratory virus.

There was a post by a Doctor who specializes in neurological disorders who mentioned a term called “Masking”. She was kind enough to offer an allowance to me to write a brief auto-biography about my journey with Autism. Yet, months later, as she posted this letter upon her own blog (or whatever platform it was) I wrote back to her and informed her of a full-fledged panic attack due to an acute revelation at the expense of what it meant to be masking. The short hand is this: I’m putting on a front in my behavior; I’m acting normal because society has deemed that my natural behavior and coping mechanisms within my ticks, gestures and stemming are too wrong, bad and not to be performed. Thus, here I am; working a job; talking to people; socializing et cetera….

Furthermore, the doctor stipulated that often those on the spectrum have become so consumed with their acts of masking and covering their natural inclinations that it evolves to their normal functioning system of behavior; loosing, therefore, their true identity and what makes them, them. All my life I have fallen to this delusion that I was to perform and behave in a manner associated truly with the social normality of society, no exceptions. What is worse is that such delusional thinking has metastasized into my writing. Looking back into earlier posts, I remember exuding such grandiose eloquence of words and sentence structures tantamount to the apex of high-English vernacular. And now I have succumbed to the ways of the world and have fallen victim of everyone around me saying “you should dumb that down because no one is going to be able to understand you or what you’re writing about.” I am not totally unbecoming to conformity and I will follow rules and I will exhibit every form of cordiality to family, friends, acquaintances, guests and strangers at the store or wherever. But, I refuse to be lectured, criticized or supposedly educated on how I am supposed to write or speak. Going back to the aforementioned tale of the article of masking, I fell to such an acute panic attack because I had worked so hard, tried so tirelessly and spent years, decades in fact, of counseling, to behave as a normal person; and now I feel there would be no going back to who David truly is, was or would have been. I fear my character is lost forever behind a method actor.

That being said, I have ironically found my niche. I don’t know what I wrote or have written of to the extent of what I want to do with my life (a common song of many that are usually in college changing majors again and again) but I definitely know now what would make me happy and that it is a pursuit that has my total passion and commitment. Herein observe the story which lead to this marvelous discovery of myself (by the by, I’ve been searching for such a revelation for nearly 40 years of my life, so this is pretty big news).

I work at a memory care and assisted living facility. All proper nouns and names will be anonymous. I’m required by law not to disclose anything. I’m a receptionist. Nevertheless, working here warrants the company of many elderly people. I was instructed during my interview that I will be confronting the passing away of our company and that I need to be careful that it does not inhibit my work. Recently we have had a person pass away. The family came by to visit under the disposition of emergency the day before they had passed so they might say their goodbyes. The emotions were that of sorrow, yet the person passing was 96 years old, I believe; having lived a full life with many members to their family. To comfort the family, I pulled out my violin and began playing nice comforting music. The granddaughter of the passing person began weeping albeit in comfort because she could not have asked for a better means of hearing beautiful music played during a time of upcoming bereavement and grief. It then dawned on me: I want to use my music to comfort, heal and allow for beauty in a time of sorrow or joy in a time of mourning. More background on this revelation is as follows:

An old friend of mine, when attending his church, introduced me to two people. After the conversation, he confided in me a little later that they said, “your friend, David, we sensed such a healing nature in him.” Flattery aside, the occurrence of this story transpired over ten years ago. The impactful nature of it just seemed to resonate. Since that time I’ve always held strongly to the notion of healing. I delved into music therapy and had generated many concepts of my own invention to try and conjure a practice which I seemed to have been nudged by God to partake in. But nothing would stick. I wanted to play the violin since I was a little boy. I’ve now been playing for nearly seven years and have become a professional. I literally get paid to play for anyone and everyone, anywhere and anytime, if the setting permits soft and lovely violin music.

It was then my decision to embark on something I had been praying for wisdom to receive all my life: I want to play music for families who are grieving or for individuals who are sick.

I have been playing professionally for about 10 years, now. I’ve noticed a category of listeners who are as follows: children: the most eager and the most absorbent of the music who delight in all its melodies with no discrimination whatsoever. The homeless: individuals who are given a great hope and a feeling of encouragement as music fills their ears despite an empty stomach. Also, I have received more tips and generosity from the homeless community than any other person. The elderly: individuals who fall under a parallel of the children, save that their age warrants a much larger song-list of request in which I can play into their nostalgia and even touch on their emotions in an enormously sentimental way. The Autistic community: parents, children and adults with ASD are affected in likely the most profound way, in that they see an adult on the spectrum behave as if he wasn’t on the spectrum (foreshadowing). Also, giving the children and the adults a good feeling not so much of the music, but of the man playing and actually in public performing. Finally, the last category are adults and young adults: unfortunately, most of these typically have a disposition of pride and would like nothing better than to listen to the music but walk on indifferently; pretending that they’re not interested but rather more afraid of me as a stranger or someone who is in fact 6 feet 4 inches tall and likes to wear long coats and blinder caps. Nevertheless, I do in fact touch on quite a few in this demographic and they do stand pleased.

Moving on, my goal right now (and at least until this quarantine has been lifted) is to promote myself as a solo-acoustic musician and composer. The field I wish to specialize in is in fact wakes, memorials and funerals. My desire is to bestow respites and perhaps even assist in the healing that comes with the loss of a loved one. My heart broke as I witnessed this beautiful family weep before me as my music was played preceding the passing of their mother, grandmother and even great-grandmother, for all generations were present during my little performance. I had never played better in my life. I feel my empathy has been at one hand my greatest demise whereas it has also been my greatest strength. Moreover, during a season in the lives of all around the world, we as a populace that are facing a crisis such as this virus will definitely need the sonorousness of music in that I can think of no greater way to heal than that by harmony. I’m calling my practice “The Music Maker”. My slogan is “A Gift for You.” I just want to do something that I know I love, which suites me, as well as giving to others in a manner which is undeniably of mutual benefit; especially during a moment where the slightest thing could send it over due to such manifold sensitivity.

Readers, my friends and the fellow Autistic community, I could really use your help. I am not sure what I wrote in the past; regarding desires of careers or supposedly chosen professions. I know that I have not been well for upwards of about 5 years and my decisions have been anything except resolute or substantial. But, I’m hoping that this blog finds its way into your hearts in which you may mention a person who lives in Southern California that follows God to the point of a desire to comfort grieving families via music: violin; piano; singing; percussion; composition. As a simple recompense all I can ever imagine to rise to any success is that of an established healthy family and a safe and beautiful home. What more could any man of God want; Autistic or otherwise?

I’m building a website on It seems like it’s a pretty handy website builder. This is the link to that website The Music Maker Link to Website (under construction). I will also be trying to form a new YouTube Channel (right here: YouTube Link) to show certain examples of my styles so as to perk interested parties. The YouTube site will also feature more about myself, my story and what I wish to symbiotically offer. If you have any inclination to support me in this, I ask only that you simply share this link to my website with others. I really, really and thrice really desire to see the look of comfort on the faces of the mourning as I did when that family all sat around awaiting the passing of their beloved loved one. Also, I will try to make updates as often as I can. I pray that this profession can gain ground and not just I but we will be able to tell more about how hard times don’t have to be without some sort of healing, therapy and ultimately a comfort that transcends crisis. Music therapy is a science fact, after all. Let us spread the good news.

Thank you, readers, always for listening and inclining thyselves.

Always forever with blessings from God and my greatest sincerity,

-The Giver of Words.

I am Still Alive, *Heavy Sigh*.


