Everyday I am crying inside. I just want their bullying to stop.
Because of it I have, previously, tried to take my own life over and over again.
A group of people all hell bent on telling lies about me, setting me up to endure the most awful violence, leaving out human faeces and dog’s faeces outside my door.
They have punched me over and over again and kicked me.
The abuse from, at least, one of the crowd is almost on a daily basis.
I am autistic. I can’t explain what effect it has on me. The trauma is overwhelming.
My special world, sight and sound are all too difficult to cope with when people harass or hurt me.
They are manipulative and they are not truthful.
If anyone else is going through this bullying and hate crime, I feel so sorry for you too.
We have to get through it, but how? And what do we do?
I need police help for it to stop.
The police won’t listen to me. They don’t understand the impact autism has on me.
I am so desperately sad.
I can’t paint, I can’t write music or cook for myself anymore.
I eat, near enough the same meal everyday.
I have no desire to eat now.
I have all of the evidence and photos and reports of my injuries.
I could put them here on my blog and do the ‘name/shame’ thing.
But, it doesn’t feel the best approach.
Surely that would only put me more at risk.
I am currently being ‘safegaurded’ by Cornwall Council
My social worker is amasing and my advocates too. And my priests from our local churches.
They listen and understand and I am indebted to them.
I feel let down by Devon and Cornwall police. There have been some kind officers, but too many of them have injured me further.
I think, eventually, they will kill me.
That, or I will not survive.
My sincere apologies that this is a glum blog update.
I spoke out about illegal drug use and blatant covid breaches.
I cleared up maggots, heroine needles, rotten food and human and dogs poo left out for me to distress me.
I am broken.
I have no idea if I can be repaired.
With some of these bullies they enjoy seeing me hurt or distressed.
They are committing hate crime against an autistic man.
I phone the Samaritans hundreds of times.
I am a victim of their bullying and malicious court prosecution.
I know my own truth.
I am isolated and lonely in this world that continues to hurt me.
I have no voice now.
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And what did our hands do?
did they get washed or wash themselves or did we wash them for twenty minutes?
And what did our hands feel?
did they feel the touch of someone loved or someone hated?
did they hold gently with another passing. Passing through?
And what did our hands do?
When everything was locked.
Did they find a key to unlock compassion?
Did they find a weapon to unlock more crap, more shit, more hate?
And what did our hands do?
did they help someone up from the pavement?
did they hand out food?
did they raise and vote for more disparity of wealth?
did they find a middle finger to salute a voice of vitriol?
did they take a knife to the rope from the tree to a loved one?
And what did our hands do?
Did they write scribbled notes on a census?
Did they heal From attack?
Did they play a lute, or piano or did they bang on a drum in protest?
What did our hands do?
And what did our hands do before and what do our hands do now and what will our hands do tomorrow?
Did they squeeze themselves into powdered blue rubber gloves to lift a dying woman, a dying child, a new born baby, an old man, a drunken magistrate with his flies left unzipped, a cancer patient waiting for a letter, a homeless person taking their last frost breath of the morning, to check a foetal heartbeat and turn it into vision on the black and white screen, to push a wheelchair into an ambulance, to wipe away spit from a hate crime expert on the streets, to sweep the streets, to tick a vote, to cut his hair, to trim her toenails, to brush their false teeth and gently place them in a bowl by the sink – ensuring the owner would still wake up and smile the next morning
What did our hands do?
Did they grab ass cheeks?
hold a chin and cheeks to gently kiss the end of their nose?
Did they rip the Electric Bill and throat from a loan shark?
Did they sign a name away to wilderness?
Did they silently sign in a language without acoustics?
Did they gesture to friends to come forward?
Did they gesture to friends to fuck off?
Did they grab the world’s weight in toilet paper?
Did they hold themselves up to enemy and provide a feeble defence?
Did they open the door to the street to sing for the Carers?
Did they topple a statue into the river?
Did they put a child to bed and open a jaded storybook and cover a yawn?
Did they shake?
Did they tremble?
Did they reach out?
