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On my travels, I turn to no one. When I see wonders, I see them alone. My experiences are shared at arms length for there is, by my side, nothing but empty space.

This is how I have shaped my life. I enjoy the sparsity of my emotional landscape. Friends and lovers, colleagues and thinkers, writers and artists all bring much to my life but none are my partner, my confidante or my other half. Some are more transient than others, but none are as impermanent in themselves as myself.

I am whole in my self constructed solitude and, when I steer clear of holes, this square peg travels quite comfortably. Life is lived, large and sprawling, for I am a nomad passing by and experiencing all that my senses can withstand. My social circle, by comparison, is kept small and tidy. The Asperger Path is my route and I navigate a way through this world with heart and mind as my map and compass.

So, when I see the world and I want to share it with someone, I choose the most intimate strangers I know. I choose you, dear readers. For you are sparse and far flung. If I want you, I can send fire off my missive into the void. Even if my message is never read, it is sent.

For me, that act of sharing is enough.

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For Whom The Bell Tolls

No matter how many times you tell people that you see the world differently, every time they notice it they express some concern. Or maybe expressing concern is one of those concepts I just don’t grasp.

People are often surprised by the things I say or do. My usual response is to assume that as I take full responsibility for my own life, their surprise is an issue for them. John Donne once concluded that no man is an island, but that does not mean that every man is traffic junction.

Sometimes people think they hear the toll of the bell. It might just be the wind chimes of my imagination or the tapping of my thumb on the information superhighway.

I am a little disconnected but I am concerned for my fellow man. However, my communication can sometimes be a little sparse or scrambled. We are all different, special and unique. No man is an island but allow me a moat.

The Artist

I am the artist and creator of my life.  I have pictures that line the long hallway of my life. Some of these artistic renditions are masterpieces. I have beautiful detailed memories that are vivid and bright, executed clearly and framed exquisitely. Some are sketches or maybe just sketchy. Brief line drawings that capture the shadow of a moment. 

As curator, I have applied no reason or rhyme to the collection. Some of the memories that are the most golden seem to be attached to events that were quite unremarkable at the time. Other major moments or seemingly key times have been ruthlessly archived into dark recesses and held under lock and key.  The curation has been highly selective and very subjective. 

The memories that hang, easily retrieved, paint no accurate picture of the path I have walked through life. My mind has edited and refined my collection. Every now and then I see an oil painting that seems to have a rather unusual perspective. Some paintings have been rendered so sympathetically I am not sure I was ever truly there. 

So here I am with my hallway of memories . A random and diverse set of paintings that portray my life with no more or less accuracy than I apply to this, my writing. For I am the artist and this life I put out on display, is merely a creation. 

It’s been a while since I put thumb to phone to tap out a metronomic message to put in my bottle. Life has taken me  and carried me down a dizzyingly bizarre route. However far I have travelled I’m still here. My backwater life has had a few up and downs but the journey has been an internal one. 

The twists and turns, at times almost Machiavellian, havr surprised me but they have failed to knife me and I have walked away, unscathed and unscarred. I have a new and, for me, more interesting job. I got called professor the other day and when I checked irony was not lurking in the corner. I am falling in love with my teaching. Adults and small groups seem deliciously simple after the dramas and joys of teaching my large grade 1 classes. However easy the management might be however, the content is challenging and my skills are being sharpened. My mind is tingling in ways I thought were long lost. It’s a privilege to be teaching teachers and seeing colleagues introduced to new concepts and ideas. 

So, backwater Battambang will be home for a while longer. There’s a contentment in lingering yet still knowing that, a year from now, I’ll be elsewhere. The Asperger Path is moving slowly and the restless motion of my thumb taps a reminder to live each moment and let each moment pass. 

The Road Less Travelled


I have a hundred thousand words in my head. They jostle noisily each keen to escape the obscurity of my mind and land in the spotlight. Fame and glamour will follow once they escape into the world. What an anticlimax they must feel. The leap made faithfully to discover a regimented place in the ether. There were thoughts of vellum, iridescent inks and golden nibs forging an italic masterpiece. Instead they have become row after technological row of evenly spaced semantic units like some dull but well planned suburban housing project. All hopes dashed, aspiration extinguished, as the dreadful realisation hardens like a concrete pavement. They have jumped headfirst into a blog. The last hopeful thought, a successful blog, is crushed.
These words will never know Caxton’s machine or the loving labours of a brotherly illumination. The beautifully artisanal imperfection of times past is not their destiny. Modernity has taken the life of the word and made it quite proletarian. They were not even mused over by a consumptive with a candle in a draughty vicarage. My words, more touched than pressed, are entered silently into a phone and then set adrift. Lost in an enormous blogosphere, they will sit awkwardly awaiting hits that will be single digit in volume before disappearing wordlessly into the void of the archive. My apologies words, for  you are on the straight and narrow asperger path and, despite the absence of forks, there can be no doubt that is the road less travelled.