Ah, Sydney, I have missed you so. But no matter how you try to push me away again, I am not leaving.

So, as I wrote that I would do in the last entry that I completed before I went quiet, I moved back to the place in Australia where I grew up. (This is a totally separate discussion, but do not ever call me Australian. I am autistic. If you do not understand the distinction, please go and read something else.) Western Sydney, or Central Western Sydney as the transit authority and its contractors are calling it nowadays, has always been a puzzle of contradictions. There are problems with it, some of them enormous, but the thing that has made me anxious to return to it since long before I began to experience serious respiration problems remains the same. As bad as it sometimes seems, it is often by a long road the best part of the “commonwealth” of Australia.

Person-firsters do it again (that is, prove what assholes they really are).

I am not going to dress this up or beat around the bush about it: the parallels between the civil rights struggle by black Americans in the 1960s and the present-day struggle for autism civil rights is inescapable. Among other similarities, there are groups that can loosely be referred to as “uncle Toms” in both camps that listen to the lies that the enemy tells them as negation effort.