Did they reach out for help?
Did they push away help?
Did they point a finger in ignorance?
Did they always put on a mask? Did they scramble in a bag or pocket for a mask?
Did they pick up a book?
Did they cook spaghetti?
Did they wipe away tears?
Did they drive a tractor?
Did they scramble for the zoom mute button?
Did thy pick up a phone to fill up a vacuum of loneliness?
Did they open palm in prayer?
Did they slap their owner’s face did they kill?
Did they heal?
Did they pick up a teaspoon to feed the very young and the very old?
Did they save a life?
Did they dance?
Before, during and after
Did they dance through
A person doesn’t need ‘curing‘ of the richness, beauty and diversity of that which makes that person.
Mr. Alyster Gynn. 2021
I am looking forward to Church tomorrow morning. I get the chance to see some lovely friends again and sit within the beautiful architecture of Riverside Church in Looe.Many a time, I have taken great care to write about and openly Thank my priests from the circuit and all of those involved in pastoral care and safeguarding. This has been essential to me and I have been shown so much Love as well as being guided to explore my own heart too and share my art skills and music with as many as possible.
All without judgement and that is essential within a Methodist – or any – religious, spiritual sector when one is openly from (and for his entire lifetime) part of LGBTQIA communities.I also wanted to update you as friends, generally, too.I am, currently, still being ‘safeguarded‘ as a vulnerable adult.
This is with good reason.
I am indebted to those professionals whom are really and cohesively bringing exceptionally high standards of ‘safeguarding practice’ … thus allowing me to still live within a relatively safe environment.But there are still challenges. Organisations, Corporate bodies and even Public Bodies can hold a diverse range of actions, views and interpretations of what ‘Safeguarding’ is.
At a stage, now, when I am able to Zoom and attend Microsoft meetings, it is possible that I have the ‘voice’ to convey my experiences. My apologies that this write up or update sounds like the premise for a Sociology homework assignment. I realise it is dry.
I still have art, music and poetry projects on the go. They stop, however, when my priority becomes more basic and that would be going to the local shops to get food safely. I emphasise SAFELY here.
As always, you know that I am so indebted to Social media friends. Those whom I have met in real time, those whom I hope to meet one day and those whom we meet and share kindness and love through a virtual world. Love transcends via wi-fi and the stars.
Once upon a time ago … I was invited on to the morning BBC and ITV news channels to speak about my experience of Autism (on behalf of The National Autistic Society)A naughty question by a host threw me. It was something like …’and do you hope to be cured.’I didn’t understand, at that time, many years ago the broader context or loaded question toward someone with a ‘communication disorder.’
What I should have replied was … there is no cure for autism and a bloody good job too.In a similar vein, the question of being ‘cured’ of my previous homosexuality or transgender identity would or could echo the same.
There is no cure and a bloody good job too.
A person doesn’t need curing of the richness and diversity of that which makes that person.
The sun is shining here in Cornwall. The seagulls are excited and squawking at the potential of someone dropping a chip. The image is of my favourite lamp. All reclaimed car pieces and a wire curled ball shade. An Edison style bulb. But the poetry is a loose strand of flexible loose wire. And of course I flexed it into a word. Love Wishing everyone a lovely Easter I have my shorts on, my legs are like a gnarled chestnut tree. But they remain strong.And in today’s sunshine – My chin will be up.
50You, Linda Innes, Jacquie Hadfield and 47 others27 Comments
True Story. Lincoln.Dedicated to ‘Lincoln.’ My 60th Birthday celebrates too, my lost twin.I name him. After sixty years. I name him.I name him and remember him.
My twin. Lincoln.His name is Lincoln. As we approach midnight I say Hello and Goodbye to my twin in one breath.(A medida que nos acercamos a la medianoche, le digo hola y adiós a mi gemelo de una vez)My 60th Birthday is his too.