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Dear Word Press Readers:

I have utterly no idea what has happened. I have absolutely no idea what is happening. I have fallen benumbed to the abyssal of obliviousness pertaining to the patterns succeeding the events aforementioned in sheer abandonment of comprehension and ecumenicism. In other words, I am on the autistic spectrum and I got married. After the passing of three years, not only am I still married, but I have also accomplished the endeavors of leading a quite successful marriage. Yet if you were to ask me the parameters in the essence of specificity in which the “how” became the “induction”, I would say… but, I already told you what I said (see beginning of paragraph).


It is good to be writing again. I love writing. No, no I really, really love writing. The stroking of the keys and my ability to manipulate words and phrases via the absence of real-time conversation of interpersonal socialization is bliss. Since the genesis of this writing blog I know many herein have become followers due to their direct relation to ASD or that they are diagnosees of the disorder themselves. So it would be assumable that any such mentioned reader can easily relate to the idealism associate with what I can say obsesses my mind, heart, body and soul in matters of pure escape from a world which functions via a chaos in which a Rick and Morty show, in comparison, is more like watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. Writing is simpler. Writing is slower. Writing, for all intents and purposes, is not performed in real-time. A great analogy (if you’re a gamer you can relate to this. If you are not a gamer, the analogy is easily discernible) can be seen in video games of a role-playing nature. Most RPG’s can typically allow or rather permit an option to “stop-time” or simply “pause” the game without subtracting the players abilities to alter stats, change directions or manipulate moves or even exchange equipped items. Thus, as the moment in time would verily be willingly and unilaterally resumed via only the discretion of the sole player, advantages would have therefore been evoked for the lead/sole player alone; for the enemies to have fallen victim to the power for which is given that player. It is this function of writing to which comforts me: the omission of real-time in the allowance of liberal manipulation. Most importantly, I am free and rescued from articles of unwanted prejudice: I am allotted the totality of my heart and my fingers to communicate it as thus. Yet in the level of accredited reception to the reader, that power lies outside my realm of evocation and entirely to you, the reader. Verily is exposited so commonly among creators: “I/we hope you enjoy it!”


Marriage is hard. Imagine that you have a panging migraine wherefore exposure to lights and sounds induces acute hypersensitivity accompanied by a full-time job requiring moving on your feet rapidly and answering/returning phone calls promptly– your shift ends in 3 hours and 30 minutes and you are approached by a disgruntled customer– for the 3rd time: you’re not diagnosed with Autism. For a diagnosee that is high-functioning on the spectrum, this is just another Tuesday. Now, I just learned (or rather was more comprehensively acquainted) with the term “masking”. I look normal. I act normal. I gesticulate normally (more or less. I have lots of overt stemming. I blow on my hands all the time). I walk normally. I even speak normally. I used to speak like I was Spock on Star Trek, and that is an under-exaggeration. Masking is the torture in which I have partaken unwittingly all my life: it is a torture. My natural behavior would give appearance that I was either mentally challenged, mentally ill or both. But because I was forced to “behave” and no one knowing why I was “misbehaving”, I took it upon myself, in total obliviousness that I was doing so, to “behave” more appropriately. However, such endeavors induce the uttermost effort and an epitome of concentration; equal to that of running a double-marathon in the middle of summer within Death Valley while wearing a wool, winter suite– that is wet– with old wine– cheap, old wine– from the cheap, old wine dispensary from a winery, counter spittoon after it had been sitting out in the hot sun for 13, no fourteen days. Therefore, living with Autism under the disposition that I wanted to “fit-in” necessitated living situations that required the highest ideal of OCD. Moreover, efforts to more effectively “fit-in” lead disastrously to ramifications in which the exact opposing desired outcome befell me. Thus, an even greater chasm of OCD interred its cremated sulfur into my life as the factoring walls of self-imposed exile reared more avidly among my egregiously growing need for exile. I am sure I mentioned my suicides in previous entries. Safe to say they all failed, yet my attempts were not ham-handed gestures of gaining attention: this was sheer panic for escape. So, currently, I live, share and all otherwise confide my personal space to another person; a woman; my wife. Efficaciously, marriage is hard. (I regret nothing).


I’m exhausted, but that from writing. Despite the difficulty of life, marriage and even attempting to work, and despite my negation of remonstrations of it, I always stand amazed at my strength for which is invoked through it. Notwithstanding, writing is a task which will deplete all forces of spirit and life (though not negatively) in that for whom invokes that of which writing effects its most dogmatic of iterations via forms by designs of which God intended. That is what I just did. Blessings to you, all my readers. Praying to God for your wellness and good welfare and perpetuated health. Grace and peace upon you all. Thank you for reading (here it comes) and I hope you enjoyed it!



-The Giver of Words.

Accepting Autism


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Dear Readers:
Living with Autism is extremely difficult. Living in a world where Autism is not physically seen is even more difficult. Tolerating a world where I must continually perform to the standard of society by literally forcing myself not to act out on my neurologically atypical impulses and function normally is utterly difficult and completely exhausting. But, what my counselor told me the other day during our session—something fairly encouraging to this affect—“but, David, you do it every day; every-single-day. Don’t you?”

Fifty million sighs later, I begin to accept this fate of mine. I so eagerly and passionately wish to exist in a world that does not judge me; that does not criticize; a world in which we, the Autistic community, are not ridiculed by our actions nor by our beliefs, our skin color, our speech pathology or the level of intelligence or how many followers we have on whatever platform. I wished to live in a world that encompassed an ideological understanding of Autism and, through influence and affects far more accommodating, I could therefore learn to function with greater efficiency despite having an atypical brain neurology. This world, alas, is not sensory friendly. I told my counselor that I desired, perhaps merely one day a week, maybe two, to retreat to a place where my sensory-overload and behaviors and my total account of built-up facilities can, for an hour or two, come crashing down without any social or personal ramifications whatsoever.

I’m suffering a loss. I am bereaved by the world around me which shall never accommodate Autism. Only pockets and certain communities may house such as we are. But I guess I’m through caring. I suppose that, through this grief of mine and through the factual tragedy that my many suicide attempts and the notion of my seemingly endless sadness only ends when I just accept this one maxim: it is what it is. Today is 90 degrees outside, it is what it is. My left ankle has moderate cartilage damage and I cannot do rigorous exercising on it, it is what it is. I have to wear glasses due to astigmatism and a lazy left eye, it is what it is. I have poor vision and hypersensitive hearing in which the world will show absolutely no mercy, it is what it is. I have Autism and the world does not fit into such a person’s neurology, it is what it is. Ergo, a room where I can be totally free and shut-down all mental faculties and become totally devoid of all whence-attuned control having been conditioned for decades will not exist; at least not for me. I’m going to have to gut-up on this one and, somehow, endure.

Readers, family and everyone reading right now who’ve just come to my humble corner on the universe that is the discombobulated internet, I absolutely adore Fine Art and I consider myself an aficionado. I took my first art class in high school (pre Autism diagnosis) and I ended up showing prowess near equal to the teacher. I subsequently failed the class (Autism, go figure….). But, because my teacher was so awesome, he let me pass with a D minus. He gave me a D minus because he said “you’re too good, David. But, I don’t know why you’re not doing your assignments.” He encouraged me to keep drawing, but I’ve never reconciled with him, at least for myself. He never found out I was Autistic. Even my own parents were totally dumbstruck by my artistic abilities: force-perspective and shading; size, shape, focal points and eye paths; color weight et cetera. I preferred drawing abstract. But, I favor the displayed for my own person collection of realism. I am not too fond of impressionism. And my least favorite is modern impressionism. To be specific, Barnett Newman, as an example, is, by far, the worst art in the world. If someone out there loves his art, then amen. I’m not here to judge taste. But, I am here to critique what, in my opinion, is grotesquely bad art.

Barnett Newman draws a black rectangle against an off-white canvas and it sells for millions. He paints a canvas that is larger than my apartment all red with but the tiniest inflections of blue and yellow. Security guards and subsequently placed lest the work be stolen. Rembrandt van Rijn was a master of shadow, light and shade; with plates upon plates of specialized works as his forte for which the age of the renaissance is eternally blessed. Claude Monett uses a contrast of blending of landscapes for which a portrait of beautiful mastery in the form of abstract mosaicism comes together at a distance as if the hand of God himself guided the brush. Michelangelo spent decades upon decades upon his back for which modern scholars and historians still stand in awe for which a mere man was gifted with such preternatural abilities for the apotheosis of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. Yet, a black rectangle is classified amongst these God inspired men? Ludicrous!

When I wrote my first book, I was never please upon which the characters and, heretofore, the narration spoke and read in my native dialect. Although I knew not any other language aside from my own speech in it, far removed from the writing, it unsettled me to think that these fictional and fantastical characters only spoke English simply due to my origin to my homeland’s native tongue. I took it upon myself to create a language, much like J.R. Tolkien for the Lord of the Rings chronology, only to metamorphosize into English from a primitive origin. Thus, Angellian was born. I’m sure I’ve made this dialect known in previous entries. But the fact of the matter is thus: my wife and I are both working, indeed. However, although our bills are paid and our rent is met (more or less) I know for a fact that I do not speak for myself when I say: I have a dream. How many of you now reading desire something greater, better and more fulfilling than what you’re doing now? And if you say you’re fulfilled, I say, “don’t make me laugh. Everyone has something they want to strive for and gain: a goal of goals!” Heretofore, my wife and I have yet to truly attain ours.

Aside from music, writing, monologuing and a whole slew of other art related talents God blessed me with and blessed me well, I have always been taken by Asian calligraphy. Oh, my God! Forgive my little outburst but it is so unbelievably beautiful. I love the way the strokes of ink against the rice paper look. The aesthetics behind how ancient the art form is. The intricacy and endless plethora of variations for a mere single word or even a phrase; capsulized in an array of strokes and curves too mystical for the human mind. I wanted it!

Angellian: this was the language spoken by the Angellus in the first points of Creation which was to be known later as Creacia: the world of origin for the characters and places occurring in the epic novel: The Rudimentum Series: Aeon Eternal. The first seven Angellus did not even speak at all; they were totally mute. It was in the beginning, the very, very beginning, that the very genesis of human speech was thusly created. Sounds began to form into gesticulations; guttural noises morphed into phonemes. Phonemes became syntax and then syntax to actual vernacular. It was fundamental at best, until a development lead the populace of Creacia the use of words in a derivative form of the dialogue of Angellian: this was known as Old Latin. The Old Latin of Creacia is indeed a true form of the real language, but with minor variances. For example, the word for paradise in Latin is Paradisum. But, in old Latin it is Paradisium, which is actually a form of Angellian and the title of the second book in the series: the Rudimentum Series: Paradisium. Hence, Latin, over many, many ages, became a form of English. And make no mistake, reader, if you’ve read this far into my blog then you’ll recognize your adoration for the digesting of the written words from your eyes to your brain: The Rudimentum Series is only to be read by truly devoted bibliophiles. It is not an easy read and it will be your greatest challenge. One of my friend’s has a father who dropped out of medical school. He said that it wasn’t challenging enough for him; that he was bored. He delved into physics and mechanical engineering and was somewhat satisfied. Apart from his double doctors sitting on his wall amidst a slew of other degrees, he came up to me after he bought my book and said: “David, I can only last 30 minutes in your book. It exhausted me! But I love it! Thank you!”

In the Victorian age of England they spoke High English. I’m sure if anyone here has ever read Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre then you would understand the term “High English.” I took this form of English to the next level and it is a read not suited for a quick or quiet sit down with an easy-to-read book. So, I took Angellian and turned it into the written language which is what you should have seen and can still see know at the top of this entry: calligraphy. Thusly, I have my art form. I draw calligraphy. From this point on my Autism, my gift of words or logophilia, and all manner of book writing and art display will be a devotion for our blog together. There is much in the manner of a fickle mind that is my Autistic neurology which can be read through this blog having bounced around like crazy! But, I stand true to what I am and what I want: I’m a dream chaser and I dream to have my art displayed for the eyes of many, many lovers of all things beautiful. And I can vouch for such people, since I’m one of them. I get to land my gaze upon the highest form of created beauty, daily. Her name is my wife: Martha. Only via my efforts to get out there can we send such a message of faith, hope and love to the masses.

There’s a homeless man who “lives” near our complex. Please, everyone, pray for Joshua. He’s actually recovering from drug use. He’s going to a church, about to look for some work and is on good terms with the community. He lives in a shelter when he can but a girl has offered to date him and even help him succeed in his recovery. But, he can never use drugs again. So, please pray for him. Again, his name is Joshua. Thank you so much, family.

Lastly, before I turned 30, I worked at a cafeteria or “Caf” at a locale university. There was a couple who wanted to film my story of Autism, up until that point. I was looking for it on YouTube until I realized she mixed up my name. She used “Dan” instead of “David”. *laughing*. Here’s the link for the YouTube video.YouTube Autism Hope you like it. Here’s also a link to a Facebook page devoted to my books and art etc.Rudimentum Series Main Page Love you all, always and forever. Blessed be to you all. Thanks for reading.


-The Giver of Words.



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Two earthquakes have occurred coincided by our nation’s two hundred and forty third birthday. I’ve had a strange way about it, this past fortnight. Inwardly, such a turmoil as behest at the hand of one diagnosed, so late, mind thee, of Autism, I am bound by a great anger and bitterness towards more so myself than that of any selected party or person. I found it that my subjectivity is frighteningly bedraggled and mired by the befuddlement for which the Hell, as I call it, my Autism induces within me. And that, to be sure, is what I call a “good day.” Other happenstances only trigger that for which a brimstone-boiling world of the lake of fire does poor justice to the symbolism of what anyone on the spectrum would simply call: I hate my life.


The earthquakes, to be sure, were quite daunting. All the more potent upon the heightened emotions of Southern California in that the epicenter recorded in the vicinity of a 6.2 to 6.4. The aftershock I felt not 15 minutes prior to my very writing within my WordPress blog. And it is in this affect I wish to make mention of a certain qualm, having aforementioned. Here, observe.


My nuptials of not three years past had only spliced into my soul a quantum dichotomy between two worlds. One, heretofore, having surely been mentioned in the past of our correspondences; delving into my psyche for which many and all that I called “beloved” came to a bitterly harsh term of the reality which is where I lie; thusly bringing this statement of its latter point in which a matter of my stress and anxiety is a moribund affair of perpetual depression. My wife and I have had much the disputation, rendered all the normal in what newly married individuals statistically face within their early times. However, inasmuch as I would have thee believe that one such as myself has had a quite profitable time of fruition, compounded by the hand of God in which stands before thee now a bold, bound-for-success and uprightly sanctioned man of hardy conditioning, there is a side of me that rests (“rests” to which the word fallen heretofore upon thine ears not to be taken lightly but with great consciousness) in an opposition as Hell “rests” against its alternate Heaven.


