painting the unpaintable

sehnen posted on May 31, 2008 | views: 51 | Tags: painting miseryx

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sat 31 may 2008   greenfield

first, lest I forget, I need to leave someone a message here………

  bill said “you’re givin’ me agitta”

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So… twice since the DMH destroyed my life, I’ve tried to paint certain things: hatred, rage, grief, dying….  to paint them in an abstract fashion. I’m new at painting, having tried it only twice while I still had my life and my animals, and now I’ve tried it twice more. How do you paint hatred, or rage, or grief? I suppose every person would do it according to their own imagination. I’ve used cadmium red and cadmium orange, the fire colors. It’s all those things to me, what the DMH has done: fire, blood, lava. Anyway, neither painting is finished, and I doubt they ever will be. But the thing that appeared on the canvas yesterday shocks and saddens me, as if it came from someone else. When I’d planned, back in my own life, to try painting, I’d wanted to paint abstractions that were beautiful, at least in my own eyes. This too, the DMH has destroyed.

Update 10 June 2009: I’ve done no more painting since I first wrote this post. After I fled Greenfield on August 20, 2008, my friends packed up the things in my room and took them to a barn. I made a collage while I was in Northhampton this January and February, but even that late in this ugly saga I still had hope that Matthew and his crowd would point me to a home and I’d get at least a few of my animals back. Since I gave up on that crowd this April, thinking that if in fact I was in protection, they had dumped me as far as a home was concerned, all my hope is gone. I’m back to not being able to read, no interest in art, and no interest in hearing any of the multifarious music that I listened to in my own life with my animals. I’ve said before and will no doubt say again: I have no spirit anymore.        

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read…   Don’t ask…   http://www.experienceproject.com  (sehnen)

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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twelve weeks

sehnen posted on May 27, 2008 | views: 111 | Tags: brainsex, sisterx

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still tuesday 27 may 2008   greenfield

First, a few words to moonriver, since I don’t understand any of the other ways to do messages:

If you have something you’d like to mention to me, you could email me at ———-, or you could leave me more comments. The poem you sent is direct and sincere, a nice poem, and I hope the special friend you wrote it for appreciates it.

Twelve weeks today since the sheriff came for us. Every time I think on it, my whole body reacts, along with my soul. I have a new day to add to the list of the most horrible days of my life: the day my father died, the day my alpha dog died, and the day the sheriff came.

Here’s an old poem from 2001.

What Was Solid Once

Snow rots,
and with it,
more slowly,
the ice.
And with them,
drop by drop,
belief.

And the next one I wrote for my female dog, who is now probably the dog of the landlady who threw us out, thanks to the tender ministrations of case manager Shirley Temple, may she drop dead where she stands. But that’s a chapter in the destruction story that I haven’t told yet. Anyway, I don’t like this poem much, but then again, no poem would say what I want to say about her, for her. I’d need a book.

Number 29                                                                                                                             

This kidnapped soul:
I’ve put it off
a hundred times,
this tellling a little of you and me.
I want to now, again;
to close the book,
to put aside the pen.
I veer away,
and feel disloyal.
What are the words
for the sister of my heart?                               her brown eyes are lost here
What are the words
to tell you my remorse?
They are as undiscoverable
as you are.
You were so anxious,
anxious for weeks,
watching me pack,
telling me in all your
no uncertain terms:
No. I don’t want this.
What are the words
for the mother
who wants with a fierce hot wanting
to calm her child’s fears,
to hold her sister’s hand
and make all the darkness
ennervate with light?
What are the words for the shame
when you cannot?
There are no words, my sister;
nothing I can find, my big girl,
to tell you how I shame inside,
and hurt inside,
and want you, want you
want you,
want you  back.            (Brainse’s poem)
 

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Update 9 June 2009: I like this poem better now than I did when I first wrote it, but it’s still true that I would need a small book to say everything I have to say for and about Brainse (pronounced bransha). I still believe that the landlady who threw us out and destroyed us as a family, destroyed my life, took my two dogs, fairly quickly euthanised my epileptic dog (Mishi), and kept Brainse for herself. I believe these things because of certain behaviors I saw from her near the end of my life, and from certain oblique remarks made by Shirley Temple in those days. But I have been told nothing, and I have a great need to know what happened to each member of my family.

