So Long, Book of Faces

Whenever I feel the pull toward religion, it's normally for a reason. I guess that's the point of it, right? In any case, this morning I felt the urge to attend a church service with a very good friend of mine. By the end, I was convinced that the divine is still desperately trying to speak with me despite my angry, closed ears.

The subject was Ephesians 4:26-29, on the topic of communication and how not to offend the Holy Spirit. In it, the pastor recounted four ways to keep communication godly, each one affirming the next, most critical step I need to take on my path out of Asperger's. They are:

1. Communicate Verbally
   (Nonverbal communication is so easily misinterpreted.)
2. Communicate Honestly
   (If you can't encourage each other with the truth, your relationship isn't very deep.)
3. Communicate Regularly
   (When you can help it, never go to bed with an unresolved issue.)
4. Communicate Purposefully
   (If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.)

The truth is, at the root of my mania is the fact that I have flouted each and every one of these guidelines. I've hidden for years behind text messages and E-mails, afraid to be without a Backspace Button. I've molded the truth to prevent revealing my true feelings, for fear of a damaged reputation. I often adhere to an intense message quid-pro-quo: when I've sent someone a message, I do not speak to them again until they've responded, for hours, days, weeks, years, ever. Finally, when I communicate, it is largely for the sake of communication itself; I'll start a conversation without necessarily thinking about how I would like to direct it, then get upset when it dissolves into long pauses and sidelong glances.

So I'm taking the first step tonight. I'm deleting my Facebook account. I'm taking an enormous bite out of my dependence on text-based communication and forcing myself to work on actual change and actual relationships. The past has been repeating itself far too much lately, and in order to stop it, I must make a much larger change than I'm accustomed to making. Though I will no longer have access to daily updates and photo albums, I hope that the exchange will be to have an active role in more daily updates and photo albums.

Nietzsche claims many people wait for the call, "that accident which gives the 'permission' to act." I claim no great catalyst. I'm neither having a breakdown, nor moving away, nor suicidal, nor just going away and coming back in order to get attention. This is about rediscovering what is real. This is about rediscovering humanity over machinery. For the first time, I can actually thank the Bible and an unfamiliar church for their support. Sorry, Nietzsche, but that's just the way it is.

Familiar

There is a familiar deer in a familiar forest eating familiar grass under a familiar blue sky. It dines with familiar squirrels and listens to familiar birds. It hears a familiar twig snap and recognizes the familiar smell of danger. And so it bolts, in a way familiar to us.

In the past few years, dating has become a cervine lifestyle: The moment I hear that familiar twig snap, I don't care if it's a mountain lion or a careless rabbit, I'm ready to get the hell out of there. It wasn't always this way. In fact, there was a time when I used to lie down and present my vulnerable underbelly to the mountain lions and say, "Here, this portion would be rather tasty, don't you think?" Unfortunately, when the mountain lions decided I didn't taste very good after all, I learned that self subjugation hurts worse than being disemboweled. Now, I'm not so much fleeing for fear of pain as for fear of shame.

I've broken things off with the Gentleman about five times now, but we're still dating. I attribute this to the fact that I haven't actually mentioned it to him. The past two weeks, the twigs have been snapping left and right, but I just can't tell if it's a mountain lion or a rabbit trying to mess with me. I madly want to know: Is he watching me? Is he interested? Why isn't he responding to me? Why doesn't he ask me about such and such? What is he doing messing around online at four in the morning when I sent him a text message question at two this afternoon? Shit, I'm out of here. Oh... There was a family feud... and he figured I was asleep by the time it was done... and he didn't get up until late. Okay, that's kind of considerate. Rabbit in lion's clothing.

Next time: Waiting late for a call to hang out. No call. Send passive-aggressive text about call. No answer. Find answer next morning: babysitting nephews. Respond. Nothing until later.

It's this crazy pinball track from fight to flight to collapse, and it's reawakening a side of me that I really hoped had been dragged away by the mountain lions. Now, every time there is no immediate response, I instantly develop a new scenario in which he is a combination of all of my exes: their journeys that I hinder, their secrets, their affairs, their lies, their patronizations. The psychosis takes less than five minutes to start and an hour to explode into this absurd, self-loathing, woe-is-me, screw-dating mentality, which, once the rabbit pulls off the lion's mask, leaves me ashamed again, yet insufficiently so to prevent another lapse the next time.

