who, why

thursday 30 june 2011              (new post)

I’ve written just in the last several days about the who. The name or names that Matthew would never give, still won’t give me. He told me that people wanted to hurt me, he told me I was being protected and by whom, but he never said any names of any family or families who are the ones from whom I need this so-called protection. This lack of names is a thing that, to my own mind, speaks to my sanity, to the fact that I’m not delusional. I do believe that if I were nutty, I would simply supply the names. I’d take them out of my memory of old news stories, or whatever, but as a delusional, I would have names. It would be the names that would be a salient feature of the delusion as a story, a story that included all the necessary names needed to complete the scenario. I’m sane, and so I have no names, except that one possible Greif. But that one didn’t come from Matthew. If it had, I would be certain of that name. No other name, except my own, oddly enough, has ever come up. The grandfather that Matthew told me was a mob man had the same last name that I do, so there’s that. I would have more details if this were a delusion.

Just as important to me, the purported object of a hunt, as the who, is the why. Why? Many bad therapists and many regular people have asked me this question over the last three years. Some psychiatrists too. Why do they want you? The response I have is flimsy: because I lived in a building with a very insane and substance-addicted woman who loathes me, and she’s connected to these people by marriage, and she asked them to hurt me. My answer doesn’t live up to the drama of the situation — other people’s drama, not mine. I didn’t ask to be told by a man that I was in this kind of trouble and this kind of protection. It happened to me. The drama of crime mobs and protectors and undercover crap belongs to the mobs and to the protectors, not to me. I didn’t dream it up, and I didn’t choose it. But when I talk to others about all of this, all the drama doesn’t, of course, escape them. And rather than allowing for the possibility that this has happened to me, they prefer to stay in their denial and decide that I either invented this drama because I love drama, or I imagined it.

I want the answer that isn’t flimsy, and have always wanted it. I’ve paced around Matthew’s livingroom floor, smoking, stepping around the day’s pile of clothes-code, with tears in my eyes and with my volume escalating: But what do they care about me? I’ve never witnessed any of their big crime-doings, I never stole any of the money or the drugs. I’m nothing to their world. I pause in my pacing and crying and near-yelling to look at him and see if he will speak. Sometimes he does, and spouts some of his idiot-shtik. Nothing real. Other times he just keeps quiet. I go on: So what if their little Judith hates me and asked them to hurt me. So what! Do these gangster types go around bumping off everyone little Judith hates? Do they really spend their time and their resources that way? Don’t they have better things to do, more important things to do? I hurl these questions at Matthew repeatedly over two months, and I never get the answer. On July 26 of 2008, when he tells me about my grandfather, I ask again: So what? Is this because of Judith and my grandfather? So what? Whatever my grandfather did that made them kill him, it was over sixty years ago. If they want to bump off people in my family as some kind of a vendetta, why haven’t they been doing it for the last sixty years? Why now? Why me?

I get no logical response. I get shtik. But while I am railing about sixty years ago and vendetta and all that, I suddenly remember the murder of my cousin, and a whole new area of question and of pain floods through me: my cousin. All those years ago. I’m sitting now. The pacing is fairly rare. I usually plant my butt on the futon and do my railing in minimal comfort. So I start telling Matthew all about cousin Billy, and I can see in his eyes that he already knows, but he chooses not to say so and lets me keep talking. This has happened before when I’ve told him certain things about myself or Judith or the landlady: he already knows. It’s there in his eyes. But he’s not going to admit that to me. So, as always, I pretend I don’t see what’s in his eyes, and I don’t say You already know, and I just keep telling my facts.

When I get only a few sentences into my facts about Billy, Matthew turns his face towards the window and keeps it there. Stares out the window while I talk. Will not look at me, not even once. As I go on, as I start to cry, the side of his face that I can see, the right side, gets red. His right eye gets red. Little slow tears begin falling from his right eye, but he won’t look at me, and he won’t speak. When I finish the facts about Billy, the facts as they were told to my family long ago, I start it up again: Did they kill Billy? Did they? I want to slap his face over and over until he answers me Yes or No, but I don’t. I just get louder, I cry more. I ask the questions again. And then this, not for the first time and not for the last: You’re not gonna tell me. Same old story, you’re not gonna tell me. I have a right to know. I’m the one in this situation and I have a right to know. But who the fuck cares about my rights. Not that psycho-landlady and not the DMH and not you and your people. And then I shut up and start smoking again.

This is yet another fact that I believe speaks to my sanity: If I were delusional or lying, I would have a Why. It would be there as part of the structure of the delusion, or it would be there as a fabrication. I don’t have, and have never had, a Why of substance.