That he was still born and that ‘we’ were ‘Siamese twins’ (As Mum has explained to me since I was 8 years old)…Resonates with me now as I approach this birthday tomorrow.That he was ‘stillborn’ and cremated in the domestic wood burning stove without ceremony or naming has hung with me for … 60 years. That my Mother was prescribed thalidomide to ease her morning sickness has to be great.Never, in my life time, would I have wanted my Mother to feel sick.The drug took my brother. We were joined back to back.He had no arms or legs, I did and I survived.At 5lbs and jaundiced on a cold, dank, Cornish, damp farm – I survived Deli Farm, Delabole, Cornwall. Now a contemporary wind farm or such – once my Grandfather’s property.
When I was 11 years old At Launceston College, I greeted 100 pupils with a statement that would leave anyone confused.Remember, this was pre my formal autism diagnosis from Cambridge Autism Research Centre thirty years after.Remember, this was pre my formal diagnosis of ‘severe gender dysphoria’ and transition female to male from the Gender Clinic…. A new School, new friends, new environment, new plimsoles. Don’t blow it.At assembly in the BIG HALL, a teacher looking through the register asked (randomly) … ‘Is any one of you a twin!?’I shot my hand up with pure delight.I knew the answer to this. “I am!“ I exclaimed“I am!” I announced excitedly”…” but he’s dead” I added. I explained further… We were joined at our backs … We were Siamese like kittens?
A hall of children and blanket silence (I remember) The teachers silent (I remember) The rubber of a sea of plimsoles on polished wood gave off a smell of innocence and Mr. Sheen. In the vast building of a thousand pupils and too many teachers – one sound resonated over my odd and silencing childhood public announcement… Brett’s fart.That and the growing awareness of stinky socks linking to the cafeteria’s lunch time cabbage on the boil. I think that he quite liked the acoustics. I loved him already.
(in sixty years my brother was never given a name. I name him now, today. My brother whom I lost at Birth is called Lincoln)
A Dress Rehearsal for my 60th Birthday. March 13th 2021. Cowboy to CO-OP.
Finished Portrait drawing of Rev Chloe Jones. My next portrait will be of Rev Andy Day. I have many other project drawings and paintings ongoing. These will be finished in time.
But, for now … I wanted to use any skills to say a huge big ‘Thank You.’
This woman is extraordinary.
Looe, Liskeard, East Cornwall, Methodist. A reverend whom works hard to validate LGBT and women in Churches. She is awesome!
Album work. Band camp and Soundcloud. Mix of Indie Worship and Secular songs.
The black oblong cursor is blinking at me flashing time away like the second hand of a clock.
I so desperately want to write about how I have felt being a victim of hate crime on more than one occasion and I so desperately don’t want to write about being a victim of hate crime on more than one occasion.
The cursor has moved along a bit and I have made the first few brush strokes on my canvas. This blog update has to be figurative, descriptive and tangible, it can’t be semi-abstract or abstract or evasive.
Perhaps that is why I am struggling to write.
In the last couple of years and even a bit longer – I have been physically assaulted over and over again, the victim of malicious gossip and of lies and untrue things by people in courts. There was no justice, none what so ever. I was punished for having my ribs broken and I was punished for speaking out. I was punished for complaining via official channels and I was punished for facial bruising and I was punished for having a human body which bled and bruised when punched and attacked. And the police and the courts did nothing to protect me. And as they did nothing to protect me it gave my attackers licence to go again and again and again.
I was not believed.
It took vast amounts of photographic evidence, hospital reports and sound recordings and video footage (all of which I relentlessly collected) to, eventually, be listened to.
As a result I was and still, am being ‘safeguarded as a vulnerable adult.’ It also took input from the Independent Office for Police Conduct.
This is not a blog where I offer insight or guidance to anyone who has experienced anything similar. I can barely cope myself, I can barely look after myself and like Dorothy’s friends from the ‘Wizard of Oz’ – I have no brain, no heart and I am rusty. I am broken. The hate crime against me broke me.
The violence and lies against me – broke me and that was their intention. That is any bully’s intention and it works.
Is it possible to survive, repair oneself and recover?
I have to believe so.
Sticks and stones do break bones and the agony and pain is excruciating post-attack.
The words did hurt me.
“Faggot, come with me and I will kick your head in where there are no cameras”
“You’re not disabled you make this autism thing an excuse”
“You need to be got rid of” and from the police (some not all) ” Quite frankly I don’t believe your account” (this kept on my computer as a sound recording of a voice mail message left)
Alongside this blog, I have the means of adding video, photographs and sound recording – all of which would show you as the reader that I am telling the truth about my ordeals. But I have chosen to spare you of that distressing content and protect you. I care. Because I care. I care about you as a reader. I am, in fact, a really lovely and loving person and have striven for equality all of my life.
I wish I had a to-do list and guidance notes to give out. How to cope as a victim of Hate Crime…
I don’t and my sincere apologies. It seems far more responsible to just state that it is really hard and that the emotional pain and grief is like pain in which there are no words for.
Here is a gap in the page with no words.
This morning I cried and it was the first time in years. It was too short-lived and too quiet to represent much – but useful and I am determined to practice crying and weeping.
If the saltwater of tears can wash away the wounds of devastation and grief then this will bemuse, irritate and chalk up resilience to the bullies’ efforts.
Plus healing is a gradual, arduous process and one that is and can be so incredibly lonely.
Hate Crime has gone up within the UK. This is an undisputed fact.
Whether it was my disability, my trans-sexuality or that I am perceived as gay – no odds to some. They would have battered me for wearing yellow socks too.
None of this has made me want to hide my identity and be less proud of my identity and the intersectionality of such. I have been and remain a proud member of my LGBTQI plus Brothers and Sisters and They.
And too – my communities of kick-ass autistic people who are often incredibly inspiring.
It was my openness that, at times, may not have protected me – but my openness is autistic (my leopard spots)
I am frightened of the world now though, or more frightened. I had always suffered from depression and made suicide attempts and none of what I have written about has helped of course. I am so grateful to friends and professionals who have shown me support and love and, of course, the ‘Samaritans’
I am here and I am doing my utmost to heal.
The cursor has blinked it’s way into a couple of pages now and, in fact for a while there I hadn’t even noticed it.
It’s flashing and blinking at me now like a cheeky metronome. ‘Do it!’ – it’s teasing me ‘write it and publish it.’
The Samaritans freephone number 116123
Kilminorth Woods a ‘Nature Reserve.’
The Candian Geese aren’t so reserved. Someone didn’t let them know!
Every so often they take glorious flight skimming the river and if they detect a fox or tax collector, even at 2am their extraordinary cacophony of sound travels at the speed of light through the night. The owl wins out though. She hoots well into the early hours until – I guess – she wants to hunt and then the Hoooting would prove not such a great device for stealth. “TWIT twoo” – I try not to take it personally.
You think that I am complaining? No. For years, this was the first time that I had heard (and enjoyed) birds which are not seagull shaped. (I love seagulls…but) this woodland orchestra of – squawking, calling out, talking and having general conversations in – what must be – one of the most beautiful places on earth.
And where am I? – In a tent at ‘Watergate Camping.’ – I did an overnighter and for me, that’s a brave thing to do. For sure, brave, because my confidence has dwindled and shriveled over these past couples of years. So much so – that it is a major expedition to go to the Co-op for a pint of milk.
But Hike with the kitchen sink I did (Yoda undertone there)
…and hike a few miles back and forth (be with you) as my ton weight rucksack didn’t evince an essential camping stove part.
Why? Why did I camp – near to me, just up the road, a stone’s throw from Looe?
To challenge myself and because I was frightened to.
While exploring and enjoying the woods one day (just off of Millpool car park) – I met a woman walking her dog and we ‘chatted’ (I am the world’s worse chatter)
And she mentioned that along the river there was a campsite – ‘Watergate’
And so – long story/short. That’s where I was this week – for one night only.
I am not kidding – but as I approached the wood trail, I met a man who lived in Duloe, called … wait for it … ‘Wolf.’ He was so lovely and he had a dog named ‘Raven.’
He came from Germany in the 1970s and I thought that he was such a lovely human being.