So basically, I am a familiar deer in a familiar meadow, waiting for the familiar snap of a familiar twig, but where it is snapping and where to run, remain unfamiliar. The more I run, the more exhausted I become. But what is the alternative? How does one face the lion's mask and still be happy after it's revealed to be a rabbit? Furthermore, how does one enjoy the meadow when there may be a lion nearby? This isn't one of nature's unavoidables; there are methods of defense, but what are they... in the world outside of simile?

Update
Now that he got back to me and very casually brushed me off on our evening plans without a "Sorry" or a "Wish you could be here," but a promise that he would send pictures from his imminent week-long trip, the decision is made. I'm not running; I'm kicking his ass out of the meadow. Positive attitudes aside, I think I have a right to be angry, and in response to the stereotype that people with Asperger's can't take social cues, I'm a hell of a lot more observant than he is. And here I am shaming myself for being pessimistic. You know what? It's better to be single and alone than involved and alone on a Saturday night. Central finger... salute!

You own one too? Yes, but I loaned it to Sgt. Pepper.

I've hit a stumbling block on my path to a positive attitude, and it is the very nature by which I connect with people. I've never been able to grow close to a person through discussion of the weather or childhood frolics. No, the closest I can get to another person is through the broken heart.

Commiseration over past pain is the quickest way to intimacy, because it immediately places two people against an ominous foe: other people. They are then both on each other's side, fighting for and with each other, comrades in arms. This has long been the deciding factor in whether people become my friends or remain acquaintances. There must be a past history of pain, and in order to find the emotional intimacy I crave, I have to find it. The problem with this approach is that it invariably turns the conversation negative and frankly makes me come across as morbid. Maybe I am. Nonetheless, a story about past injury is the most revealing sort of story a person can tell, laying bare the vulnerable interior to scrutiny. Revealing it is a sure sign of trust and security in the other person. It is Connection.

So the problem being faced at this point is how to attain the same degree of intimacy, if possible, using a more positive approach, one that does not turn the conversation toward the side of gloom. Or if there is no alternative, then it becomes necessary to wait and see, to find a way to enter the subject and exit it, retaining the connection while shedding the gloom. Taking suggestions...

Baby, I'd Invert My Esophagus for You.

Camels have it easy. I'm serious. Under the whole "gotta keep a hump of fat on my back in order to stay alive when I can't drink for weeks in the blazing hot desert" facade, when it comes down to mating season, all the male camel has to do to attract a mate is to invert his esophagus and flail it around like a disgusting water balloon.


Hot.
The human male, unfortunately, cannot just unfurl his esophagus and win the love of his life. There are rules to obey, conventions to follow, standards to uphold. For instance, to attract a proper mate, the civilized male must be

strong but not controlling,
sensitive but not submissive,
attractive but not too,
trusting but not too,
interested but not intrusive,
interesting but not overwhelming,
free but disciplined,
clean but dirty,
romantic but realistic,
selfless but self-respecting,
sane but crazy,
wild as a wolf but tame as a dog.

One cannot help but wonder how human civilization has persisted so long when one beholds the grand paradox of one's own courtship display. It is amazing how much time and effort go into complicating it, and how quickly the words "screw it" undo it.

From the Rabbit's Mouth

The end of the week holds much to reflect upon. This particular Friday calls me to recollect the wise words of Thumper, the rabbit. You may remember him from his cinematic debut in the movie Bambi, especially his great big feet and penchant for clover blossoms (who can blame him?). But for me, it's his worldly wisdom that comes to mind, expressed in one line more profound than my five-year old brain was able to comprehend the last time I heard it:

If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.

In the past few days, I've received a slew of critiques, both public and private, regarding the content of this blog. A fight even broke out on my Facebook profile because of it. The majority of the criticism comes from the vulgarity of the title, though "ass" is a multi-layered word, meaning many things, including donkey, buffoon, jerk, or derriere. I suppose it's true that he who maketh an ass of himself must prepare to be ridden, but by modern tastes, this statement has a wholly different connotation.

The point is this: I am an ass of the third kind, and I am so because I don't know how to limit my words, as Thumper noted, to what is "nice." A lack of understanding of social propriety is one of the most troubling symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome, but rather than keep my mouth perpetually shut as I have for years, I'm going to explore it.

