spectrum of symbols

2

Well, that’s the end of the poll!
By collating both results, it’s clear that the white ring is the most popular symbol, so it’s pretty safe to say that that will be the official aromantic spectrum symbol!
Now, to combat some issues, I think that rather than on the right middle finger like the ace black ring (since people lump us together anyway, it’s clunky to wear etc), a good idea would be to wear it either on the left middle finger, or the right ring finger; the choice is yours.
Also, just because it’s white doesn’t mean it’s ONLY for those who identify as aromantic; the symbol is open to the entire spectrum. I gave options for other coloured rings, but white is already most common and most popular, but also probably easiest to find. Someone brought to my attention white rings may be hard to find, so I’d like to clarify that it doesn’t have to be entirely white! It can be light silver, or even white gold, or be mainly white with a few other colours. As long as it’s close to white, or more than half white in colour, it should be clear enough as the arospec ring and not some other ring. Of course, there will be non arospec people who wear white/close to white rings, just like there are non acespec people who wear black rings.
I will make a post in a second answering some other asks I got about this, but here you go!
Happy Aro Day!

Impasto | Chapter Two

→ one

The moment the lecture was over you made a beeline for the exit, not wasting any time in disappearing as quickly as possible. He didn’t notice you leave amidst the crowd of students, and you preferred it that way; the last thing you needed was for him to address you now that he knew who you were.

From now on, you were going to hide in the middle and back rows, out of sight, out of mind.

Keep reading

For me autism isn’t really about the things people talk about the most, the stimming or the sensory sensitivities or the meltdowns and shutdowns or even the special interests. Those aren’t really the focus in my corner of the spectrum. They’re more like symbols, condensed representations of what I am, what we are.

For me it’s the way I think, the way I interact (or don’t) with the world and the people in it, the whole landscape and machination of my brain. I don’t understand how other people think well enough to define exactly how, but I’m simply wired differently. And as someone who loves language and having succinct labels for things it makes me so happy to have one simple word for that.

Autistic is the way I exist.

[no constant cry]

The recent, prolific, addition
Of new lives, and sad inevitable minus of
    The old -
That trick velocity, or melody, that plumbs new
Babes - from bones that drip into
The Earth,

Forever adding lives and nixing lives,
Nixing lives, nixing stories
And events – they, now
But slim specters, underfed

      Opinions, cornered by new spectrums, half-created
Symbols, placentalike proposals scribbled
            On that fertile page of

   —Life,
Half-created words, as yet unsung in
Print, then sung at last –
And praised for being printed.

The edgy Talismans that twinkle
Innovation underneath

The crust of every natural law and
Conjured order –

And, all the green ideas of yore—
The idols now, fattened into dogma and
- Erected by mute trust.

The new ideas they sing and greasen up, with
        The palpitations of
The clock, then dry their slick too soon

  As well, to        passing archeology, then, to
Lingeringtoolong remarks upon

A page once loved, which browns itself into
           A plain, useless missive, while once true,—

Per generation, old arbiters, undeniably, sell their rue
Of all these modern changes, made
As pell-mell as their own
Had come to them, dissuading the youth,
                  To feel less alone, and for the sake
Their ole truth not break, not
Be another unfinished project, in a land of unfinished projects,
     And eventually forgot. I understand the logic.
Hinting at unity, one has their findings stay
                  In style awhile, the replacement infantile,
A debasement; it were to the old them
       Not more than to loose stitches some
Remedial hem, not the anthem
That equivalently at random
Had been their own, its finish
              To be foreseen, and to be unfurling now,
At the point Ole Judge Elder, vibrating
In their pantaloons, lives, expecting that it shall.
Their anthem: even to the point of stopping
        The checking their watch,
Still harboring its ludicrous forward-march
Of has-been dusts of human energy, just
                   To see how long the breath need be bating: just to
Enforce old theories as rejoinder, that once too—

                                        Were under the ass of the Enormous
                              Chicken. But The New

                          Renounces not, nor attacks, the old, u c: it just wants
    To find its mission in the people

                Who will have it, so it haunts

The barrooms and salons where intelligentsia frequent,
At first; out of habit, but it really runs the gambit:
Being anywhere inspired in people who reject
Their kiddie pool for baffling oceans, financial
             Preliminaries for poverty. For their youth is curious
About itself: in this curiousness, feeds to lengthening New Shit, lengthening in

       Long mandibles of The Concept, they,
Like all the furious Antiquarians did, expect to thicken
               Out, forever honoring—but this time all the world,
With an equivalent and chastely suitable elision
     Of the abstract parts. But this aspect
Distracts, and is seen as full
Of the damn filthy Usurpation, by these muttering, surlily
Hunched vibrating idea-pinchers of old hurly-burly,
In all the glory of their self-denied inspiration-usury,
     And the which they would not mind
                                  Admitting they do, if not
For such theft without payement! How
Offensively indirect! These wandering-maned pain-in-the-asses
                 That need a foot up them to dislodge
                                  The uncut crap!
            Lout-Lotharios laundering
The money thoughts, acquired in their fortunate
     Lump sums, some in a mire
That will barely fit: sleeves bordering
                 The hamper, like as if The Spaghetti Monster,
The Great Shitstorm, made no need for a clean-up,
Nor any household chores of intellect, at all;

