Can I Come With You? Wherever You're Going?

Can I Come With You? Wherever You're Going?

Can I come with you? Wherever you're going?

More Posts from Humanity-in-the-absurd-hour and Others

"We have art in order not to die of the truth..."

And now for something completely different.

Photograph of a colourful, somewhat roughly-made clay teapot decorated in splotches of red, yellow and blue. It has four different spouts of various lengths pointing in different directions.

This is the ADHD Teapot. I made it in a ceramics class a few years ago. I use it to explain executive dysfunction to people who haven’t come across the term before (and those who think of ADHD mostly as Hyperactive Eight Year Old Boy Syndrome).

So, most people’s brains are like a regular shaped teapot with a single spout. Let’s say that your time, energy, focus etc is the liquid you have in the teapot. Your executive function is the spout, that directs the tea into the specific cup you want to fill-aka the task that you’re meant to be doing. Spills happen occasionally, but generally most of the tea goes in the right cup.

If you have executive dysfunction, (a symptom of ADHD, trauma, autism, schizophrenia etc.) you have multiple spouts going in different directions. You can try pointing one of them at your chosen cup and you will probably get some liquid in there, perhaps you will even fill it right up (finish the task). But meanwhile, tea is also pouring out of several other places and not going where you want it. If you have another container nearby, perhaps some of it will end up in there. But quite a lot of it is going to end up on the floor and accomplish nothing.

And at the end of the day you’ll have filled one or two cups ( or sometimes not even one) compared to the five or six that somebody with the same sized teapot (but only one spout) has filled, and everyone wonders why you’re so bad at getting tea poured, and why you make such a mess in the process.

One day I’d like to spend more time learning pottery and create a really technically good fucked up little adhd teapot. But that’s a long way off since i currently live in the outback and the nearest pottery workshop is some 400km away. But I figure that for now, it might be a useful or interesting metaphor to somebody even in its rough draft form.

This post is the cup I filled instead of cleaning my house btw.

[ID: A timeline labeled "Hyperfixation timeline". All of the font is Comic Sans. Each point of the timeline points to a box with an accompanying doodle.

The first point of the timeline is labeled "so much yapping and theorizing and connecting the dots and—", accompanied by an unhinged person at a corkboard. Their pupils are red and staring at the viewer. The label and line on the timeline is also red. The line on the timeline goes up sharply.

The second point of the timeline is labeled "I can't believe I did all of that. That was embarrassing.", accompanied by the person staring awkwardly at the viewer. The line on the timeline goes down sharply. The text and line are black. 

The third point of the timeline is labeled "Oh god fuck I can feel it coming back", accompanied by the person holding their chest as if they were having a heart attack. The label is black, but the line is a dark red. The line creeps upwards again, but then goes back down. 

The fourth point of the timeline is labeled "Haha that was actually just a bluff", accompanied by the person laughing. The line is flat. The text and line are black. 

The fifth and final point of the timeline is labeled "hyperfixation demon", accompanied by the person looking upwards at the timeline in fear as the hyperfixation demon (drawn in red) lurks behind them. The label has an arrow pointing to the hyperfixation demon. The line and label are in red, with the line going up sharply again. /END ID]

What I mean when I do not control the hyperfixation.

Colored Pencil Drawings
Colored Pencil Drawings
Colored Pencil Drawings

Colored Pencil Drawings

Instagram: ismael.guerrier.art

Edna St. Vincent Millay, From A Letter Featured In The Letters Of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter featured in The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay

April, 1932 The Diary Of Anaïs Nin [Volume One: 1931-1934]
April, 1932 The Diary Of Anaïs Nin [Volume One: 1931-1934]

April, 1932 The diary of Anaïs Nin [Volume One: 1931-1934]

Dearest Swirly Brain,

Dearest swirly brain,

I know that most days you hate yourself.

You hate feeling so out of control, so burdensome.

Dark fog and rapid heat consume every fold, every corner.

You want peace, or relief.

But dearest swirly brain, you are more.

You are a culmination of decades of feelings and LIFE.

Vibrancy and light and contrast.

You are always moving.

Evolving. Changing. Learning.

You are so wildly and authentically human.


Tags
In deciding what I am, I’ve ruled out cat, vulture, shoe,
a sadist who tortures people to death in a Syrian hospital,
a president who separates families at the border,
a handful of purple irises at the beginning of the path
to heaven. Is there memory in the shade of a tree
of a lynching fifty years ago, when I was nine? And do I love
that tree? Love the sinner, not the sin. Forgive the electricity,
not the singeing of genitals. The more I know about human nature
the more I plan to be tall grass in a field. Until then
I’ll tell my wife I love her in Toronto and Blacksburg and bed,
in pajamas and bluejeans and song, in theory and fact and dream.
I will not gouge a man’s eye out, I promise, yet the eye is out,
the man is dead, and the geese I’m listening to have no idea
that we’re as wild as the coyotes that would tear them apart.
If given a choice I’d not choose to be human. If given a choice
how to be human, I’d say like a glass of water. While I have
no answers to the questions I don’t know to ask, I can love my wife
in Detroit, in general, in detail, in vain, in spite, in depth,
in the shallow light of the moon, in contrast to hating myself,
in sympathy and in stealth, in time as a ghost and right now
as a poet wondering if surgeons, during a transplant,
tell the shivering and recycled heart it is loved. I assume so,
but I’ve never asked a heart on its second time around,
Were you christened, were you blessed, are you worth
all this trouble?

remedy by Bob Hicok

You ever hear that old chestnut about how most people neglect the part of the story of Icarus where he also had to avoid flying too low, lest the spray of the sea soak his feathers and cause him to fall and drown? You ever think about how different the world would be if Icarus died that way instead? If the idiom was to Fly To Close To The Sea? A warning against playing it far too safe, about not stretching your wings and soaring properly? You ever think about how Icarus died because he was happy?

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Humanity in the Absurd Hour

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