Society has its own sense of disgust, and mine happens to be the opposite (e.g. daring to be so gauche as to publicly confess flatulence). Nonetheless, the intent of this blog is not to go on forever about what an ass I am, nor is it a blatant attack on the self-proclaimed "normal," but rather a way to highlight the areas in which I am most asinine and work on making them less so. While I enjoy my own brand of strangeness to the point of self-indulgence, it is simply not fun to be an alien among people.

That being said, I'm still making my burger, and I'm still working toward Thumper's philosophy. While the best I can do for those Hypothetical Post Viewers who want me to give up the journey or put the "blah" in "blog" is to present my puckered fourth kind, should someone have reasonable suggestions for how to improve the content of this blog or adhere it more tightly to my mission, I will gladly incorporate your advice into each subsequent post. 謝謝. 慢慢吃.

He Works Hard for the Money

I learned a valuable lesson in professional behavior today, and it came in a wholly unexpected form: my boss told me to go home early because I work too much. When I told her I still needed to finish these last few projects, she said, "No, you don't. That's my job. Go home."

It's peculiar how, over the years, while my employers have gotten progressively more approachable and accommodating, I have become proportionally more neurotic about doing my job. This means getting the projects done at all costs with minimal lunch time, minimal blinking, minimal breathing, and you can just plain forget about ten-minute breaks. Yes, technically I'm required by law to take full breaks throughout the day, but tell that to my brain.

I've made plenty of mistakes in past jobs, and each one has made me more determined not to make the same one again. When one combines this with five months spent unemployed and living off peanut butter sandwiches and crackers, not to mention my last semester of college spent learning how employers are basically itching for an excuse to replace me with someone better, of course I'm going to rush head-first into work. Of course I'm going to hyperactively request projects and finish them in a blaze and come home at the end of the day utterly exhausted because I felt taking breaks would be a sign of laziness and thus make me more expendable.

It's a difficult thing to digest: being told by my boss to work less, having convinced myself, preposterously, that anyone who is happy in the workplace isn't putting enough energy into their job. It wasn't until last week that I found out I could actually leave by 5:30 if I only had a half-hour lunch. I also found out that it's okay to pour myself a cup of tea using the company's supplies. Even then, I still feel like cutting out at 5:30 is slacking and using company supplies is freeloading. Now I'm not sure what to do with the free time or how to convey that it is technically free time and that I'm not just being lazy, or whether that really even matters. I guess what I'm trying to say here is... cool! Let the ten-minute relaxation commence!

The Gentleman

Old habits die hard, this one harder than the rest. It's cost me plenty over the years, and I've gone through all manners of counsel to be cured of it. It's left me sweating at night and cold in the morning, wealthy on Friday and broke by Sunday, on Cloud 9 at the start of the month and in Provo by the end. I've been "sober" for almost a year, but in the last few weeks, the great whirlpool has finally sucked me back into... dating.

Yup, I've been asked out. A couple of times in fact... And then I asked back... And so far, things have been going pretty darn well, and I'm terrified.

"Why, Kyle, would you be terrified of things going well?" might ask Hypothetical Post Viewer.

"Well, HPV," I would respond, "when things have started well in the past, they have ended very badly in the future."

"But you've made some major progress in the past few years," would retort the Hypothetical Post Viewer. "You've connected with yourself, learned how to subdue your impulses for control, and stopped idealizing other people."

"That may be so, HPV, but I have not yet tested my progress with another person. It's scary! Don't you know anything about testing?"

In any case, this particular fellow, who for now shall be known as The Gentleman, is diggable, i.e., I dig him. He's fun, creative, adventurous, and surprisingly chivalrous in a world of cads. I started off resisting the push of romance, but I think I've been won over. That makes me nervous.

While I'm constantly fighting off the old psychoses, not to mention the promise I made to myself that I would not date for a whole year from last December, there is still the strangest sense of impropriety to the whole thing, as if I shouldn't be dating again at all. It's this nagging little voice that says, "It's going to go exactly the same as before; why bother trying to stuff a sense of normalcy between cynicism and bitterness when you know how slippery it is?"

