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Dear Readers:

It is strange that I began a blog herein roughly… actually I have no idea and I am already light years beyond my social threshold to click an albeit simple button to go and check upon even my own, sanctioned website: I have Autism. I am autistic. I am not an aspie or a Neurological Atypical or some other made up crap by the modern media and parents of autistic children. I am most especially not an autistic child: I am a full-grown adult. I have still, hitherto, never come to fully understand why the demographic of the community of those who suffer with Autism seem to lie restricted to that of an adolescent and not that of an adult. Suffice it to say that I have Autism and I am not seeking a cure to something that is as natural as the skin on my body and the beating of my very heart within my chest.

Here is what I am in fact seeking: restitution. I am seeking a restitution of art, in particular. The debauchery for what art has unfortunately become continues to go unnoticed by the oblivious masses. In all areas of art which include but are not limited to music, performing arts, music composition, painting, drawing, photography etc. I would like to focus my thoughts and opinions herein amid the realm of both the written word and that of drawing and painting, forthwith.

Art has become disgusting.

No longer are true aficionados affected with beautiful and luscious expressions and still-life’s depicting culture, creativity, self and others and so many more themes. Rather, the small minority who truly and knowingly has the appreciation for art seem to be the sole sufferers of knowledge as we lie besmeared with “works” by the “artists” such as Barnet Newman, Jackson Pollock and others whom I would rather dip my hands in acid than bear the shame of even typing their very names with my fingers. The far greater misery bemoaned to my understanding is the answer to why these hacks are even as famous and popular as they do not deserve: the answer is marketing.

I have worked extensively as a salesman and I have sold cars from a dealership and my average was twenty (20) cares every month. Yes, you read that correctly: I had the learnedness and tactical erudite nature to lure a customer to purchase a vehicle I knew beyond a sliver of a doubt was far removed from their time or money to therein purchase. I know how to sell things and I know how to make people buy things that they do not need. In the good words of Steve Buscemi from the movie Armageddon: “Oh, God, I hate knowing everything.” -Rockhound. Thus all this so-called art is worth naught more than the canvas for which has its great misfortune of being wasted upon. If ice can be sold to an Eskimo, then ugly splotches of paint can be sold for millions of dollars.

My restitution and my aspiration henceforth of it is to, by the grace of God, show, educate and all otherwise expose the falsity of art in light of what art truly is.

Having to live a “normal” life being diagnosed with Autism has made me want to kill myself since I was very young. For over 20 years I was never fully privy as to why I was feeling pain all the time; and I truly identify feeling pain perpetually absent of any hyperbole: I was feeling, and yes continue to feel, constant and ceaseless pain every moment and every day of my life. Paradoxically, I can no more or better define the type of pain for which I speak any more than a snail can define its own existence under the muse of his speedily rival, the tortoise. All the same, when a victim is crying out for help and the needs are of an emergency one does not stop to ask aforesaid victim, “on a scale of 1 to 10, ’10’ being the most panic-stricken you have ever been in your life, how would you rate your current peril?” Thus when I am asked every day, by everyone, for some bizarre reason, “hi, there, how are you?” I must reflect inwardly and tell them a fabricated depiction that I am, subsequently, “fine”, as opposed to, “I feel so miserable and overwhelmed by all the bombastic stimuli within this established building that I wish my ears would bleed and my eyes would blow out of my orbits due to the rampant and sensory-raping sounds, smells and sights around me. How are you?” Thus we have the Autism Paradox, as the aforesaid title so expresses. Here, observe:

I do not speak well, I mimic the phrases and syntax utilized in modern sociological phonics to therefore showcase the behaviors of those not on the spectrum of Autism as opposed to mine own. I do not function, I survive by entering into any room, building, place or domicile sometimes 2 days before I am even schedule to appear. My so called “functioning” that which bears no differentiation between autistic and non-autistic lies in the definition of being far, far rehearsed and advanced in such rehearsals that people call “life”. Lastly, all my musings, my stimming and my coping mechanisms are NOT an everybody thing. Thus we have the conclusion of what I do for an actual and absolute living: I don’t. I survive.

Now, good readers, you have indulged my groanings and you have hitherto read an expatiated retort into my inner dealings thrown forth upon the world I have come to so loathe having to suffer, despite my absolute passion to want to, as we land herein to a settling moment behind a duality of themes thus read upon your eyes: I am an artist but I do not draw pictures nor paint still life; realism, abstract or otherwise. I am a novelist and I have thus far written and published two epic novels (“epic” for novels is defined as a book of literature containing within its pages the totality of no less than 100,000 words or more). And now I henceforth wish to meld these two subject together. I have already begun and nearly completed the language of Angellian. This language is a form of spoken decorum that I invited in regards to certain fictional peoples amid the dramatis personae of my novels: they are called the Angellus. Furthermore, the language itself is bound in an ancient of ancients of a form long since past the genesis of time and creation itself. As a result the written and thereby developed form thereof lies just beyond that of pictorial hieroglyphs to just ever-so-delicately below Asian calligraphy.

This is my desire: since I cannot speak very well, absent of, for lack of a better term, “faking it”, and because I do not actually wish to write books due to the temporal, physical and emotional strain it is just to bust out a simple novella and because both the artistic and autistic world are severely and grossly under-appreciated, I am going to extend my arm into thy hands as the mass of people who have been forsaken of beauty, under-educated as to what neurologically disabled really means and besmeared by the unsightliness of ugliness which plagues our beloved museums and art galleries. My only request from you as my good readers of a humble blog of an autistic sufferer is that you look inside yourselves and bestow thy question inwardly as to what it really means to witness beauty and to read words that are meaningful; powerful; beautiful. For further insight as to what I do, what I wish to do and what I shall endeavor to do, visit this website, please: https://www.imthemusicmaker.com/

Before I truly close, as you visit the site and I ask you to make your way towards the art of the calligraphy, think about what you would have on your walls if you owned a fine house with blank spaces to be filled with art work worthy to be shown as your guests remark upon the interior amid which they truly fawn over: ugly splotches of useless and effortlessly “created” messes of meaningless and imbecilic dirt, or lovely strokes of a language by which terms of archaic mythologies fall utterly short in encapsulating its endless depth of meaning tressed in a praeternatural splendor of infinity? I leave it up to thee. Thank you.

With the uttermost sincerity,

-The Giver of Words.