Ceremony Music

Tonight’s Writing Goal

I’m publishing two posts at Wyvia today to make up for the post I missed on Monday. I meant to schedule two posts on Tuesday, but at 12:30am, I’m in the wee hours of Wednesday; and that’s just as well—now it’s Wednesday Wedding Double-Post Day. 😋

I’d like to choose songs for when the wedding ceremony starts; when my dad walks me down the aisle; then when we walk out. I’ll list 2-3 songs, then we can narrow it down by the end of the month (or if one of the songs doesn’t work, or if we need additional music, we have the surplus).

Headspace ✅ Speaking vs. Writing

Over at my autism awareness blog, I’ve previously explored my intimate relationship with writing. Where many people talk/speak as their primary discourse—their everyday form of communication—I’ve always relied on writing to express myself. To connect.

It’s only been in my mid-twenties to my thirties that I’ve felt confident with my stage performance as a speaker; yet still, it is a stage performance.

And no matter how much neurotypical (i.e., non-autistic) society would like me to say, “Oh my goodness, I totally grew out of my autism, and now I enjoy talking as much as all of you,” that’s not a reality that’s going to come true. I am forever, and always will be, a writer before speaker. I am as inefficient and uncomfortable at showing people who I am verbally, as many people are inefficient and uncomfortable at showing people who they are writing. This will never change.

Therefore, I am also forever, and always will be, a stage performer—wearing a mask—when I’m trying to deeply explore ideas verbally. To explore deep ideas in my writing is to risk not having a soul hear it, and a lot of that has happened lately, despite beating my head into the brick walls of social media, dinner conversations (“Have you read my blog? Want me to write the link on the back of this receipt?”), and anywhere else my silenced voice can roil about, trying to scream.

It’s frustrating.

Especially because, with cellphones and instant gratification, people don’t read as much as before. Either that, or after attending a master’s program in creative writing, I’ve become… a worse writer than before…?

I don’t think that’s it.

I used to be able to write, and someone would listen. Then we would bounce ideas off one another, friends and family, and I’d get to know the world a little better.

Now I feel as if, when I write something, it publishes onto the Internet, falls into an ethereal space, and is never seen again. I write into emptiness. It’s like someone speaking to a brick. It’s like someone talking to clouds. I feel that distant—that hardened.

My writing is ghost writing, and the person I’m ghosting is my neurotypical simulacrum. My body, my voice—and neurotypical conversation—is all a shell. Somewhere between loved ones feeling satisfied by their physical conversations with me, and my writing floating around in the ethereal spaces, my true self feels lost in transit.

I have recurring nightmares of writing millions upon millions of words that aren’t read—parts of me that are never felt—until I’ve died. This used to be an annual nightmare. It increases its frequency, so much that I worry if my subconscious is contributing wood to the depression bonfire.

In these fire-pits, I convince myself, I’m releasing ghasts no one will find. My writing is invisible. This makes me feel invisible. The only writing that kicked up any dust cloud was a [redacted] selectively copy-pasted by [redacted], which resulted in [redacted] threatening to sue me. The biggest stink my 2018 online writing projects have made did not smell like roses; it smelled like horse shit.

This is the downward spiral I use to torment myself, before I try to return to my upward spiral, albeit in baby steps. My depression flares like an open wound when I explore this dark place, yet it’s such a gaping maw, I keep finding myself coming back, not knowing what to do.

Sometimes I think about stopping the writing, so I can stop the realization that the writing isn’t read, but I’ve already learned if I don’t write, it’s as bad as rendering myself mute. In that space, the words that come out of my mouth aren’t mine. Without writing, I feel dead on the inside, and a people pleaser for as long as it takes to get to my bedroom to continue feeling dead.

I know, I know. An artist shouldn’t equate their existence to the acknowledgement (or lack thereof) of the things they create. But let me put it in a different perspective. If a person sits at a table with seven other friends and/or family members, and tries to interject in the conversation dozens of times—and every time, the response they receive is, “Oh that’s lovely,” then cold shoulders—they would eventually feel lonely.

Some would crack before others.

But the act of “Oh that’s lovely,” over and over—and by this I mean, the “♄” and “Like” buttons on social media—would wear a person thin. The veneer of interest is almost more painful than the silence. If the person was just sitting at the table, and no one ever said, “Oh that’s lovely,” it would at least not result in an emotional labyrinth. The rejection would be crystal clear.

