He says that no one says…

Friday 28 May 2010      Greenfield, escaping Turners power outage

Another interruption. Another new Sehnen post while I’m still in the process of copying the old ones here.

A conversation recently with someone, in which we were discussing some things that had been said to me in March by a guy named Rick W. One of those things Rick W. had said about himself was this: “I don’t know anyone who thinks Rick W.’s an asshole.” (his emphasis). Well, the third party that I was talking to said that Rick W. was clearly very messed up and that I should write a blog post containing this unequivocal statement:

                                 Rick W. is indeed an asshole

So there it is. Blog post with direct statement. I myself would have called Rick W. extremely immature for a man of 60, lacking in integrity, a dweller in a dreamworld, somewhat underhanded…  But asshole is Rick W.’s own word, so that’s what I’ve used.

Living in Greenfield again, very briefly, since yesterday afternoon. Power went out 11:17 Wed night. Third floor tiny space with only one window, no power to run fans. Fridge defrosting and food spoiling. Only have a microwave to cook with, and it won’t work. Can’t charge the cell phone. Grocery store closed down for lack of power, and no money to eat in restaurants, which were closed anyway for lack of power. Hot, hungry, asthma breathing, no radio to listen to, etc. And it was so great of the building manager to come around yesterday and see if the tenants were okay, if any tenants needed anything. Yeah, right. I’m sure all she gave a damn about was that she had a day off from work. And of course Matthew Lacoy, who loves me, was right there at my door with a nice meal he’d got me in Greenfield.

Yeah, right. But now that I’m in Greenfield he’s dogging my footsteps in his usual undercover, amoral, unloving, egomaniacal fashion. May the ocean’s dogs devour both him and all his colleagues.

Back to the power. Turners Falls is partially owned by guess who: Northeast Utilities. They own the riverbank because they have a hydroeleltric dam there. They own the canal banks and the canal because they have a hydroelectric plant there. There are patches of Turners that are filled with high-tension wires, and big ugly junction boxes pop up here and pop up there. And yet we can’t have electricity since 11:17 Wednesday night. Go figure.

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

(sock monkey at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)


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To sleep, perchance to…

Page Fifty-three

sehnen posted on Jun 18, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: moments burstingx

wed 18 june 2008    Greenfield

It was 15 weeks yesterday since eviction day. I’m still counting. Lots of us Asperger’s people like to keep accurate tallies of things. We’re rather obsessive about stuff like that. I’ve learned a lot about Asperger’s in the last three years, and keep learning more every week. I didn’t go looking for the information when it started, it came to me over the radio. But instantly, that first story, I knew myself in the things the story was saying. And that has never changed. The more I learn, the more convinced I am. I diagnosed my cat’s diabetes in 1997, my girlfriend’s lupus in 1992, and there are more cases of me diagnosing human and animal illnesses correctly, as confirmed by doctors. I suppose if I’d gone into some medical career, I might have had a strength for diagnosis. So I have diagnosed my own Asperger’s, and I believe I’m right.

Very exhausted today, can’t do much. Want to get back to telling about the animals here in this blog. When will the energy for it come?

Update 29 June 2009:  Just as he told me about the criminal things going on in my life, Matthew was the one who told me I have Asperger’s, in July of 2008. Tests were run on me in public places (how did my “protectors” pull that off?), and when they were over, Matthew told me I had it. I believed him, just as I believed him about the protection and all the rest. I’d thought for years that I had it anyway. I’m beginning to read more books on Asperger’s because it’s all I can read now. All my life, since I first learned to read, I read with animals around me. Now, without them, I’m only able to read this Asperger’s stuff.


To sleep, perchance to dream. There are no dreams left. Moments burst now only with the sadness for what was stolen.

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

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anne nakis in massachusetts

Page Fifty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 16, 2008 | views: 132 | Tags: life looks newx

mon 16 june 2008   Greenfield

                                   Bill in heaven at the white star… 

***  another private message. ignore. or, if you like bill, follow him around: one, two, three, four, five.


It’s time to go on, there are still more animals to tell about. What I write in this journal about each animal is so small, so unworthy of them, that I’m always unsatisfied with it. They were much more interesting and funny and brave and good than any two paragraphs can do justice to. And if I didn’t have the stories of all the human nightmares to tell, the story of how the humans put me and the innocent in the hell we’re in today, I could spend more time on the animals, whether anyone’s interested in reading about them or not. They interest me, and these journals are mine.

