Considering the condition of autism in children:
Difficulty in reading or recognizing facial expressions in others.
Does this mean that they inherently cannot recognize the meaning of words? Can they read poetry and understand its profound impact upon one individual versus another? Do they understand that their words can affect the emotional conditions of others?
NPR reports that kids who grow up with dogs tend to interact more positively with other children, and furthermore, will be able to better interact with adults as they grow. This is due to the fact that a dog will learn to respond to a child’s emotions. When a child is happy, the dog will be happy; if a child is upset, then the dog will learn to comfort that child.
–> This works both ways. Children see the dog responding to them, so they learn to respond to the needs of that dog. A child who grows up with a dog will be able to recognize sickness, apprehension, tension, etc, within the dog. This, scientists say, transfers to their interactions with people. They are more able to “read” people.
Question: If this is true, then would raising an autistic child further their ability to “read” others? Will they be more likely to understand concepts such as, “If I call you ugly, and you smile about it, does that mean that you are not hurt? Can you harbour feelings that are not shown upon the face?” With proper face-analysis training, combined with the partnership of a dog, will an autistic child be able to understand present and unexhibited emotions together?
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Have you ever read Emily Dickenson? Good. Me neither. I always hated her work. Seems to me like all her poetry can be rewritten into the song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Hate it.
However, today I was thinking about her poem, “I am nobody. Who are you?” The only part of the poem I actually remember is:
“I am nobody.
Who Are you?
Are you nobody too?”
That’s all. Terrible stuff, it is. But the reason why I remember it is because my mother had an illustrated book of Emily Dickenson’s poems. In the poem, she is sitting in her bedroom, speaking to a bird.
Who are you, anyway, bird?
I woke up sick the other day. Home sick, eventually. But in all reality that romance is gone and instead it left a hole in my self that kept my stomach bleeding into my other intestines.
Long time since last post. Will try to pull head out of ass and write something sometime.
Achey and confused, lately. I guess anemia and WWII had something in common. Spending the days unpeeling oranges and then not finishing them until they become hard and crusty on the outer cellulose skin. Mostly seedless, thank god. Metro, traveaux, dos-dos, beyond that. Spending lots of good nights laying in bed, early mornings on the back porch. Read The Unbearable Lightness of Being, only after reading The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. I’m beginning to miss my evenings masturbating to the words of Kundera while I listen to the neighborguy downstairs throwing fragile shit at his girlfriend. Its too warm, now. He stopped yelling and throwing because he knows everyone is opening windows.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I read in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. It has been a month or so now since finished, and quite honestly I’ve forgotten most of the first half and am struggling to find words to enlighten myself about the latter. Something Peter Pan-like, I believe. Except the Lost Boys never raped anyone. I keep thinking about the rape of Sabina. Aren’t all adults pirates? Why, yes, Wendy. They are.
When I was sick with an intestinal virus in the 10th grade, my mother used to hold me as I cried. Today, she still reminds me of doing that, of sleeping at the foot of my bed so she could keep one firm hand on me. If not, I’d shriek in pain. This weekend, I needed so badly to be touched. I think I scared Kyle away. Maybe that’s why Kundera felt that Sabina needed to be touched, molested by those children. She gained something undestroyable in her violations. I needed Kyle to violate my space and rock me back and forth while I cried.
Maybe nostalgia is my real crime. I’m expecting too much out of others. I’m grinding my teeth without a bathtub, sobbing when the pipes underneath the kitchen sink start smelling like tar and feces. I want someone to pour the water over my head to wash the shampoo from my hair. But it is too late. I’m a pirate now.
Possiamo essere perdonati?
Can we be forgiven?
cuddly ugly terrorist; 