#AutisticAF Out Loud

School is a job.School is just pre-training for working for the Man.School is a job.Kids clock in at 3. They never clock out.Not even on social security.The Man reminds you who’s boss.Monthly check by monthly check.And like any check… Ya gotta work to keep it.Retirement’s a fucking job, too.#ActuallyAutistic* If this excerpt grabbed you… more here: The Book: Frag by Frag.This is Fragment 11 of my upcoming autobiography, Autistic Noir, arriving Fall 2026.I’m building a book out loud. Frag by frag. Just like I lived it.The Next ActDon’t trust a corporate algorithm’s decision about whether you get to see the next excerpt or not.Join my Substack for free… and the next fragment comes straight to your inbox. And you get a free digital download of my complete poetry chapbook.* I’m writing an autobiography… out loud. Frag by frag. Just like I lived it. Unlock the next act for free.Why I Write My AutobiographyI’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary.Individual marginalized voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou. Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness.This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with Autistic Noir: My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community.Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit.Click to get the next frag in your inbox… free. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

Cold openWelcome to the Treatment Funhouse…First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at a chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice.So you sit. You really want… something… different in your miserable life.[Brief music]Suddenly he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you he grabs a blowtorch…[music]IntroThis is AutisticAF Out Loud, Season 7, episode 1. Today, I find moments of joy… after some brutal ones.Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.”I’m Johnny Profane. Startled awake. Taking a new direction. And writing a neurodivergent autobiography… out loud.Content note: Mentions abuse, trauma, suicidality... and dark humor.Just one autistic elder’s voice. Raw.3 fragments from my free archive, autisticaf.me… I’ll tell you more at the break.[music]Welcome to the Treatment FunhouseBeing trapped in the medical model of autism for decades?Imagine an elaborate carnival funhouse… the kind that’s a maze. You gotta find your way out. But…This one’s got a horror theme.The sign outside… “23 Mirrored Rooms That Will Change Your Life… Forever!”Never saw that before.So you stand in the long wait line. That, naturally, doubles back on itself. Many times.Finally, you belly up to the barker’s ticket window. Start to scan the price board.“125 bucks?” You cry out.“You wanna change yer life, kid? Whatchya think it would cost?”So you sigh. You think…You need… different. You fork over.First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at the chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice.So you sit. You really want… well, something… different in your miserable life.Suddenly, he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you, he grabs a blowtorch.You see this scene reflected in all the mirrors. In detail. Enhanced by all your grisly memories.You protest. “What the actual fuck.”“Trust me. This is the latest research. Sure as hell gonna change your life.” That smile. Thin. Cold. Professional. “We got paying customers outside. Lined up. Waiting to get inside. You in… or out.”You reflect on your miserable life. You nod.Then he slowly, methodically works you over. A light burn here. Another there. Starting at your feet. Working upwards.You scream. You cry. You plead. You evade. You bargain. Not a word out of Jumpsuit Guy.And… the only way you can block out the terror reflected in those mirrors?Close your eyes…He finishes. He unshackles you. Helps you up as you tremble. Guides you efficiently to the door.“Next room. Room of Knives. Yer gonna love it,” he laughs.“Just 22 to go.” Leans in… conspiratorially. Whispers in my ear…“Wait til the Meds room. Everybody talks about the Meds Room.”Beat.“If you make it there.”musicInterludeOkay, then. A fun little… metaphor. Now… some dark reality. Family… and professionals… tossed off what I was going through in my late teens as “immaturity.” Something I’d age out of. Totally ignoring all the red danger flags of the coming disaster.Quick side note. Some folks wrote you couldn’t read articles. Multiple platform problems… demands you subscribe… pestering friends, even if they used a“free” link.I heard ya . So, I built my free personal archive at autisticaf.me. No paywall. No ads to piss ya off. All free & shareable… on me.You’ll find more pieces like this next one… there. — The Autistic Treatment Funhouse, Room of ExamsThey Called It Immaturity. They Missed Everything.Content note: This is the tough one I mentioned. With the brutal flowers.Look, first of all… This is not the beginning of a poor-me story.This is a story of how I found moments of joy… and darkness… in my autistic life. Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.”But I found dark humor... every where.1972 was a hell of a summer… Room 1I first sought a diagnosis at 19. Following suicide attempt #1.I was driving after dark. Which I wasn’t supposed to do… new family rule.See, I’d damaged our car the week before, making a hasty turn into our driveway near Jumping Deer Road in Katonah. Hit the damn stone wall on the way in.This was Westchester County, NY. Local code only allowed a nano break between the 18th-Century stones guarding our yard. Colonial heritage or something… masking slave labor.I’m in the doghouse. With parents already skeptical about letting me go to college. Not “mature” enough.Yet, when the hood and fender are finally fixed? They drop me off on a muggy, hazy June night. Out in the boonies at the old Amawak Service Center on Route 202.“Pick it up and bring it home. No side stops.” Then they instruct me, “Be… careful.” Rolling their collective 4 eyes.I pull out, then wait. The light’s gotta change at the 4-lane intersection with Route 35 before I can head home.The light turns green. I go into a weird space in my head. There’s… there’s some reason I shouldn’t turn left… yet… But I watch myself shrug, flick my signal switch, and turn. Right into two lanes of accelerating traffic coming right at me.Don’t remember much more. Just the red, don’t-turn-yet-idiot arrow. Staring at me brightly… through the windshield that used to be there.I survived. That classic, white 1965 Mustang… didn’t. Barely street legal, 271-horse V8 under the hood. Maybe the most collectible American car of all time.A hand-me-down gift to our family from my father’s father. Who bragged, “I had to jew the dealer down from 5 grand,” back when he bought it new in ’65. A lot of money then.Um, things got tense at home.“You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.”Parental meeting time.“Uh, I don’t know what happened.” I couldn’t stand these “meetings.” So many in my childhood. This was maybe the worst of all.“I don’t know. It… it... just happened.”Making my parents even more furious. These were avid Ayn Rand readers. And my grandfather? He slept beside an orderly nightstand. Mein Kampf tucked tightly in its tidy drawer. My dead father’s voice echoes coldly in my mind still. “You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.” But, I stumble on. Making things worse… in my way.“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. I’m having horrible visions. Hitting people with the car as I drive by. Hitting their bodies… bones…” I trail off. Into stony silence, I say, “And now something weird happened. I think… I think… maybe I should see a doctor…”Next thing I know, I’m sitting in front of a Westchester County caseworker. Cuz my parents felt a psychologist or private therapist cost too much.I had no idea what I was feeling… much less why.The intake experience was horrific.I felt… badgered.She called it… delicately. “Maybe the accident looked like an attempt to… maybe… harm yourself?” But she continued with a sledgehammer.“I know you have a secret you want to tell me.” Rinse, repeat… Rinse, repeat…I wanted so badly to please her. But had no idea what I was feeling… much less why.Worse yet? There were things I didn’t want to tell her. Darker than the physical or sexual abuse she was probably check-listing. Things a traumatized kid might do… himself.I never went back. I told my parents I was uncomfortable talking to her.My dad rocked back in his dark, maple, Early American dining room chair. “Fine. That’s your choice.”He paused. Looking directly at my mother as he said to me, “I can see you won’t speak to this counselor. I see no reason to look for another for you to talk to. Your decision.”And that was that.We were all dying for freedom.Finally at 63, a psychologist specializing in autism gave me another name, Alexithymia.He said a lot of autistics can know something is wrong. But not know what. And baptized me, Autism Spectrum Disorder… with a side of ADHD.2016 was a good year. A damn fine year.But 1972 was a summer from hell.The last US troops shipped home, fleeing Viet Nam. Palestinians massacred Israelis at the Olympics. My father died that August. The week after he molested me for the last time.We were all dying for freedom.[music]Cuz… if you don’t know us… how ya gonna love us.Interlude This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

I’m writing a memoir… out loud. Building a book. Fragment by fragment. Just like I lived it.I told a small, self-deprecating… white lie.To get out of committing to volunteering for a new project.My bad.You see? I had history with this person. Co-founder of an advocacy nonprofit. Small. Neurodivergency-affirming. Big ideas. Little organization.“I’m not sure I’m the right guy for your project. I just can’t seem to do something… this big… anymore.” I just want to gracefully bow out. Yet not hurt feelings. Or challenge them.I plow on gamely, “Maybe we can chat once in a while…?”