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Update 2020-12-16: (True sticky posts banned; click to read.) So, owing to the evolution of the internet, or at least my own approach to it,...

Monday, September 24, 2012

Sob Story: Epilogue

It seemed like I ought to check back in after that whole big thing back there. I just wanted to say that I appear to be reasonably secure here at home after all. My family's had a nice talk, following my whole big thing, and the point appears to be made that I already have about all I can handle, and family likewise. Call it "the family forgiveness act". We need each other, without the anger.

Of course, I still have the problems of being unemployed, socially deprived, and soaked in student debt and bimonthly health insurance payments. But at least I'm slightly less miserable. And at least I won't be miserable without a consistent place to sleep and eat.

Still, if you have a good job opening, fill me in, won't you?

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Speak of it Only in a Soft, Sharp Whisper

Here's something no one ever seemed to talk about, even though it's totally a thing. I guess no one ever talked about it because it wasn't a universal thing, but it's a thing nonetheless. I've long known this thing from a handful of records, from people whispering around me in classes, and from other sources that escape me just now. Somehow, I never thought to mention it to anybody. Never thought to look it up on the net, either. Certainly never thought to give it a proper name. I just kind of enjoyed it when it happened and thought nothing more of it.

Then earlier this week, a cyberfriend of mine posted a link to an article. The article seemed to think it was talking about my thing, but I'm certain it was actually pursuing something different. But it was enough. For the first time, it was evident that a handful of people out there know the thing and are reasonably excited to talk about it. Even if the article missed the mark, it had plenty of links and references to people who didn't. All the while I was off in my own little world, other people were uniting theirs into one growing, marvelous globe. They even decided upon a name, albeit a clinical one that translates into an unmemorable set of initials.

The name is: Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. ASMR for short. And what it is — are you ready for this? No you're not. Unless you've experienced it, in which case I retract that statement. What it is, basically, is this: A sort of upper-body orgasm induced by intimate, yet sharp, sounds. The best example of such a sound that comes to mind is a really close-up whisper on a quiet background, full of well-enunciated Ts and Ss. Sometimes and somehow, those sounds just perfectly hit something within my head, resulting in, at least in my case, a kind of flash-orgasm shooting from near my inner ear down into my upper back, usually on the right side near my shoulder.

I should add that I seem to need to be relaxed for it to happen. If I'm too tense, and given my current life situation, that does happen often, the tension seems to kind of block the sounds from getting through to the "sweet spot". So relaxation is a good thing to have. (When isn't it?)

So there you have it. Apparently, not everyone gets that. But there are plenty of people that do, and they are gradually emerging from the deepest recesses of the Internet (which happen to include YouTube and *ahem* Blogger). And, for whatever it may be worth, I'm happy to join them. This is why I was so stunningly tolerant of classmates whispering around me during class, back when I was actually an enthusiastic student eager to do well. Ah, that seems so long ago now.

This is not the original article to which my friend linked. But it's as good an information repository on the matter as we're likely to find at this point. There is supposedly an official research website, but it hasn't worked since I stumbled upon all this. And there are plenty of other links within this article.

But you know I can't just leave you hanging. I have to provide at least a couple of examples of my own "triggers". I'll start you with psychedelic pstaple Syd Barrett and his old band. Isn'T iT goooooD?



Next up, the acid folk stylings of Linda Perhacs. This demo appears on the expanded CD reissue of her classic 1970 LP Parallelograms. Listen in particular for the middle part with the right-channel-dubbed vocal.



I'll leave you with those two for now. YouTube can only do so much. (I have an mp3 copy of, of all things, Johnny Mathis' "Chances Are" where Johnny's voice is astonishingly crisp in the right channel. I don't think the 'Tube can match it.) And anyway, "chances are", we wouldn't want to overdose on these "back-gasms". Everything in moderation; always remember that.

Peace, love, and limited quantities of euphoria,
~C.A.~



Edit 2013-8-24: Further thoughts on this phenomenon here.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Sob Story, Part Three

All right. I want to thank you, cybercitizen, for playing the role of Doctor Freud here for me. Here we go.

Things are good. Father has his television and word-search puzzle book; I have my cyberspace, with its music, virtual friends and useless job sites; things are almost ... peaceful.

Then ... a low rumbling; a subtle thunder.

The quadrupeds explode into a vocal foreshadowing of their own vocal explosion's aftermath. True, they go off for any visitor — sometimes even me — but this particular visitor elicits a unique tone; the howls are louder and in greater unanimity, as if providing a symphony its crescendo. The oldest, in particular, seems to be wailing as she did once upon a time when people left. Something disappointing must be happening; the symphony has reached its end.

They go to greet the visitor in the hopes that their greeting will instill a sense of love in the newcomer. And, for maybe half a minute, there is a kind of high, sing-song quality to the human voice in the other room. But it quickly subsides along with the tapping and sliding of paws on the hardwood floor. And, not two minutes from the dogs' initial eruption, a new cacophony echoes through the house: a blizzard of profanity and discontentment, the biting cold misery settling into the interior landscape. And I do my best to seek shelter from the storm.

Mother's home.

Letting everyone know, among many things, that she hates coming home.

So, I've gotten to thinking that maybe leaving (getting kicked out) wouldn't be such a bad thing — as long as I have a place to go and something to do when I get there.

One friend commented on Part One that I probably want a place of my own. I'm actually not convinced I want a place all my own; I'm fine sharing a place. I just don't want to share a place that's soaked in misery.

So maybe that's why I've written this whole thing: it's a call for friends and/or potential friends to maybe take me in for a while, or at least offer some tips on where to go and what to do. A couple people have made me an offer, but I'm not quite ready to accept one just yet. I guess I want to gather some options.