A lot of this is the past talking, coupled with advice from my elders that has stuck with me: "It is a naive infatuation." I can't have that be the case any longer; I need to know that I can feel real emotions for a real human being. The fact of the matter is that I enjoy spending time with The Gentleman more than I initially anticipated and that I want to have more adventures with him. In order to enjoy them more fully, however, I must learn to distinguish the emotions, both as I feel them and as others tell me I feel them. Then, maybe, I can get a grip on normalcy and maybe even enjoy guiltless dating. Inshallah...

Jiz and Onions

It is absolutely amazing what the tedium of filing can do for one's sense of self awareness. When one's brainpower has been reduced to a trickle, it is somehow opened to the most unexpected revelations. Case in point: today, while sorting through three hundred employee applications from New York, I realized that my most intense moments of fear, self-loathing, and doubt occur when I am exhausted.

I shook my head to clear it, realizing that the night before, when I wasn't tired but got to bed late, I was quite happy. After waking up and missing my workout, slogging my way to work with bags under my eyes that could catch a piano (you know, like that one commercial...), I discovered that I was depressed. "How odd," I thought to myself, but as I looked back on the day, I hadn't been depressed when I was interacting with my coworkers. In fact, I had been quite merry, but after I had gone off by myself to file, losing that interaction, my face reverted to tired mode, and it all came back to me what my grandma said about smiling: Do it.

When I'm tired and alone, my face sags. Somehow, this continuous sagging translates in my brain to sadness, and when my brain senses sadness, it starts to produce more, spiraling out of control until what was once a "Good grief, I'm tired," becomes a "Ugh, my life sucks!"

To test this hypothesis, I thought back to the previous night, in which I laughed hysterically over a little video called "Jiz" {Warning: video contains potentially offensive language; I mean, just look at the title}. Anyway, I started cracking up, so hard, in fact, that some of my other coworkers had to come over and make sure I was all right. The miraculous thing about it is that after I had wiped away my giggletears, my entire outlook on life had reformed. I only vaguely thought about those other things that had been killing me moments before, and I was ready to get right back into... filing.

So, on an emotional level, this looks promising. If I can keep a series of thoughts or videos in my mind that will produce a smile, I just might have a cure for my bouts of depression. Or I could just get more sleep. Nah...

Five Rules to "Have a Good One"

Over the years, my skills at meeting new people have progressively grown more and more feeble, from being able to automatically be anyone's friend in grade school to an almost deathly fear of approaching new people, post-grad. I blame much of this on the high school years I wasted, solely socializing by computer, but at least I have learned a few valuable lessons from this, which may yet be useful in the future. When approaching someone new, for instance, reading a book clearly read only by the most fascinating of characters:

1. Have something to talk about.

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

2. Don't over-think it.

Me: (in my head) Okay, there's someone sitting over there reading a big book. (S)he's clearly an intellectual. Good, we have that in common. I could go start a conversation and discuss... intellectual things. But would it be weird if I just walk up and start a conversation? Will I get told off? Maced perhaps? What if I exhaust the intellectual topic too quickly? What can I talk about besides, God forbid, the weather? Oh shit, (s)he's looking at me. Now I've blown it. I should go. But now (s)he's back on the book. Maybe that glance was an invitation? Maybe (s)he was admiring the pigeon over my shoulder? Shit... literally... Wiping off shoulder... Where was I? Oh God, how long have I been sitting here staring? I probably look like such a stalker right now. But I'm told I should seize every opportunity to talk to someone, because who knows, they may become my best friend or my link to the biz. Uh oh, (s)he's packing up. It's now or never. (outside my head) Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

3. The longer you observe, the less likely they will want to talk to you.

Me: Hi, so I saw you were reading that book, and I was wondering what your thoughts are on Fermi's Paradox?
Complete Stranger: I dunno. I just started. You were watching me?
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.

4. Don't ask for someone's contact information if you haven't actually made a connection.

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Yup.
Pause.
Me: Well, have a good one.
After running into them much later...
Me: Hey, remember me? We were talking about your book earlier.
Complete Stranger: Oh hi.
Me: Hey, could I have your E-mail address?
Complete Stranger: No.
Me: Okay... Well, have a good one.

5. If someone actually shows an interest in talking with you, don't leave!

Me: Hi, good book?
Complete Stranger: Amazing! Have you ever heard of Fermi's Paradox?
Me: Yeah. (inside my head) Oh my God, I'm making an ass of myself again. What do I do? Better get out of here before I make the situation any worse. (outside my head) Well, have a good one.

He Made It: The Life and Times of the Almighty

I'm hitting the home stretch of Beyond Good and Evil by Friederich Nietzsche, controversial German philosopher who posited that the Almighty has, in fact, kicked the bucket. Now, while one could easily argue that God is Existence and thus cannot not exist, I still must take a pause to consider the life of the scriptural God:

Infancy: God afraid of the dark. Makes nightlight.

Toddlerhood:  God wants to play.  Makes a garden to play in, fully equipped with awesome creatures that He made with His own two hands!

Childhood: God upset that Adam and Eve broke the rules of His game.  Orders them into permanent time-out.

Pre-Teen:  God double-dog-dares Abraham to sacrifice his son, then throws a tantrum because no one else will play by His rules, flooding the world.  God feels kind of bad about this and realizes He doesn't want to lose His friendship with humanity.

Teenage Years: God's going through changes...  He wants to make something of His life. He sets up His own fraternity of priests and prophets- no girls allowed.  In fact, it's more of a gang, prone to rumbles with a Rival's gang.

Late Teens: After a sublime one-night stand, Mary tells God she's pregnant.  Realizing He's about to become a father, God decides it's time to tone down the violence.

Early Adulthood: God revels in His son's earthly success, haunted by memories of Abraham and Isaac. He is devastated when humanity tears His own son apart.

Adulthood: Deeply wounded by this betrayal, God encourages His aging frat brothers to keep His son's memory alive and spread it across the world.

Late Adulthood: God watches His fraternity splinter into thousands of warring factions, each claiming to remember better, each prepared to crush those who remember differently.

Old Age: God finds comfort in the dwindling few who still harbor humility and love.

Humanity loses record of God's voice after Revelation 22:21.

Death?

Damn Thee, Dairy Demons!

I love my dairy. I frakkin' luuurve it. Give me yogurt! Give me cheese! Give me ice cream, sour cream, cream cheese, creamed corn, crême brulée! Let me slurp that sweetly crafted moo-moo teat-nectar! And lo, I shall low with the delight of a newborn calf.

I'll let that image burn itself into your brain for a wee moment... there. Moving on.

Halfway through a sumptuous Boston Market side of creamed spinach, I concluded that, as the cow must inevitably realize that the line it's following into a dark room does not lead to Splash Mountain, this bovine bacchanalia is over. Sorry, Bessie. My guts just aren't cut out to take it anymore.

I've contemplated vegetarianism before; I don't eat a lot of meat anyway, so as long as I could keep my eggs and cheese, I'd be fine. What? No cheese? No frakkin' cheese?! ¡Ay Dios, que no!

This can't be so. There must be alternatives. I tried rice milk for a while. It's not bad, actually, but good grief, does it have to come in such tiny, easily exhausted containers? I can content myself with sorbet and smoothies; I can eat my cereal with mango juice; but what about my cheese? I suppose there are imitations, but for someone so adamant about real things and no imitations, not to mention having a bank account that can't afford Whole Foods or 100% Organic, Hand-Grown, Vegan Ingredients, it's a suddenly daunting task.

Of course, it also raises the question of how to survive going out to eat. One cannot just order a salad when there are so many delicious delectables out there, waiting to be devoured. Yet, despite these drawbacks, the health is the priority, and a passable alternative must be uncovered. Whether an investment in Lactaid or just a long break from dairy will save the day, this certainly makes my meadows a bit darker. Time for some research. Yes... Research...

Conference Always Brings Rain

I returned to Utah for my birthday weekend. As with many of my trips home, it just so happened to coincide with the LDS General Conference. To the unfamiliar, born and bred outside of Utah, I would describe General Conference as a cross between a hajj and a State of the Union Address. It is a time to gather the flock and show them how to graze for the next half of a year.

In any case, the top hierarchy of the Mormon church consists of a president and a Quorum of Twelve Apostles, the leader of the latter known by the name Elder Boyd K. Packer, a man of intense conviction. This morning as I read the paper, preparing to catch a plane, I caught some of Elder Packer's words on the subject of same-sex marriage, including my favorite quote, "A law against nature would be impossible to enforce. Do you think a vote to repeal the law of gravity would do any good?"