May she drop dead where she stands. These words came from my anger and my pain, knowing full well she wasn’t going to do it. Words don’t have that kind of power. No, she is fine, Shirley Temple, as I knew she would be. So are the vicious landlady and the mafia-chick. Nothing has been taken from them, their lives have not been destroyed by any cataclysmic events or cruelty from other people. What goes around does not come around. Not in most cases, anyway.

It was done by a landlady, and a tenant, and a lawyer, and by the unceasingly dense bureaucrats at the DMH and CSS. And as I’ve said, most of these creatures were women, my sisters.

I cringe at everything that appears that was something I shared with animals my entire life, and particularly these 14 animals that were stolen from me. Morning and evening I shared with them, and rain and snow, and my favorite music, and illnesses (theirs and mine), and our radio shows. I cringe at the sight of animals now, and turn my face away from any animals that are not mine. I’ve loved and helped and stuck up for animals all my life, but that’s over now.

It’s morning, it’s another day without them, and I don’t want it

29 January 2009, Northampton  —- I still cringe, 9 months later. The thieves of the mornings, the thieves of my animals and my life, the bringers of rainpain and snowpain were, in the end, the DMH, the helping agency that didn’t help. It’s still nothing but painnothing but murdering away one minute after another in a way of life that is not my own.

Update 16 May 2009: Regarding the protection stuff:  if matthew is not an agent, but a liar; and if the other people who gave me little crumbs of information were not his colleagues, but more liars, then I remain guilty of nothing more insane than gullibility. But if it’s true that they’re matthew’s bunch and these bizarre things have happened to my life, then I am a victim of horrendous government abuse. Please keep your minds open to both possibilities.

Matthew, by the way, seems, after 14 months on thSoulcast.ese sidewalks and living down the road in a stinky undercover hovel, to have gone. Seems to have gone.

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read…   Scealta liatha...    Soulcast

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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the iron fist

sehnen posted on May 27, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: controlx

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tuesday 27 may 2008     greenfield

Three killer Sundays: Mother’s day, Graduation day, Memorial day. In other years, in the years of my own life, these were days of flowers. The plant shown here is a dahlia I bought myself for this memorial day in memory of the fourteen stolen animals, but also in the hope that the Department of Mental Hell will still find a suitable place and give me back some of my family.

                                                    

When I signed on with the DMH in March 2007, I never signed anything that said I was relinquishing my adulthood, my autonomy, my right to make my own decisions about my animals, my mental health care, my medical care, my money, or anything else. I never signed those things away, and yet I lost them. Keep whatever and whomever you love — and your bloody rights — away from the department of mental hell. They don’t really practice social work, or helping. They wrap you in the iron fist of control.

the DMH

Update 8 June 2008:  Nothing has changed about the way I feel about these bureacracies. The DMH was abominable in its control-freak conduct and its lack of caring. And if in fact I have had feds matthew talked about involved in my life, they are just as abominable. I have not been treated like a person with rights and needs by anyone at all in this whole ugly drama.

Now 2 Nov 2009:  By this time even my therapist has begun telling me (in rather vague terms, to be sure) how I was “screwed by the system,” meaning the DMH. “They didn’t have any idea how much those animals meant to you. They didn’t know who you were.” Someone who’s recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder asked me about two hours ago if she should sign up with the DMH. How do you think I answered her? With a resounding no way in hell? 

 

 

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read…    All my stars…   Spite and malice

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

is cuimhin liom

sehnen posted on May 23, 2008 | views: 151 | Tags: remembering them with flowers (link)x

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friday 23 may 2008    greenfield

— Memorial day weekend, and my fourteen stolen friends don’t even have graves for me to go to. Or if they have them, I don’t know where they are or have anyone to take me there. I never had fourteen to mourn all at once before.

                                             Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh
                                             in allen Wipfeln spürest du
                                             kaum einen Hauch.
                                             Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
                                             Warte, nur balde, ruhest du auch. 

                                                        — j.w. von goethe

                                   Si un jour, la vie t’arrache à moi;
                                   Si tu meures quand tu sois loin de moi;
                                   Si tu meures c’n’est pas de problème,
                                   Car moi, je mourrai aussi.

                                                         — edith piaf

                                             Ma shiúlaim o na laethe beo,
                                             an ghrían is an ghealach ar mo chúl.
                                             Nil uaim ach smaointe
                                             ar mo (charai)…
                                             Deora ar mó chroí go brón, (go deo).

