why do I live among these trolls?

sunday 27 feb 2011  tricky turners falls   (new post)

On my way to this blog just now, I saw a quote by the, apparently, very troubled Charlie Sheen. Here’s said quote:  “My motto now is you either love or hate and you must do so violently.”  I agree with this statement in its basic principle, but not in its every detail (just because Sheen seems to be flipping out at the moment, doesn’t mean that the intelligent man he used to be isn’t in there somewhere).  But I would alter the sentence to read: You love in some places, you hate in others, but you ought to do both with passion. And this belief actually has something to do with what I was planning to write about before I saw Mr. Sheen’s quote. At least tangentially.

Why do I live in this town among these despised trolls?  I’ve been asked this question, in various words, several times over the eleven months I’ve been living back in Turners again. All of the people, but one, who’ve asked it have done so in a snide way, the message being: You hate us so much, get the hell out of here. We hate you too. I have some readers, you see, among the Turners denizens, and they take great umbrage at what I say about them in my writing. My responses? 1.  Deal with it, shmuck. I’m telling real things about the way I’ve been treated by real Turners-ites over 25 real years. You can’t handle having your own disgusting behavior written about on the internet and tossed back into your face, well tough. 2. Show me you’re better than you’ve presented yourselves to me in the past. Apologize, for starters. After you do that, treat me well. What’s that old saw?… when hell freezes over.

The one person who asked me the question without being snide, did so on the library steps back in the summer. He was a man I’d never met before, but he’s lived in this town for decades. He looked at me with intense scrutiny and asked me how I was doing. I told him not very well. He said “This can be a hard town.” I told him that it has been for me. He wanted to know the name of the woman who had evicted me, and I told him. He said he and his wife don’t do any business with her, and I said I was glad of that.  And then he said “So why…” and he hesitated. I finished it for him: So why am I living here again? Yeah, he said. And I told him.

After our conversation he told me to take care. I haven’t seen him since, but I know he’s still around because he’s a long-term townie. He just happens to be one I never met before. And since we’d never met in any formal way, I can only conclude that he must have known things about me from my blogs, or from town gossip about my blogs.

In several posts scattered around my many blogs, I’ve written at least a sentence or two about why I came back to this crucible. Now I seem to have decided that the subject needs a post of its own.

I came back here because it was here that my animals were stolen from me and hidden from me in various other towns, where they were eventually killed. I came back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, to the scene of the worst trauma of my life, because I’m not capable of being anywhere else. I have a good friend out in the county where I spent the first 32 years of my life, and part of me longs to go back there and be near her. That same part of me misses the ocean more than I can say. And theoretically, I could go back. In a couple of months, having served my sentence in the ponystall, I will presumably be given movable rent subsidy that I can use anywhere in the state. I think about going back. I think about it a lot.

Every time I consider it, I know that I can’t, in spite of the very strong internal forces that want to pull me there. I can’t leave the scene of the crime. My heart’s not ready. It may never be ready. And before that crime was committed nearly three years ago, this town was the scene of the years and days and minutes and hours spent with my animals, spent as myself, to the extent that the landlords and fellow tenants of this burg let me be myself.

I need to be able to walk the river or the canal any hour of the day or night… and remember. I need to walk by the buildings that were once our homes any time the yearning comes… to remember. I feel closer to the stolen animals here, and to the person I was and the way of life I had before the crime. I cannot go.

It would be different if I had a car. Then I could live in Deerfield or Greenfield or Leverett, and come here to the places of my memories any hour I needed to. But lacking said car, leaving this town cuts me off from walks at five in the morning, or ten at night, or any other time when the grief is weighing a ton and that longing strikes.

The fact that I despise these trolls passionately is one of the reasons I experience misery here in this armpit. But the fact that I loved and love those animals, and every minute I had with them, with, as the cliché goes, every fiber of my being, is the reason I cannot leave. Love with passion, hate with passion. If someone deserves your contempt, if that’s what they have earned, then they deserve it one hundred percent. If an animal has engendered my love, then they deserve that love one hundred percent. My own belief.

