Autistic Family & Other Mysteries, Live Spoken Word, 8/31/25

Thanks to everyone who tuned in! Free or paid subscribers? Join me for my next live video in the app. Gonna be a Trigger Warnings kinda take on old men with their fingers on THE Button. This week…Here’s my speaking script from this live performance. Close to a transcript, but I changed a few lines on the fly… some even on purpose.Today I’m talking family, friends, love… not known as autistic “superpowers.” So let’s start with a quick blow up of the whole fucking superpower thing.1. After the SecretI have strengths.Not one is my superpower.I have challenges.Not one is my kryptonite.I'm that kid in third gradeDropdropdroppingA mysterious blue crystalInto that test tube—Squealing in delightEvery time it explodes…In purple streams.I love cosplay.But I don’t have to flyWear a maskOr sport a capeTo be autistic.Still…I get to be the heroor bald evil geniusof my own life.2. ShamelessFamily is freaking complex. For me? More disappointment, failure to meet expectations. Not being the son… or brother… the family ordered.Live long enoughYa get a lot right,Get a lot wrong.Get to knowWell enoughYa can’t be a saintLurking in shadow…Living life perfectlyShameless.Shameless.Oh let me beShameless…No sun setsOn a painless life,So no moon shinesOn a stainless wife.Oh let me be… comeShameless.Scaling Mount MarcyThat night as Elvis died,Got branded a MountebankAs my sister grew colder.Stalking Death ValleySame sister… now dead… to meSame stars… chill my shouldersNow living life perfectlyShameless…Shameless.Oh let me beShameless…No peak capsAn aimless life,And no grave ever filledBy a blameless knife.Oh let me be… comeShameless…No mask hidesThe pain in life,So no words canExplain my fight.So, let me Be… comeShameless.I call this one it burns. I didn’t write it about autism. But families face terrible trials. This was my response to one.3. IT BURNSUp your noseOr in your armIt burnsFirst your charmThen your poseIt burnsNo one learnsThe next child will yearnTil It burnsStill burnsOh it burnsIt burns you upIn the mirrorThat dark strangerStares back at youWild-eyed dangerBut you don't fear herIt's youRight on cueShe's seen things you'd never doBut it's youCuz Baby, it's youIt's you nowWhat won't you doBridges burntTowns ashes.Poppa burntMom ashes.BeautyAshes.DutyAshes.HomeAshes.DreamsSmoke…Lovers turn to johnsBurnt.BabiesBurnt.WombBurnt.BrainBurnt.EyesBurnt out…Up your noseOr in your armIt burntFirst your charmThen your poseIt burntNo one learnedYour next child yearnedTil It burntStill burntOh it burntIt burnt you upAte you upNo one homeJust burnt bones....Okay. Hello… family? Friends? I wasn’t born to produce. I was born to observe, experience… then overshare.4. A Shooting Star Has No Purposemy autistic life...failing upwardtoward collapse...?succeeding downwardtoward joy...?it's a quantum thing.the answer is simply...yes.I was not put on this planetto produce.I was born to experience.Observe...and over share.our lives' value isnot measuredby clicks.or data mined by AI.a shooting starslashing through darknesshas no purpose.unlessit ignitesa human instant.illuminates, ya know…that ness…this breathand this moment…all we possess.All.I ain’t gonna lie. This one’s rough. And long. And complex. It may not need a T.S. Eliot pretentious footnote. But I try to intertwine family, control, and religion. And real events from the winter of 97-98. When the Hale-Bopp comet was fading in the Northern New York skies. And the memory of the Heaven’s Gate suicide cult was still fresh in the national mind.This is a hybrid piece. In my mind it’s a movie. With scenes, background music. Jump cuts. But you guys probably loved Pulp Fiction. So I pray you can follow me.5. sneaking your mother’s creepy g-d on highPrelude, December 1997I begin, “There…There's Heaven's Gate.”She fiddles with the binox dials.“Where should I look?”She asks breathless,Trudging bootless.I barely hear herOver the crackling snowBeneath my feet, but say,“There…That smudge in the sky.”I point again.UFO CultChooses Suicide,The TV said.Thirty-nine bodiesIn matching Nikes,The photo read…I close wet eyesTo the hiss & sizzleOf the Northern LightsOver my head,SilenceThen the cold murmurof the cold mother...“That's why they died?”She shrugs.My eyes open… careful, I shrug,“Maybe… they saw a signal from aliens.Or maybe God on high.Who knows what grimdark signThey read that silent night…”Wordless, clueless… a comet sailedRibbons of green and purple light.One cold blue, one hot pink tailFading from history’s sight…So we stroll on intoFake New Year’s dinnerCuz not everyoneCould schedule inThe Real One.How rare it isA two-tailed comet in the sky,A lover doesn’t lie with her eyes,To greet one free man before you die,How rare it isHow rare it isDinner Musicmy mother in a halo of candlesmy mother wrapped in smokemy mother in dark shadowsmeasuring the length of my ropeShe gathers reports from her childrenThis year’s fugue & pedal point,Her table a feast of sand.Youngest Mark files his,A new open source project…“I’m really getting seen.”Lifting my glass to himFrom the dark walnut table,I sip vodka… Neat.Martha next, from her foreign outpostA well-received talk given…Vodka. Neat.Second-oldest Luke comments,Wearing a dead father’s mantle“So proud of this my familyProgress on nearly every front.John, you seem…Well, better… strangely.”Yeah. Vodka. Neat. And deep.Mary reports a year in faith.Jesus gave her home.Jesus gave her kids.Jesus gave her strength… alone.I close my eyes in frustrationSee only those twin tailsSailing in that dark…No wine, no waferJust vodka. Neat.The broken mother nods,Waves a weary hand at each.Then turns to me,Product of her first postpartum,Eldest stranger at her table.She faintly smiles…, “John?”This