                                                      —  mostly eithne brainnan

                                             Sí an crann marbh,
                                             deireadh an tuath.

                                                        — eithne brainnan

Bígí liomsa i gconai, lá is oíche.  No, that can’t ever be again. The mentally deficient and judgmentally hyperactive, control-freak adolsecents at the DMH and CSS took care of that go deo.

Update 8 June 2009:  They can’t be with me ever again, the 14 I love so much, who were the whole center and meaning and purpose to my life. I have a great need to be told what happened to each of them, but no one’s talking. Existence is empty and dark without them. And I failed them, by zigging when I should have zagged in yet another highly pressurized situation — the one with the venomous landlady and the psycho-chick with the mommy married to the mob.

Last memorial day I wrote a poem and posted it on another blog. It begins, “On the last Memorial Day of my life…” And I hoped it would be. I hoped I wouldn’t live for a second memorial day without them. But I have. Why? I remembered them with flowers again this year.

Languages

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read…   Lifelines…   Mugsy’s book

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

eleven weeks

sehnen posted on May 20, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: protectionx

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20 may 2008   greenfield

eleven weeks today, tuesday 20th may, and the maggots at the DMH and CSS have done nothing that I know of to help me find something better and more permanent than just a bedroom to live in. if you find it too angry, too over-the-top to call them maggots, try to empathize yourself into my situation. you might be flaming pissed off too.

Shirley Temple the actress, the case manager, the charmer and manipulator (and boy was I conned by her act) still has her home and her life and what’s dearest to her, but she had apparently not a single qualm in her iceberg of a soul about doing this to me and my animals. she could drop dead where she stands. in theory. it happens to people sometimes. I’ll meditate on it; maybe there’ll be a harmonic convergence.

I’m real, real fed up today, in case you couldn’t pick that up.

Update 6 June 2009:  I feel the anger in these posts, the anger I was feeling when I wrote them. first at the DMH, then later at other, even bigger bureaucrats. and I remain angry, but the medications dull it down. those dark, black bands running through me of grief and anger and hopelessness. I came early on to beleive that I was bait to matthew and his gang, after he made his comment about “big fish.” and I still believe it entirely possible that I was used as bait, without my consent, to attract certain people from connecticut. for how long? I don’t know, but I would say at least from march to the end of july 2008. maybe it ended then, for all I know; the protection, the catching of big fish, whatever. since matthew never told me the scope of the thing — how many people were involved and how long it would go on — I was left to try to figure things out from events and people around me, and I undoubtedly guessed wrong on a lot of it. he should have told me everything or nothing. telling me only a little created too much uncertainty and too much pressure, and I cannot function in highly pressurized situations; I just shut down. undercover man has a lot to answer for, but he has completely run away from that and from me. so much for love.

(like this mad hatter, matthew has very blue eyes and a very big smile. he even served me tea once — ONLY once — in a little white teacup. and part of his act is that he’s nuts. the figurine, not the actual matthew, is at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

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read…     All my stars…   Being toward death

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

lice, everywhere I go

 

 

sehnen posted on May 13, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: pestsx

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tuesday 13 may 2008     greenfield

 

 

For certain people I can’t get rid of, no matter how I try (they’re people in the real world, not on the internet): Haut ab. I’ve had a lot more than enough.

So I, the failure mommy, lived for my family. Even though I couldn’t save them, I lived for them, especially during the eleven years after my human family imploded. Now everything is gone. The last two lost for good tomorrow. Mandy and Judah. I love you as big as the sky, but I failed yet again.

Update 25 June 2009:   The reason I began this post by telling people to go away. It was this: in my first few days in greefield after the sheriff came, I noticed several men on main street who were always where I was, almost always begging me for something, and who were pretending to be drunk or crazy and they were not. I could see clear, sober intelligence in their eyes, and that was one odd thing. The other odd thing was that they were around me all the time, far more than the odds of coincidence would dictate. And the third odd thing is that they were being allowed to beg on main street, right in front of fairly snooty shops, which I had never seen allowed in nearly 22 years. And lots of other people I talked to who had lived in greenfield a long time hadn’t ever seen it either. I came to believe that these men (and they are still here) must watching me for the DMH, whom I had told that I would die of grief if I lost all the animals. I thought these men were trying to prevent a suicide, and it was all so stupid. They couldn’t stop me if I really wanted to kill myself. And where would the DMH get the money to hire these people for one depressed client? It never made much sense, but these men were so clearly and unquestionably focused on me, that for a long time the DMH was the only explanation I could come up with, weak as it was. Matthew was one of these men, one whose act didn’t fool me, whose eyes told me that he was perfectly fine: no drunk, no crazy.

