In Eleanor Vincent’s latest memoir, she quotes a therapist who describes marriage as a joint project both partners need to look after, like a puppy. The “puppy” becomes a third character in Disconnected. Eleanor and Lars both have individual life stories, but as they interact, the partnership takes on a life of its own.

The story follows her late-in-life relationship: meeting, dating, breaking up with, reconciling with, marrying, and ultimately divorcing Lars. Bits of backstory or asides that inform the present but aren’t quite long or relevant enough for full chapters get combined into “Things I Left Out,” in each of the memoir’s three sections. 

These asides, and short chapters, fill out Vincent’s story and reflect her willingness to do self-analysis and examine her background and her relationship in full. Vincent describes where she lives, a “wealth-adjacent” SF Bay Area suburb, near things she likes: trees, order, quiet. She acknowledges that her surroundings might represent the peace she craved growing up in a high-conflict family with an abusive father and parents married to each other to conceal being LGBTQ. On a smaller scale, we see how her psyche and childhood background give her a need for order inside the home. This helps us understand why staying tidy and organized is important to her, and how it becomes a conflict with Lars and his need to feel secure by holding onto things.

She also does some work to understand Lars by talking with him as much as he will allow and reading up and joining support groups for partners of autistic people. She shares information she has read about how many autistic people think and feel and applies that to her husband. Her efforts to understand his point of view and his preferences give the book depth and fill out the story so it’s the tale of a marriage “puppy” rather than a lonely wife’s monologue. Other societal issues, such as age discrimination, further weaken the fragile “puppy,” as they can no longer afford marriage counseling when Lars gets wrongly fired from work. 

Vincent varies sentence length and starts chapters at points of dramatic tension, then fills in backstory to catch readers up to that point. The whole book isn’t overly long, but covers an entire relationship’s life cycle. It includes bits of humor amid tragedy, usually through witty after-the-fact observations. For example, Lars would go silent or discuss random scientific facts during moments of tension. Once, desperate to be heard, Vincent beat his chest, then brought them both inside her place so that “the neighbors would not see the spectacle of an old woman beating up Bill the Science Guy.” 

Disconnected is one story of one marriage with one autistic person involved. Eleanor and Lars do not represent every mixed-neurotype marriage out there, and Lars is not like every autistic person. While Lars does share some traits with many autistic people, everyone’s experiences will vary. Vincent conveys this through focusing intently on her own life and relationship for the first two-thirds of the book and only bringing in information on autism near the end as part of her desperate journey to understand Lars. This highlights that this is a memoir, not a textbook illustrating the inevitable struggles within all intimate relationships with autistic people.

As Vincent mentions, many experts now say that we should think of autism as a different neurotype with strengths and weaknesses, like a different and equally valid culture, rather than as simply a less able version of the neurotypical brain. And Lars shows some solid strengths: in situations where social expectations are cut and dried, he can navigate a whole room with ease, he is excellent with travel logistics and phone repair, and a gifted zydeco dancer.  

Still, while the neurodiversity model may make sense on a broader cultural basis, and a human rights basis, if a particular person is in a situation where they need to do things to function that are difficult for their neurotype, they (and those close to them) can experience autism as a disability. And Vincent underscores how it’s important to honor people’s personal experiences and struggles without judgment, which would apply to autistic people as well as their neurotypical relatives. 

As Vincent painfully discovers, sometimes love and the desire to make a relationship work is not enough when varying neurotypes present clashing emotional needs. And sometimes there isn’t much one person can do when their partner has already given up and checked out of the relationship. Sometimes people are just better off apart, and it’s best to separate with dignity and let the “puppy” go to a good home elsewhere. 

Eleanor Vincent’s Disconnected is available for order here.

Fire in Los Angeles

Fire spreads all over the area

Swelling and raging at a moment

Burned the houses, trees and all the things around

Fire is not only the fire at all

A ghostly appearance haunts the earth

No time to realize it devours the whole

Fire is raging in body

Fire outside

Leaving thousands of people homeless

And death of twenty nine

The world empowered by heat with carbon dioxide

We are mankind played by

As people play with it

So wavy current flowing on body

In this form of change

People fall in hopelessness

Burning the body of nature

They are running so fast

Fire is chasing from behind like the snakes sparking

O! Fire in Los Angeles!