Always remember what brilliant, funny, monopolar depressive, true-hearted Kurt Vonnegut said:




Update 27 June 2009: It’s still the same a year later. Nothing I can say with inadequate words can do justice to what my 14 stolen ones were, or what they meant to me, or how intimately we shared our lives, or how deeply wounded I am from the theft of them. Nothing. And there is still way too much that has to be said about the humans who have ravaged me the last 15 months: The DMH; Matthew and his words about my life; if those words were true, then the fbi as well. There’s still too much to say to defend myself against the delusional label, which is not true, which I resent, which I find an insult to my sanity and my integrity. It looks like I ran out of time on the day I wrote this. I wanted to tell about another animal, and then didn’t. When the clock on the library computer is ready to shut you down, you got to go.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

judah — suite blue

Page Fifty-one

sehnen posted on Jun 14, 2008 | views: 121 | Tags: slaughtering sweetnessx

sat 14 june 2008   Greenfield

Steven Stills. Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. Referring to Judy Collins. I’m old. I know this tidbit, I remember that song. I remembered it when I was presented with a little Siamese-mix kitten in September 1994, my only cat ever with blue eyes. I believe it was my kid again, not me, who chose the name Judah. Once so named, and having blue eyes, I coudn’t resist using Suite Judy Blue-Eyes as one of her nicknames.

Judah was 13 and a half when she was taken from me on 12 March 2008. She was of the sealpoint type of Siamese, and had the color range in her hair from cream to a very dark brown. Aloofness, privateness was the only “typical” Siamese trait she had. While it’s typical for Siamese to be vocal, Judah was quiet in the extreme and rarely spoke. She was, in fact, so quiet, that often I’d go looking around the apartments when I hadn’t seen her for hours, hunting her out to make sure we still had her. She was neither demanding nor antsy, like many Siamese. 

                                    blue eyes with red camera-flash pupils

She came to us when she was five weeks old, dumped by someone into the back seat of my friend’s car. She still wanted and needed a mommy, and she found one in my old mama cat, who was the most motherly female cat I’ve ever known. She even mothered me, from day one. Ditto for baby Judah, and she loved it. Sadly, Maman only lived another month, and Judy kitten was left motherless again. She evaluated the other cats and eventually chose a grown-up to cuddle up with, but I’ve forgotten now who it was.

In late 1995 I mated Judah with one of Maman’s sons, but he belonged to someone else, so this mating had to be set up. We’d had several deaths in Maman’s family besides her, and I wanted more of them. Maman’s line was very, very special. It’s not looks I’m talking about. It was nature, it was sweetness. Anyway, four of the nine cats stolen from me in March were Maman’s grandchildren, and the “shelter” slaughtered three of them.

Judah never knew (or did she?) that her hubby and her children were also blood family to that old mama cat she’d loved when she first came to us. But I knew it. And whenever I looked at Judy’s kids through the years, I would think of how their mama would cuddle up as a tiny cat with their grandma, who was only a month from dying.

The last time I ever saw Judah, she was in her carrier in the oily garage of a very oily and unholy priest (may he rot in that hell he believes in). She was being very vocal that day. Crying to me to take her home and end all the anxiety, the strangeness. And crying out to her daughter,with whom she had remained very close over the years. The night before, the daughter and three other cats had been allowed — by two intellignce quotient 40 turners falls trolls — to escape into the adjacent garage, which was full of crap, and no one had yet caught them. Judah was crying on one side of the dividing wall, while her daughter cried on the other. The separation that had been brought about by the mental midgets the previous night turned out to be forever.

Update 26 June 2009: Judah. Supposedly put into a foster home with Mandy, but I was never told where or allowed to visit. Judah, whom I loved and took care of from her babyhood in 1994 until March 11, 2008. Judah, who was taken from me and hidden by the conniving and underhandedness of state employees who are paid to “help”. Is she still alive?

The bulk of my grief has been so delayed by all the upset last year created by the things Matthew told me about my life, and by the long-lasting shock the theft of the animals put me into, that I’m grieving now in the way I should have a year ago. I’m feeling the crushing totality of the loss that I should have felt a year ago.

I love you as big as the sky, Sweet Judy blue-eyes, and despise the humans who took you from me, among them that multiple-personality, delusional landlady. I didn’t get to see you to the end.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~   Share  ~~~~~~~~~

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Wonked-out Whale in a Wheelchair

Page Fifty

Monday 9 May 2010                    Turners turns on me, again

Yes, another new Sehnen post. Interrupting myself again, my copying of the old Sehnen posts onto WordPress.

I’m hoping I’ll occasionally provide examples of the way I’ve always been treated in this human cesspool. Examples from the past, and from the present. To wit:

There’s an enormous woman, whom I never saw in this town before two years ago, who rides the town in one of those electric wheelchairs. She happens to go frequently to a place that I also go to frequently. Every single time she comes in, she smashes the back of the chair I’m sitting in with her motorcar. This frightens me tremendously, even though I know she’s going to do it. I have PTSD, after all, and things like loud noises and being smashed do frighten me,   whether I want them to or not.

This obese, no-brain mountain of flesh has been doing this to me for several months, and so far I haven’t seen her do it to anyone else. The first few times I thought it was an accident, and I let it go. But she does it every time. Every time she comes in, she smashes me, and she does so with more force than she used to. She and I have no past relationship or history. I have never done anything to her. But I’m telling you in all truth that that has never mattered one jot in Turners Falls. I’ve been targeted and taunted and harassed by people whose names I didn’t even know. And don’t give me any paranoia bullshit as a response, thank you. It’s the truth, it’s happened over and over again in this town, and it’s been happening since 1985.

Last week I spoke to an employee on the premises about it, and she said that she tends to believe it’s deliberate too, since it keeps happening. She said she would watch for it, and that she’d ask the woman to be more careful.

The very next day, I’m sitting in this venue in my chair, and in drives the whale. She buzzes right over to me, with the employee close behind. Usually she smashes me when she’s moving forward, towards me, and this day she didn’t do it! Both the employee and I believed that the whale had been discouraged by the employee’s proximity, and that I wasn’t going to be smashed. Think again. She got me on the reverse, when she was backing up the chair to change direction. Not as hard as usual, but nonetheless she smashed me right in front of the employee, who looked at me with disbelief on her face that she was trying to disguise. This inbred, brain-dead, ignorant, obnoxious mass didn’t give a damn that the employee was watching her. She was gonna smash me, and that was that.

Why is she doing this? I guess she doesn’t like me. Why doesn’t she like me? I don’t know. But that’s the way it’s always been here: more people than I can count have taken a dislike to me, for reasons I’ve never been told, and many have then taken it upon themselves to taunt or harass me, to steal from me, whatever. They believe that their dislike of me entitles them to take direct action against me.

The blogs are where I come to respond to this bullying.

(part of the book Poison and Snowflake Trees)

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(st. B at www.toscano.com)

Far and Countless Cries From Home

Page Forty-nine

Wed 5 May 2010…   Turning harder

This title is the last line of a poem I wrote years ago, and since those poems (the whole notebook) seems to have been thrown into the dumpster by the psycho landlady on the day she was moving me in to her building, I haven’t seen the thing for years. I no longer remember the rest of it. (Yes, mental landlady took it upon herself to throw certain of my belongings into her dumpster on the day she was moving me in, without so much as a by-your-leave).

When I wrote it, I still had my human family (though the way I had them was always precarious) and my animal family. I was much more “at home” than I am now, and yet there was still always this feeling of not having found the “home” of someone who understood me.

How much further I am away now… the human family lost in 1999… animal family taken and killed in 2008…  Further, and infinitely more cries from home… a literal home, a soul home, a heart home…

Letting go tears in deserts where I stare and roam,
Far and countless cries from home.
(part of the book Being Toward Death)
~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it’s all so funny

Page Forty-eight

sehnen posted on Jun 12, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: at the summer watersidex

thurs 12 june 2008   Greenfield

Well, I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that since my life was destroyed (not to mention my mental health) by the DMH and CSS three months ago, I have been, with a great many people, a joke. Here’s a partial list: a bank manager, several librarians, a woman running for city             council, a deli-maid, a guy I used to live next door to, and many more. These people, when I first told them what the DMH had done, leaving us for the sheriff and disappearing animals and lies about where the animals were and the illegal behavior of the landlady and me being homeless, et cetera, giggled or smiled and said things like: “good luck,” “hope it turns out,” “hope you have a good resolution,”, and all kinds of other bull, when it was too late. No good luck had been in evidence, the animals were gone, I was homeless, and I couldn’t imagine why they would think it was anything to smile and giggle about. Even one of my doctors, as late as April 8 (we were destroyed on March 12), was patting my shoulder as if I were some kind of poodle and saying, “we have to get your animals back,” and she was beamingHow get the animals back, I’m thinking, and where from? And if I got them back, where would I take them to, me being homeless and all, and the DMH doing not one bloody thing to rectify that homelessness? But I am a joke. The situation calls for smiles and giggles and clichés. All the inappropriate and insensitive smiles and giggles I have received in the last three months have only deepened by far my conviction that neurotypical people are so shallow and lazy in their cogitation that they border on the mongoloid.

None of it has been a joke to me. I lost home and belongings and identity and purpose and privacy and autonomy and, most precious of all, the family that held me to my otherwise failed and strenuous and insubstantial life. It is not a joke to me. It is the end of my life, such as it has been. And they are still grinning at me when they see me, many of them. Idiotic clown grins that show no sympathy, or empathy. A complete inability to imagine themselves in my situtation and think, “Would I want someone grinning and chuckling and saying vapid things to me if I had lost my whole life, and my identity, and all my love? Would I want that?”

So, cretins at DMH and CSS, cretins in the public at large, I am not a joke. What was done to me and to 14 innocent, ageing animals was not a joke. Illegal evictions and the poverty not to afford an attorney are not a joke. Sixteen months of relentless harassment by a psychotic, drug-dealing, mob-connected drunk are not a joke. The hours and hours of excruciating physical pain that psycho caused me, pain that puts me into shock and makes me pass out, were not jokes. Living with no home at 55 (when all your life you’ve had one) and no dignity and no autonomy and no meaning and no purpose and no love is not a joke. It is so much not a joke that if I were the homicidal type, a great many of you would have had your funerals by now. But though I have rage enough for the crime of passion, I am not a killer. I don’t have whatever else it takes besides rage to be able to kill.

Laugh and smile away, all brain-dead ones. I don’t owe a single human being a goddamned thing. I will verbally insult you, I will give you the finger, I will do whatever I can to protest your notion that I and my animals, and what was done to us, are some kind of joke.

Update 25 June 2009: I can feel again the anger and insult I felt when I first wrote this, though in somewhat duller fashion because of the antidepressant and the depression itself. Depression flattens you out a lot, robs you of spirit. Another person who constantly smirked an idiotic smirk at me was case manager Dolittle from the DMH, who had been my case manager for four months and done not one thing to try to help me find a place where I could have some of my animals. To have this incompetent, lazy excuse for a man and a social worker give me that idiotic smirk every time he saw me, as if the destruction of my life that he helped bring about were funny, was almost more than I could bear many times. How often I wanted to smack that smirk right off his brainless face.

I do believe I have Asperger’s. Matthew told me I do, but even if it turns out that M was for some reason hoaxing me, I still believe I have it. And one of the things that always ties me in knots about neurotypical people is this inappropriate smiling. We don’t smile much, we aspies. But I much prefer that to the inappropriate smiling that goes on like phony waterfalls. Smiling at someone you’ve hurt, smiling when you know someone’s in a very bad time, smiling while you lie through your teeth. Most neurotypicals look like blithering idiots to me with all the superfluous, unwarranted smiling that goes on.


                        (part of the book Spite and Malice)

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

                  (happy gecko at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)


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