Page Forty-seven                                                                                                                         

sehnen posted on Jun 10, 2008 | views: 101 | Tags: linger breathingx

tues 10 june 2008    Greenfield

Fourteen weeks homeless, lifeless, loveless today. Three months tomorrow. I wonder if anyone reading this would deem it a mean-spirited, insensitive, unkind thing to do to shadow and crowd a person who is reclusive, private, frightened, and maybe a bit autistic. Would anyone find that a nasty, juvenile thing to do?

So Tuuschi. I’ve talked about him before. Born October 1994, 13 and a half years old when he was stolen from me on March 12. He was one of a family of 6: his parents Toby and Tessie, his two older sisters Tari and Tiki, and his sister and mate, Tammi. All these trochaic names. But ever since I read long ago that animals like and respond better to trochaic names, I’ve almost always used them. Anyway, Tuuschi was the last of his family still alive, and had lived longer than any of the others. Born crippled, his way was never an easy one, and yet I took years of pleasure in his almost unceasing happiness. He didn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed by being crippled, by the fact that he had a disability and couldn’t do simple things in the same easy way that other birds could. Well, he didn’t know it, did he, that other birds’ legs were formed normally and that for them, every movement was easy. He had to devise alternate ways to do these same simple things. He would hang upside-down from the top of his cage with his less-crippled leg, and he thought that was a great trick. So did I. His whole family had hung upside-down, but most of them could use two legs to do it, and Tuuschi and his dad were the ones who did it the most and loved it the most. Lovebirds are by nature somehow more bubbly than most other birds. Something about the shape of their beaks and the light in their eyes makes them look like they’re always smiling, even in the moment of death. But Tuuschi was bubblier and happier even than most lovebirds, and a great, great treasure, as all purity is.

He loved his Tammi, until the day she died. His need and desire to bond was so great, that even after twelve years with Tammi, he was willing to make a new bond. Not all birds will. Some birds just fade away after a long-term bond ends. Things were very bad with the landlady and the crime-chick at the time that Tammi died, and I didn’t want to get another lovebird, a new animal to come to the garbage and uncertainty my poor animals and I were trying to get by in. Enter the parakeet, whom we already had. I put their cages side-by-side, very close, and eventually the friendship was formed. To a much greater degree than I’d dared to  hope for. They took a great delight in each other.

I’ve written on another blog about Tuuschi’s love of bells, so won’t do that again here. Of all the memories of my stolen Tuuschi that stir the pain, the grief, the anger, it is often remembering him with bells that evoke these emotions most forcefully.

Update 24 June 2009: I imagine Tuuschi has been dead for some while, he was so old. The last of his family, and I was not with him when he died, and I don’t know the date or the place of his death. Supposedly he was adopted by someone in that damned Polish church in Turners Falls, and I’ve never been allowed to know who, and I was never allowed to visit him, because these turnersites exhibit so much goddamned christian kindness. I was supposed to see him, to see all of them to the end of their lives. That was my duty as their friend, their human mother; a duty I loved and wanted to fulfill.

What I was writing about in the first paragraph of this post was the group of men who had been watching me and following me since I first came to Greenfield last year. They were all pretending to be loopy, and I could see in their eyes that they were sane and sober. Matthew was one of them. I thought the DMH was doing something ridiculous by having these men watch that I didn’t kill myself after having lost all my animals. I thought the DMH was trying to mop up the mess it had made by having a year to help me save at least some of my animals and doing almost nothing to that end. And where were they getting the money for this? This post was first written on June 10. It wouldn’t be until June 23rd that I would decide it was something criminal. And when in the next few days I asked Matthew about this, he said yes.


(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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


Page Forty-six

sehnen posted on Jun 09, 2008 | views: 131 | Tags: Ix, in company withx

mon 9 june 2008    Greenfield

Still another of the fourteen stolen, Lizzie was a Senegal parrot, and the only parrot I’ve ever had. She was three when I got her in 1991, and is now twenty, if she’s alive. And she had yellow eyes, which never ceased delighting me.

