I like weirdness. Eccentricity, outsider thinking, silliness and the bizarre–I’m generally repelled by danger and anything remotely aggressive, but I have to ‘fess up and say that my own differences from the so-called norm are not just habits and hints of wilfulness but also deeply ingrained and naturally occurring parts of who and what I am. Yes, I am weird.

But I’ll also say that “weird” is simply, for me, an equally comfortable name for being unique. Every norm is only an average, each with plenty of exceptions to prove and/or flavor the rule. While I’ve grown into embracing [most of] my quirks and distinctions, it isn’t always easy being a quagga in a world of pretty ponies. I woke up again today from a dream I’ve had since my memory began: the details vary, but it’s always about being in a group of people, all earnestly working on some project, and having the leader and my peers try in one way and another to steer me to do it Right and not as I’ve been doing it–even while they all assure me that they approve of and appreciate the excellence of the different thing I’ve been doing. This will sound mighty strange to anyone whose life has gone ‘as planned’.

Welcome to my synapses

Those with any little anomaly (physical, mental, or other), however, might sense something familiar.

It was only as an adult that I–having grown up in the Olden Days long before “dyslexia” entered the common parlance, and then as something rather negative or at least problematic–realized that I have a nearly magical variety of dysfunctional characteristics that come under that broad umbrella. My worldview is shaped by all kinds of tweaks that mimic but do not match the ordinary: lexicographically, to be sure, since I have the ability to watch words and letters move around a page in ways that if amusing are not necessarily conducive to fast and accurate reading, so I’ve always had to read rather slowly, and about four times over, through anything to feel I’ve grasped its essence. Despite this sometimes frustrating methodology, I’ve never disliked reading, only been surprised over the years to be classified as reading ‘above my grade level’ if it took so much effort to keep up with expectations.

Along with dyslexia of the most obvious sort I can lay claim to numeric, directional, spatial, and temporal experiences that stray from the ordinary a great deal. Numbers play around on a page just as actively as words and letters. There have been times when I was able to surprise my math teachers with the expected answer to relatively complicated computations, but only after I learned not to admit to the process by which I divined said answer, as it bore little relation to the assigned progression from Q to A but was rather intuited. I have no inner compass, so don’t try to guide me to your cozy home with Left and Right and North and South, let alone Up and Down. I do understand what those concepts mean, but they have no relation to locations in my own being other than perhaps as niggling desires. I can you tell whether I’m located right next to the baseball diamond or up in the cheap seats, but not how to get from one to the other (without flying) nor can I experience the action of the game much more vividly from one point or another. And don’t get me started on trying to discern the details of the play: if it happened quickly enough, I have to mentally freeze the moment of action and stare at the “snapshot” in my head for a while to figure out how, where, or if the ball crossed the plate and what the batter and catcher did about it.

This is all a (perhaps appropriately) convoluted route to informing you that I don’t see the world the way other people see it. But honestly: does anyone? If each of us is genuinely unique, then any norms we’ve posited should only serve as starting points for communication and coexistence, not ends in themselves. I’ve been told countless times by well-meaning Professionals and advisers that if I wish to succeed or gain acceptance in my field (whether as artist, writer, teacher, or any other labeled category of mortal being), I ought to work at fitting in better. It’s always couched in friendly terms but boils down to my being too hard to categorize, define and package because my interests and personality (and therefore my work) wander too far afield and are tangential, at best, to expectations.

My answer at last is Vive la Difference! I’ve spent more than enough of my first half century thinking I ought to redesign myself to please the common demand before realizing that I’m really okay with being uncommon. And I sincerely hope that everybody else not dwelling directly on the dot of Normal finds his-her-or-its contentment and delight wherever and however possible. In that lies endless possibility. Especially if one has the attention span of a gnat, as I do.