my name is tim

My Name Is Tim.

My name is Tim. I have Aspergers syndrome. I am an Aspergers.

Now before we go further let me explain that Asperger's Syndrome is not a disease any more than CleverDick syndrome is or CuteBunny Syndrome or CompleteWanker syndrome is. It is rather a way of life based on a way of perceiving. Oh yes, it can be diagnosed. But so can bloodymindedness.

Lots of doctors have made an industry from Aspergers. Good for them. But it won’t ever fit into a doctor’s template. You can tell this by what they say. They say it is on a spectrum. Do you know what is on a spectrum to an Aspergers? Two prisms and a rainbow.

Aspergers people know who other Aspergers people are. In fact other Aspergers are the only ones we remember clearly. The only ones we appreciate in our own way. Like the appreciation of cats.

Some analysts have gone through literature and history to see if they could determine who high-end Aspergers was. Yeats is one named, Malcolm Lowry another, perhaps Da Vinci. But also Adolph and complete species of Homo erectus.

I am high end Aspergers. I got this way not only because of my brain chemistry, DNA and the peculiar way my neural insulation allows bolts of connections. I got this way because they gave me an IQ test twice. First time I was sixty. Second time one hundred and eighty five. Between the two tests I had figured out the rules.

How is an Aspergers? First of all if you are not Asperger’s let me tell you. I can follow your thinking before you do. And I find it annoying mainly because you connect all wrong. Some say we have no imagination, no language, and no memory. I can remember your youth when your mind changed. I remember it from seeing you the first time. I get joy from the idle movement of a horse in a field of snow. I see the images in a how a bomb unfolds in the desert.

Aspergers in Love: I see only my love as through a tunnel, a tunnel to only one reflection at the back of a room. Aspergers as a friend: I hunt down every hidden brother and the few sisters with magic. I offer stringed stars and sounds in a row. Aspergers at work: I will wire the ideas perfectly so the project grows like a rogue wave from the sea floor.

Aspergers who talk and write, or dance and sing, or for that matter do anything do not do it for the scholars and relatives who will attend their funeral. They don’t like leisure consumers. They love to play with the shifting eye in the flung mind.

When Aspergers rule the world, hey! And they will dear thing: There will be no correct line. Every movement will be a dissonance resolved of the basic part uniting all the chaos for that moment. The Holy Days will change. This year for falling water. Next year for words beginning with Dis.

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Tim Too

This is Tim too and the other thing about Aspergers.
You Buzzies! We call you that for you are those whirring, bloated obvious things.
You bore and bother complaining of dead minds of frozen concrete but that is real and you did it wrong. There is sense in every detail. I won’t answer flakes of snow.

Not that dissolving gas while images break through air cut with clean steel knives and hang still.
You are on both sides of your nose while I feel one hundred and seven small stones under frozen water near the green fountain of brass grapes webbed in sparkling wires.
I want no cure.

Buzzy romantics are always incurable
Buzzy condolences always go out
Buzzy country is always living- what is the sense in that?
While dawn feathered flames slice the pond
And wet night in cold clear morning means sponge snow, cheese under glass.

Spider like your mom brain kept in touch
Not now
And I won’t answer either.