I hope that I’ve cleared up the question for anyone who may have it, as to why I came back here to poison.


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the bills and their elephants

sehnen  posted o Au 01, 2008 /views 61/ Tags: this is the way the world ends

Friday 1 August 2008….   Greenfield

small i’s today, to underscore the fact that in the minds of a whole lot of swine, i am not a human being. in fact, i may have been demoted from worm to amoeba.

still sick, still tired, still (i hope) accumulating a critical volume of death-energy. still without an apartment, renting a bedroom. still autistic. imagine that. it doesn’t just go away because a herd of neurotypicals want it to. raging immune system doesn’t just go away, either.

and the neurotypicals won’ just go away. they’re still here. still ill-mannered, insensitive, cold, full of agendas, shallow, controlling, boring. and those who were beautiful and sincere, my animals, are still and forever gone.

and i’m still being repeatedly interfered with by people and events connected with Matthew and his ilk, and crime-chick and her ilk, and if i told to you these events and people, you would be determined not to believe me. i really despise not being believed, because  i neither invent nor imagine these true but unbelievable goings-on. is it really so hard to grasp the reasons i’m so misanthropic, that i dislike the human species so much?

carl jung said: show me a sane man, and i’ll cure him for you. there are kinds of “sanity,” or what’s accepted as that, that are very deranged indeed. and there are kinds of “craziness,” of not matching some norm invented by the writer of a textbook, that are very, very sane.

hatred is greenfield. hatred is turners falls. hell is other people, and the hollow men run everything. including me.

Update 4 August 2009: The hollowness is in just about all humans, to me. Certainly in the whole cast of characters who were responsible for my life being stolen from me. Certainly in the gaggle that gathers around Matthew, and in the man himself. People are so full of non-essential flotsam, and of casual cruelty. They are so hollow of richness, depth, sincerity.

The hollow men belongs to T.S. Eliot, and hell is other people belongs to J.P. Sartre. And the bills? I already told you that, a few posts back. All law enforcement drones, from the cop on the beat on up to the federal ones, are bills to me. Ego-driven, amoral, cowardly in anything that really counts, and anti-intellectual.

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spuerest du kaum einen hauch

Page Eighty-five

sehnen  posted on July 30, 2008 /views 59 / tags: unschuld

am mittwoch den 30sten juli 2008     gruenefeld

also auf deutsch schreiben, trotz der ganzen menge davon, die ich vergeßen habe. alles ist jetzt sowieso scheiß egal. ich bin, wie jeder anderer, was ich bin. was ik bin, zu den meisten, ist unakseptabel, verkehrt, absonders. na denn. die meisten menschen sind mir genauso unakseptabel und unbegreiflich als ich diese dinge zu ihnen bin. was wird daraus noch kommen? was schon darausgekommen ist, ist mir ganz und gar zuviel.

ich gehöre keinem anderen menschen, keiner gruppe, keinem system, obwohl die leute meines lebens haben diese rolle öfters an sich genommen. als ob ich ihnen doch gehörte.

wovon ist übel gemacht, und gemeinheit? vom standpunkt eines menschens mit aspergers, oder zumindest dieses menschens mit aspergers, sind übel und gemeinheit aus der benehmung neurotypischer leuten gemacht. das heißt nicht, daß autistische  sich auch nicht so benehmen können. aber in meiner erfahrung, müßen wir dazu gestoßen werden.

na, es reicht mir schon, nach 55 jahren. das stoßen, das zwingen, das manipulieren, das lügen: der ganze neurotypischer dreck. nach meiner autistischen weltanschauung, sind alle neurotypische angebote, ob von familie oder freund oder liebhaber, irgendwie schmutzig, unheil, verdrungen.

die tiere, die natur, die kunst, die musik, das dichten — diese lebenselemente sind rein und echt. diese elemente sind mein welt, waren meine welt, bevor bestimmte neurotypische ihre häßliche arbeit taten.

ich tat gar nichts, um die letzten zwei jahre zu verdienen. sie nahmen alles, was mir lieb und teuer war. ich leide jedem moment, im körper und im herzen und in der seele. und wenn ich neurologisch “normale” menschen schon vorher fürchtete, dann ist diese furcht jetzt vielmal schlimmer geworden. wenn ich so vollkommen unakseptabel bin, warum könnt ihr mich mindestens alleine und in ruhe laßen, anstatt anfälle gegen mich zu unternehmen.



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i’m not a human being

Page Eighty-four

sehnen  posted on July 17, 2008 /views 79 / tags: hollow men hunting with mommies

thursday 17 july 2008       Greenfield

 I’m not a human being, I’m not a human being, I’m not a human being. I need to make a mantra out of this statement so I won’t forget it, so I won’t commit the unforgivable hubris of believing for even one momentchen that I am a human being.

Have I mentioned that I dislike the folk of Franklin County, and of Turners Falls in particular? It bears repeating though, because these feelings grow stronger with each new casual cruelty, with each new abrogation of my citizen and human rights, with each new ravaging of privacy and dignity. With each new day that carries me further away from the animals and the life that was mine before a whole gang of individuals decided to deprive me of legal rights. Franklin County has finished me off. Though I walk and breathe, any number of very important parts of my former self are dead and buried.

So if Matthew has told truth, how do I feel about the possibility of bullets in the head? Well, it’s fast. It has that in its favor. But unless I’m firing those bullets myself, it’s once again someone else taking control of my life, and of my death. Two poets I like, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, opted for noxious gases. Alchohol mixed with pills is a route that a lot of people have chosen. I’d rather end my life myself than let the people Matthew talked about do it. And what I’m doing now, what I’m doing since a gaggle of controlling, abusive people took my way of life from me, is something I want to end. And I’d like to have the control in my dying that others have always usurped from me in my living.

Well it’s too hot. And in spite of the library’s air conditioning, I’m sweating right down to the fingertips tapping the keys. Need to go for ice cream.

Update 31 July 2009:   A year later, my feelings remain the same, or even stronger. I wasn’t a human being to the psychotic landlady and the crime-chick tenant: just an annoyance they wanted to be rid of,  no matter how they got that job done. Nor was I a human being to the Department of Health, who were too lazy to look for the kind of rental my animals and I needed in the country, on a farm. And if the things Matthew told me are true, then I’ve certainly never been a human being to the crime-chick’s connections in Connecticut. And I’m not a human being to M and his kind either. I’m only an opportunity to use.


Me-Myself&I said on July 17

i have read this 3 times. sigh… wow…. another sigh… Bless your heart. i know the pain but i have never heard it told that way! you touched me with those words. i love ice cream too. have a good one, try. take care

part of the book Spite and Malice

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testosterone town

Page Eighty-three

sehnen posted Jul 14, 2008/views 59/Tags: to drown us

monday 14 july 2008      greenfield

subtitle:  “All you need to know is that he won’t be
                    bothering you anymore.”     ~~  matthew lacoy


Very tired. Before I fall asleep and my head flops onto this keyboard, I’d like to paraphrase Lennon and McCartney:


They went out tiger hunting
with their elephants and guns.
In case of accidents
they always took their moms.
They’re the all-american, bullet-headed
saxon mothers’ sons.


All the children sing:
Hey Bungalow Bill,
what did you kill, Bungalow Bill.
Deep in the jungle
where the mighty tiger lies,
the bills and their elephants
are taken by surprise,
till Captain Marvel zaps it
right between the eyes.

So, is there in fact, as Matthew (who in his own mind is his own special version of Captain Marvel) has said, a very grim situation in my life which could possibly result in some zapping? Well, I’m sure that most of you choose to deny the truth of the things he said to me by saying either that I misheard what he said, or imagined what he said, or that he in fact said these things, but he was lying. Or he was imagining them. Whatever, I suppose, you need to tell yourself in order continue your denial.

But I was present for everything. Everything bizarre, everything illegal, everything cruel, that has happened in my life since the day the crime-chick moved into my building. I’ve been present, and you have not. And I’ve been with Matthew when he’s told me the few things he has, and you haven’t. I know, based on two years of emotional horrors and repeated illegal acts, based on things I’ve seen and heard and wondered mightily about when they happened, based on Matthew’s demeanor when he said these things, that he didn’t lie.

So I believe him, but I certainly don’t hold him or his breed up as Captain Marvels in my estimation. I view them derisively, angrily, bitterly. They’re little children to me, feeding their egos, and possessed of an enormous capacity of their own for denial: they believe that what they do is right, and that they’re on the side of right. They don’t smell their own stink, because they don’t want to.

I’m the only one who’s been zapped, and thus far all of that zapping has been of a type that leaves me still technically alive (that’s all that matters to Matthew: still technically alive). The psychotic, law-breaking landlady has lost nothing. The crime-chick herself has lost nothing (Matthew has said that only “big fish” are wanted). She has served not even one day in jail for drug-dealing, or for any of the illegal things she has done to me. I, the only innocent one in this moral farce, am the only one who’s lost, and I’ve lost everything that mattered. All of it was taken by various players in this farce.

And I’ve met yet another untrue man, only five days ago. If I told you how I met him, and why it was so important to him to meet me and speak with me, and what he does for a living, you wouldn’t believe me. If I were to tell you what happened on a certain night, you wouldn’t believe me. You would continue your denial. If you had minds that were open to accept bizarre realities in the life of an innocent person, you might be able to imagine at least a little how I must feel to have landed, through no illegal activity of my own, smack in the middle of this ugly drama. The denial I myself would like to practice, to say: No, this isn’t happening. But I’ve been through too much horrible truth since July 2006 to be able to pull that denial off.

I had a moral code when I still had my own life. A code designed completely by me, which was quite strict in certain areas, and to which I held fairly tenaciously. It’s unraveling. Thread by thread, I care less and less every day about the morality of my own conduct and wishes. I value human life less and less every day. Excessive trauma, excessive psychological abuse, turn out to have a coarsening effect on some people, and I’m one of them. I grow coarser and more vicious in my attitude towards human beings every day. And I do not care. Tell me I shouldn’t let the darkness that has been levelled at me infect me. You can talk till you’re blue, and I don’t care.


read more about the man with the white hair

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read…    Spite and malice…   Braon

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Polly puppet

Page Eighty-two

wed 9 july 2008       Greenfield    (copying originals again)

sehnen  posted on Jul 09, 2008 / views 47 / Tags: tie these anchors to our eyes


pretty polly puppet
was strangled by a string,
and the cry was deafening.

           ~~  barbara-anne dorn


I hope Barbara-Anne is okay. It’s been so many years, and I can’t find her with a Google search. I can find someone with her name, but that one’s much too young to be the one I knew. I always loved her poetry, and wish I still had it with me.

So often I’ve felt like the powerless marionette, anybody with any kind of power over me pulling the bloody strings whenever they feel like it and contorting me out of myself, out of my personal freedom. And if you think that poverty doesn’t make you a marionette, just try it on for size. Try long-term poverty that you will never get out of because your body will never be fit enough to hold any kind of decent job again. Try government programs, and see how they pull your strings. Try being a lifelong poverty-renter, never having the personal freedom of your own home, and see how power-tripping landlords and substance-abusing fellow tenants pull your bloody strings. Try it on for size. Then Matthew comes along and tells me that he and other federal types from Burlington are pulling my strings. Try that one.

Will I get to make an ear-splitting, deafening cry before I strangle? Doubt it. The powerless are rarely heard, no matter how loudly they scream.

The human race sickens me. Including Matthew and his gang, who fancy themselves fighters of crime and defenders of right. They’re egomaniacal and sociopathic, and they break any law they like in order to get who they want to get. Respect for the law is anathema to them. They respect only the hunt and the kill.

And on homelessness:


I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red.
Around the world I’ll beg my bread,
until my parents shall wish me dead.
Siúl, siúl, siúl….


~~~  anonymous

Siúl, siúl…. it takes up fifty percent of the homeless person’s time. The other half is hanging. Hanging here, hanging there. All of this hoofing and all of this hanging are contributing (I hope) to the critical volume of death energy as much as the heat is. Let this energy accumulate at a faster rate.

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