I can’t see faces. Not even my wife’s. But it means something to me to remember your name.
Someone wrote me: “These knocked me sideways… I spent so much time as an undiagnosed autistic girl, wondering if I was the alien dropped among the normies.”
I can’t see faces. When I try to remember someone… even my wife… I see a shifting, indistinct swirl of features.
This piece,” “A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog,” is about wanting to be friends. Struggling with that simple human desire… when your brain doesn’t work the way the world expects. No clinical terms. No inspiration porn. What it’s like.
I don’t need diagnosed. I need appreciated for who I am.
Yeah, I know the diagnostic term. Prosopagnosia. Let’s just say I’m not into masking behind tongue-twisting gig latin. Or symptom lists… that are stereotypes, in the end.
Imagine my brief career as a salesman. Now… imagine a couple of lost marriages.
I don’t need diagnosed. I need appreciated for who I am.
How about you?
Content Note: opinions & experiences of one autistic elder.
If pieces like this land for you, I share more spoken word and behind‑the‑scenes notes over at my AutisticAF Out Loud Substack.
Full Text Transcript.
Friends? Finally late in life, I got friends… and love.
And this last one is a selfie of what that’s like for me.
I call it…
A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog
6 minutes. Watch if you want. Share if it moves you.
“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 buy just 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 sundown.
“Sure,” she says. “Nobody much comes in around now. Z’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.
“No. 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 to this, 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… I kn-know you… I have this thing. Can you tell me your name again?”
Embarrassment. Stammering apologies…
See, it’s like this…
A swirl of flesh-colored fog
That’s my wife’s face in dreams
I only see her walking away
A 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 back talking to that DG clerk.
“We don’t get out much. You guys? I… 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.”
It means something to me. To remember your names. And… faces.
“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… 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… and put them with your faces. To be… friends.”
I flash on all those parental commands to, “Make friends!” Then I say, “I just won’t get it right… right away. But I want to enjoy… doing it.”
Silence. Awkward. But intimate.
I stammer. “Are you… are you, uh, Ari?” When confused, my go-to fallback is details.
“No, no, she’s the… 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…. Ya know, allergy attack. Over in the Dollar Aisle.”
“Yeah. She’s the short one with black hair.” She gestures with her right hand again, just a hair lower. “And… 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 that sappy 60s song.”
She laughs, easy… again. “No, never that.”
We share a wink. A nod.
The doors slide.
I walk outside.
Cyndi. Just with the I and the Y… reversed.
A swirl of flesh-colored fog. Framed by glasses. And twisted brown hair up on her head.
About… yay… tall.
CHAPTERS:
0:00 — Friends? Finally late in life…
0:23 — Dollar General, sundown
1:54 — Let me take you inside
2:32 — “A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog”
5:35 — About… yay… tall
More Spoken Word:
I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack:
https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/p/spoken-word-poetry
Get the Chapbook:
every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, — art and poetry collection available on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/every-clock-handgun-pointed-head-ebook/dp/B0FNLHC6SY
About This Work:
Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day in 2022 about his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Published in Wordgathering (journal of disability poetry & literature), Neuroclastic, and Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism. In a former life, founding publisher of Unix World magazine. Living in rural Indiana in a trailer across the courtyard from his wife. With his 2 dogs, cat, and an unwavering commitment to raising hell, autistic style.
#SpokenWord #ActuallyAutistic #DisabilityPoetry #NeurodivergentArt #MentalHealthAwareness
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