To come right out with it: this opposite is anger. One might assess a word herein chosen as a rightly classified way of a subjective mind in which judgments are based in a fairly rational state. Much more rightly taken to the account of accuracy does a botanist have to say that a dead plant is, in fact dead, a blossoming rose is in fact, blossomed. Nonetheless, analyzing such a worded phrase pertaining to the writer, as in me, one must give credence that, although the assessment of anger in which the rage dwells due to a pent up and most likely elevated storm of reserved feelings not yet reconciled to the dealer of it, it is moreover the magnitude behind the word of “anger” in which the reader/analyzer must obtain a fact behind my subjectively stated word to be given the proper realization in its fullness of function. The magnitude behind my anger falls into a realm where rage, fury and Hell-hath-no exist quite obsolete or utterly nonexistent. Calculations behind the Czar Bomba (the largest man-made explosion in the history of the world) have penetrated the human’s capacity for magical realism; in that the Czar Bomba, having only detonated once, was surely one-time too many. It’s destructive force concluded naught should ever in mankind’s existence be ever exhibited lest our way of life be compromised in perpetual insanity. My level of anger dwarfs this force.


When I solemnly partook in writing my last entry, I felt a release that hadn’t happened for some time. I was subsequently cast into a mold of somewhat mild comfort. As it would have it, other acts of God, myself or man have surely given my pause in a respite of my anger. Such inclusions into the nepenthe of my autistic psyche needed naught more than a full-body massage, a glass of fine wine bestowed by my beloved parents, my wife having given me a quill and ink-well as a gift from her absconding to London not 2 years prior. Ironically, though, it was that very notion for which I truly felt the hand and voice of God continue to compel upon me that pull to this keyboard; in which the healing and, all the more so, the therapy through which such rage can be better and, more to the point of restitution, efficiently channeled. Make no mistake, friends, I have imagined quite the hysteria of outcomes far more gruesome in grotesqueries of luciferin malevolence in contrast to anger far too built up that my conscious had, more often than what is even humane inside my own morality of a soul, concocted.


Ergo, I return to my writing.


I’ve had a bloody way of it. Restricting my code of conduct to perform in society quite debased in speech, etiquette and conduct of civility only to slot my way into what society deems to address as “normal”. As an autistic savant, I have felt endless hypocrisy on my part. But what my spirit raises in anger lies only in its inhumanity forth into this paradox I sit and await further torture; for to manage societal outcomes of neurological typicality, I must hence embark onto a path of torture which must evoke commonality of report nestled by the back-lash for which my cognition must lay waste. Slangs, colloquialisms and nomenclatures of such useless verbiage allow my gag reflex to only evoke when I’m before my toilet. Nevertheless, I hate it.


Herein is not my escape. Herein, upon this white page of infinity is my injection of health; a sort of inoculation from the miasma of human speech I’ve been subjected to quite forcibly. Much worse is my need to do so under the spell of what I feel is society’s eventual crush of the human speech as our smart phones and automated voice-recognition software take our modes of humanity until all utilities and functions of the human circulatory and muscular system lay themselves obsolete.


I write, therefore I am.


I am seeking an Autism corporation with sensory zones and other areas for which atypical individuals (hopefully adults) may allow themselves a sort of “self-imposed” purge. I tell thee, if it were not for my discovery of so purging my common place vernacular upon a website designed to invoke our right to the first amendment, an eruption of my emotions would affect my wife, whom I love, and potentially those around me. In fact, it is known to me that the younger of the flock diagnosed on the Autism spectrum—a luxury I was never privy to, having been diagnosed at the ripe age of 20—are hurled quite often into tantrums in which we are so compelled to snuff out. Behavior management is just that. But we, on the spectrum, need a release; being forced to live as neuro-typical persons as opposed to neuro-atypical. Hopefully I can find a place which would allow me to, perhaps, safely exude my pent up emotions. It is this anger I fully acknowledge and I love far too much the act of writing, music, my wife, God etc to have any of it at risk of my Czar Bomba explosion of emotions due to this societies idiocies! As such, my last point is to emphasis a need from any and all readers to respond to such as myself outside a realm of judgment and understand that Autism is only a problem if those who are not diagnosees so make it a problem. Thus the telling in honesty all I have herein said, ere you make your own assessments—Heaven forbid in wonton wanting of knowledge and understanding—please, I am a struggling autistic savant who can function in society  better than those who are not autistic. That is the problem, for when I return home or find my time to myself, I want to scream so loud that the universe implode upon itself only to return through the blast of a super-nova that sucks it in again for a constant strain of preternatural apocalypse.


Blessed be, readers. I am me and I love to create beautiful things. My purging upon this blog is not necessarily one of them. The Hunchback of Notre Dame is one of the greatest tragedies ever written. Yet, the story is so compelling. Perhaps these entries, hence, shall be also.


Blessed be,


-The Giver of Words.

Nuerologically Atypical


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Dear Readers:

Yesterday I had to go to the senior center for which I perform, twice
a month, on my violin for the temporary, physical rehabilitation
residents. But, I wasn’t going to perform, I was going in for my TB
test. All workers and volunteers are required to take an annual TB
test. The problem is that I utterly abhor needles. They’re like the
sting of the devil’s tail that punctures my skin with the burning of
hell metamorphosized into the dwelling for which the Abaddon of my
skin would then become. I actually started to get light-headed and I
even began weeping, just a little mind thee. The RN in charge of the
test told me that “all men are scared of needles”. I was so flattered
by his comment. Having done so many shots of all sorts, I’m sure, all
his life, a six foot and four inch tall and cut man—albeit autistic—is
no never mind to him.

On the drive back, since it took a while, I rolled down my windows and
just let the fairly warm breeze cool me off in the hot weather due to
my eighty five mile per hour velocity on the freeway (I was still
getting passed by speeders). I began meditating heavily on my Autism
and the fact that I’ve been, now for what seems an eternity, holding
all what society deems “sociable behavior” that I began to take in a
sensation and emotion of betrayal. I felt so betrayed by society
because there has been naught in the nature for me to behave in the
manner which is totally normal, yet neurologically atypical. I thought
of so many other Autistic individuals seemingly free and open to enact
their ticks and stemming habits which were, for all intents and
purposes, accepted by peers and peoples around them; even though their
behavior is not necessarily sociably adequate in our common-place
happenstance of non-autistic people. Ergo, I imagined I was in room,
chamber or what have thee and I dropped all my walls; all my f#$ki*g
walls! I was making sounds; I was bobbing back and forth… I was a
total weirdo! OMG, it felt so good! I wish there were places I knew of
which would allow me a sort of release. Imagining people watching me
behave in such a way is one thing. But, to be in the vicinity of
people who are thoroughly acquainted with Autism that allows me
perhaps naught more than a mere hour of release, that would be a
neurological spa!

I invented a language. Although my wife and I are working towards
YouTube monetization, it’s a slow process when you’re not standing on
the shoulders of the Kardshians. All the same, these things called
rent, food and bills require the acquisition of monetary earnings
rendered for services upon which we staple our day as earned of such
bread every night we lie for slumber. Thus, the articles of temporal
expenditures reconnoiter our situation grievously. Furthermore, on the
tresses of a rift in technological advancement we are elevated into an
age of bio-mechanical renderings of our bodies, ere the conclusion of
a twenty four hour day, our carnal forms lie at the behest, still, of
the need behind the six hours for which our rapid eye movement may
replenish the loss of vitality only to be given its due course for
every morrow. Alas, that temporal cessations do not yet exist, not
that I desire such a phenomenon to even be so lest our consciousness
falls perished to a constant paradox of space-time continuum rifting,
I’m working, therefore, now to see if avenues to traverse may welcome
a man of artistic value in a world I believe is terribly wanting of
it. In the language I created, known heretofore as Angellian, such
calligraphy can surely captivate a room and attest to the beauty and
majesty not just of black ink upon beige canvas but that of a world in
whose color, shape, size and style are only the outer tresses
incorporated by the infinity my language can so generate.