“Sure you can! I know you can do it!” That zeal of a new convert to pop psychology. Rapid-fire words ricocheting out of my headset. “You just have imposter syndrome. I know. Because I do too! I have this book you could read…”I tried to be gentle. “My friend, I don’t have a syndrome of any kind. I’m just telling the truth. No need for diagnosis.”It went rapidly downhill from there.Let’s say, I felt immediate… unease.While we were talking. But I didn’t know why. Yet.But like a persistent smell neurodivergent-dot-me can never ignore… that feeling lingered. Building as I replay the conversation over and over. Then it takes days to recover. Before I can work on my projects again.Because what I experienced? Some label “benevolent ableism.” I call it soft-core discrimination. Trying to look like… kindness.I’ll never know their motivation. I won’t risk the pain of asking.You see? “Kind” words can do real damage.All you really gotta do to cause pain? Simply speak in the grammar of help… then act out the logic of condescension.That’s it.Some research supports this… catch-22. Patronizing support? It’s one of the most common, damaging, and invisible acts one human can perpetrate on another disabled human. That I know.Cuz it’s deniable. So at best, socially dangerous to challenge. A lot like an unwanted, ambiguous… intimate… gesture. From an acquaintance. And queasiness has only gotten worse for me with every ambiguous human interchange.The weapon and pain metaphors I use in the performance piece? Intentional.Cuz the escalation you may experience?These. Are. My. Reality.This ain’t about an additional diagnosis. Or a personality flaw. It is about me being autistic-as-fuck me.Yeah. I may be a tad more sensitive to condescension than the Average Bear. Just like I need sunglasses. Even on many cloudy days.Which ought to be actually advocated for. Not patronized. By an advocate. Or employer. Or loved one.Cuz this is not something I can self-help-guru my way out of. Or be trained to control through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.Like I need one more thought to exhaustingly monitor. Monitoring that could never “cure” my sensory issue with smells. Or my freaking balance problems. Least of all my condescension trauma…So, the only guiding principle I must remember when I navigate social or professional waters…“I must honor my limits. Or they will disable me.”One last thing…I wrote this about my real experiences as an autistic professional. In a world unkind to difference.But my guess? Folks from any “disadvantaged” background may see themselves in it.Let’s build on that kinship. Maybe make a change. Together.IntroContent Note: Contains descriptions of everyday condescension… and opinions. That may resonate uncomfortably for autistic, neurodivergent, and… other people.The Cruelest Knife Leaves No ScarYou never feel the cruelest knife Poison-tipped with a pat on the head A smugly… gentle… smile Words so softly, warmly… said.He only said… “You’re flourishing. Even with autism. Good on you.”Judgment is like napalm Dropped benignly… safely… from on high Burning invisibly… under my skin.She casually said… “You got imposter syndrome. I got this book…?”Or some radiant dirty bomb Parachuting slyly… tenderly… Silently melting my guts inside.The manual simply read… “Neurodivergents think outside the box. That makes them perfect… for certain tasks.”Leaving a foul smell in the air Mustard gas masquerading… Like piercing gas-station incense Labelled... blindingly, “Stay Calm.”Stealth Weapons of Mass Humiliation Or casual toxic caring Preening in plain sight Don’t breed even sullen gratitude Just resentment. Rebellion. Sometimes? The worship of tyrants. You never feel the cruelest knife No, Not right away. A slice so sharp it leaves no scar So weird… that instant shapes my life.* If this excerpt grabbed you… more here: The Book: Frag by Frag.This is Fragment 4 of my upcoming autobiography, My Autistic Life is My Art, arriving Fall 2026.I’m building a book out loud. Fragment by fragment. Just like I lived it.The Next ActDon’t trust a corporate algorithm’s decision about whether you get to see the next excerpt or not.Join my Substack for free… and the next fragment comes straight to your inbox. And you get a free digital download of my complete poetry chapbook.* Unlock the next act for free.Why I Write My AutobiographyI’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary.Individual minority voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou, Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness.This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community.Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit.Readings for Your Deeper DiveNot exhaustive. Just sources that made me think.Benevolent Ableism* “Consequences of Confronting Patronizing Help for People with Disabilities” Harvard Kennedy School Government and Applied Psychology Lab · January 2023https://gap.hks.harvard.edu/consequences-confronting-patronizing-help-people-disabilities-do-target-gender-and-disability-type* “Misguided Gestures of a Condescending Kindness” Radical Accessible Communities · July 2013https://radicalaccessiblecommunities.wordpress.com/2013/07/10/misguided-gestures-of-a-condescending-kindness/Ableist Microaggressions* “Ableist Hostility Disguised as Friendliness” Real Social Skills · January 2016https://realsocialskills.org/2016/01/08/ableist-hostility-disguised-as-friendliness/* “Ableist-Microaggressions Towards People with Disabilities” REDIS / CEDID · n.d.https://redis.cedid.es/index.php/redis/article/download/1161/568/Discriminatory Gaslighting vs. Imposter Syndrome* “Imposter Syndrome, Or Something Else? Historian Talks Discriminatory Gaslighting” NPR · May 2021https://www.npr.org/2021/05/09/995172973/imposter-syndrome-or-something-else-historian-talks-discriminatory-gaslighting* “Imposter Syndrome in Neurodiversity” The