Letting Go

When do you let go of the things you once were?

I still think of myself as a nurses aide, yet I haven't been in that profession for thirty years.

The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells, a Book Review, not the movie

I just finished reading The War of the Worlds. It was a real page-turner, a surprise at every chapter, as the book has few similarities to the movies that I have watched of the same title.

I expected to see a worded version of the 1953 movie with Dr. Clayton Forrester, a single man who thwarts the Martians, meets a girl and finds God. Boy, that movie bore a scant resemblance to the book. 

I'll give the film credit in that it portrayed the Martians in a semi-accurate way. It captured the terror, the thrill, the imminent danger that Wells described with great clarity. The book surprised me in how it kept me on the edge of my seat, pulse racing, more than I care to admit.

Over halfway through the book, it dawned on me that maybe only small portions of the book was used as the latter half was bogged down and downright boring in parts. All events take place around London, where Wells took great pains to describe each and every town and city, much to my lackadaisical bent.

I recently watched the first season of the 2019 TV series, War of the Worlds. While the episodes were well-written, somewhat plausible and entertaining, I found nothing but a few, small morsels that resembled the original book. Granted, there are going to be large discrepancies due to the passage of time. A book written in 1897 can hardly be transformed to 1953 or 2019 without major elements radically change shape.

I tried watching the 2005 movie version with C. Thomas Howell but that only lasted for less than thirty minutes. The opening nudity followed by the woman's proclamation that the alien ship "smelled like a**" prompted me to put an early end to that low-end, highly deviating from the book, film. Nope. I do not recommend that one.

I have been trying to locate a free version of the Tom Cruise, Dakota Fanning film. Judging from the trailer, it is my best hope of finding a movie that accurately portrays the spirit of the book.

Regarding the book, the ending is plausible and the final paragraph, my favorite.

If you've read the book, let me know what you think. 

Autistic All-Star

I'm feeling strongly Autistic these days and quite happy about it. I have a though strict, extremely tasty and healthy meal choice going where by, each day I eat 95% of the exact same thing!! Less variety means less choices equals less stress and dismay. 

I have a solid, daily "uniform" that suits me fabulously. I wear an oversized Oxford shirt, jeans and my shoes, often without socks these days, do I'm kind of branching out in the world. 

I have a handful of fun projects that I pick and choose from that entertain me. Currently reading a book and crafting with felt.

I am feeling physically well, thus a walk or two each day for 2-3 miles.

Methinks that my sudden increase in energy may be due to my two new supplements: NAC and folinic acid. Both have been heavily tested and researched and shown promise in reducing Autistic symptoms.

I'll have to write a post specific to those two as I believe I have stumbled upon a way to curb my Shutdowns and Burnout.

Just feeling Autistic and feeling good about myself. Weird, huh?!

Losing a Friend

When you have 20 friends and lose one is different than having 3 friends and losing one.

I've never understood the art of friendship, thus I have only one or two left in my arsenal, my back pocket. I'm lying. That's wishful thinking. I have no one that I can talk to who understands AspieSpeak, aka, the odd way in which I speak due to the unique way I view the world, heavily slanted with Complex PTSD for good measure, you know, adding in more uncertainty and irrational fears and proclivities. But I used to have Bob.

Bob, who I actually met via this blog, was the male, taller, slightly more social version of me. He had a blog and I stumbled upon it. He wrote of the raw, true emotions of being neglected and sexually abused. His words were words I had never thought I'd see in print, aloud. His writing gave me strength and courage to finally speak about my own incestuous, prostituted, neglected and tortured (yeah, like the real torture stuff, not just a word for dramatic effect) past family experiences. 

He was like me in that he had not a soul in the world that truly loved, cared and knew him. He had the pretend, totally loveless, slightly abusive main relationship person, as did I at the time. We found each other online, through our blogs and our words intermingled and danced, so happy to have finally found a mate, a friend, a kindred spirit in a world on fire and chaos.

Sometimes, we speak every day. Other times not for weeks at a time. We were always connected regardless of whether we wrote each other of not.

We both understood the pain of having parents and family forego, neglect and dismiss us. We were non-beings, small things to be ignored, beaten, abused, sexually assaulted. That was all we were growing up. That was the stuff stuffed in us that we carried and rummaged through each and every day. No one had our back. Not ever. But Bob and I had each other. And all was right in the world for almost a decade.

We both understood the extreme loneliness. We spoke often of the pain of touch deprivation. He called it "touch starved" and I concurred. It is a starvation that you cannot fix yourself. It's craving the nonchalant touch of the store clerk as she hands you your change or multiple trips to doctors and er's because your body is in pain and those brief touches with hands, and the listening would slightly ease the hurt, fill the hollow ever so briefly.

To be alone in the world without the strength to reach out, without being able to find the words to let others know you need help, unable to get the comfort you need, the futility, the pain, sucked into darkness. Bob and I, together sometimes found words. Mostly we were just comfort to each other. At least one person knew my pain. At least one person knew me and cared about me. That's what Bob Forbes and I were to each other, Bestest Friends, each other's Only.

Then last Thanksgiving I wrote him. And I never, ever heard back. A social media scan revealed an accident report. Bob was killed instantly in a car accident. Still tough to believe my friend is gone. And I am alone in the world.

It's tough. It's been some months but it's really still painful. I talk with him some days more than others. I'm glad he is no longer in pain. 

I loved my friend Bob. I miss him terribly. I'm reassured that, at my middle age, I could drop dead of completely natural causes and I'm okay with that.

I go on. Walking alone. Hoping, maybe, someday to find a friend.

Love you Bob

I don't have goals, rather Daily Quests

 I have always shied away from speculation and future fortune telling; I dislike the aspect of goals. I can foretell tomorrow's mood as one can guess at the impending weather. I like absolutes even though few exist.

I'm reminded of the proverbial Carrot-on-a-Stick, I need to create a "carrot" so that I drag my sorry ass out of bed and have something to look forward to so that I don't languish in the Nether, Purgatory or Limbo. I'm a sailboat on the ocean and require wind so that I might raise my sail.

I have small, doable quests that I set for my self. It used to be something as simple as coffee and peanut butter toast for breakfast. It was something to look forward to. It was a direction, a reason to breathe, a handhold, my next step.

Today, my quest was a simple green Oxford shirt, large or extra large, solid color, without defect and with its signature buttoned collar point intact. I had 4 or 5 thrift stores to choose from. My Life had purpose and meaning, which may seem silly to some but I am a person without family or friends, thus these small quests are of major importance. 

If I fell down and didn't get back up, no one would notice or look for me. My existence is tenuous at best so I require reason, objectives to get up in the morning, bravely leave my secure home and mingle with the oft unpleasant and loud muggles known as neurotypicals.

Last week, I ventured out in search of books on pysanky, otherwise known as the obscure art of Ukranian Egg Decorating. Pysanky aficionados are pretty rare and the few books on the subject, even rarer, but it propelled me on an adventure from bookstore to bookstore and from thrift shop to thrift shop. My quest, in a sense, failed in that I did not add a new book to my somber collection, yet I accomplished getting through a nother series of days focused and with a sense of minor anticipation. 

Some people say their prayers before falling asleep at night. Me, I search for and name my next day's quest.

I did find the green Oxford I desired which surprised and greatly pleased me. The second thrift store had exactly what I desired. Life can be good especially if done in small, manageable steps.