I’ve always known that my talents that God gave me has certainly lied
in the art of words. Music, albeit not so scientific as words,
nevertheless holds the true universal language; a form of
communication that is, I beg thy pardon mathematicians, far beyond
such a science. The loftiness of music excels that of God and into the
realms beyond for which we call Heaven. Moreover, the calligraphy that
I feel would be a great showcase is all but a para-metamorphoses dwelt
in its own created apotheosis I take only credit in my hands, fingers
and eyes. All else, whither, lies in the creation for which God
uttered the very words: “let there be light.”

I am endeavoring to be more active on social media. Curse it! But,
such sentiments I did so chare for emails and even Starbucks at one
point. I do so prefer slower and simpler ways of living. Regardless, I
shall adapt to live, for I am past surviving. I hope you may all begin
to enjoy my artwork and calligraphy of Angellian. Maybe tomorrow I can
somehow write to thee all and explain the depths of the language,
because I am myself marveled at its complexity in the dichotomy of its

Blessings, abundant, to thee all. The past two years have been quite
character building. More upon such a subject later.

May the lord bless thee, keep thee, make his face to so shine upon
thee, lift his countenance to thee and bestow upon thee all peace. Enn
oste’t namm tou’f oste’t patroser. Enn oste’t namm tou’f oste’t sonne.
Enn oste’t namm tou’f oste’t sancte’sunne. Amen.

Thanks for reading.

-The Giver of Words.

P.S. to all struggling with Autism, it’s possible…. Don’t give up.


My Website: The Violin Guy

Autism is Anathema, or it Feels Like it.


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I began writing in this blog whilst sitting upon a red feux-velvet chair at a Starbucks which does not even exist anymore. Or, rather, it had moved. I remember, vividly, engaging what I had no inclination to believe would evolve into over 100 individuals interested enough to partake in the engrossment of my words to this day the first words to become many thousands upon thousands. And now, here we are: friends, family or followers, it matters not. The threshold of my wherewithal stands to naught more than a simple apology to all my quite well received readers of no small affect of gratitude from mine own heart to thine, in that, hitherto, my conscious has been plagued by the incumbent moroseness of stress and lack of sense in such financial struggles which, I can so wager, affects us all. To such an end I say that I am sorry for certain unaforementioned entries of logging into this WordPress account that fell to the pressure of solicitation that stand totally against the inflections originally wished upon my beloved readers from our genesis.


Moving on, I shall hence forth make all efforts to stand true for which our first and primary encounters what so allowed a mass of beloved readers as yourself to comprehend messages of the life of an Autistic savant that follows suit. Such as it is, I find the world to be ruthlessly unfair. I find that much to which our previous entries have lacked in efforts of speeches circumnavigating the morals and virtues I hold myself so dear were so induced by my experiences of this world and its, in respect not hate, ignorance. I have been rejected and turned down from so very many occupations that my own beloved spouse jeers and bites her own thumb towards the naïve nature of companies who do not recognize the benefits surpassed by my actually proven accomplishments in exchange for one such individual who is far below their standard and has, by mine own observations, been released of an unwanted termination due to incompetence. Please, do not misinterpret. Ere my rantings and ravings so previously recorded, I was truly bitter and terminal in my disdain. Currently, however, I have prayed. Oh, my lord Jesus in Heaven, from whom all blessings flow, I have prayed, God. I have meditated. I have been scourged and I emerge strengthened by my own follow, yet irreparably broken by mine own stupidity. I was arrogant and foolhardy. Moreover, I have neglected those in whom my heart has gone out many a time in the refuge of written comfort; that I dare take even the slightest form of competitive advantage over such beautiful people as you all; all of you who have so shown this autistic sufferer that a myriad understand the trials faced of having such supernatural gifts and talents as society, albeit unintentionally, spits in my face. Once again, I am sorry. Please, observe:


I am a lover of God, first and foremost. He speaks to me. Moreover, he speaks to me quite literally, in which the just utilized adverb which indicates a methodology defined by the act in opposition to the metaphorical; so as to identify with a part on subject matter usually inclined by instinctive adjustment to the former and not the latter. I say this to better demonstrate that I am not colloquially emphasizing the nature behind my conversations with my heavenly father. I mean in the absolute trueness of the word “literally” and not in its diluted slang which is so common amongst our society today; even amongst adults who, at one time, never even spoke of such slang in all their lives yet not partake quite regularly beyond their consciousness. Digressions aside, previous statements lead to notions of chastisement from God, the one which I have been so speaking. Thusly, he has most assuredly beaten me. And, as I said, I am utterly broken. Our conversations, which are usually upon the one-sided concept of my blood-letting screams from the recesses of the pit of Hell dwelt inside my intestines, in reception of his word: God’s sole word. And when I say “word” singularly, I mean “word” in its singular form and not plural, as most recognized by theologians in reference to the plethora of words given in the Bible. Ironically, when God speaks this one single word, it is the epitomized testament to what he has been and still continues to push into me to endeavor upon on his life which he so perpetuates in me. I’ve tried to kill myself at least four times. I almost choked on a jawbreaker when I was a young boy. Before I was conceived in my mother’s womb she had a tubal-ligation. Also, after I was born I almost died of spinal meningitis. I continue to contend with God and argue as to why I am still alive and why I cannot simply go home. And despite my pleas, despite my begging and even my own inductions to hasten my final destination, he perpetuates me. When I ask him in terms of either screaming a curse in the name of Christ, or the softest of whispers underneath my blanket upon my bed in sobbing lament, he returns to me with a single and soft voice of compassion yet emphatical paternal earnestness. He says to me, “word”.


In between hitting myself and self-mutilation (does anyone here have a child or person or is that very person on the spectrum who hits, hurts or all otherwise physically harms themselves and does so regularly? I need to know that I’m not the only one who becomes so overwhelmed that physical pain is the only solitary outlet. Thanks), it has taken all my life to understand what he meant. In all actuality, I am still struggling to discern his meaning. But, I have an idea. As you all know, I adore the utilization of words; written words. I adore and obsessive compulsively over grammar. I do not recoil from some internal “thang” when someone says “more-better” or “ir-regardless”. I do not merely cringe when they pronounce it “supossebly”, I loathe all humanity inwardly and maintain an absolute slander for the calumny that infects the populace of misspelled and mispronounced anathema. I am abhorrent to mention the new writing application known as (God, help us) Grammarly.


I am a writer. I wrote and published two epic novels. Then through the process of all that, I invented three languages in which I do not use English characters; or any other man-made character ever written in the entire history of the world. I created Angellian: the language of angels. God says to me, so many, many times, that same miasma of a messianic word: “word”, “word,” “word!” I feel like I can’t take it and I want to rip God out of my head. Until, one day, I downloaded an app which allows me to draw calligraphy. My friends, my family, I start anew with all of you. I love you all and I hope this realm of Autism may resume and recover to how I began and what I wish to achieve with all of you and the entire ecumenical world, therein:




With all the sincerity and beseeching of forgiveness in my heart,


-The Giver of Words.

A Future in Writing, With Your Help.