Rowan Well · December 2024https://www.therowanwell.co.uk/blog/imposter-syndrome-in-neurodiversityPerformative Allyship & Movement Co-optation* “Performative Neurodiversity – the Appropriation and Watering Down of a Human Rights Movement for Profit” Therapist Neurodiversity Collective · May 2024https://therapistndc.org/performative-neurodiversity-the-appropriation-and-watering-down-of-a-human-rights-movement-for-profit/* “Performative Allyship Within Capitalist Systems” Neurodiverging · January 2024https://www.neurodiverging.com/performative-allyship-within-capitalist-systems/Autistic Identity, Masking & Ableism (Research)* “Understanding Autistic Identity Contingencies” PubMed Central · December 2025https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC12804416/* “The Division Between Neurodiversity Advocates and The Rest of the World” Neuroclastic · January 2026https://neuroclastic.com/nd-nt/Counterpoint / Complicating Perspectives* “Make Neurodiversity Boring” Boston Review · June 2025https://www.bostonreview.net/forum/the-future-of-neurodiversity/make-neurodiversity-boring/* “The Definitional Problems at the Heart of the Neurodiversity Movement” STAT News · November 2025https://www.statnews.com/2025/11/24/neurodiversity-movement-neurot… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

A comet, a cult, an ice storm, a family dinner... and a disastrous drinking game. Winter, 1997-98. One autistic elder's truth about faith, control, and what it costs to survive your own family.⚠️ Content note: offensive language, substance use, religious criticism, mental health themes, cult references. Strong feelings. A very personal truth you may not share.This is a hybrid spoken word piece — poem, film, mini-series. Scenes. Jump cuts. Background music. A Prelude in Northern New York, December 1997, as the Hale-Bopp comet fades from the sky and the thirty-nine bodies in matching Nikes of the Heaven's Gate cult are still fresh in the national mind.A Dinner, where my mother gathers reports from her children, one by one, while I sip vodka. Neat.A Card Game during the Ice Storm of '98 — cooped-up family, three days, no power, liquor, and a rule: ya gotta drink.And a Cadenza for the End of Time. Where I finally ask the question I couldn't ask as a kid.I'm Johnny Profane Âû. Autistic poet and spoken word performer, diagnosed at 63. Now in my 70s. I've been making work that refuses to be packaged since 2019.This piece is from my chapbook: every clock is a handgun pointed at my head: songs of autistic innocence...and experience. Available on Amazon — link below.📖 Get the chapbook: [AMAZON LINK]📬 Full text + newsletter: [SUBSTACK LINK]🔔 Hit the bell. New pieces drop when they're ready.💬 Drop a comment: How complex was your family history as a neurodivergent person? What refuges did you find?Chapters0:10 — Cold Open0:21 — Content Note0:45 — Intro1:58 — Prelude / Establishing Shot3:55 — Dinner Music / Point-of-View Shot7:39 — Interlude / Flash Cut9:53 — Cadenza for the End of Time / Extreme Wide Panning Shot11:20 — Outro / Parting Shot#ActuallyAutistic #SpokenWord #ReligiousTrauma#AutisticPoetry #LateAutismDiagnosis #AutisticElders #HeavensGate #AutismAcceptance #NeurodivergentPoetry #AutisticAF This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

Still driven to matter. Desperately. Almost 73. And I can’t unwind… busted springs, broken dancer in a jewel box. This piece isn’t an answer. It’s an accusation. And underneath? A terrified question I can’t stop asking.Is listening more your thing? Hit the play icon ▶️ on the player above. Or pick your app: Apple, Spotify, Overcast, YouTube.{Music} IntroYou're listening to AutisticAF Out Loud. One voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Neurodivergent. One autistic elder’s truth. I’m Johnny Profane.Content Note: language, psych ward experiences, childhood sexual & emotional abuse, intergenerational family harm + opinions & experiences of one autistic elder. It’s everywhere. Every where I go anyways.I’m chatting with this young professional couple ahead of me in a line. Maybe, grad students…? This long, Walmart self-checkout is just brimming with fresh faces this August.There’s an awkward break… like always in these in-line chats. Like we’re para-neighbors or something.So… I’ve gotten used to a little stimming while I wait. In the silence, I arch my back backwards then I drop my head toward the floor… Breathe out, relax, straighten up, and…They’re staring. Four eyes blinking through glasses. Two mouths open.I… I… think a moment. Running through possible causes for those gawking faces. Then, I get it.“Oh… Oh that.” I slip into my little canned moment. “Ya see, I’m autistic. I know. I don’t look like autistic. I’m old.” [Chuckle.] “But if I say… or do something… that seems, well, odd? Just let me know.”You could see it instantly. I went from bizarre, possibly fiercesome alien to… cute, harmless, possibly lovable, old oddball.A blink or two… from each. The guy, in the designer hoodie, waves back and forth between himself and the young woman. “Oh, we get it.” A bit more waving. “We love ‘Love on the Spectrum.’ Never miss it.”To my credit, I manage a… thin smile, with a little mock hand-waving and a quiet, “Yeah, doggie.”Shortly, they leave the store, waving back at me. And I wave back. It’s more like they have a cute para-social crush on an idea… of autism.But I’m thinking…That show… and that couple’s genuine attempt to connect? They’re something… for now. I guess… But I’ve been obsessing about stereotypes lately.Like everybody suddenly knows the real me cuz they read an article on Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism…TV viewers? None of them know me. It’s more like they have a cute para-social crush on an idea… of autism.I try to bear in mind I may be going through a phase ... [laffs]But…I am autistic + ADHD here. Turning 73, come June. I want you to know this reality… my personal reality. But shared by too many other neurodivergents.I’ll never know what it means to grow up withoutsensory, physical, emotional, and sexual trauma from…family, teachers, playmates, care-taking professionals,the occasional stranger.I’ll never know a life without repeated psych ward stays.So… it just may not be autism that blocks my dreams… Ya know?Just stick a pin in that thought for a moment. We’ll circle back, after a bit… after I speak my piece…“What… would I be… then…?”Like most humans, I grapple with dreams… I will never realize in this life... nearing its end. Dreams that wind my clock.The biggest? The gut-wrenching need to matter... Less noble? My yearning for fame & recognition. I fear letting that dream go.Cuz what… would I be… then...?This piece isn’t an answer. It’s an accusation. And I can guaran-damn-tee you it’ll never stream on Netflix.I call it…LETTING GOBeing born left its markThat’s how I came to fear the dark...Far back as i know I fear letting goAlways scouting for that shortcutI fear letting goCareening towards god knows whatFearing letting goDark lightning in my gutFrom fear of letting go Letting goLetting goGod i need To let go… Everybody knowsI need to let go.All life longDrempt damned dreams The kind that get you reborn,To be big, to be… known.As this long life, this dream… endsI fear letting goCuz what would I… be… then?Been saying latelyGot to unwind… Twist.Got the heart… not the chopsI got to unwindUnwind… Twist.Need a dream detoxGot to unwind Un Wind… Twist.Click…Busted springs andBroken dancer in a jewel box. Good gawd almightyI gots to unwind.Sleepwalking in the moist dark nightA toddler memory, I feared a lightShadowed crack under mommy’s doorGroans, cries, sighs… moreThen...Turning a knob on forbidden sightDaddy’s rage, a parasiteCrawling… gnawing my insides That night I first feared the light.Black thunder in a winter stormI fear the trembling lightMantra falling in a mind at warTerrified of that lightFear that lightFear that lightI fear that lightMore than psych ward nightI fear that blinding lightBeing born left its markThat’s how I came to fear the dark...But waking, startled, late in lifeI came to cower… at the light.Ok. What I feel… what I experience inside? Or what other autistic adults may feel?It ain’t something you’ll ever binge on Netflix. No camera films what’s inside us.So, unpin that thought I asked you to save… about blocked dreams. Let’s just circle back.It ain’t autism. Or ADHD. Or any other neurological difference that blocks our dreams. Even those that are so different from yours.I don’t believe ANY of this 7 decades of trauma…familial disappointment…social judgment…failure… pain…Had anything to do with my own inborn genetics... nature... Or Mommy’s fucking Tylenol.But, and…here’s the hope,the meaning,the good part…Based on the joyful thingsI could say,did do,did experience,do share…even against all the barriers human culture has ever erectedFor me… for all neurodivergents…I can not imagine the joy thatfuture neurodivergent kids could have a shot at...If “They” stop trying to “cure” our natural behaviors that annoy... or frighten… only “Them.”And start supporting the natures and gifts we do possess. From the moment we come naked into this world.I can NOT imagine what our kids could say, do, experience… in that future world.Thank you so much for giving me your time, my friends. And the space to sputter my rage into.{Music}CHAPTERS:0:00 — Cold Open0:27 — Intro / Content Note0:57 — It’s Everywhere5:16 — Letting Go (poem)8:19 — Ok. What I feel… what I experience inside?9:21 — But, and… Here’s the good part10:31 — Thank you so much for giving me your timeMore Spoken Word:I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on SubstackGet the Chapbook:every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, art, poetry, and raw neurodivergent truth. Thirteen pieces. One autistic life, unfiltered. Available on AmazonSubscribe to AutisticAF Out Loud... free or paid... and get the full PDF in your inbox. On me.One-time support for my work here: · Paypal · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû”· Ko-Fi 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.​#ActuallyAutistic #SpokenWord #DisabilityPoetry #NeurodivergentArt #AuDHD #MentalHealthAwareness #AutisticAF #AutisticElder #LateAutismDiagnosisConnect:* Drop a comment — Do you experience barriers to realize your… This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