I’ve been told recently by two different humans that she’s living with that unholy, smarmy, lying priest in Turners Falls, but both of these people have lied to me before, so who knows? Senegals are not talkers, not in human style anyway, but she always spoke perfectly fine Senegal parrot. She learned cockatiel pretty well, and for several years spoke a very respectable cat. Lizzie was definitely an oddball, like me, and through the long years we had our adventures, especially when she decided to exit her cage without permission. Parrots are very prone to this, anyway. She gave me one excellent bite in January, not long before we were destroyed. Got infected and everything. Parrots are prone to biting, too. But over seventeen years Lizzie only bit me four times, and only badly that once. Maybe she knew we were finished, and wanted to give me one hell of a bite to remember her by. I remember it, Lizzie Bean. But I would have remembered you in any case, bite or no bite.

For all our shared years, there was the continuing and never-solved mystery of the top of Lizzie’s head. It was bare as a boiled egg when I got her, and for more than seventeen years I tried to get those damned things to grow in and stay in. They grew in scores of times. They were perfectly happy to grow in. They just never stayed for very long.

I tried everything. Things I read in my bird magazines, things I talked over with the pet shop owners, things other parrot-keepers told me. Everything. No, I didn’t take her to the vet, but I did ask vets about it when I had another animal in their exam rooms. My small amount of money had to stretch for a lot of animals, and I never could pay for vet visits that were for something harmless. The first theory for bald birds is always nutritional lack, but I offered Lizzie a huge variety of things. Most of them she declined to eat, being always an extremely finicky eater. Next I tried vitamins in the water. All of my birds got these for at least half of every year anyway, starting with spring molt. Second after nutrition is always the anxiety theory. Anxious birds often pull out their feathers. I gave Lizzie more time out of her cage, etc. I set her up so she had no other birds too close beside her, etc. And still her head would fill in and look nice, and then go bald again. I would occasionally catch her eating a feather she would hold in her little birdie hand, but it was almost never a head feather. Wing and tail were the kind she liked to munch on, and only when they were falling out anyway. She never yanked them out herself until they were already loose. Nor did I ever, in more than seventeen years, catch her pulling out a head feather, and I was home a great deal of the time.

I never solved the mystery. The day Lizzie was taken from me and hidden inside the sleazy priest’s house (I wasn’t allowed to go inside and see my birds), the top of her head was bald again. This priest, and some others he’s palsy with, started passing malicious and patently false gossip about me and my animals two days after the eviction; gossip relating to what “terrible condition” they were in and how I was “a hoarder who didn’t take care of them.” One hundred percent nasty, bullshit gossip, and very typical of the filth in this town. Lizzie’s head wasn’t one of the slander items brought back to me from Turners by the friend I was staying with in Greenfield, but I’m sure it must have been passed around as further evidence of my cruel neglect of my animals. May all who passed this stinking dirt rot in the fiery hell that they believe their made-up god will send them to if they sin. They sin.

If Lizzie (and supposedly four cats too) are really with this priest, why didn’t these people who were only too happy to tell me this, offer to take me to visit them? Because cruelty, taunting and teasing, are a whole lot more fun than mercy and kindness, it seems. Even to self-desribed christians.