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Dear Family:

One month later and, still, the news is good. Family… I’m kind of tired. I really love this blog that we do together; I love having you all as my readers. But I’m not as keen of the writing individual as I once was. I looked back at some of my past entries and I do notice a difference. Understandably, I wasn’t married and my wife is awesome and I love her and she’s beautiful, et cetera. But marriage is tough. Nay, marriage is extremely tough and, at times, quite agonizing. I find the production of grey hairs upon my face and head quite more rapid and prodigious whence I had my time to myself at Starbucks upon this very laptop. I find that my fingers strike these 26 letters of the alphabet and what not at a pace quite removed from the eloquent and fairly bedazzling essence they once held. I wouldn’t trade this life with my wife for the whole world or universe. Here’s the sordid truth: my wife and I struggle financially.


“Ugh, David you just described, like, every single newly married couple in the world… and Middle Earth, for that matter; not to mention Panem and, heck, Allagasia as well. Oh, and let us not forget the fabled Narnia and Zombieland, also.” So, my family, life, I guess, is normal. But you know what I really, really, really wish to do all the time and, for the most part, every day: write. I love to write (duh) and I also love to write music and my books and play my violin and, hopefully, my very own piano, one day. Can I ask you all a huge, ginormous favor? Rest assured, I’m not going to sell you anything. But, of course, you’re all welcome to my books and music on Here’s the favor, which stands linked to my gratitude for your visiting, liking and following my humble corner of the internet: I’m going to put a link right here Share a Sale. If you click this link, it’ll lead you to a website called It’s an affiliate marketing website which, like my previous entry stated, stands as a type of sponsor for my WordPress blog. If you click that link, a new window will open up and I will get credit for that lead; and all you have to do is click this link Share a Sale


Hey, family, level with me: I’m a hard worker; I’m losing hair to the point where I won’t have any grey hair to grow from at all. My wife and I eat from Cal Fresh and work every-single-day just to make our overly priced rent. Most of the followers here have been with me for a while and the board of comments is still wide open. You guys have come to follow this blog in likely association to Autism: I am diagnosed with Autism. Share a Sale


Last night I was busking (outdoor performing) on my violin outside a local café that was kind enough to allow my presence and performance. A gentleman came up to me and noted that my tip box indicated my diagnosis. He told me that his grandson is on the spectrum and is moderately functioning. Like a breaking of a dam, all my faculties fell apart and even my own “Autism Awareness” came barreling in and I realized that I am far more disabled than what I let on to be. My friends, individuals on the spectrum are acting a roll; at least the ones who are so able to. Unfortunately, my defenses can fail and I become a wobbling tall-person who’s married, 35 and unemployed who whence commanded eloquence and charisma is now acting not so dissimilarity to one who is mentally challenged. I didn’t even see it coming. Yet, the man did not judge me and told me, “I understand. I’ve seen it all too often and I commend you on your accomplishments to socialize as normally as you can.” With tears in my eyes I continued to play my violin; to play my violin without sheet music and in professionalism having only been playing for five and a half years.


By clicking these links Share a Sale, my friends, my family, you’re hardly inconveniencing yourselves and your actually helping fund someone who’s ambition is to help and bring to light the Autistic community; via music, writing, poetry, words and beauty. Just a click Share a Sale. Of course, as you follow the link, any furthering of your interest in Affiliate marketing will help me and my wife even more. But, a mere click, which is called a “Pay Per Lead” affiliation, would be helpful. As a recompense for your little click on these links Share a Sale, because I know how we all love those commercials on YouTube, etc., I’d like to take some time in this blog to discuss a topic which, when previously examining my Word Press history, was one of the most popular topics, hitherto.


Star Wars: I cannot get over the underrated nature of the prequels and their marvelousness. Even so, I want to also discuss a little the artistry and overwhelmingly entertaining level the newer movies have produced. I loved, absolutely loved, Solo: A Star Wars Story. Here’s why:


Han Solo deserves an origin story. In Episode IV, V and VI, we hear so much about all the exploits and adventures of the infamous Han Solo—his partnership with Lando, how he acquired the Millennium Falcon et cetera. Also, what a twist at the end (SPOILER ALTER!!!!!!!!!!!) when the Star Wars franchise does indeed rectify a mistake of killing off Darth Maul too early. How exiting it will be to see how that story develops. Didn’t anyone find it so much fun to see Han smuggle, “back-stab” and smooth talk his way through obtaining his “baby” the Falcon, get together with Lando and even help in the initiation of the actual genesis of the Rebel Alliance. Lastly, and quite most importantly, we learn how and why the famous Han Solo always shoots first.


My criticisms: first off, um…. I had a problem with… No, I think the part where… No, um, hmm. Oh! I just got it: I have no criticisms. I loved it! I’ve been watching Star Wars on repeat since I was 4. I had the entire trilogy memorized since I was, well, 4! I saw the prequels at the midnight showing and I memorized those lines since I was 15. Anyways, I am beyond appreciative of what the Star Wars franchise metamorphosized into. Honestly, I would have assuredly gone another way and, truly, I feel the story of the Star Wars Cannon could have been much better; having certain avenues omitted and others elaborated upon.


I really want to write more upon this. I hope you are all as excited as I am for the new Star Wars episode coming this Christmas. Also, my wife and I are the biggest John Wick fans and we are so going to see it this May, 17. And, no, there are no affiliate links for the movie here. I wrote that just because I wanted to. *wink* Because John Wick is awesome! Share a Sale


And now I bring this to another sad close for I wish I could just write and write and communicate to you all; thoughts, feelings, hurts, joys etc. I really could use this favor, family Share a Sale. All you have to do is click the link and it’s supporting Autism. And I mean that absolutely literally. Every time you click this link Share a Sale you’re helping the autistic community and, truthfully, you’re keeping us from dying. The suicide rate is too high. And it’s all because we’re stressed and overwhelmed. Help the Autistic Community and help me and my wife with this link Share a Sale.  Thank you thank you and thrice thank you, family. Love you all and blessings abundant.


Sincerely and with the warmest regards to you,

-The Giver of Words.

Share a Sale


Good News, Family!


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Hello my family of readers!

I have absolutely wonderful news!! Inasmuch as I know you all enjoy the uttermost macabre of my life in that you read a history of Autism-inundated hysterics, guess what? My WordPress account will be accepting sponsors!


In 2004 I walked inside the movie theater alone which shortly preceded a series of suicide attempts. The movie I went to see was Secret Window staring Jonny Depp. Filled with self-doubt, self-loathing and a series of self-inflicting pains due to chronic, manic depression, schizophrenia, a psychotic break from reality—to name but a few—I found some small comfort in what the aforementioned movie inspired within me: writing. After I emerged from consuming my first 26 Excedrin in 2005 of February after a 9 day stint at a psychiatric ward, I actually didn’t begin writing. I was admitted again to another psychiatric ward. Only this time it was 12 days and in the medium security wing of the ward. I was that much of a danger to myself. I once again walked amidst the world (at least I referred to it as Hell; and this term of “Hell” is literal: I actually believed I was in Hell) and began a long, long journey that would lead me to understand how much God not only never left me, forsook me or abandoned me but loved me so, so much, also.

February, 2005: I’ll never forget it. I took my laptop, walked inside this old coffee place called It’s a Grind (I miss that dive) sat down and began writing. Billions of words later (no, really, billions) I’m married to a masterpiece of God’s creation, playing music which people love, supporting my wife through her health goals (she’s kicking a## btw) and, as you guessed it, I am writing and writing and writing my goal of writing to a newfound milestone. Oh, did I also mention my published books and music?