Today, meanwhile, I'm getting ready to talk with my career counselor at the university. And after that, I'm going to an examination where the university will determine whether or not I'm fit to stand behind a counter and sell candy bars. (I did work four solid years at a now-defunct Baskin Robbins. I miss that job.)

Peace and love be unto you.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Sob Story, Part Two

And I'm back. For a little while.

So I'm a “special kid” (who apparently is cool revealing those details to the world) with nowhere to go and, presumably, nowhere to come from, very soon.

As those of you who've checked out my song “Now What?” posted above and been able to listen to it despite the outside noise that plagues the left channel in particular, may know or have figured out, I'm just out of college. It took me twice as long as it apparently was supposed to have done, but I did finish. My degree? A bachelor of the arts in creative writing, mathematics and technology. I kind of semi-joke that, in other words, I'm a jack of all trades and master of none. I aborted the mathematics and computer science bits of my education two or three years in when I realized that I was neither enjoying nor doing well in those classes. I subsequently tried three or four majors — anthropology, psych, rhetoric — before getting together with a small team of administrators to write up an independent creative writing major, designed with a focus on poetry and an intent on just getting me the hell out of college. It took a lot of effort (in my opinion) and rather a bit of intervention to even get me to realize the IPS (Individual Plan of Study). For a couple semesters, I went as low as one class at a time. The normal full-time number of classes per semester is four. In fact, I seem to recall sitting one semester out entirely, in an effort to shake the pressure and depression.

I've kind of forgotten where I was going with this. I just put on Court & Spark. I think what I was saying was that I went through all that for...what? A slab that is currently sitting in my gig bag? Oh, and can't forget that student loan debt, which, thanks to what I can only guess is a communication error, is triple what I thought it would be.

That's what I got. No real clues about life beyond academia. No job, and no particular career aspirations. I can tell you that the idea of a career — one thing that I spend my whole life doing — turns me right off.

So what about minor day (or evening/late-night) jobs? Well, who's hiring? Doesn't seem to be much out here. I did have a job for a couple years that I purposely left a couple years ago. They claim to take me back if I want, but, again, I left it for a reason. I tried, for a while, to do a job that requires me plopped in front of a computer all the while. I simply don't have it in me. I'd find myself just sat there, zoned out, accomplishing nothing. Not even surfing the net; just sitting there — even though I sit at a computer nearly all of my “spare” time, basically playing music and messing around mindlessly. And the reason I spend my spare time doing that is, as I mentioned in part one of this extravaganza, I have no social life. Nor do I care much for movies, books, television, or most video games. (I probably could have been a gamer, if games hadn't gotten all 3-D and pseudo-realistic.)

I'm a “mouse potato” with an inability for that would-be profession to translate into an actual profession. Certainly my other natural high points — wit, writing skills, musical knowledge and talent — have no place in contemporary society, at least not in America. I need a job with social aspects. And so I ask again: Who's hiring?

I suppose you all realize that I'm not one who's willing to stay with something that I don't enjoy. This happens to be precisely where I clash with my mother, who stayed at her old workplace that she detested for some sixteen years before being unceremoniously fired for an expletive. She's also sticking with a loveless marriage to my spineless father (who's another story altogether) which just about daily features high-volume arguments. I'm thankful that neither parent is an alcoholic; imagine the destruction that could result from that. Mother knows she can't particularly count on my father for much, so I become a kind of “go-to”.

And, for some reason, she wants me out of the house.

Just a shade more in part three.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Sob Story, Part One

Happy Labor Day weekend, cyberworld.

Like many younger Americans, the exact meaning of Labor Day is deep within a mist from me, so it may or may not be somehow poetic that I'm bringing this up now. And I'm hesitating at the beginning here, considering that, apparently, I really feel that I need to write and post this. At least some aspect of it doesn't seem right. But here it is:

My mother has threatened to kick me out of our house if I should remain unemployed come this month's end.

This, as perhaps you can imagine, is not something I'm having a great time coping with. I've been in my parents' shelter all my twenty-six years. I went to college right across town. I've never known anything else. And despite my mother's half-assed attempts to charge me (her only son) monthly rent for staying here, I'm not the least bit prepared for anything else, and I'm wholly unlikely to make a smooth transition.

Another piece of information that might be useful here: I'm a child of Asperger's Syndrome. Though the affliction was more prevalent in childhood than now, my aversion to minor changes then may perhaps be indicative of my (potential?) aversion to major changes now. Also, it meant that I was not at all social growing up — I wasn't anti-social, I just simply didn't make friends or talk much — the consequence of which is that I have no social group — no clique or niche — that I identify with or conceivably fit in. Though that aspect of me has eased somewhat the last few years, I still nonetheless have no close friends, not even from the last bits of college. Also, I don't drink, which rather robs me of what seems to be the primary means of adult socialization. I have kind of bar-hopped locally on Saturday nights now and then, occasionally casually conversing with a familiar face from days of old and then just awkwardly standing or sitting with nothing much else to say. And, to top that all off, I am an only child. For all the horror stories of sibling torture I've heard, I can't particularly recommend “onlihood”. I might not even recommend first-born-hood, but I suppose our species actually does depend on those. I can sort of approximate a sibling with my only cousin, who is a wonderful perpetuator of peace, love, and a general lack of dysfunction, some three-and-a-half hundred miles away.

Where was I....the Syndrome also means that I take horrendous amounts of time doing certain things that might take non-afflicted people not so much time. Writing is often a good example of such a thing. And I must break now. Back in a bit.