In any case, the bloggers and pundits are all weighing in, but I'd like to take a moment to point out one glaring flaw in his tirade. Addressing the evidence that homosexuality is an innate tendency, he replied with "Not so! Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Remember he is our father." And there, Elder Packer, is our spiritual flaw. Allow me to elaborate.

Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone? Surely, He would not be so cruel as to condemn an innocent baby to a life of ambient animosity or an onslaught of pity. One can spend one's entire life denying science as the Devil's sceptre. One can label genetics an urban legend all one wants (and reference the marriages between uncles and nieces on FLDS compounds), but if God truly controls the way we turn out at birth, then God is one fickle father. Why would God allow a child to be born with Cystic Fibrosis, Hemophilia, Lou Gehrig's Disease, Sickle-Cell Anemia, or Asperger's Syndrome? Or would He? Are these infants willful sinners who just need to pray more? Are there camps for that?

If Elder Packer can confirm God's role in genetic disorders while refuting God's role in homosexuality, or else condemn all of the above without distinction, I may lend his words a bit more credit. If he can clarify how the sinful lack of procreation only applies to LGBT people and not sterile or celibate ones, I may pay more attention. If he can explain why the LDS Church had to restore face after funding Proposition 8 if the Church is the true source of righteousness, I may respect him more. For now, I only hear the recitations of an angry old man, and empty recitation, I have found, is the death of spirituality.

On Adam

I just finished watching Adam. You can read my brief review here. Lots to say about it; lots learned from it.

I'll start with the Netflix summary, which describes Adam as a man who suffers from Asperger's Syndrome. I suddenly found the description odd. At no point did he suffer directly from Asperger's Syndrome; in fact, it tended to highlight his brightness and honesty. His suffering only came from external reactions to his disorder and his desire to placate those reactions, from trying to be normal, "neurotypical," and trying to fit into a setting that didn't suit him at all. It wasn't until he had his job at the observatory, following his passion, that he found contentment with himself.

It gave me a moment to ponder the purpose of this blog. Am I only writing this in an attempt to conform, and if so, will it propagate the same suffering Adam experienced in his attempts to conform? Should I be quitting Asperger's or embracing it? The fact remains that, in order to survive in this human society, I need well-developed social skills but also the ability to distinguish my self-esteem from my social-esteem. Somewhere, there will have to be a point of balance, likely in the range of maintaining my manners of speech and courses of study while making a conscious effort to break out of routines and learn to cope among large volumes of people.

Moments that stood out for me included Adam's standard bowls of cereal and the stiff way he ate it, his love of the stars, his overwhelming discomfort at social functions, his directness about sex and Mr. Buchwald's potential jail time, and especially his complete focus upon the gyrating device when he's being counseled on his financial situation. All served as reminders of behavior to keep in mind, whether to change or retain.

While I would have liked a happy, romantic ending for Adam, it would have most likely come across as too sappy. In any case, the film moved me. I recommend seeing it as a fine specimen of independent cinema and a fair portrayal of Asperger's Syndrome.

From the Mountaintop

If anything, I've always considered myself a naturalist. Though denigrated to the root of evil and distraction, to be shunned for what is confined to death and textbook, the natural world holds enough mystery, beauty, and trials to challenge any set of spiritual pagination. I can think of no better example of this than the ascent of a mountain.

Moses ascended a mountain to find God, the Greek pantheon inhabited Mount Olympus, Jesus and Mohammad both preached from the mountaintop, and the gods are said to deposit their treasures atop Mount Kanchenjunga. The mountain peak is a high place, its path long and treacherous; one can battle all elements, hot and cold, moving and still. The path can be deceptive; "just over that ridge" translates to "just over that ridge... and that ridge... and that ridge," and even then it's not impossible to get lost. It can take hours, even days to get from trailhead to peak.

Still, once one touches the summit and looks down upon the people, the trees, the peaks, the clouds, one cannot help but be struck by the grandeur of the world, far greater than any human squabble or plague. It is at the top of the mountain, after the onslaught of obstacles, external and internal, has battered the seeker, that the seeker catches the merest glimpse of the divine hand, uncompressed by dogma or page count. One can revel in it for hours, unfettered, unchallenged, but even then, after this moment of revelry, the seeker, must still navigate a way back down among the clouds, the peaks, the trees, the people.