once, in the care of morning
in the air was all belonging.
once, when that day was dawning,
I was with you.
once, as the night was leaving
into us our dreams were weaving.
once, all dreams were worth keeping,
I was with you.
once, when our hearts were singing
I was with you.    
~~~  roma ryan


Update 22 June 2009:  Is Lizzie dead? She would be 21 if she were still alive. Is she still with that priest? Was she ever? I was told so many things about my animals last year, some of them conflicting, that I still more than a year later don’t know what to believe. And if that priest truly did have Lizzie and four of my cats, why was I never granted the kindness of being allowed to visit them? There are people in Turners Falls who know the answers to these questions. Church-going “christians” who keep these secrets from me for over a year, despite the pain and grief for me. I want to know how christian that is.

The lyrics I wrote here on this post last year are something I can only glance at, they tear at me so. I was with you, since you were babies, and human cruelty tore it all apart.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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shiloh two

Page Forty-five

sehnen posted on Jun 07, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: shiloh-meekix

still sat 7 june 2008   Greenfield

Shiloh was one of the three cats slaughtered by the  local “shelter,” along with her two cousins. She was born Aug 7, 1992, the last of a litter of six. And yet again I saw the “runt of the litter” predictions come true. She remained her whole life not just the smallest member of her litter, but of her entire extended family. She was the size that most kittens are when they’re maybe eight or nine months old, for over 15 years. And so no matter how old she got, part of me always thought of her as very young. At least until about 2006, when she was 14. Finally I could see signs of aging in her that had really been a long time coming. She stayed so much the same for so many years. She was gentle, and funny. And also sutbborn about certain things, like many animals. She was a people-sleeper. Not all cats are. Her father wasn’t. She had her family’s greater-than-average curiosity about the world, and she had her grandmother’s intense love for home and humans. In the 90’s, Shiloh was one of the cats who used to walk the canal with me in Turners Falls. They have these cement pillar-type things along the canal (I don’t know what they’re called) and there was one particular one she             always had to jump onto and roll around on. They’re not very big on the top, and I don’t know how many times I had to catch her in her roll so she wouldn’t fall into the water. I named that pillar Shiloh’s Lookout. We moved away from the canal in 97,when the hell years began, but whenever I make it back there, Shiloh’s Lookout is always one of the stops I make. I haven’t been back there yet since she was killed. 

There was another trait that her particular family had in abundance, and that was the love of running water. Most of my cats over my lifetime didn’t give a hoot whether they ever sat on a sink and watched water run from a tap, or hung out with me in flowerbeds to watch water pouring from the watering can. But all of Shiloh’s family were very keen on watching running water, as long it was a modest amount. If the flow got stronger, then the normal feline dislike of falling water would kick in.

When Shiloh’s dad was eight, he began demanding his drinking water from a tap about forty percent of the time. When he was thirteen, he began making this demand almost one hundred percent. Shiloh did the same thing. For the time that her father still lived, she allowed him to have the bathroom sink as his drinking property, but as soon as he died, she claimed tap-drinking at the sink for herself. She was thirteen, the same age he had been when he went completely to tap-drinking. She continued to drink her water only from the bathroom tap until the day two and half years later when neurotypicals took her away.

Update 20 June 2009:  Shiloh and her two male cousins were murdered by the animal “shelter” on March 24, 2008, only two weeks into their “foster” care. I think of the ending they had with shame and rage: two weeks of stress, living in cages, being handled by strangers who didn’t love them, then death. And I wasn’t even with them when they died. If we had stayed together, Shiloh probably would have died sometime last year anyway. She was nearly 16. But she would have lived her last days with her family, in love, and I would have been with her when she died. Her two cousins were only 12, and would still be alive if we had stayed together. All three of these cats had been with me and with each other since they were born. I think of everyone who had anything to with what happened to my family with dark contempt: the landlady, the psycho-chick, the DMH and CSS, the “shelter.” That building is empty now, the one where my 3 cats were murdered — the “shelter” has moved to a new location. I sometimes ride by that place on the bus, the now-vacant one, the place where three cousins who loved me, and whom I loved, were sentenced to death. There’s only darkness there on that little hill, only darkness in those people who worked there, only darkness in me, when my eyes look up to tha building. Yet another example of how the Department of Mental Health “assisted” me. 