I am still, and always, the failure mommy.

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(dora maar art at www.signals.com)

read…    Soulcast…   Extemporaneana


 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved. 

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failure mommy

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sehnen posted on May 10, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: stupid mommyx

saturday 10 may 2008   greenfield

Tomorrow is going to be the hardest mother’s day in all the years since I gave birth in 1979. That child (the human one) stopped remembering mother’s day in 1998, so in all those years there’s been no mother’s day other than what I did with my animal children…  and the DMH rid me of all 14 of them in one day. I’d buy flowers and cook something and take pictures of them. light candles, celebrate the children who did love me. Now they’re gone. Every single mother’s day of my 55 years I’ve had animals around me in the house. This is the first animal-less mother’s day ever. May the ocean’s dogs three vicious women who destroyed my mother’s days.

(as I’ve said before about elves, I have nothing against sock monkeys. I like them. but social workers aren’t supposed to be looking or acting like confused monkeys. these are at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

Here’s an example of the way ShirleyTemple (DMH) and Cry Baby, aka Silly Moron (CSS) jerked me around for months:

1. On Tuesday 12 Feb 08, Shirley Temple told me that CSS would pay for my storage unit “for as long as you’re homeless.” Two days later, Cry Baby says: “No, we pay only the first month. After that you have to pay it.”

2. On Wednesday 20 Feb Shirley Temple tells me they’re “pretty sure” they have an apartment for me on March 1, and since I have to be out on Feb 29, that would mean that the animals would need foster care for only one night, and I would have to be homeless for only one night. The VERY NEXT DAY, Cry Baby says “There is no apartment, and I don’t know why (Shirley Temple) would tell you that.”

Now, you should know that these two women (remember my “sisters?”) work in the same building, attend meetings together at least once a week, and service the same clients, since the one agency pays the other one to do certain jobs for us poor mental freaks. Under those thick-as-thieves circumstances, wouldn’t you think these two women could give me identical information? And these are not the only two times such a thing happened.

The failure mommy, who couldn’t protect her children. The incompetent mommy, who has a raging immune system and couldn’t buy us the safety and privacy of a house. The stupid mommy who put her hope and trust into the likes of Shirley Temple and Cry Baby. These are the things I am on mother’s day tomorrow. And the  mommy carrying the worst trauma, the worst broken heart of her trauma-filled life.

Update 5 June 2009:   Even a year later, there is no other way to slice it. With or without interference from matthew lacoy and his colleagues, the DMH and the CSS treated me with  a distinct lack of caring about my mental health and how it would be affected by the loss of the animals; they treated me with incompetence at best and deceit at worst. I haven’t even listed in this journal all of the examples of this incompetence and deceit. I’ll say again in all sincerity words that I said last year: If anyone you care about wants to become a client of the DMH, please talk them out of it. Please find other agencies and other ways to get them help. The DMH is a state bureaucracy that does not by a long way hire the cream of the social service crop, and they do not think outside the box, and they want all clients to be helped by plugging them into the same pigeon holes. I cannot criticize them enough, and I cannot forgive myself for being foolish enough to believe in them.

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read…     Being toward death…   Spite and malice

 

 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

sehnsucht, secrets

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sehnen posted on May 09, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: is cuimhin liomx

friday 9 may 2008    greenfield

also, es ist Freitag. die Stunden jedes Tages sind schrecklich lang, und die Einsamkeit ist enorm und unbeschreibbar. ich leide unter einer riesigen Sehnsucht  nach meinem eigenen Leben, was gestohlen wurde, und am allerwichtigsten, nach meinen 14 teuren Freunden.

es wird immer härter, immer dunkler.