last-invited autistDrunk to a numb survivalStarts slow… and slurred,“Ya know…?Never… believed… in heroes.Those guys & their comet?They did.”I hear hands tense,Casual wear shift & rustle,Eyes crinkle & narrow…Familiar, family sounds.My runaway trainpicks up steamplunging on and intoa dark tangential tunnel“A part of me rejects a g-dborn perfect without sin,casually tossing miracleslike candy & coins… sublimefrom a gaudy Mardi Gras floatTo kids playing in the grime…”I gulp a breath.Silencea child, high on a stone altara hand… a knife in mid air…a sacrfice for appearanceslike thirty-nine bodiesin matching Nike pairs…How fair is itJesus and Jim JonesBoth got emails from Beyond,Love rusts tilIt’s just one more bond,Your soul’s released whenYour last day’s dawned,How fair is itHow fair is itInterlude, January 1998Flash CutCouple weeks laterIce Storm of ‘98.A friendly… familyGame of cards.Frozen in time, frozen in mindAunts, uncles and cousinsNo one’s got power, trapped…Cabin, cards, liquor… discussions.Killing time… 3 days…Instead of each other.Oh shit. Oh. Shit…There goes that bidI swore I could make.Under my breath… “Damn it to Hell.”Then head down, out loud,“Oh, Shit.”I’m staring at the hand they dealt.So many near-miss combosSo many runs that went nowhere…“My bad. I shoulda played that 9My mind’s off wandering againLet me grab that back. This time.”“No…You gotta drink …Ya gotta drink!This time…Every time!”Rinse repeatMistake over mistakeVodka neat, vodka neatVodka…I… wake to… laughter“Uncle Johnny, you’re the dudeFrom stuck up cuntTo puking your shoes.Man, can you let go… when you want.”And let go... I did.A distracted juggler drops his satin ballA drunken knife thrower ties assistants to the wall,The smoking fortune teller wheezes, “Doom finds us all,A Ring Master’s whip echoes through an emptying hall….Cadenza, for the End of TimeMy catechism askedWhy did that g-d make me?And I askWhy did this unbonded mom have me?To both cluck in disappointment?Over commandmentsI was bornUnable to follow…?To follow a comet into…DesperationDissolutionSuicideAnd the Peace…Of no need for understanding?Ever again?There is no heroNo godNo bodhisattvaThat does not hideThe dazzling ConfusionIn a burning bushOr explains to meLike I’m a five-year oldWhy that twin-tailed cometStill sails across my mindHow rare it isTo find a godDoesn’t want moreThan he gave,A lover who can stay…Even while I raveA man who can liveNot caring if he’s saved,How rare it is.How rare it is.Okay. Friends? Finally late in life I got friends. And love. And this last is a selfie of what that’s like.6. A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog“Ya gotta minute?”She takes a quick scan of the aisles. Then toward the eternal sale table near the entrance. Pink and blue signs promising two if you'll just buy one…It's silent. Just me standing in front of her. Bottle of the Coke Zero I’m addicted to in my hand.Dusk. Rural Indiana. I guess the local beef cattlemen, horsey folks, and military munitions testers up at Crane Naval base? They don’t hit Dollar General so much around sun down.“Sure. Nobody much comes in around now. S’up… you good?"I take a beat. To use my words… to find my words.“I’m trying to remember all you guys’… um, ya know, everybody’s names….”“Oh, no worries. You’re good. We really all should have name badges.”I take another beat. To switch appropriate gears.“You know. The autism thing. I have this face and name thing. It’s weird… but I can't remember faces.”Awkward, awkward pause.If you’re listening, if you’re reading…Let me try to take you inside. My being…What’s that like? I only see… Well, words fail me.Take a visit to Walmart. Just a sea of faceless ghosts. Folks I greet, “I know I know you… I have this thing. Can you tell me your name?”Embarrassment. Stammering apologies…See, it’s like this…A swirl of flesh-colored fogThat’s my wife’s face in dreamsI only see her walking awayA grey ponytail., tattered jeansLove of my life… can’t see her…Not her green eyes… in stage makeup…Just homemade tats… the shape of her hair…Feelings, memories… talking after that breakup…So, I’m talking to that DG clerk.“We don’t get out much. You guys? I guess it’s a job. But to us? You’re… well, friends. It means something to me. To learn your name. To… know you.”“Oh.” Confused, she pauses. “It’s really ok. We know you and your wife. We get it.”“You know?” I’m urgent. I want her to get… the weight of it. “It’s not for you. It’s for me. It means something to me. To remember your names. And put them with your faces. To be friends.”I flash on all those parental commands to “make friends.” Then say, “I just won’t get it right away. But I want to enjoy… doing it.”Silence. Awkward. But intimate.I stammer. “Are you… are you, Ari?” When confused, my go-to fallback is details.“No, she’s the short blond one.” She waves her right hand about shoulder high.“I know Kensington… cuz well I walked in on her anaphylactic…. Um, allergy attack. Over in the Dollar Aisle."“Yeah. She's the short one with black hair.” She gestures with her right hand, just a hair lower. “And I’m Cyndi.”We laugh. Together. She mentions the name tags again. I make reassuring noises.“That’s Windy, right?”“No.” She laughs. “Cyndi… Just with the I and Y reversed.”“Oh, thank god. For a moment I misremembered again. Thought you were named after a sappy 60s song.”She laughs, easy… again. “No. Never. Not that..”We share a wink. A nod.The doors slide. I walk outside.“Cyndi. Just with the I and Y reversed."A swirl of flesh-colored fog. Framed by glasses. And twisted brown hair on her head.About… yay… tall.#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click to receive new postd… free. To support my work, please consider a paid subscription. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe