In My Skin: the Sliding Universe of Autism

I paint because I am a high-functioning autistic (HFA). And I’m a maniac for science, (especially geology and cosmology) because I am a high-functioning autistic. My autism is a sliding universe; and my universe courses alongside your universe.  Who I am and the work I do is born out of my sliding universe; and this universe is a crystalline mind palace made out of the eternal silence of Time, of Color and Light, and the elemental science of God. When surviving in your universe as an HFA becomes too painful, or boring, I default (escape) to the timeless wonder of my gift.  My sliding universe nurtures my inner world, my studies, and my colossal productivity; it does not offer instructions about the interface I need to thrive in your world.

As an infant, my first memories, (hmm, yes, I do, in fact, remember that far back), are of sound, color, light, and silence. In every sense, from the beginning, I remember the feeling that my head was not physically attached to my body. (Btw: this is a normal (!) state of affairs for us, and it is easily understood as  ”disembodiment.”) Besides the problem of my head not being attached to my body, I clearly recall the sensory memory that my brain was completely exposed on the deafening white-noise-screechy surface of my body – in other words, my brain seemed to be my skin. Therefore, almost all sounds in Manhattan as a young person ranged from mildly to extremely unpleasant. In stark contrast to sound, silence was always a welcome friend. (Best of friends, silence was, (and still is), very much loud enough to block out the trauma surrounding my social relations with your social world.) Ancient micaceous shist boulders in New York City’s parks were my first primary source of much-needed silence. Back as far as I can remember, the mica in the rocks seemed to be made of the same things as our sky, or the light in the trees. And what of the whole body of the rock, the part in the ground, what about all that super-silence?

As a small person, viewed face-on, the flower stands on the streets of New York City were encountered as liquid color devouring my entire body. The Persian carpet in my parent’s apartment was, again, a cosmic world of geometry and color experienced more as a cave surrounding me on all sides than a flat surface.

To escape from this dual-dislocation the only way for me to survive has been to develop a creative discipline for artistic and intellectual exploration. As a child with virtually no communicative skills, I found the natural world to be both a laboratory and a potential carrier of the only medicine I needed to retain physical form. That medicine was color and light, silence and Time.

As I grew into adulthood, I maintained little abiding interest in my fellows. The minds and souls I was most enraptured by were dead yet, of course, still alive in books. Result: feverish engulfing isolation was the norm. At the critical time to seriously learn how to develop allies and supporters for my work, through communication, I did not. Learn to communicate. Instead, I focused upon the many great contributions made before me in both science and art. I developed my own distinct, eventually visionary, disciplines, and techniques.

Still now, today, all this remains true. To nurture and heal my autism the primary tool continues to be color and light; sentient (living) radionic color like that in a flower or landscape. And, equally important, the non-sentient forms, such as the mineral and crystalline world, or the color and light from the stellar world, all this that irradiates us whether we see it , or not. There is pure color, color that breathes life, which is light. There is the pure science of perception, and the truth of discovery in color. For instance, our universe is “in color”, not black and white. Even if we were not here to perceive our world and our universe, would it not still be colored? And then what about the Mother of the Universe, before Time began; is that source colored, or black and white, giving birth to a colored universe?

This meaning:  color is not just for us, it is universal. Color remains for me the ultimate glory of the gift of life, and of death. I live to see the promise and the mercy of color. For this HFA, all Color is our living God, and the Color of God is eternal, it in us. We are living color, and divinely colored.

Today the many different kinds of work I do are being developed into projects that the public can utilize as healing tools to enhance their own lives and vision for the future. The gift of being an HFA is the massive productivity that sets me apart from my peers. Using science, art, and cosmology, my individual paintings, and all 4 of my projects, inspire and hopefully enhance the viewer/participant’s understanding of the magnitude of our universe, our lives, our humanity, and our divinity.  A new universal centering cosmology is the primary goal of MAGNITUDE, GOD PARTICLES ‘n US, The Dakini Project, and the GOD WARS Memorial project.

Thankfully the same cosmology continues to embolden my often discouraging attempts to sustain myself financially and psychically. With this higher motivation I survive the torpor of ordinary society and, particularly, the newness of the American culture. As an HFA, my interface with a world that moves much too slowly, is painful at best. However, in older cultures like Europe, my work was handsomely used and applauded for its true purpose. European perception of time and cultural growth yielded a solo museum retrospective of my work hailed as “Art that Heals…” Ingrained in the psyche of Europeans, instilled in their educational systems and passed down through generations, is the context that great art is a gift, not a demonstration of purposeful individuality.

I live and work, however, in the United States. Here, in a culture of maximized individuality and personality that works for the “promotion of Self”, my sliding universe is perhaps too generous.  As a high-functioning autistic, the virtual impossibility of ME successfully marketing myself, my art, and my projects is tempered by the notion that I am 10 to 20 years ahead of time. So, I am told, quite often.  So, there’s some extra time to work on a “theory of self” that might possibly interface with your universe! Or there’s extra time to find those who might beinspired to participate in the Holographic Heart Foundation, that body that is parenting the 4 projects.

Perhaps my sliding universe will eventually intersect with your universe?   Can’t wait!


© Jennet Inglis, June 12, 2017                                                                                                                                               Staunton, Virginia

Red Silk Scarf

(an allegory)


An enormous white dove is pulled out from underneath the red silk scarf of the universe. Because it is an extremely large dove, and a very much larger scarf, the caper plays on for countless epochs of time. In recent millennia we find that all living souls are born on the tips of the dove’s wings. Born there to live a life of exploring the astonishing and magical realms of existence, most eventually abandon this stupendous vantage point. They pretend they can no longer feel the silence of the Earth merge with the silence of the heavens, nor sense the mystery of the Earth coming in contact with the mystery of the stars. Mesmerized by an illusion of maturity and power, they finally turn their backs on the source of Creation, the sun, the moon, the wind and the rain, and scrabble their way down the length of the wings of the dove. Heading for the company of their fellows milling under the cover of the dove’s soft downy feathers, the allure of safety beckons. Close to protective warmth and sustenance, most humans spend their lives nestled into the body of the great white dove. Scarcely, if ever, is the return journey back out to the susurrating wing-tips of the dove ever considered, never mind attempted.

Left to themselves on the tips of the wings are the true visionaries, the rebels, thinkers and artists. But even radicals can become despondent and confused. They too can begin the journey down into safety and comfort. This loss of faith can sometimes be deterred if another radical or visionary grabs them by the scruff of their necks and reminds them of the magnificence of the view and the true magnitude of the cosmos. They may need to be reminded that their job is to survive the perilous flights into darkness and blinding light. They may also need to be reminded that they, more than anyone, must see the world of the white dove and the red silk scarf just as it is. They must remember the fathomless gambit of God just as it has always been. They must remember the tactic of breath and memory, and with every new breath remember their birth as they awoke to sparkling constellations on the horizon.  These individuals may also need to be reminded that no one is there to save them if they fall off the wings of the dove and die, or if they perish from the insanity of their mission. So too, it would be wise to reassure them of the folly and uncertainty of tribute. Finally, they must be convinced that the freedom of such a life, the purity of the sun and moon on their faces and the ever-loving caress of wind, far, far outweighs the terror of solitude, and the disgrace of failure.

Only fools, visionaries or other rebel-types book passage for the one-way journey on the perilous wing-tips of life. From the tips of the wings of the dove, at any cost to their safety, these radicals demand from themselves, alone, the strength to maintain the clearest possible vantage point. With this acuity of vision, they spend their lives peering down into the seismic fractures of nature, language, spirit, consciousness and existence. Some of them lose their balance and fall off, but many more endure and cling fast. Over millennia of time many have created effective and beautiful ways to reach and transform humankind cradled in the down feathering of the white dove. So too, some of the visions and songs born out of our radicals can be heard only after those souls are released from the wing-tips of the dove and float back up under the cover of the great red silk scarf.

“Red Mother” dried pigment on paper painted by Jennet Inglis

© Jennet Inglis, 2017