Pasha, I remember your room full of suitcases, wigs manequins and – what the heck else? One of 7 rooms. Was your mum's spirit in there? . I remember they were made of leather, not plastic, and one of them said 1956? I remember the photos from Cambridge. How did you get through there as … Continue reading Found in one of the suitcases
Personal reflections on decades of pseudo-nomadism, packing, love, meaning, painting, and generally pretending to have an adventurous and deep life.
Your soul has left this house. I see this. I felt it a few days or weeks ago. It just suddenly became obvious, like a blatant and self-understood fact. * I don't know where it went. But the plaster has started falling off the walls in a few secret spots; the paint has started peeling … Continue reading Your soul has left this house. (Loss poetry.)
Late last year, perhaps in November, I decided to not be depressed anymore. A lot of crap had happened, and I was feeling crappy. I could sense myself going into the tailspin that I know really, really well – after hundreds (if not thousands? let me calculate the years) of repetitions. . Mindful, repetitious observation … Continue reading Is depression a choice?
A few days ago I bumped into an excellent blog by an a woman with (officially diagnosed) Asperger's (this one). In addition to that, after debriefing me about my family life, my therapist/coach asked whether my father is autistic (based on a brief description I gave of our relationship). And for the cherry on … Continue reading Asperger’s revisited. Autistic, gifted, sensitive, psychic?
Another snippet from a facebook discussion, this time initiated by one lamenting his situation of being not just an empath, but also gay. Knowing all this and more, I had to add my two cents, which I'm recycling here for the sake of preserving this personal document for posterity and those who can relate, or … Continue reading The queer empath and multiple outsiderhood
I live in your house now that you have died. We used to meet and part every summer, for 22 or 23 years. When I was a child, sometimes, after a year, I would barely recognise you on the level of emotions. After driving all night and crossing now mythic borders, I would receive a … Continue reading Letter to the other side. (Real life poetry.)