Translating the Recordings of Mr Crow
This transcript is based on the brief recordings of a mysterious fellow who lives in a constant state of discombobulation. The words rendered here are an oversimplification of Mr. Crow’s thoughts.
Glossy balloons. Pop!
The neuro-speak wobbles like the skin of that rubberised ball of gas under the
reverberation of the sound.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
What is it that I can say? The population does not want to see people like me. There the
pop goes once more, do you see? I am like the gas inside the balloon. When the
excitement has ended, and the semi-porous surface has finally been broken by
mistreatment, it reveals the invisible society. The Autistic community was giving the
balloon shape, form, and structure.
I am not an eloquent man; how can I be? There is much in this world that bounces
around my head, distracting my thought process. You see, I must translate what I say.
The popular way of speaking eludes me. I am speaking my “mother tongue” however, my
mind is populated with pictures only.
That balloon is what pops into my mind each time I “hear” that pop. It reigns over me like
a popedom dictating to the populace. Do this. Do that. This is right. This is wrong.
Populous amounts of balloons!
It forces its way into the middle of a carefully constructed painting that is meant to be
undergoing the translation from image to words.
Music flows into my mind as beautiful effigies to the gods, carving things of wonder. I
cannot express in words what music “sounds” like even though I “hear” it. The pop, it pops,
over and over. A big red balloon. Thanks, Mr. King, the painting is ruined!
[Mr. Crow signs] This adaption has lost all meaning. I know I make no sense, not in neurospeak.
Yet there is a constant demand for me to decode the Di Vinci in my mind into a
bunch of words that do not do it justice. It’s a reasonable adjustment for those who
understand the neuro-speak.
Popular opinion is that I should not exist. Ah, another balloon, thank you, Mr. King.