So, my family of well deserving readers, my blog has sponsors. Let me tell you how our time together will be evolving from now on. For others just joining, take a gander at my previous entries at your leisure and stay tuned. In case you haven’t been made aware, I’m autistic; big-time. You know what’s interesting is how so severely underrated high-function Autism stands to the eye of the beholder. Just because I’m high functioning does not denote a greater neurological ability to function just as well as others. Someone who is missing both legs is just as disabled as someone who can’t move their legs. Or, in a more relatable case, someone with a severe case of dyslexia is just as incapable of reading text as someone who is blind. Yes, the blind person is, technically, on a higher-level of disability, yet both persons have equal difficulty reading and reading anything. I wonder if braille is applicable for someone with Dyslexia? Thus I come to a point in this time to which I devote unto the fullness of awareness that Autism is not to be underestimated, underrated or under-respected. I have indeed been reading, discovering and hearing that the overall awareness into the application of Autism accommodations is rising exponentially. That being said, my blog herein will be one more tool of the growing interfaces and augmenting resources all people, autistic or otherwise, which I hope and pray that the endeavors can do nor more than make this man’s dream become more and more of a reality: to assist, aid and all otherwise accommodate, the autistic community.


This first entry upon the multitude preceding will I hope be the only ever growing foundation of a family upon WordPress therewith a cause to help a community that is, I’m sorry to say, dropping like flies. The mortality rate of those on the autistic spectrum is between 30 and 40 years old. For this reason—much in my cogitation previously deliberated upon hence—and for many more already established I feel so compelled to pull this entire hegemony of like-minded, gifted adults whose talents, as you can imagine, will either cure cancer or perfect fusion reaction of clean hydrogen generated energy to a commonplace reality, from the depths of Hades and into a light I’ve come to be able to embrace and function within despite my pleads to God to kill me so intently. Thus, family, this site I supplicate to the rank of a haven that many might find techniques, tools, toys and all manner of functionality in a commonly un-functional group of, concordantly, loving and caring people desperate to exist in this world. Take my word for it: if you ever meet someone whose high-functioning autistic, they are desperate to find a place in the world coalesced in the realms of the deepest levels of love and philanthropy this side of Heaven succeeding Mother Teresa. Moreover, as a result of both of us, in a sense, working together, I could really, really use your help, family, to help those on the spectrum. The mortality should be identified as an epidemic. By the way, there are only 4 suicide attempts that anyone knows of in my life. But, I’ve been plotting and trying since I was 7. Praise be to God, though, for my exceedingly low threshold for pain and an absolute mortification of what would happen if I fail (yes, I failed once and that was more than enough). I want the autistic spectrum to be better received in this world. Those in wheelchairs have wheelchair ramps. Those who are blind have Braille and even Service Dogs. I need our community to be better equipped for us: the Autistic Community. It’s been Hell and I’d rather bring forth so many who could be so instrumental in this world, as we already have.


Dan Akroyd: brilliant actor and writer and entertainer and autistic. Vincent D’onofrio: absolutely astounding actor. He was Private “Pile” in the movie Full Metal Jacket. He also played that farmer in Men In Black who got his skin ripped off and worn by the bug: one of the greatest actors to my own person opinion; very Autistic. There was also this one guy a long, long time ago who developed innovations into a type of study in which the actual particles of matter incorporated unto our earthly atoms could be broken or “split” which invoked the method of Fission. Spectacularly, the Fission Reaction burst forth the newest frontier of science and discovery for nuclear weapons. Also, this man, whilst abstaining to his self-proclaimed dogma of never wearing socks (he hated socks), added to the science of discovery a theory which, if proven, would upset the fabrics of nature to a realm which leaps our proximity to God by utter palpability: relativity. In case you haven’t guessed it, this man is Albert Einstein whose other many, many theories were not necessarily received and he had many failures. Also, if there was anyone upon earth who could fail more at school, it would be me. Otherwise, Albert E. was no rain man when it came to studying or scholastic academia. I find it somewhat humorous that the name for which a reputable reaction of intelligence was attributed to a man who didn’t even have an associate’s degree. There’s one more mention of an autistic man by the name of John Elder Robison: this guy was why Kiss, the rock band, had their pyrotechnics and special effects; all him. He was a mechanic engineering genius. But, from reading his book and hearing his interviews, the guy was a nut-case… and I mean this endearingly, because if someone called me such a term or a “freak”, I would cordially say, “thank you.”

I want to expand the discovery of autistic individuals out there. I want this so badly because these are the ones who can literally cure cancer, aids and develop everything from cars that run on water to computers which interface by our sheer thinking it; and interfacing at the rate of 300 yattohertz per second with a hard drive capacity of endless exabytes.

Thank you, family, thank you thank you thank you! You’re going to help so many and I am so glad that I’ve been accepted by sponsors to help make this happen. The truth is that we all have to eat and keep a roof over our head. My wife and I are trying to have children and I don’t really want to raise them on the street. So, you’re support is not an act to help out a pompous, money-hungry monster of corporate gain and monetary acquisition. I’m going to Heaven anyway and my idea of luxury is a nice glass of wine with some good burger, or something, my wife at my side and binge watching a John Wick marathon; and I mean it. I seek the simple life, and I want to bring so many out into it who could be dying at this very moment!

This is communicable love, family. Let’s spread it more. Thank you so much again and we will be working together for something precious: life.

“Why have enemies when you can have friends?” –King Arthur: King Arthur, Legend of the Sword.



-The Giver of Words.


Check out these fun tools to help children on the autistic spectrum:

Chore Sticks

Make chores a game and try giving the child a chore which coincides with something they love to do. E.g. stacking, placing, walking, cleaning, folding or any kind of stimuli that connects the nervous system in a calming way. Most important of all, let them do it their way! If they take a single garment out of the dryer to walk all the way to the living room, fold it and then walk it over to where it goes in the drawer/closet to then return to the dryer and repeat, just let them do it! *wink*

Lego Peel n Place Platform

Okay, I’m not even going to go into too much detail. But, I’ll say this much: LEGO’S ARE AWESOME! I was always comforted by playing with my Lego’s as a young boy. Every time I’d disconnect and click those pieces together, it all made sense. By the way, in my prime I had entire 2 foot-long spaceships constructed to the apex of complexity and I could disassemble the vessels in its totality and subsequently reassemble the collection of blocks not only exactly to its original state, but utilizing each individual block from whence it was so located upon the original design. No one believed me and thought I was just putting extra salsa on the taco; until my Aunt came over to visit when I was in high school. She stayed in my room and I shared with my brother for about a week. Before bed I showed her my Lego’s. She couldn’t believe her eyes beholding the ingenuity. She told my parents and they, too, were like: “Whoa!” lol. Anyways: Lego’s: the building blocks of the autistic.

Stuff n Sit: Stuffed Animal Storage Bean Bag

I LOVE MY SPONSORS! All of these toys and tools are right up my ally. I played with stuffed animals like crazy (no pun intended). I had names for all my animals and characters. They had personalities, abilities based on the color of their coat or clothes and each color denoted level of importance, rank and character profile, categorically. But, all I had was a dirty old, black trash bag. So annoying, and it teared all the time. I had to constantly replace it; I had hundreds of stuffed animals. If a child or even young adult is on the spectrum, I will not doubt some sort of affinity for stuffed animals and plush toys. You’ll probably find that you can add to the collection of chores sticks by stimulating a fun act of putting the animals away in a fun bean-bag storage case. So much safer from the elements, as well. Also, I always lost eyes, buttons or something that I grieved due to a lack of good storage for my little army. I got a lot of silver fish, too. A storage case such as this would definitely eliminate unwanted guests.