Note to long-time subscribers: You’re seeing this one again cuz I’ve given the original video a serious makeover. Then tucked it into a small archive of live spoken word pieces, for the newer folks these raw pieces brought to our strange little corner of the internet._____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.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“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 fogThat’s my wife’s face in dreamsI only see her walking awayA 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, sundown1:54 — Let me take you inside2:32 — “A Swirl of Flesh-Colored Fog”5:35 — About… yay… tallMore Spoken Word:I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack:https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/p/spoken-word-poetryGet 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/B0FNLHC6SYSubscribers… free or paid… receive a free PDF of this neurodivergent art & poetry collection by email.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 #MentalHealthAwarenessConnect:* Drop a comment — Do you struggle to remember faces? Or yearn for connection your brain won’t let you have?* Hit the “follow” bell for new releases This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

If you’re drawn to the raw experience born of neurodivergence, disability, trauma… or just honest storytelling that doesn’t sanitize the hard parts… Maybe this one’s for you. With full transcript, video, original artwork.Family leaves marks on you. Some visible, some not. Hell, just breathing-while-autistic… in the adult world… does a number.“Couldn’t you at least make it, Profano?” says my wife-to-be. Adding, “Who wants to be called ‘Profane??’”Conversations about changing my last name… I mean, who knew it was supposed to be a “couples conversation”?Not this smartass, but-naive-as-hell, 58-year-old autist. Not sitting on someone else’s couch. That we happen to be surfing in a backwoods Greene County, Indiana cabin.Um. I guess, my bad. But…I was busy reeling from losing my fourth or fifth career, estrangement from my family of origin, a forced 700-mile relocation… by bus… to Indiana,my new relationship with my future wife and family,joblessness, and homelessness…in under 6 months.And I never did the whole unspoken-rule thing well. Ya know, auDHD? So really not on my best game that day.I’m not ashamed. I’m not broken…“I gotta make a br-break,” I start sputtering. “They’ll tell themselves stories. They’ll make up shit. M-Make me a demon.”“They?” Her eyebrow arches. The eyebrow that raised 7 kids.This is 2011. I don’t have enough words in that moment to tell her who “they” are. Pretty much every relationship, teacher, job, and cause I’d walked out of. In my already long, getting-longer-fast life.“I’m not ashamed. I’m not broken. I don’t have a fucking clue where I’m headed. But this is who I am. I gotta own… my self.” I kinda hear myself say that. Out loud. Catches me up short.Then, after a thoughtful beat, I mutter, “Right in their faces.”My wife has a bit to say. About changing her name to “Profane.” I have a bit too much to say in my dig-in-my-heels response. We had some wild moments back then…After a few months, I went the stagename route, Johnny Profane. Kept the potential marriage alive through compromise. But still managed to keep the “in their faces” intact.Cuz family… and the life after… leave marks on you. Some visible. Some not.I choose to wear them in plain sight…Shamelessly.I choose to wear them in plain sight…Shamelessly.This piece is what it means to me to live without apology. I got some things right, got some things wrong. And somehow kept stumbling forward anyways.​This piece draws from real moments… scaling Mount Marcy the night Elvis died in 1977,leaving family behind 34 years later, complicated relationships that never quite resolve.I was finally diagnosed autistic at 63. It’s been almost 10 years. So I wrote this.Full Text Transcript.So I call this one, Shameless.Watch the 3+ minute performance (headphones recommended):Content Note: language, family estrangement, ableism, trauma, homelessness + opinions & experiences of one autistic elder.ShamelessLive long enoughYa get a lot right,Get a lot wrong.Get to knowWell enoughYa can’t be a saintLurking in shadow…Living life perfectlyShameless.Shameless?Oh let me beShameless…No sun setsOn a painless life,So no moon shinesOn a stainless wife.Oh let me be… comeShameless.Scaling Mount MarcyThat night as Elvis died,Got branded a MountebankAs my sister grew colder.Stalking Death ValleySame sister… now dead… to meSame stars… chill my shouldersNow living life perfectlyShameless…Shameless.Oh let me beShameless…No peak capsAn aimless life,And no grave ever filledBy a blameless knife.Oh let me be… comeShameless.No mask hidesThe pain in life,So no words canExplain my fight.So, let me Be… come…Shameless.FadeoutI hate it. I love that one…That’s the whole thing, isn’t it. Living with both at once.CHAPTERS:0:00 — Introduction0:11 — Shameless (the poem begins)MORE SPOKEN WORD:I share more pieces like this at AutisticAF Out Loud on Substack: https://johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/p/spoken-word-poetryGET 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/B0FNLHC6SYABOUT THIS WORKJohnny (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 #DisabilityPoetry #AutisticPoet #NeurodivergentArt #FamilyTrauma #AutisticAF #PoetryPerformance #MentalHealthAwareness #ActuallyAutistic #RawPoetryConnect:* Drop a comment — What does family life look like for you?* Hit the “follow” bell for new releases#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click for a free subscription to receive new posts… and a free PDF of my Amazon chapbook of poetry. To support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Support AutisticAF.me here: Paypal · Ko-Fi · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû”https://ko-fi.com/autisticaf This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