I always think over.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

 10  February, 2025.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Dapplings

A ravenous morning full of braided sparkles
The dream daisy going on
I fell upon a two pence question
The Starlight hazardous as the
Morning song speaks on
The rainbow misty dewy dapplings 
The saplings of ever fallen clamour
Till I tasted the floras of beaded darkness
The night queen grows on
A lady on a blanched white fence
For full of musked roses the Garland were
As they danced upon the nectar of the
Dreaming peonies. 

Sieg Heil!
by Pesach Rotem


Remember Dr. Strangelove?
Dr. Strangelove had an unusual affliction.
He could not stop himself from making a Nazi salute.
He knew that in the United States of America
it was socially and politically inappropriate
to make a Nazi salute
but he did it anyway.
He just couldn’t help it.

Dr. Strangelove was 
a fictional character.
It was satire.
It was funny.

Sixty years later and 
here comes Elon Musk, 
who appears to be suffering
from the same damn affliction
except for a couple of 
minor differences:
1. Elon Musk is non-fictional.
2. He is not the slightest bit funny.




November 22, 1963
by Pesach Rotem


I am sitting in Mrs. Hinkley’s fourth-grade classroom.
We are reading the story of Old Yeller, a heroic dog who meets a tragic end.
Suddenly, the P.A. box mounted on the wall squawks.
I expect, naturally, to hear the principal’s voice
but I do not hear Mr. Grant’s voice.
I hear Walter Cronkite’s voice
and it is very serious.
He is saying something about Dallas, Texas.
Is he crying?
Of course not. 
Walter Cronkite doesn’t cry.
But it does sound like Walter Cronkite is crying.
It is very serious.

Caesar had his Antony.
Lincoln his Whitman.
Who will eulogize our handsome young prince,
victim of a murder most foul?




Life Lessons
by Pesach Rotem


When I was nine years old,
I had to go to bed at 8:30 every night.
“No fair!” I protested,
“Bruce gets to stay up till 9.”
“When you’re as old as Bruce,” my mother assured me,
“you can go to bed at 9 o’clock.”

It was a trick, of course.
I knew I would never be as old as Bruce.
You didn’t have to be a particularly precocious child to see through that one.
Thus I learned not only to distrust my mother,
but to distrust all grown-ups, everywhere.
An important lesson for every child’s growth and development.

When I was fifty-nine-and-three-quarters,
I had my first heart attack.
It caused significant irreversible damage to my heart,
leaving me in a weakened state, constantly fatigued.
Bruce was hiking the Grand Canyon.

“Yippee!” I shouted to my mother’s ghost.
“I did it! I’m older than Bruce!
Now I can go to bed at 9 o’clock!”
Lesson number two:
Be careful what you wish for.




The Rooster Crows
by Pesach Rotem

When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I’ll be gone
			—  Bob Dylan  —


The rooster doesn’t crow at the break of dawn.
That’s just one more lie we were told by our parents and teachers.
The alarm clock crows at the break of dawn. 
That diabolical tyrannical mechanical contraption.
Go to school!
Go to work!
No more snoozing!
No more dreaming!
Get up now!
I ain’t no rooster!

When I was sixty-two years old, I moved to Yodfat,
next door to David and Kathy,
their three lovely children,
their beautiful flower garden,
and their chicken coop.
And guess what?
The rooster crows at the break of dawn.

Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in Yodfat, Israel. He is a member of the Voices Israel Group of Poets in English and of the Israel Association of Writers in English. His poem “Kindness” was awarded Honorable Mention in the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, and his poem “Professor Hofstadter’s Brain” was nominated for a Best of the Net Award.