“bígí liomsa, i gconai, lá is oíche. ag caoineadh ar an uaigneas mór, na deora go brónach.”   (e.brennan) is cuimhin liom na laethe, is cuimhin liom an grá ró-dheas, ró-mhór, na scealta.

und noch ein paar Worte für euch, von unsrer alten Freundin loreena:

                                                                                                                                              

    Cast your eyes on the ocean,
    cast your soul to the sea.
    when the dark night seems endless,
    please remember me.  
 
     …. (l. mckennitt)

ich erinnere mich doch an euch, immer, und die dunkle Nacht ist absolut peinlich und endlos ohne euch. viele, viele “deora go brónach,” und viele hässliche, leere Stunden.

Update 5  June 2009: I’m not going to translate this, as I didn’t when I wrote it last year. I guess the computer can do that for anyone who’s interested. here to the Languages page of my website, if you like that sort of thing.

the dark night is endless, and no matter the medications, so far it stays that way. since I was seven years old, the major meaning and purpose in my life, the major source of fulfillment, was taking care of animals. nothing I do for the last 15 months is important. caring for animals was it. remember that if Matthew can be believed, I have Asperger’s. a number of weird things were done in public places last year that looked like Asperger’s testing to me, and when these odd events were over, Matthew told me that I had it. some Aspergrians can find a way to make it with neurotypicals, maybe most of them, but I never could. for me it was animals. the days are emptier and darker even than they were last year, because last year I still had my denial and my hope, and the tremendous, unwanted distraction of this other crime-crap situation Matthew had told me about, and what all that might mean.

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read…    Being toward death...   Stolen stars

(photo from a gaelsong cover)

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dona nobis pacem

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sehnen posted on May 08, 2008 | views: 121 | Tags: dona mihi eosx

thursday 8 may 2008   greenfield

Very tired today. Starting to have some trouble sleeping. I can get very tired anyway, even when I sleep. Chronic fatigue syndrome and raging immune system work together to sap energy.

Shirley Temple, may you lose whatever is dearest to you. Ditto for you, Cry Baby. Psycho landlady and psycho tenant? Really I’d prefer that you simply drop dead where you stand. I’m angry in my overwhelming sadness, can you tell?

Dona nobis pacem. I started making signs with those words on them way back in 2000 or 2001. It means “give us peace.” But as we know, my animals and I did not get peace, we got mayhem. And I had a little thing I kept in the kitchen not long before we were destroyed that said adh mor.  “Good luck.”  We didn’t get that either. Foreign languages were always a big part of the life that we shared together, because I’ve studied a bunch of them, and because long ago I used to teach Latin and German to people who mostly didn’t give a rat’s ass about Latin and German. But I studied a lot of languages that I never had to try to shove gently and cheerfully down someone else’s throat, and that was fine.

So we listened to lots of songs in lots of languages, and if I knew the song, I sang. They loved for me to sing to them. If I can remember the lines I want and how to spell them (I’m very rusty in some of this stuff), I want to put them here for my stolen friends. They were written by Edith Piaf long ago; I think they might well be the only lyrics she ever wrote. She wrote them for her husband, the boxer Marcel Cerdan, who had been killed.

                               Si un jour, la vie t’arrache a moi;
                               si tu meures, quand tu sois loin de moi;
                               si tu meures, c’n’est pas de probleme,
                               car moi, je mourrai aussi.

Anyway, for my lost ones. I haven’t seen these words written in many years, so my spelling may be off. And I don’t know how to do accent marks on a computer. What the do you care? You probably don’t read French anyway. See how angry I am.

Update 3 June 2009: I am still a homeless woman, more than a year after writing this post. I now have a rented room, which is civilized, but it is not a home. Home to me, in the physical sense, means at least a bathroom, kitchen, livingroom, and bedroom. And that is what I had for 55 years. I was never restricted to one bedroom of space to move around in, let alone a shelter or a respite or a hospital or a park. I am a loveless person; all the love was taken. And a hopeless person. It’s almost 15 months now that I’m homeless. Whoever it was that failed in their duty to help me find a home — the DMH or matthew’s crowd or both — those people have caused damage; damage in the form of humiliation and degradation and hopelessness. And worst, the loss of all the animals. Dona Nobis Pacem. My innocent, wonderful animals and I did not get peace. They got torn away from me and from each other. Some of them got free of the stress of all that followed by the death of the needle (and I’m not even told precisely how many were killed.), and some of them got adopted, which to me is not nearly the same as staying with your own family, when you are old and have been there all your life, till death.