IntroSomeone said an average writer “borrows.” The other kinds, both kinds... steal out right.Bowie, Robert Johnson, Marvin Gaye. I owe you guys one for this. Believe I’ll Ch-Ch-Change… My Shirt.Sunlight cracks my window, Gotta be midday. Kick myself a pathway Just to pee into the bowl. Like a peek into that deepest hole, Zombie in the Mirror won’t let me look away — Same filthy shirt as yesterday, Body and soul. I Gotta Change. They say, “Ya gotta ch-ch-change. New day’s a-coming. Cuz that same old, It’s getting fucking old.” They say, “Shed that old skin For one of truest gold…” I. Gotta. Change. Believe I’ll ch-ch-change My… Shirt. Karma’s a bitch dog, in heat. She prowls my old mind, Sleeps beside me every night… Feasting on defeats. No stone blocks this empty tomb But I can’t leave her behind... Memories of the darkest kind Blind my way outta this room... T H A T change I can not make— Faced all the strange this heart can take… I gotta change… I gotta change… I gotta change… I. Gotta. Change. Believe I’ll ch-ch-change My… Shirt. Break it down… I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home. I believe, I believe, I’ll go back home. You can't mistreat me here, babe, But you can when I get home… Waitress smiles, checkout jokes… shoplifting contact with little hope casual chic in the cubicle hoarding freak in the domicile Molestation devastation Frustration infestation losing jobs taking jabs Meltdown, shutdown… losing your shit Choose the label for your best fit Can’t see the forest For the leaves, That’s what’s brought me To my knees… New day’s never coming. And that same old, Got fucking older. I yearn to shed that old skin I crave that shiny gold… I. Gotta. Change. Believe I’ll ch-ch-change My… Shirt.Man I feel the drama today. Hope you guys can handle it.Massive shoutout to artists I stole quotes from… David Jones, known to the world as David Bowie for “Changes,” that he released in 1972. And to blues genius Robert Johnson for “Dust My Broom,” released in 1937. And as always to Marvin Gaye, for his soul… invisible but always there.* More Live Autistic Spoken Word BioJohnny (Knapp) Profane Âû is an auDHD spoken word poet, blogger, podcaster… sometime cosplaying Pretend Rock Star.Diagnosed autistic at 63, he’s published AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… a raw, fiercely neurodivergent voice.His spoken word piece, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” appeared in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, he spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day on his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Neuroclastic, Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and other sites have featured his work since 2019. In an earlier life, he was founding publisher of Unix World magazine in 1984.Johnny lives in a rural Indiana trailer… next to his wife’s trailer… with his dogs & cat. Occasionally he shaves… to face Walmart.“I’m autistic. Born 1953.I was not a product of a vaccine.I was not born to be pitied.I was born to raise Hell.Autistic style.I’m not out to inspire you.I’m out to give youan experience..of a life.”“every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” art & poetry collection. available on Amazon.Connect:* Share your burnout experiences below* Hit the bell for new releases#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click below to receive new posts & free PDF of full Amazon collection… free. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

Full Spoken Word TranscriptMy time, it can’t be measured. Not a dimension. It’s a force.A violent force.every clock is a handgun pointed at my headIIIEvery clock is a handgun pointed at my headEvery tick, tick… fucking tickTolling Fear, Doom… dreadClick. Slide. Cock… click.Every night a mantra echoes through my headTV static… a crazy-making humSinging Dream, Drempt… dead…Not done. Not done. Not done… undone.10, 9, 8… Dread7, 6, 5… Fear4, 3, 2… BEEP.Shoot the moon… or the country next doorCountdown. Deadline. Bow down… dead.Bound behind doors, bound in my headPace, paces, pacing… pacedEvery BEEP.Of the phone.Stops…my heart....I crash out with a scream for escapeIIWoodsDeep woodsDeepest woodsMy ears flyfrom bird songto bird song.A raptor circles then spiralsCrossing lines now deadWind steals my breathTaking words never saidThis skin bag of atmosphereBreathes new airWhen the sun risesFirst it is coolThen it gets warmThe day passesClouds above my head.Shaped by windOutside my bodyThe same windInside my bodyThesameWindYet…I10, 9, 8… Dread7, 6, 5… Fear4, 3, 2… BEEP.Shoot the moon… or the country next doorCountdown. Deadline. Bow down… dead.Every clock is a handgun pointed at my headzero* More Live Autistic Spoken Word BioJohnny (Knapp) Profane Âû is an auDHD spoken word poet, blogger, podcaster… sometime cosplaying Pretend Rock Star.Diagnosed autistic at 63, he’s published AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… a raw, fiercely neurodivergent voice.His spoken word piece, “every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” appeared in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, he spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day on his illustrations rooted in neurodivergence. Neuroclastic, Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, and other sites have featured his work since 2019. In an earlier life, he was founding publisher of Unix World magazine in 1984.Johnny lives in a rural Indiana trailer… next to his wife’s trailer… with his dogs & cat. Occasionally he shaves… to face Walmart.