Always more ideas and help to come for the Autism fight I want to bring out into the world. Moreover, my functionality in this world came at great, great cost. I pray that parents and even individuals on the spectrum themselves are far more benefited than I was. Usually it’s the simplest and most basic thing that can reduce a day-long tantrum into a 12 hour period of occupied control, however weird they might enact upon it.

Thank you again, always, thank you thank you. From your local neighborhood autistic partner in crime…

-The Giver of Words!


I Just Want to Write.


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Dear Word Press Readers:

I think some of you are reading this blog for the first time right now. Let me begin:

I am an adult with Autism and life is Hell. Now, with that out of the way allow me to regale:

I have actually been looking for a job that works from home. I’ve been searching for about 5 months. My resume is impeccable and I know I am overly qualified for these moderately paid positions. Can anyone tell me why not only they are not hiring me, but why, after I score all 100’s on all their proficiency tests do these companies give me the reply: “we’ve decided to go with other candidates,”?


I am so terribly sorry. Let me start over. Hello, readers, thank you so much for joining and reading and experiencing my blog, which is just an adult with Autism trying to survive. Unfortunately, the aforementioned term I just used of “survive” is literal. Friends, I spend every day, every-single-day, of my life debating whether or not I truly have a purpose here. For those who’ve been good and loyal, now, for a while (I thank you all) you know how well I write. Would you not hire me? Please forgive my frustration, friends. I have not as nearly as much time as I once had. I’ve forsaken many of my pledges to you all and all I want is to make it through the month keeping a roof over my head. It just gets aggravating or, at best, confusing when I see college professors and learned lawyers make some of the most grotesquely written documents, while sit home an Autistic savant with the logophilia of an age-old elven scribe buys a loaf of bread to subsequently weigh his account to make sure he can even afford it. One thing that has been angering me about society is how poorly and how profusely I’ve been abused for no reason at all.

Friends, readers, my followers, I’m so happy as many as you are here with me. Might you know of a company who has need of a ghostwriter? I do open all my blog posts to comments. Please, feel free to divulge some info. Or, better yet, do any of you perhaps need someone to write a master-level professional document; edit something; ghostwrite; transcribe et cetera. My WordPress post right now, as well as the recent, is not necessarily from an Autistic savant with the best of constitutions. I just wanted, needed, to write something; anything. I pray, hope and constantly lie in gratitude at you and with you all. God bless you and may you all find your passion and your dream. I just want to write.



-The Giver of Words.

The Violin Guy Website

“We Are the Music Makers…”


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Good day, everyone, or good afternoon, good morning and/or goodnight, depending on the atmospheric orientation of the solar positioning and lunar locations associated to thy geographical becons in reference to the astros. As such, it is now my pleasure to point you in the direction of the YouTube channel I’ve put up solely as a video representation of what this is here: a journal. Yet, my themes herein are most definitely congruent with art and my desire to reform it. If thou has rested thy intent upon the aforementioned journal entry to thy consciousness sought I pray in the augmentation of conceptual growth, then I give my thanks. If not, take thyself, hence, for my words and my desires based in an ambition to bring forth no so much something new, but something that has lied dormant for far too long: beauty in art.
My channel on YouTube is thus Art Angel Anonymous“>Art Angel Anonymous It will not necessarily be a channel I wish to grow for the sake of full-time YouTubeing. In actuality, that degree of aspiration has been forthcomingly reserved for my spouse and I on our channel: Keeping up with the K’s. Regretably, anonymity is not my forte so, alas, that my desire to perhaps only attempt to keep my identity unknown rests alone in its mere idea of the notion that I am Art Angel Anonymous and my person himself is very well identifiable as the husband of one wife of a beauty surpassing them all; said hitherfore any mirror, mirror upon a wall.
This page is under my will to be absent of all placation. I will not be sugar coating anything. Nevertheless, profanity, useless gestures of hatred or hate-speech and/or bullying in any form towards a person, a group of persons or a company et cetera is not only to be totally removed from this page, it will also be untolerated with acute severity in the comment section. Criticism to construct or even criticism to demonstrate intense protestation will not be remonstrated. The prime consensus is to either agree with or disagree with expunged of ill-will to any living person or their beliefs, period. Here, I as well as anyone will fall under this predisposition: “I agree to disagree, do you?”
Barnette Newman is a joke; nay a bad joke; a disgrace to the realm of art and his works should be abolished. If this statement seems hateful, then examine thyself: $105 million dollars for piece of canvas with paint on it entitled “who’s afraid of red, yellow and blue?” I scrape a living off rock, figuratively, just to make my overly priced rent for a space that me and my wife are albeit grateful for. Our rent is over $1,000 (not exact). That one painting sold for the equivalant of what it would be to live in our apartment for 8,750 years. Hath any or all heard the expression: “what a waste of space.”? Personally, I feel that such a phrase directed at a person is by far one of the highest insults you could exact and I disaprove of it. Yet, for an object, such as the real, yes real, invention that allows your high-heels to stay dry in the rain by putting umprellas on the toes (I’m not joking) that I call a waste of space. The aforesaid Barnette Newman (just to begin with) is also a waste of space.
I had the misfortune to see the new trailer for the Lion King coming out in 2019. Such an endeavor is a waste; not only of space, but resources, talent and all the hard work that those developers, animators and musical composures put into all their work. The producers: if all they ever do is feed off of nostalgia, the only thing left to feel nostaglic over is nostalgia of nostalgia. In my opinion, Disney is nothing without Pixar and Star Wars. And they recieved an exuberant amount of luck with Frozen (great movie, by they way, and I LOVE the new Star Wars movies). My favorite Pixar movies, hands down, would have to be Wall-E. Pop quiz: what does Wall-E mean? It’s an acronym. Comment below, and no cheating! 😉
My wife and I love horror flicks. Ironically, I used to be unable to watch them. Oh, that statement is to be taken quite literally. Any vision or sound of horror to come across my concious senses to befall me would entail such insurmountable fear, dread and mortification I would henceforth dwell within mysel to overcome the terror in pure psychological meditation. American produced features of horror suck. At least from whence they hearlded: Child’s Play; The Exorcist; The Ring; Halloween et cetera. But now, it’s like I’m watching student films with a budget of ‘please, let us film in the school basement just a little longer,’ as the janitor scowled and mopped in another part of the building; inwardly scolding the futile efforts to his mind of wasted energy of hoolagans.
As my wife watch foregin horror flicks, especailly from Asia, we are genuinely freaked out. Both she and I hae seen all, ALL, horror flicks to date and the new films to be produced on Netflicks these days have such artticles of creativity based in another country, such as Tiland and/or Korea et cetera, that I, to myself, ask, “whhy?” And the answer, uunfortuunately, is actually quite clear: politics. Politics ruin art and beauty and I cannoo endure any more of the sffering of the want of beauty in the world via exploiting the real magic and music makers of our day and age: the art angels anonymous.
Thus, my fellow readers and perhaps artists, we’ve come to the definition of the name off this blog: you are the anonyity; you are the unsung heros. You, the one’s with creativity, the one’s with vision and even ambition, you: you are the reformation of beauty within this cold world of producers, acadamy award farces and “who are you wearing” as opposed to, “That painting is so beautiful” and “I’ve never seen such an amazing display of musical orientiation in my entire life!”
When it has fallen to thy desire to click the following link to the YouTube channel, hence, be sure to heed the need of my wife and I by Subscriing to our channel, hereforeto. We would really, really like to become monitized. Thank you all. You are the music makers, you are the dream desiners: you are…
-Art Angels Anonymous.

Art Angel Anonymous“>Art Angel Anonymous
Keeping up with the K’s

Postscript: feel free to send any e-mails to Thank you again. Love you all!