Let's Put a Smile on That Face...

A commonly referenced trait of Asperger's is underdeveloped facial expression. In other words, happiness, sadness, anger, jealousy can all be boiled down to:

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
For instance...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: Great!

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
Or...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: I'm feeling a little under the weather today, actually.

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
Or...
Any given person: Hey, Kyle, how's it going?
Kyle: You are the type of person who disgusts me in every way. Now get out of my sight before I am forced to alter my expression from

^     ^
(o) (o)
U
---
In any case, for starters, my grandma has told me to smile more for years. Ironically, it was a trip to the dermatologist with my grandpa that gave me a little lesson in facial expression. I'll try not to go into too many details (Asperger's symptom) or speak too inappropriately about the situation (another Asperger's symptom), but while the doctor stuck my left sphinctercushion with anaesthetising needles and the warning that "this may burn a bit," I concluded, amidst the searing pain, that if I screwed up my face a bit, a little crossing of the eyes and sticking out of the tongue, it wasn't quite so bad. In short, by emulating some sick love-child of Red Skelton and Medusa, the painful experience actually turned into a rather amusing one. Before I knew it, he'd sliced off the dysplastic nevus, and I was just a bundle of giggles.

~ ~
(oo)
U
O
I'm not sure whether to consider this a step forward or backward. On one hand, I was able to express myself facially, but on the other, it was not exactly the most socially appropriate time to be practicing self expression. Nonetheless, I recommend trying it the next time you find yourself undergoing minor surgery on your birthday.

{Disclaimer: I do not, however, recommend trying it when someone else is undergoing minor surgery on their birthday. It may make you out to be an ass.)

Introduction

I've found quite a few blogs written about Asperger's Syndrome, mostly by parents of children with the disorder, but surprisingly few actually written by those with the syndrome. While this may be great for parents, it sure doesn't help one's self esteem to be the subject of scientific scrutiny. Case in point: April is National Autism Awareness Month. Asperger's is an Autism Spectrum disorder. To me, that makes April "National Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month. Then again, that just doesn't have the same ring to it.

I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome in 2004, during a private meeting with a reputable psychiatrist. It may help to point out that I was not actually a part of this meeting, and that once my mom left the room and I had my own private meeting, the same reputable psychiatrist diagnosed me with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I knew there was something fishy right away: there should be a hyphen between "Obsessive" and "Compulsive," right? In any case, it wasn't until the winter of 2008 that I finally— Obsessive─Compulsive! Ahh... Now where was I?

Asperger's Syndrome is surprisingly easy to describe to the unfamiliar. Imagine yourself at a Christmas party, and clinking around the Christmas tree is a model train. While everyone else laughs, jokes, connects, and enjoys each other's company, your attention is on that train. Observe the awesome mechanisms that move it forward. Listen to the friendly sounds it makes: Whoo whoo! Notice how you never grow tired of watching it circle around and around, because it lets you turn off your brain and avoid the insufferable mundanity of conversing about jobs, weather, and alcohol.

The problem with this scenario is that humans are social animals, and Asperger's is a social disorder. National "Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month, Q.E.D. Apart from the feelings of alienation and despair, the disorder works in both directions and consequently, has pretty much made me into an ass. I get offended by light humor, condescending toward those who don't play by (or understand) my convoluted rules, and reclusive around those who try to disrupt my compulsive routines and regimens with a little social time. How my friends have stuck with me, I'll never know.

What I do know is that I'm tired of Asperger's. In fact, I quit. If Whoopi Goldberg can conquer dyslexia, then why can't I change April to National "Kyle's Brain Is All Right" Month? I've spent so much time putting the "ass" in "Asperger's" that the time has come to work on the other half: the "burger." To do so, I will need to focus on the following seven components: Bun (Spiritual), Meat (Physical), Cheese (Social), Lettuce (Personal), Tomatoes (Professional), Onions (Emotional), Ketchup (Romantical)

This shall be my accountability blog, on which I shall face my failures and mark my successes. I make no claim of professional expertise or any pretense of family-friendly content. My language will be expressive and sometimes crass, which, if you are from Utah, will offend. In that case, I say "grow some."

Now let's flip some burgers.