                             Gifted them their form, for free. It’s almost magic, funny!
Like whatever entertainment one might glean from

             Watching a subpar street magician perform and
Which these kids today resemble more and more.—And most of
All, this excessive blessing, seemingly explained away by the presence
      Of—
Benevolent Enchanters, obv.!, tho this is not by youth
            Examined further.
Despite they never knew it, It were all—
Just to fluff and flourish, before the fall:
      Eternities of course, but these
Already known to anyone with brains. The New
                    Will wreck its ancestry with overblown,
        Rhetorical larks, tho, and accuse those damn stupid geezers
Of no use: but for sticking heads in sand. Well
                     Keep saying that you
Spoiled Richie Riches, you all, the geezers say:
Attempting, wheezingly, to undermine the shit
                In the corner of their mouth, and say a thing:
     You all, you all, you have these idiot
Ideas you stole, u stole, and which
You deck, with vestments of The New Idiocy. You—

         Are larkish, guilty
Of the same senile apoplexy you

               Assign to us, young ones: yourselves anointed by yourselves, along
    With another cheersing round of suds for the buds, anointed

                 By Jesus tho, too, obv., u say: you exploited, made naked
The dignity! Our hard work left us needing a cane. The response of youth,

This whole improper disease, as would as fain
        Be The New, in Its pious sound of—
Wisdom, imprisoned maybe as it usually lazily is

                          In a proverb, or the lapidary pictures
                Of Haiku, is just the dull throbbing

                     Of insistent, brainless larks,
In the branches of the tree across

The street from our big, sacred lawn. I see them thru the window
While I pursue my hobby, which is woodworking. And

This is what you people are, as well: a hobby, a flash, a
Lopsided lie, a halfhearted hobby: and today, even—
The larks get exploited by the literature:
                          By the poets of whatever is
          The immediate generation: but
Beauty is no Rations, say they, they, whom if it benefits
Their older song, and leaves
            The New an energy as had been raised before, so then
Belated, voided, would so hark to get it praised, and at that very well,
By all the retired vanguard of their flock, aloof
And abt in arms, abt this shiftiness;—
               Any comparison, and I mean,
In fucking permanent marker. Is this even just a facelift
Of the former originating skin; is it a sin; or if not, rather, will it always remain
               A still-impermanent vision sans the roof? a phase without
A father, and not long, nor vry far,    to range,:
When the irony’s this: these judgers were
When they made their own investment
So bastardized, cast out, like shit from casement
               Windows! such doubt
For the most permanent thing! This evil! change!
A useless harloting rift, for all the widows,
And anyway eternally to raise us higher than
The latest unreachable steeple, reached, but by those who
To those not familiar with it scorned it, as
      An ideological calf, barely born, plucked right from—

              Idyllic impractical meadows: where all ideas burn, and
  For one or another population to rue and rue, enough through
The Earthly sieve, of bitter brains.

So on: that fertile page of life is made of
Words as yet unsung that will
Be denigrated soon, by obscene juries
Pounding pulpit, with the Lingering Remarks and
With the opinions, twisting on the pinions, all
             To small one’s life into
A selfsame engine gassed by scratchy
Hope for something new,
     As yet unsung.

We do forget with passing time
The eldest presence of ideas - and new ideas
They seem naïve unscrupulous
            And trite, pretenders of
     The depth that comes
With only much of time to consecrate
As Elder Presence, that which
Once was speculation, and is now
What was as well rejected in the past - by
That same Speculation.

      Until then are they shunned, are seen a
Spectacle only, by those same
   Eldestofallprinciples, which too will cease
With passing time, before
            What’s shunned is, too, esp. if
That’s strong enough to shine the tragedy out
         Once the coast is, uh, the coast is clear: shine out
The very asshole of the fact it was
                       A martyred gift we lost
To ignorance, whose memory
                       Only, we are left to display: we pray, we pray to thee
           And should shun rather
                       The limiting incompetence in the gauge
Of when yet another age is given the World, as that

  Would get us farther. Mistakes are
Like dogs ableeding passion as if very lastly

Gunned from death: the struggle at
The zenith, makes any human their panache, the example
                     For to shape ideal: and yet like dogs,
They dig thru trash again to find
No golden rule, and are made the fool
           By their own base appetites – reached even if
Only once before, by the bitch that
Bore all that which would be human in one instant,
In the minutes of the birth, if only for
                      Opening that door
To the girth of lived experience to be, a life we all, all are: one—
Last KAPOW! before death final beckons and
             The dogged words collapse
To tired truth or worse into
A lapse of myth within the evertended mind
Of science or

Disintegrate to lipservice against
The lushest trends,

There are so many dead cells of ideas.

We hush the pen of change that
Dots the death of older values, valuing
   The fresher dots that dry
And soon are faded from no constant cry
To buff the ink

We should just fuck the quill and book and
Spill the vial on the page.

… … … . .