Since I first wrote this post, I have been back to the canal and Shiloh’s Lookout a number of times, including this past Memorial day. So many emotions trapped inside me when I visit: the humor and the happiness of those lost days on the canal with my cats; the sorrow; the contempt for the humans who destroyed my life and for those who destroyed my animals.

And today, 20 June 2009, is the ninth birthday of three more of the stolen cats: Aram, Abel and Chani. Or it would have been their ninth birthday. I have reason to deduce that these three cats living in a garage full of yard sale crap that belongs to an extrememly unethical priest, were rounded up in cat traps by a certain woman in this town and taken to a vet friend of hers in Vermont to be killed. But when this was done, no one will tell me. They won’t even verify that it was done.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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Nemo Nobis Pacem Donavit

Page Forty-four

Tuesday 13 April 2010           Turning Falling

again interrupting my copying of old posts to write a new one

On the original Sehnen blog on Soulcast, I had a post (which I haven’t yet copied here) about the phrase Dona Nobis Pacem. In 2000 I started writing this phrase and hanging it places: on the walls, on the outside of our apartment doors. It was a sort of secret way of begging the human world for what I wanted from them: to be left alone, not to be harassed, not to be stolen from, not to be mocked to my face, not to be lied to to my face, not to be threatened with this or that.                                                                        

In September of 2006, in the very early stages of the mafia-chick’s relentless, 17-month harassment, I made a mural on our porch with those words in much larger letters than I’d ever used before (a louder plea). If you came to my storm door, you couldn’t miss seeing those words: Dona Nobis Pacem.

This past Sunday I was thinking about how I’d displayed those words everywhere we lived for over seven years, finally making them larger than I ever had before, as my desperation to be left alone grew. And since what happened in the end was the demolishing of my family and everything I considered to be my life, I decided it was time for a new sign, with a new sentence. The end of the story; the result of all my secret pleas to the human world ( a resounding fuck you was the answer the world gave); a statement to the energies of my murdered animals:

                                    Nemo Nobis Pacem Donavit

So I started the poster, and it hangs over the loveseat that serves as both bed and couch in the ponystall the federal and state governments have me (a claustrophobic) trying to exist in. Since I have a few other projects going on in the stall, I can never tell how long it will be before any one of them gets finished. Depression can paralyze me for days or weeks. My physical illnesses can do the same. But the sentence is there in gold letters, and I read it to the energies of my murdered animals, and I read it to my living guinea pig, and I remember over seven years of secret, Latin pleading to be left alone.

(part of the book Being Toward Death)

~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~


Ce he mise le ulaingt?

Page Forty-three

sehnen posted on Jun 07, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: luna stellaequex

sat 7 june 2008   Greenfield

Where are you, what happened to you? How many are dead and how many alive? How and where did you die, and when? It’s been a lonely life anyway, being such an oddball, not fitting in with neurotypicals, not even being able to stomach them much of the time. But loneliest of all without you, blackest of all without you. You 14 stolen ones, and all the animals of my life before you, taught me everything I ever learned about courage, patience, forgiveness, love, trust. I didn’t learn much at all about these things from humans. I never stopped wanting you, or loving you, or admiring you, or being grateful to you. It wasn’t my idea for us to be torn apart.. All the times you saw and felt me suffering the loneliness for humans… I wish you could see and feel how much worse it is to suffer the loneliness that comes from being without you. If you could know that, then if there were ever any lingering questions about how important you were, all those questions would be answered. You, all the animals of my life, were the stars and the sun and the moon, all the brightness. Humans gave me mostly only the dark:meanness, lies, insanity, inconsistency, and more. And you gave me only light.. Remembering over 55 years of hurt and trauma, fear and anger in all the darkness humans have given me, I then look back over all of you. Ane there is only love and light and everything truly good I ever had.

Update 17 June 2009: All I can say to this post is: ditto. My heart will be saying these same things about them, the animals, for as long as I live. And it will be saying the same things about humans, as I fear them and dislike them more now than ever. It was humans that destroyed us. If Matthew’s words were true, it was humans who protected me from a bullet but never showed me an ID, did everything undercover, and seem to have used me as bait. And again, if words were true and if things I saw last year were what they very much seemed to be, it was humans who came to Greenfield to get me. You, the animals, are still the brightest lights I ever had, for 55 years. And most humans are still darkness.


Who am I to bear it? The wrong person — not strong enough or resilient enough, or hard enough.

(nest fairy at www.gaelsong.com)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Ola ta Eepofero

Page Forty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 06, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: kalisperax, my lost friendsx

still fri 6 june, 2008   Greenfield

A little poem an old lady taught me a long, long time ago. It’s a poem you can say to anyone you love, and I, of course, am leaving it here for my 14 stolen friends. The verbs are all singular (like you know or care?), and I, being the fussbudget about such things that I am, should change one of them to the plural, and I’m not going to. But I do have to transliterate. That’s not something dirty. It’s something languagey people do all the time.                                        

esee may vas anyeezees
ma ti boro na po
ola ta eepofero
yatee se agapo.
———— (anonymous)


Eenay ola eleenyeeka ya sena

Loose ends to tie up, etc. The loose ends are taking a bit longer than I thought they would. Loose ends on blogs, loose ends in this existence that isn’t my own life, and other kinds of loose ends as well. Still trying to tie them up.

Some more words for my animals. I like corny old folk songs, and the older, the better. And the more versions of each one I can find, the better. I’ve heard 3 different versions of this one, all called Ned of the Hill, but with different music and different words. Anyway, I don’t know the name of the person who wrote these sad, corny lyrics. However corny you may find them, I like them, and they fit what I’ve been going through. 

through frost and through snow
tired and hunted I go
in fear of both friend and neighbor.
my horses run wild
my acres untilled
and all of it lost to my labor.
but what grieves me still more
than the loss of my store
is there’s no one who’d shield me (us) from danger.
so my fate it must be
to bid farewell to thee
and languish amid strangers.

So much waste, so much broken, so much useless struggle. It wasn’t worth it.

Update 17 June 2009: I was very depressed when I wrote this post, and angry too. I can feel little bite in some of my words. But last June I had absolutely no idea how very long it was going to go on: the wandering on streets through frost and snow and heat, and no one to shield me from any of it. If the feds were protecting me from a bullet, they were not protecting me from the homelessness, from the humiliation and degradation, from the 15 months of living a nightmare and languishing among strangers. I also had the belief still (when I first wrote this) that the DMH would help me, and that I’d get to visit some of my animals in their “foster” homes, and that I would get some of them back. Early June 2008, when this was written, I had no idea how very bad things were going to get and how long they were going to go on. And I kept myself going whatever way I could (denial, shtyk, pushing away my grief, living outdoors), because after Matthew told me “feds,” I believed without question that I would be located in a home somewhere and have some of my animals returned to me. And he knew I believed this, and never told me otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

mandy (deutsch)

Page Forty-one

sehnen posted on Jun 06, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: aschlöcher seid verfluchtx

am frei den 6sten juni, 2008    Greenfield

Heute möchte ich ein bißchen von Mandy schreiben, eine von meinen vierzehn gestohlenen Tieren. Er kam zu uns im Juni 1995, also vor dreizehn jahren, und war schon zu der zeit ein oder zwei jahre alt. Er (denn er war ein Männchen) erschien in unsrer Nachbarschaft und gehörte niemandem, also brachte meine Tochter uns ihn. Er war so sauber und freundlich daß ich glaubte, er mußte doch jemandem gehören, und ich versuchte drei wochenlang seine Familie durch Radio und Zeitung zu finden. Niemand meldete sich, und Mandy blieb bei uns fast genau  fünfzehn Jahre.

Obwohl ich eine ganze Menge Katzen in meinem Leben gekannt habe, ich habe keine gekannt die Freundlichkeit so weit brachte. Er liebte alle Tiere und Menschen, auch die die ihn verletzen konnten, und hatte Angst vor fast keinem. Verschiedene Aschlöcher haben durch die Jahren versucht, Mandy weg von mir zu kriegen. Und da waren auch die Zeiten, als er fast verletzt wurde von einem anderen Tier, oder gespritzt von einem Stinktier. Seine überfließende Freundlilchkeit machte mir öfters Sorgen.

Gucken Sie mal sein Gesicht an, wie er voll und furchtlos ins Kamera schaut. So war er immer, so grüßte er die Welt immer, ob in der Wohnung oder draußen in der Nachbarschaft. Und fast alle, Tiere oder Menschen, liebten ihn zurück. Alle meine Katzen und auch noch die Hunde freuten sich, dicht neben Mandy zu schlafen, seine unbegrenzte Liebe zu bekommen.

Und er sprach. Mandy mußte mitteilen. Alles. Wenn er Hunger hatte, wenn er draußen oder wieder herein wollte, wenn Besuch ankam in die Wohnung, und noch weiter. Viele die ihn durch die Jahre kannten, nannten ihn “der Sprecher.” Ich liebte dieses an ihn  ganz besonders, denn ich bin auch eine, die mitteilen muß. Es war mir eine liebe Ähnlichkeit zwischen uns beide.

Wo immer er sein Leben auslebte  —  und keiner wird mir das sagen, wo er die ganze Zeit behalten war  —  war er ohne Zweiful ständig am Sprechen. Ich wünsche mir, daß er unglücklich und still blieb, da wo sie ihn behielt, wo ich keinen Besuch machen durfte. Aber das ist nur ein Wunsch. Mandy hatte zu viel Liebe in sich, um traurig und still zu sein. Auch wenn alles was er kannte und Alle, die er fast fünzehn Jahrelang liebte, von ihm plötzlich und herzlos weggenommen wurden.

stolen animals here.

Update 16 June 2009: Mandy came to us in late June 1995, almost exactly 14 years ago. He was at least a year old at the time, so he would be 15 now. Is he still alive? The animal “shelter” was very secretive about where Mandy and Judah had gone. They had been placed in a foster home, but again, I was not allowed to know where that home was or to visit. I was given a deadline of May 14 last year to reclaim them, and since I was not able to find a place other than a rented room by then, they were adopted and swallowed up. Never any visits, never any small bit of comfort for my pain. Do I have to say that I despise that animal “shelter” too? They had murdered 3 of my cats on March 24 last year, just two weeks into their “foster care.”

I’ve never said about Mandy, in English, that he was a talker. Always had to tell you about everything. Mandy boy, are you still alive? He has another post in English, but today I’m having trouble locating it. Long past time I catalogued my many blog posts.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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The Canary

Page Forty

sehnen posted on Jun 05, 2008 | views: 43 | Tags: little kidsx

thurs 5 june 2008   Greenfield

All of my 14 kidnapped animals were old or oldish, except one. Back in 2004, when my children and I had just been through eight very difficult months and were about to move again, I promised us a present when we got into the new place. We’d found a new radio station in Albany, and when they did their i.d. every hour they listed every single station they had, and one was in Canajoharie. I fell in love with the word. I told the animals that when we got moved, we’d buy a canary and call him/her Canajoharie. Well, it had been years since I’d worked in a pet shop, and things had changed. Parakeets were no longer $12, they were $25. And canaries weren’t $40, they were $80. That much I wasn’t willing to spend, and I hate the buying and selling of animals anyway. So I settled on a green and yellow parakeet, and at least once a week when I was feeding her I’d say,”I know you think you’re a parakeet, but you’re not. You’re Canajoharie canary.” But since in the end Canajoharie formed a great relationship with the lovebird after his mate died, she probably ended up feeling like neither parakeet nor canary, but a lovebird. I’ve said elsewhere that because the lovebird was born crippled (he was called Tuuschi), he had to eat and drink on the floor. Just a couple of months before we were destroyed, Canajoharie, after watching Tuuschi do this for a long time, started wanting a little of her own food down on the floor so that in the evening she could sit near Tuuschi to eat. All my life I’ve been delighted by the great things animals so often do for each other, even different species of animals. I’ve never in 55 years been without animals for 13 weeks, until now. Until the horrendous Department of Mental Hell helped me. May the ocean’s dogs devour, slowly, every single one of them. Or, may each and every one of them drop dead where they stand, or mostly sit, on their brains.

Update 16 June 2009: What I was told about Canajoharie and Tuuschi last year was that they had been adopted by someone in the Polish catholic church in Turners Falls. Was this true? Possibly, but I had been told so many lies in the months leading up to my eviction that I wasn’t willing to just categorically believe anything coming from a social service agency. Tuuschi was very old and would be dead by now. But Canajoharie was only 4 then, and should still be alive. Mind you, I was never given the kindness of being told which family the birds were with and the kindness of being allowed to visit them. The priest of that same church supposedly ended up keeping my parrot and four of my cats, and again I was never allowed the comfort of visits. The parrot was already 20, and may well be dead. But one cat would be 13 now and the other three 9. They should still be alive, but I’m not allowed to see them. The so-called Christian people of Turners Falls keeping my animals and keeping their secrets all these 15 months, no matter the pain to me. I still despise the Department of Mental Health, and I still despise the people of Turners Falls. Medications have not changed that.

~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

turn, turn

Page Thirty-nine       (copy from soulcast)

sehnen posted on Jun 04, 2008 | views: 65 | Tags: psycho returnsx

june 4, 2008   turners falls

