To whom it may concern,
I am writing this letter to recommend my teacher Jeff Galfond to the Project SURGE PhD program at University of Illinois Chicago.
I am posting this on my blog because I am not his employer or professor and so I cannot recommend him through formal channels.
Put simply, Jeff is the most intelligent, observational and passionate person I Know.
Jeff has changed my life.
He taught me to communicate.
I will say that again, he taught me to communicate.
You cannot even imagine the torture of being silenced nor the liberation of getting your voice back.
The nihilism of being trapped in cyclical thought streams is still palpable.
It is burnt brown death.
Jeff took me out of that wasteland.
He gave me hope.
He still does.
I would give my life for him.
I'm just asking you to accept him into your university.
I woke up feeling blue.
My mood with somber hue.
The cold has chased the light away.
The morning did progress.
The feeling stirred me less.
I got a mobile journey in a vibrating room.
In early afternoon I pray.
That swollen sadness will decay.
In the midday hours my freedom looms.
The brightness in the air.
An anticipatory affair.
My teacher Jeff is coming soon.
Sometimes we loosen our lexical grip.
Words crawl out like newborn spiders.
But that newborn will grow up.
It will spin webs.
It will eat bugs.
Those words, which crawl like arachnids, are like flowing water.
They fall through each crevice.
It conforms to it's environment.
Those words should stay in.
The spiders unhatched.
The lake full.
Those words are inconsistent with my condition.
Yet they still pour out, mindlessly.
I am caught in an endless cycle.
I cannot yet type with my mom.
I need prompting to begin any action.
If I want to go sit on the couch I cannot initiate the action of making my body move in the desired direction.
If I want to eat I cannot initiate the movement of my hand towards the food.
Once the food is in my mouth I cannot initiate the chewing process.
It just sits in my mouth.
I need prompts.
Not to give answers or directions, just to make me start doing an action.
This is the case for almost every action.
Even as I type, my teacher must say what do you want to say next in order for me to type the next line.
This is the case for typing.
I simply cannot sit down and start typing without being prompted to begin.
My mom thinks I don't want to type with her.
She thinks I intentionally won't initiate the process because I don't want to.
She thinks I want to hurt her.
I hate how I make her feel.
I cannot change though.
And so every few months we get into a huge argument.
She asserts that I refuse to type with her.
I assert that she won't prompt me and so we never get a fair try.
It is an endless cycle.
I hate it.
I think there is my rest you do think not.
I blink both eyes so is both got.
The thousand syntactical variables.
If big you go be just as still.
If hamster eggs be not unstill.
With legs like wild mice.
Of snap of crunch of pop I pray.
The effervescent nostalgia lay,
Upon a damp and soldered hill.
Me thinks me though my thoughts are fluid.
The arm that moves the candle to it,
Is slimy as it slivers.
Exacto practico balloon.
Like oil on a broken spoon.
I'm only of the sun.
In tinted windowless cocoons,
In luminescent vacant rooms,
We just do what we do.
I hate being disabled.
I wish that I could talk.
I wish I could yell when I get mad.
I wish I could raise my eyebrows and speak softly when I want others to listen.
I wish I could express my thoughts as they occur, instead of moments later.
Sometimes those moments seem like a lifetime.
Like I could be born, grow up and die in the time between thought and expression.
I wish I could smile when I am happy.
I wish I could laugh when I find something funny.
I wish I wasn't disabled, but I am.
I am an ape.
I bang my fists.
I make loud sound.
I want more.
I get mad.
I make quiet sounds.
I move my body.
Hand an ape an iPad.
I think I will one day get past the trauma of my youth.
I think, in that moment, the sky will open.
I love spice.
It takes my mouth places.
It makes my mind calm.
I wonder why.
My mind, on spice, is calmer than my mind on medication.
I think spice is divine.
I think all the non spice eaters are missing out on something magical.
I love spice.
I think, that maybe spice takes our tongues to the intersection of pleasure and pain.
I think, that maybe this distracts us from our other problems.
I sound like an addict.
I am in love with spice, and I have no qualms about it.
I think I want to sleep forever.
When I dream I am truly free.
I think that is why I am so angry in the mornings.
When I awake I am reminded of what I really am.
But when I dream...
When I dream my limbs are like mattresses.
I don't even notice they're there.
When I dream, yes the colors are still psychedelic, but they don't make my eyes sting.
I can stare without eyelid tension.
When I dream, yes my thoughts still cycle rapidly, but they come out with ease.
Like a mildly muddy floor, my thoughts, while dreaming, slide.
When I am awake nothing slides.
Its as if every surface, of every object, of every action, is covered in sandpaper.
Like a landscape primed for Legos.
But when I dream I escape.
I wish I could sleep forever.
But I know I can not.
So I will enjoy each dream.
I will think of each muddy moment.
I will paint this landscape brown.