I am exhausted by the writing. I am exhausted by speaking, and only hearing, “Oh that’s lovely.” I’d like it to be as simple as an artist lamenting about a dry spell, yet it’s more complicated than that, due to my social barriers. My communication barriers. The issues that I’m not supposed to have because I’m a “high function” autistic person.

Still I write, though. I still write. I write still. Still I talk at the table. I still talk. I talk still. “Oh that’s lovely,” the world says to my writing. “Oh that’s lovely,” I say in the world’s verbal conversations.

But enough of all that heaviness.

Let’s go exploring via writing, shall we?

Ceremony Starts (Processional)

All of these songs are good. I’d like to incorporate the ones we don’t use for the processional into the pre-ceremony relaxing music list.

Walking Down Aisle

I also love both of these. Whichever one we choose, the other one can be used for dance music, later in the evening. They’re sweet songs.

Ceremony Ends (Recessional)

I think we’ve nailed this one. When I tried to make other suggestions, Chase kept rubber-banding back to Lava. I dunno if that’s because he digs it, he sees how much I dig it, or both, but I think we’re walking out on Lava. 😍

Wedding Cake & Cookies on Pinterest

While the cake and macaroon combo have already been decided, I thought it’d be fun to share the Pinterest board we made along the way, in case anyone else in the Worldwide Interwebs would like inspiration:


Wedding Sand Ceremony

Today’s Writing Goal

Today, my writing goal here at Wyvia, according to my Ideament:

Sand pouring; containers? colors?

But before I explore our wedding sand ceremony, I want to check in with my feelings; see where I’m at with the mortifying fear I experienced two days ago.

Today’s Headspace ✅ Remembering My First Community College Class

The first college class I took was interpersonal communications. I was seventeen years old, paralyzed by math phobia, unable to continue through trigonometry, and withdrawing from the honors program—so as a senior in high school, I only had three classes left to graduate.

This meant I could attend first through third period, then dodge campus before lunch period to take two classes at the community college across the street. And to avoid actually taking two classes, I could enroll for one class during the weekdays, and the other on Saturdays—then never attend the Saturday sessions and eat a failing grade.

I had a strange relationship with the concept of grading very early. Knowing I’d attend community college—never university—gave me the liberty to think like this. (Later, towards the end of my community college years, my relationship with grades would change—I left graduate school with a 4.0—but that deviates too far from the story.)

I valued interpersonal communications because it structured a skill I was meant to naturally learn (but never did)—how to socialize—and broke it down to essential steps. I read the textbook several times, far ahead of the assigned reading schedule. I highlighted, practiced, and developed immensely as a social-emotional creature.

I also had a good teacher; I cannot imagine the horrors interpersonal communications class could exact on an autistic person, if they had a trigger-happy, trolling teacher; if they had a teacher who thought learning happened by inciting someone, or punishing someone, rather than enchanting them—easing around their heart.

Today, even though I teach English—not interpersonal communications—I feel this teacher rise out of me, like a gentle ghost; I absorbed his values of nurturing versus laboring—of healing a student’s curiosity, rather than challenging a student’s defenses—and so I’m doubly grateful; in my first community college class, I learned how to finally build communicative bridges to neurotypical people, and I learned how to dispel fear from my students; I learned two life-changing superpowers.

I’d been reflecting on this miracle while taking a bath. I think many miracles happened throughout my twenties, but they’ve been buried by anxiety and depression. The good news is, as I wash anxiety and depression away, I find memories crystallized into opalescence—memories I haven’t been able to touch, change, or harm, so in my thirties, I can enjoy them in their purest form, through the lens of ten years of depression-clad wisdom.

Wedding Sand Ceremony

In addition to the betta splenden decorations Chase and I bought at Michaels Arts & Crafts yesterday, we also picked up some natural-tone, pearlescent sand—I love sand with hyperbolic colors, like those charcoal black or bone white beaches!—and a mermaid turquoise sand tone; they’re for our sand ceremony.

Chase’s dad suggested the sand ceremony months ago, which triggered fond memories I’d held of watch my friends’ sand ceremony, and now we’re at this point where we have our sand; we just need to select a container.

I love freestanding glass containers for sand ceremonies. Here are a few I found:

But I’m equally in love with box frames that combine artful wedding photography with the sand container:

And I’m inclined towards the latter option because Chase’s dad is a professional framer and photographer, and his sister is also a professional photographer, and Chase learned professional framing skills from his dad—it’s like a bunch of neon signs: Option B.

Then I yoyo to the former option, since in my glassblowing class, I fell in love with glass art—and what better functional art than the container for a sand ceremony?—so Option A, obviously!—Option A!

I think I would like either way. I like both options equally.