I want some things to be gone like revoking a passport no more designated grace Just looking across the border the landscape appears about the same asthe acre I’m standing onThe guardnearest in a box and boredDoes it all have to make sense?the world I meandoes my trauma have to fityour trauma for either of usto haul a pad of ink out of a desk drawerstamp a visa and approve entry
Tagged: Persephone Abbott, Poem, Some things to be gone
She was a professional and trying to find something to engage me. Something to do with autism that maybe I could elaborate on since I had, in the midst of the ongoing family trauma, indicated to my doctor my suspicion that I could possibly be autistic. The psychologist and I were facing each other in the basement of my GP’s office. The basement was the lower level of an 18th century canal house in the middle of Amsterdam and the young woman was a psychologist specialized in addiction. I was a mess, but not an addict. She asked whether I had any special interests. * Despite the tears and exhaustion, I perked right up. I could tell her about my soap collection. Since she…
Tagged: Autism, Bars of soap, Persephone Abbott, Special Interests
“Italian.” I was surprised. No one had ever asked me to cook Italian food for them. For thirteen years, before my divorce, I lived in Gouda. During that period I happily made quite a few friends and remain in contact with people. But for professional and private reasons I became closer to one family with whom I still regularly meet up to share stories and home cooking. * I racked my brain. Italian food. What did I have in my repertoire that would be enjoyable or special? My thoughts wandered off to the time I visited my father’s translator in Bologna. I was living in Paris and needed to escape my apartment because of tensions with an unpredictable roommate. Wearing my roommate’s trench coat…
Tagged: Autism, Bologna, Pergolesi, Persephone Abbott, Serva Padrona
It’s one of my favorite buildings in Amsterdam and it happens to be called a palace. But the building was not designed to be a palace. Magnificent, Amsterdam’s City Hall was the first Republic building of its sort in Europe. Napoleon, after invading the country, transformed the city hall into a palace and, to this day, the building is retained as a royal residence. On the occasion of the fiftieth birthday of the King of the Netherlands, the palace – once the celebrated invitees to the state dinner in honor of King Willem-Alexander had departed – was opened to the public. To gain entry all I had to do was sign up online for a timed spot, free of charge. That particular April night…
Tagged: Amsterdam, Autism, Palace, Persephone Abbott, Royal
I was cleaning up dried out cat puke under the piano. I hadn’t noticed it before because I rarely go to the piano. Standing in front of the keyboard, I felt a vague inclination to lift the cover and sit down. This is the first time in three years, or since the beginning of the crisis that led to autism diagnosis, that I have actually almost wanted to play the piano. For about twenty-five years of my life, I stood on stage and performed as a classical singer. But when I was young and started working in opera companies, I quickly understood that something was wrong. I would crawl home after rehearsals and performances shaking, never comprehending how my colleagues carried on afterwards, going…
Tagged: Autism, Opera, Performance, Persephone Abbott, Poem