“I’m autistic. Born 1953.I was not a product of a vaccine.I was not born to be pitied.I was born to raise Hell.Autistic style.I’m not out to inspire you.I’m out to give youan experience..of a life.”“every clock is a handgun pointed at my head,” art & poetry collection. available on Amazon.Connect:* Share your time anxiety experiences below* Hit the bell for new releases#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. Click below to receive new posts & free PDF of full Amazon collection… free. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe

IntroMy grandfather was a… complex man.He slept beside an orderly nightstand.Tucking Mein Kampf tightIn its tidy drawer every night.And…He used to take me sailing.{Silence}Is listening more your thing? Hit the headphone icon 🎧 on the player at top. Or pick your app: Apple, Spotify, Overcast, YouTube.Content Note: This piece addresses troubling family history and inherited complexity.I call this one…Slouching Toward Montauk... Let’s say… I’m in my 70s now. Happiest time of my autistic life.Not too worried about some fabulous unachievable autistic Nirvana… These days…Now, here’s that story.My grandfather was a… complex man.He slept beside an orderly nightstand.Tucking Mein Kampf tightIn its tidy drawer every night.And…He used to take me sailing out to Montauk Point… a sea journey from Bay Shore, Long Island… at least as he sailed it on the ocean side… swinging out into the deep water…In his telling, it was a fabulous place.Where a sandstone lighthouse lit the waves, warning of danger.Where the grass on the golf course grew sideways.And every single damn tree bowed toward the West…From the eternal wind blowing onshore.His heaven on earth, he called it…...The wind carries all the sound away…But its roar in my earscreates a kind of hushed silenceinside me..I always experience high anxietyas we lose sight of the shore.Just sky, waves & constant rolling…Disoriented.Like a whiteout in a blizzard.If you throw in some seasickness.But after an hour or so, I make my way to the prow. And sit.Wind on my faceSun on my bodySalt breeze filling my chest…Quieting my heart.Anxiety? Disorientation?I observeThe fixed lighthouseIn the far off dusk.Splashing its light… bravelyInto the spray.Knowing deepIn its softNative sandstone heart…Time and tide wait for it....I stop caring about the shoreline. And the anxious Hell waiting for me on the other side. For hours at a time.....Who cares about sailing toward Montaukand its fabulous trees…anymore…Or... ever again?I’m busy breathing in…thisfabulous momenthereMore autistic spoken word: If this resonated for you, I share more pieces like this on AutisticAF Out Loud.Connect:* Drop a comment… How complex was your family history for you as a neurodivergent? * What refuges did you find?* Hit the “follow” bell for new releasesGet the Chapbook:every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, art, poetry, and raw neurodivergent truth. Thirteen pieces. One autistic life, unfiltered. Available on AmazonSubscribe to AutisticAF Out Loud… free or paid… and get the full PDF in your inbox. On me. #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter: One Voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Autistic.Subscribe free to receive new autistic spoken‑word & essays… and instantly get my “thank you” gift: a free PDF of my poetry & art chapbook, every clock is a handgun pointed at my headThanks for reading #AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter! The algorithm hates me. I must be doing something right… so feel free to share it.I’m an autistic poet and spoken word performer, diagnosed at 63. Now in my 70s. I’ve been publishing AutisticAF Out Loud since 2019… work that refuses to be packaged. My spoken word piece , every clock is a handgun pointed at my head, was published in Wordgathering, a journal of disability poetry & literature. In 2022, I spoke at the UN World Autism Acceptance Day about my illustration work rooted in autism & ADHD.I live in a rural Indiana trailer… across the courtyard from my wife’s trailer… with my 2 dogs & cat. Occasionally I shave… to face Walmart.The algorithms hate me. I must be doing something right.#SpokenWord #AutismAcceptance #AutisticPoetry #Mindfulness#AutisticAF Out Loud Newsletter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts free, click the link below. To support my work, consider becoming a paid subscriber.Support AutisticAF.me with a one-time tip here: · Paypal · Ko-Fi · Facebook Pay “Johnny Knapp Âû” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit johnnyprofaneknapp.substack.com/subscribe