Back in the homeplace again, or one of my homeplaces. This, Turners Falls, was home for twenty-two years; first twelve, then a gap, then ten. I just a few minutes ago saw the mafia-chick who harassed me relentlessly for seventeen months, and no one — not the landlady, not the DMH, not a lawyer, not the police, not any social service agency — did a damned thing about it. I saw her two days ago in Greenfield, and a week before that in Greenfield as well. I find it slightly odd — since she now supposedly lives in a town called Erving — that for eleven weeks I didn’t see her at all, anywhere, and now I’ve seen her thrice in two weeks. Someone’s been calling on my cell phone at 3:30 in the morning off and on for a couple of weeks, leaving voice mail. I don’t listen to voice mail, as it uses up minutes. And someone’s been leaving me text messages twice a week for the last couple of weeks too, which I also don’t read because it uses up minutes. People who know me and are in contact with me, know that if I don’t answer the phone, they have to just hang up. Whoever’s doing this is not in any kind of normal contact with me. And this is one of the things she used to do to me when we lived in the same building: harassment over the telephone.

So let’s add another thread to the tale of the DMH incompetence, or indifference, or whatever, and discuss the mafia-chick a little. I’ve only done that once before on these blogs. Here’s just a sample of the violation of my tenant’s rights that she foisted on me:

1.      She knew which room I slept in, and that I slept right against the wall, because you could just look in my window and see that. All the tenants who’d lived there knew where I slept most of the time. And no matter what time of day or night I tried to sleep (remember my raging immune system), psycho-mafia-chick would either bang on the wall, shriek outside the window, or have her hound barking outside my window or on the other side of the wall. She’s psychotic and doesn’t require much sleep, so it was nothing for her to come to the wall at midnight and slam cabinets, or 2 am, or 3 am, or any time she wanted.

2.      We shared a cellar for laundry and storage, and there was a stairway down to the cellar. On more than one occasion she loosened the light bulb on the stairway so that it did not function when I hit the switch. I fell down two of the stairs at night on one of the occasions when she did this.

Just a very tiny sample of her insanity, her viciousness. After she’d been living there for about thirteen months, I heard her say to one of her friends that she had a deal with the landlady to drive me out. When it didn’t work, the landlady evicted me for complaining about this psycho-chick’s harassment. That’s an illegal thing for a landlord to do in Massachusetts, but I couldn’t afford a lawyer.

Update 15 June 2009:  So this post was first written on June 4, 08. I was still living in the rented room. I only gave you a small sample of the ways this psychotic, substance-addicted (and substance-dealing) tenant harassed me for seventeen months because to go through the whole litany of abuse all at one sitting is too much for me. I still feel sick and depressed and trapped and afraid when I occasionally think back on what I had to put up with from her. And when I wrote a letter of complaint to the equally psychotic landlady, she evicted me. And she knew full well it would destroy me, that there was no place else for me to go with fourteen animals, and she knew they were my whole life. She pretends to be an animal-lover, this professional woman with money and clout and at least one pal (the psycho-chick) with  mob connections.


read…  Spite and malice Mugsy’s book

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(kooky doll at www.signals.com; yes, she’s verkehrt on purpose)

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message for…

Page Thirty-eight         (copy from soulcast)      

sehnen posted on Jun 04, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: grow upx, flibx

wednesday 4 june 2008     greenfield

Another message for that certain someone:      ~~~~   Bill built   ~~~

Message for Flibbertyjibbet: I’m not going to say what language it is. If you don’t know, then you don’t. I’m not a teacher anymore. And kindly put tags on your own blog and leave my tags alone. Thanks so much, anne.

Update 15 June 2009: Well, I was ticked at flibberty for putting a tag on my blog that wasn’t my own. Others have done it on a few occasions, and I don’t like it. Maybe it’s one of those Asperger’s don’t-mess-with-my-stuff things.

On another topic, it was about this time last year (15th June or so) that I first confronted Matthew on the sidewalk about his phony act. In my first few days in greenfield last year I knew that he and a few other men around me all the time were playacting: pretending to be drunks or crazies, when I could see in their eyes that they clearly were not. So this first time I confronted Matthew and told him he was just playing a madman and there was nothing wrong with him and why didn’t he get a real job (I thought he was watching me for the DMH at this point), he stayed with his act. He argued with me and ended up calling me a bitch and walking away. But the next time I would confront him (end of june 2008), it would be a different story. He would admit certain things, among them the fact that there was something criminal going on in my life.


read…   Lifelines…   Spite and malice

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~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(geckos are still at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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