1 - Rain man.
2 - The model aircraft museum.
3 - Binary.
4 - Unwanted attention.
5 - Don't touch me.
6 - Mary will come back to you.
7- I don't know.
8 - I'd like a girl.
9 - Hush children.
10 - The police visit.
Every band I have ever read up on, sleeve notes and Myspace site, don't tell you how they made their music. If they are Synthesizer based, they shroud the business in mystery, thus selling themselves as 'profound' and something special. I personally think this is a bit, er, well, I'd rather tell all and explain what the songs are about - which means they need some depth in the first place - and how I made them. Nothing amazing about me. I just try and tell stories with rhythmic noises.
I love synthesizers because of the timbres and unique sounds they can make, together with the divine sound of pulse width modulation going slowly in and out of phase, a little chorused. Love it. The soaring sine waves, the strange beauty of a carefully tuned filter. That, and I can't play anything but a keyboard. (Play the fool?)
HARDWARE ONLY. No mixing effects apart from a delay line on top. No computer programmes.
Moog. (Oooh. Like having a live-in Mistress.)
Virus TI. (Evil polyphonic simulacra of an analogue synthesizer. A world in itself.)
Alesis Delay/effects unit.
Akai Sequencer. (The Wadlotron. After the Mellortron.)
Recorded on a Tascam porastudio & Zoom box.
BINARY When he was a child, he could not sleep, on account of the Obsessive Compulsive Counting in his head. This is what it was like for me in Junior School. I really did complain to my Mother I couldn’t turn the counting off. I used to do a lot of daydreaming probably
themed around this sequential obcession, and I now know manifested all sorts of stereotypically Autistic traits. Normal for a wierdo.
Some of us ended up on different generations of antipsychotics, particularly for Adhd. Don’t ask what they did to their bodies in the long run. Personally I didn’t know I had Autism until recently, by which time I hate to think what such drugs could have done to me.
UNWANTED SEXUAL ATTENTION The Aspie follows Mary through town. Within, he is as we hear, but in reality, he's getting into trouble. We received a letter asking why 'they' not let him see his girlfriend Mary. It was written in his in usual block capitals, upon the back of a
magistrates letter that said he had broken the terms of a restraining order, presumably taken out by her. They used to be called ‘Crushes’. Now its Sexual Harassment. Unrequited love is a general fact of life of people who cannot relate but can feel very, very intensely. So far
more Aspies than you hear about get into experiences like this. Since the majority are male, its wise to be careful around my kind. You may think it’s an issue of immaturity, but how do you have those essential grown experiences when you cannot relate
MARY WILL COME BACK TO YOU Oh yes she will... What do you think the woman who took out the restraining order was called? (If she heard my out of tune voice on this song, I reckon she would do one for me too...)
THE MODEL AIRCRAFT MUSEUM The Aspie stands in front of the great building, and we see him there. Here at last, the dreams become real. The great dark empty building earths his mind into the ground and he connects with the world. If he could only make it happen, he
could walk through the world in his mind, touch it, see it, and others would experience his vision.
THE POLICE VISIT He told me on the phone that the Police had visited him, accusing him of trying to perpetrate a fraud on people. He'd been trying to sell t shirts advertising "BATTLE OF BRITAIN MUSEUM". So I asked him how many he had. He'd done 3, and the rest "when in
his plans", and he was waiting to set the museum up in order to create them properly. Someone from the Nas visited his home, and only found 2 or 3 model aircraft in his home. He was waiting to do it, to own the building. Only then would he set the physical aspect of his ideas
up. Only then. An Autistic can repeat events and experiences over and over again in their minds, as if the traumatizing event is trapped in their heads. Ocd. So the words of the Police echo around his mind, over and over, as with Binary which reflects the experience.
At this point I introduce The Aspies older brother, a higher functioner. So we have glimpses of that world too.
I DON'T KNOW This song is about an inevitable moment if you are a really High Functioner, the type who does not diagnosed until after he's had a few of these moments.