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(stained glass at www.signals.com)

read…  Braon…  Stolen stars…  Soulcast

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canajoharie swallowed up

Page Twenty-four          (a copy)

sehnen posted on May 07, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: oh for the wingsx

wednesday 7 may 2008    greenfield

Well, what now. Someone, and I don’t of course know who, has fiddled with the tag line from Saturday’s post (the nettle, danger; tag line as I wrote it was the flower, safety)

Where all the little teasers are, the tag line reads: the flower, safety, life. I did not write the word life in that line, and neither did Shakespeare, so far as I know, though his line could be longer than I think. Anyway, I didn’t write the word life, someone else did. So I went to edit that post and get the word life out, and it isn’t there in my original copy. Someone added it to the teaser, and I don’t know how to get it off. So there’s that. This is how things go on Soulcast.

I saw one of the purveyors of  “mental health care” this afternoon. These moribund, hazily educated, highly lazy employees of the department of mental hell. I see them all the time in this town (greenfield). They’re like lice. A female, this one was. One of my “sisters.” Right.

Shirley Temple (duplicitous DMH case manager), however, I have  not seen. Not since March 17th, and I spend a lot of time in a place that she used to frequent, but not no more. Wonder if she’s feeling a little ashamed of herself, a little reluctant to see me. Not likely, I suppose. More likely she’s puffed up with rectitude for saving my poor abused animals from the likes of me. May the ocean’s dogs devour her.

P.N. came from her town to visit me today, bought me some things I needed that I can’t afford, because for half the month (until my food stamps come) I have to buy all of my meals out, and it goes through a lot of money. I’m becoming good at finding food for $2 at places that also let you have free water, but sometimes I’m hungrier than that. I take prednisone for my raging immune system, and it seems to make me hungry.

Back to the stolen for a moment   A cameo: Canajoharie was a very shy little parakeet that I bought in 2004. She’s the only one of my 14 stolen who’d been with me for less than 9 years. But she bonded beautifully with Tuuschi the lovebird after his mate died, and was very sweet to him. He was born crippled and could never stand on the edge of a dish to eat. Always had to have his food straight on the floor. And once a day, Canajoarie would go down to the floor of her cage and sit there while he ate on the floor of his. She’d keep him company like that. After a while a finally got the idea to put some seeds on Canajo’s floor too, so that she could also eat while she kept Tuuschi company.

Parrots are known for holding food in their hands to eat it. Other hookbills  —  lovebirds, cockatiels, etc.,  —   are not known for it. I had a good number of small hookbills in my bird years, and there were only two who would eat parrot-style like that; one of my cockatiels, and Canajoharie. A piece of lettuce or spaghetti or bread or whatever would be held in the hand and eaten. Or, she would use her modified method. This called for the piece of food to be clamped to the perch with one hand, and then she would bend over and take bites off of it. This, like many animal behavior inventions, was a source of amusement, and fascination, and pleasure to me. Whenever an animal came up with an oddball little feat of their own, I was as proud as I was the day I saw my daughter take her first steps. Just as proud. No difference. No “lesser” feeling for the animal’s achievement than I had had for the human’s.

Update 2 June 2009:  No, Shirley Temple feels no remorse over what she helped to do to me. Nor does Cry Baby at the CSS, or the disturbed landlady, or any of the people in Turners who know what happened to my animals and will not tell. It has been a rare experience in my life to see someone feel remorse over some rotten thing they have done, to apologize, to make whatever amends can be made. Matthew is just the latest example. If he hoaxed me, it was a rotten thing to do. If he’s truly an undercover “protector,” and if he was in love with me, as he said, then he treated me very badly and feels no remorse. He has been avoiding me since the letter of May 22 (this year) that I sent him. If Matthew wasn’t going to tell me everything about this protection business he spoke of, then he should have told me nothing. To give me only small bits of information and leave me like that in anxiety and tension, wondering who was part of the protection and how far it went, put me under much more stress than if he had just told me everything and I had had concrete facts. He has not apologized for any of the dishonorable ways he treated me last year, and he never will. No one else will either.

Is Canajoharie still alive in some Turners Falls home right now, kept secret from me and I’m not allowed to visit? She was only 4 when she was taken from me. She should still be alive.

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read…   Stolen stars…   Soulcast…   Mental hell...

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