Me, the Teenage Designer of Worlds

I was no artist, but the asperger side of me was always designing things, constructing navies, spacecraft, maps of resettled other worlds...these all date back to about 1987, a lot of scrawling during class and at home.

I have learned (in "An Anthropologist on Mars") that this sort of thing is a typical Aspergic trait...whether it is a Tourette's type behaviour as well I have no idea.

I still do this sort of thing, but it's more or less an entirely internalised process. Indeed my navy is being overhauled as I write.

Cruiser classes in the internal navy

An interstellar "Starsip" (Doh!)

These designs owed an awful lot to Project Daedalus

A UFO sighting designed by me. Alien looks like a bad attempt to draw Bowie

Map of terraformed Mars

CIA World factbook for a planet that doesn't exist

Colonised Venus

Daydreams of a Workplace Hanging

This is disturbing, and it is meant to be. Proceed with caution. Tourette boy gets upset when he gets teased!

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When you have not had scalding coffee thrown in your face, you don't know how unlucky you are.

There are these steps at work, mobile gantries stolen from a steampunk Apollo launch. You can move them around by pulling these bent, rusting levers that take the support legs off the ground, and you can push them on wheels where the bearings are oiled knucklebones from a starving child.

Push them into position for the spectacle. Summon the spectators, the old women knitting before the scaffold, the cackling whores. The other staff in others words, they are as good as all those, the collective intelligence thereof. Drawn from large screen football, the only thing that could tear them away, not even the burning of their own children would normally stop them watching.

Prod the fucker up the stairs at sword point while ducking under the flying lumps of shit I wish everyone else would throw at you while thinking the man who deserved them might have been me. Put it out of your mind, Tudor master of ceremonies, the Lords of the Humiliations, the Chamberlain of Suffering.

There is a noose affixed to a criss cross of sprinkler pipes and girders that shake in the rain. It hangs down like guts fallen from the guts of a disembowelment. Yeah get your neck in there, you scrawny fucker. The safety cage at the top has been crudely removed by the cortex-less repair men who's normal function is to bang broken wheels on trolleys so they are even more broken.

Look up there. You see your god up there? I hope so. God lies within that hoop of rope. Push his head in, set the knot behind the mis-shapen inbred right ear. Give him a second to think, give him a gentle lean out over the void to the massed “ooohs” of the crowd as they bang their cans of Relentless together. Then shove hard.

The rope doesn't drop for long. Who wants to break his neck too soon anyway? Legs kick out thrashing, and as intended he shits himself over the loathsome toads from the offices, who lap it up like thirsty dogs and then turn to lick the faces of their frightened Eastern European slave girls. Another parasite climbs up his legs, the length of his body and sucks his eyeballs out saying “I love you, I love you!”

I kick him in the face and send his sprawling into a crowd of secretaries, shit and vomit. This is the best fun I've had in years, and I turned my conscience off especially. I'd best not turn it back on.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 14.12.13

Anatomy of a Tic

It is not an itch you have to scratch, it is a surge of power that begins in the centre of your back between your shoulder blades, and spreads up into neck and arms carrying with it a flexing jerk of the muscles, the force of which jars backbones and traps nerves.

It fires downwards. When it reaches the waist, the body is forced to bend over double, a worsening cramp that in severe instances causes the legs to flex and the toes to curl, stretching out sideways to the maximum point of muscular satisfaction is reached, right on the point of pain.

Sometimes the voice cries out as the back arches back up, sometimes the body bounces back with a spring and the face cranes to the ceiling, neck wrenched back and the mouth makes wolf cries full of abuse and swears.

This is what the stress does.

One day, maybe very soon, I'll get in a whole lot of trouble over this. I yell what's on my wind; if someone has upset me, I will hurl abuse about them into the void. Whatever is on my mind becomes vocalised and spat out like phlegmy rocks of hatred, embedded with clean as crystal nails dipped in toxin. Sometimes I bounce back so high I leap into the air like an electrocuted slinky, spine unravelling from extreme compression.

Other times my arms see saw through the air like I'm beating an invisible pair of soldier boy side drum, and my neck jerks so violently I keep trapping nerves in my shoulder. This isn't science fiction. This isn't fantasy.

This is a body that is outwardly normal. Providing you are looking at a short exposure photograph of it. For when it moves, it is out of this world.

Copyright Bloody Mulberry 06.09.13

Anti Matter Man

I was reading about Anti Matter a couple of days ago, and the question of why there is such an imbalance in favour of matter in this universe of ours, when high energy particle collisions would indicate that matter and anti matter should have eradicated itself out of existence in a blitz of photons.

Anti matter has hidden itself away. It has buried itself where normal matter cannot find it. It is locked in the DNA of the folk with Tourette's and Asperger's, the me folk, the we folk.

For when we have a relationship with somoeone made out of normal matter, catastrophic annihilation results. So we live alone, contributing to the mysterious dark matter that physicists can never figure out.

Well, I know where it is.

The bunker

What am I trying to achieve?

I'm no genius. I know that. It pains me.

I am no performer, artist, philosopher; let alone a polymath.

What I am trying to do, with a lot of frustration, is try and capture the essence of what (rarely!) makes me think I'm any good. Trying to capture the lightning inspiration that I think my brain enhanced by Tourettes and or Aspergers. This is a purely spontaneous, stream of consceince kind of feeling. I can't write it down, record it, or film it. But I am going to try. I don't think I'm being very successful as of yet.

But I will keep trying. There's got to be something good I can put out into the world.

The Waiting Child

New movie project in the offing

OK, after an abortive attempt to shoot something in the week, I'm going to gather my "equipment" and head out on location to shoot some sort of sci fi project that kind of deals with the issues of Tourettes and Aspergers, or the great issues of whatever it is, whatever I am and whatever it is doing to me.

Everyone says they can never understand me, so I guess it's up to me to try and explain things a little. But only a little, don't want to take the mystique away, and I don't want to blow their minds!

Mainly people with AS BTW tend to associate themselves with the great "unemotional" characters of Sci Fi, Spock, Data, Seven of Nine etc. I wouldn't go so far, I've never been properly diagnosed and what I think I am varies from day to day, sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. I don't want to hijack other peoples cultural experience I guess.

Tourettes, however, is something I wish it was able to get out there properly, nothing ever expresses what its like for your body to do the things that it does, the frenzy, the convulsing. Or the terrible and horrible obsessing, or how to have a productive life.

No Tourettes on TV and film is all coprolalic swearing crap.