For there comes a time in a relationship when the Neurotypical you are sleeping with realizes you simply cannot 'feel' deeply the way they do. They kind of attack you from the heart, 'freaking out' passionately at someone who is more like a machine than a lover.
Trust me, they cannot help it.
Order is just within grasp. He sat there knowing that here in his room, in the council flat they’d given him, he could just reach out and change everything. But he didn’t.
In front of him the grids emerged. The sequence of things to move, the tidying of the room. Chair, table, papers, objects, old plates and cups in the kitchen. The use of the old hoover and the water flowing over the cutlery, the heat generating steam, the boiler roaring into life next
to him as the liquid flowed around his hands.
Never hot enough. Boiling his skin off. Germs survive. A sea of infinite micro organisims. The Mandelbrot paisley spirals with tendrils growing tendrils in curves and shapes appearing before his eyes. A vast plane of living creatures all so tiny but surviving, feeding, multiplying.
The hot water in the sink, dissolving grease and flowing around and around. Eddies and currents, a huge mathematical system inside a small space. Vectors and motion and direction. The kitchen sink full of washing.
Sometimes the old wallpaper with its lines and roses hypnotised him, and he sat there watching the dust in the daylight as the patterns became infinite, rolling from the plane of the floor over his head into the beyond of the ceiling. The wall expanded sideways until he was a tiny
amoebic thing, faced with the vastness of the linear expanse in front of him. A living room wall.
The vacuum cleaner could be too loud, and he’d put on the ear protectors. The dust made him sneeze and invaded his space too aggressively. His nose, mouth, eyes. Too much too little to see or deal with.
He could not really understand why he sat there, inanimate. He stilll ached from the night in Brighton, the music that Claire made replaying in his mind, looped over and over. He needed another nights sleep. He needed to reframe the day and go from a better position. He
needed love and sex because he had urges. He needed to have a brain operation that made him empathetic.
He didn’t need anything. He didn’t get depression any more, not for years. He didn’t take antipsychotics when his friends in the social groups did. They did beta blockers for the pain of being alive.
So he sat there in his flat, and he remembered the girl he’d spoken to so once who told him what depression was like for her. She was so beautiful. Young and fit and haunted.
She said, “I am like a haunted house. I stand there and the world sees me and feels allsorts that I don’t. Men adore me and women hate me, people try and be nice and relate and its all crap.
Because all I can really feel is this absence. Theres a bit missing in me and without it there is a freezing vacuum. I get so angry I want to kill someone. Then I don’t see any point in being alive apart from hurting and being in pain so I want to kill myself. That cheers me up.
I’m a big haunted house that feels the wind blowing around it, cold painful chills. I am old and empty and full of dead furniture. I wear pretty dresses and dance barefoot and die all the time. I hurt people because it’s the only thing to do. I don’t exist really.”
She did not appear in the social group again, and the woman who ran it didn’t want to talk about her again. But one woman who always went tutted when he mentioned her, and said she was schizophrenic and got sectioned.
The Aspie didn’t find the woman attractive. He really truly saw something in what she was saying, something else than himself. Dark and flashing negative light of black fire. Frightening.
Maybe there were some things worse than not tidying the flat?
LARRY ARNOLD IS A NEURODIVERSE ACTIVIST AND WRITER BASED IN THE SOUTH OF THE UK.
"We the people, who are neurologically divergent (autistic spectrum disorders, specific learning difficulties, adhd, tourettes, epilepsy etc.) assert our right to speak for ourselves in determining our rights to education, work, welfare and the right to be who we want to be.
We assert that we are valid human beings with the right to exist as a significant minority and call upon society to recognise and value our differences.
We call upon the bureaucratic systems of government. Education, Health, Legal and Social Security to stop disabling us by refusing us an adequate income, adequate accommodations for our different learning styles and forcing us to come up to others definitions of conformity and normality"."