Later- during the night, the owl did keep me awake just a bit, I thought it would be a little funny if I met a wolf in the woods while camping – who then introduced himself as ‘Man’ or that I met a raven on my hike back to Looe, who introduced himself as ‘dog.’
I will camp there again. The place, the situ, the family that runs it, the communications and support beforehand – (I explained when booking with ‘pitch up’ about my autism) – all were incredible. The gnats like my bald/bold head a little too much – but then I did say ‘Hello’ to a gnat called ‘Elephant.’
Sometimes Mary Poppins is about all a man can manage. And yeah, I cried. I could blame coming off of all anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds and such would be true. But as I explained to my GP recently – if there is real trauma in my life then I have to feel it. If there is real injustice, I have to recognise and deal with it. That aside, Thanks to my dearest friend (T) for another lovely day out. Rock n roll it may not be – but I will take all the feel-good film, kindness and friendship that I can get.
That I have work to show for Open Studios Cornwall 2016 is extraordinary.
That it has not been lost, dumped, destroyed, left to rot, broken, neglected, dismissed nor decayed is a mark of tenacity and commitment.
What is being shown is, for the most part, everything that has not been shown.
Out of the paintings – four have been exhibited in galleries, eight have been sold or given – but all else has been stored, boxed up and protected as much as is humanly possible during decades of hardship, some stability and rare fleeting moments of great joy.
And too made in differing context but all is Art.
And I am the Artist. I am the Poet and I am the Song Writer.
There is nothing to distinguish one completed piece from another. Each work is part of and another sentence toward my unique story, my book (metaphorically and literally)
That a picture – or other media work – was made: in a studio, in an Art School,on a psychiatric ward, in a prison cell;
(time spent as a transitioning Trans-man, Man, in a Woman’s prison. A drink driving offence serious enough that I, inadvertently, put others and myself at risk trying to get to a particular destination. A field, actually, where I could finally give up. And prison for further assessment and months of safeguarding as, finally, my depression was recognised.
‘Gynn is not any risk to the public,’ the final validating and touching honesty of magistrates at my plight to have been desperately trying to get help and health care previous to the conviction.
‘We are sorry, but if Mental Health teams in Cornwall won’t give you a bed, we have to send you to prison, because we feel that you are at risk.’)
From there -winning a koestler trust prize – the art work ‘ I am not a number’ only to be sold for charity.
… in a bedroom, in a kitchen, in a day centre or a support group doesn’t matter to Me.
What matters is that it was made at all, that it was drawn at all, that it was built at all that it was transformed at all, that it was written at all, that it was sung at all and that it was performed at all. What matters to me is that it still exists. And still is.
The only exception, perhaps, being ‘Performance Art’ in Norwich.
Some, actually too much, was dumped and discarded – quite literally. 500 tiny hand made moths I took to the skips in Suffolk along with wooden kinetic sculptural pieces. Drawings were torn up time and time again. I did that as part of some huge ‘Spring Clean’ as if the sensitive and raw nature and content of the work’s dialogue could be laid to rest. Work that was shockingly sad, poignant, challenging, ground breaking and brutally honest is now, long gone, but records of it all remain.
My original task was always going to be to make works of art (it is still – to an extent)
My task then was to safeguard it and I did.
My task now is to evince it. Show it. Give it life. Record all aspects of it. Acknowledge it. Declare it and Stand By it.
Maybe even celebrate it.
It is possible that being a (first time) contributor to Open Studio Cornwall I can show and demonstrate some degree of worth.
(and I am wet through, coaxed in from the sea by lifeguards, hungry, desperately sad, in crisis and in a traumatic state of mind and I am in handcuffs and sobbing – yet again. And the desk police sergeant looks over the entrance desk across and down at me (one of thousands of mentally ill people sectioned and desperately trying to cope, without health care, in Cornwall)
…’and what do you do for a living?’
My voice a whisper – ‘artist’
and he laughs and he grins and he winks to his colleagues and he preens himself on the genius of his coming joke.
‘In other words …nothing!’