A Bad Bowl of Oatmeal in Ogden, Utah

for abraham smith

you hand me a coffee mug of grains

& weathered berries floating in water

instant black coffee

like my grandfather made

when he was laid off

by the mill in 1984

while you wait for your girlfriend

to leave her husband

after years of being knocked around

your hands shaking

we’re both left waiting

for the sun to come up

there’s nothing about this morning

that doesn’t feel cold.

Lake Erie Prayer

for ken mikolowski

the best poems

have no money

they white knuckle

the afternoon

balancing the weight

of an empty soup bowl

swimming

in dirty water

because like us

they just

don’t want

to die

in detroit.

David Lynch at Little Pete’s

you sat alone

dipping russian sweet bread

into split pea soup

at 3 in the morning

the waitresses warned everyone

not to approach you

the lights overhead

flickered like a dying firefly

half drunk

when they told me

you’d paid for my hamburger

i watched you walk out

& go around the corner

weirder than any frame of film

ever captured

of a fly drowning

in a bowl of soup.

John Dorsey is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Which Way to the River: Selected Poems: 2016-2020 (OAC Books, 2020), Sundown at the Redneck Carnival, (Spartan Press, 2022, Pocatello Wildflower, (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2023) and Dead Photographs, (Stubborn Mule Press, 2024). He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

You are my favorite place

Where gravity leans in my favor.

Dedicated to the memory of my husband Guillermo

You are the root that anchors my twisted tree,

the counterpoint to my chaotic symphony.

A blooming desert, where crystal flowers sprout in the shifting sand.

A solar eclipse that reveals the stars hidden in the day, silent heat in the frozen space.

The echo of a cosmic whisper, a melody woven with threads of silence.

You are the firm ground beneath my wandering feet, the compass that always points to my north.

The starry sky that reflects the depth of my soul, with no moon to hide its brightness.

A dark silk embrace that envelops the cold, a refuge of shadows that protects me from the light.

You are the stillness after the Big Bang,

the dawn that paints the universe with new colors.

A silent refuge where time curves around me,

my home, my peace, my everything.

Here, gravity leans in my favor, the weight of the world fades away, and in your presence, I float in the weightlessness of happiness.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

My dreams.

How do I start my story? I thought about this a lot. I thought about writing about what I do and dream now. My name is Gulzoda. I am 11 years old. I passed the 5th grade. We finished school with excellent grades. And we went on holiday. Look! The time passes quickly. Soon we will go to the school again. My dear, I want to write you about what I did on vacation. Despite my young age, I am interested in books and handicrafts. I attended English and technology clubs during the holidays. I learned to make a lot of things from the technology club. I learned to make different flowers and different handkerchiefs.

Together with my teacher, we bought them. And I bought educational tools with my own money. My teacher told me that if you became a skilled person, you would never be hungry and humiliated. I heard these words every day. So, I used to say them together with my teacher. I went to the English language course and learned a lot of English there. I have many dreams, and one is to become a translator in the future. As a translator, I want to tell visitors about my country.

I have a lot of dreams. If a person dreams of something, he must try to achieve it. It is necessary to increase the scope of knowledge by reading more books. It is necessary to graduate from school with excellent grades and study in universities with excellent grades. Currently, I am reading books to participate in the contest of young readers in the republic. Of course, I will participate and will try very hard for it. Come, my dear peers, let’s improve our knowledge by reading books together and we will surely win the competition. Here, I told you about my dreams. Now I will study well to make these dreams come true.

My full name is Sharipova Gulhayo Nasimovna. I was born on the 17th of January in 1990. I am from Bukhara region in Uzbekistan. I live in the Kagan district in Bukhara. My father: Sharipov Nasim, my mother: Numanova Laylo. There are four children in my family. My brother: Sharipov Sunnatillo, my sister: Sharipova Nozigul, my little brother: Sharipov Khamro. I graduated from school in 2006 and in 2009 I graduated from Bukhara Pedagogical College. I have been working as a teacher in 3rd State Preschool Education Organization for seven years. I am a 3rd year student in Bukhara Institute of Psychology and Foreign Languages. I am interested in English and Turkish. Now I am studying for IELTS in English. I intend to study Magister’s degree abroad.