I’ve waited a long time to be able to write the things I’ve been writing for the last week, the things I deliberately left out in 2008. And when I now write them, three years later, I am there in the room again with Matthew. I’m crying and pacing and smoking and questioning. Or planted on the futon, smoking, firing questions at him. I’m there in a room with a man who says that he and others are protecting me from me from some very nasty people. In the room with a protector who says he’s fallen in love with me. I’m there, thrown out into the streets and my animals disappeared, talking to a man who says he’s in love about criminals he says want to hurt me, and every single moment of my hours and days is that much-abused word, surreal. This is not MY life as I knew it for 55 years. These things should not have happened to me. I paid my rent. My eviction was illegal. The DMH was supposed to HELP me. I’m not in a crime mob, and never was. I never did anything to this crime mob. I should not be homeless at this moment. My animals should not be hidden from me, waiting for the lethal injection. I should not be in this room with this agent-type man hearing about these bizarre things, talking about these bizarre things. He shouldn’t be in love with me, nor I with him. We should never have met. None of this is MINE.

In retrospect, I see Matthew as my handler. No, it’s not just in retrospect. I did feel that three years ago, too, but would never allow myself to use that word, even in my thoughts. I have only ever heard of the criminals getting federal handlers, but just as my protection is not the normal kind, my role as target seems to have warranted other exceptions, too. I got a handler for a while. I’ve been hearing a lot about federal handlers lately, in the news stories about Whitey Bulger, and on radio shows that just happen to be interviewing retired agents who were undercover and were, at times, handlers.

Matthew my protector. My handler. My love. My rage and torment. All in the summer of 2008. But when I write it now with no holds barred, I’m there in that room again, wanting to slap him and slap him again, until he tells me what I deserve to know. I’m there in that room crying about one painful element of all that surreality, while layers and layers of other painful elements sit just beneath the surface that I give to Matthew and to the world. I’m trying to hold, always, the tsunami of grief and anger at bay. It escapes in spurts. In my tantrums that I throw on my blogs in 2008. In my occasional outbursts to Matthew. In the tantrums that I throw all alone in my rented bedroom. And in my many bouts of grief-tears for my animals, sometimes being spilled in the libraries unabashedly, while I sit and write about these souls who were the center of my world.

I want the Who. I want the Why of substance. I deserve them. I have paid in pain, and still pay, for the right to this Who and this Why. And I will never, ever get them.


read…  Don’t ask Mugsy’s book

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shut up; the hook doesn’t hurt

wednesday 29 june 2011                 (copying originals again)

sehnen posted on Aug 16, 2008/views 71/Tags: taim inis

saturday 16 aug 2008   greenfield

so here I am in this surreal, filthy situation that Matthew has informed me of. because of the behavior and insanity of the mob-chick herself, my fellow-tenant at my last home, I believe what Matthew has said. because of the mob cars that came to that house where we lived, I believe him. because of many bizarre things I’ve seen and heard since coming to greenfield, I believe him. because of the very serious energy coming from him — called vibes back in the seventies — when he told me these things, I believe him. because of some strange things in my own family, I believe what he has said about my grandfather.

so I believe him, whether you do or not. but I’ve asked him, and received no answers, why I’m being protected in this particular way. I only know about witness protection. the protection is arranged with the protectee. the protectors show the protectee some federal identification. the protectee is re-located by the fed types to a new home, and in very extreme cases, is given a new identity. I have never heard of the scenario being foisted on me, and when I ask Matthew questions about why I haven’t been located somewhere and given back my animals, I get nothing. when I ask him why Judith the crime-chick is not in jail, he says “Did you ever hear of big fish?” So I say yes. And then I say, So that’s what you people want, the big fish? he doesn’t answer. I nag him repeatedly: I don’t want to be protected this way anymore. I never agreed to this. I’m innocent, and I’m being treated like a criminal. I want to be protected in a home. I want to be located somewhere. tell your people that.

yeah, so he’s been talking about driver’s licenses and cars and new apartments for a couple of weeks. ain’t nuthin’ happened yet. a few days after his “big fish” remark, I came to the only conclusion I could on the skimpy facts that I have:  if the big fish want me, and if I’m not being protected in an above-board, humane way, then maybe I’m the bait for the fish. and if I am, then isn’t it just ducky for the protectors to leave me homeless, traipsing in the streets where I can attract fish. am I just supposed to be the worm dangling on the hook with no home, my animals where?, as if I were not a human being with needs and desires and a soul (not to mention rights), but only a convenient piece of federal meat? Matthew never, ever disputes the bait theory when I bring it up. is this silence an admission in itself?

well I will tell you, my slimy “protectors,” that the hook does hurt. it hurts a whole hell of a lot. it’s cruel, it’s degrading, it’s dehumanizing. lonely and ugly and insane. it deprives me of many rights as an amerikan citizen and as a human being, which I am, whether you choose to see me as that or not. if I am bait, you own the hook. you devised it and ran it through me, and I had, and have, no say. I will not shut up.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   from where I sit, and with what I’ve been told by Matthew, and what I haven’t been told by him, I see that all pain is acceptable if it’s being created by the one holding the fishing rod. all rights are disposable for the dangling worm. all systems are corrupt, my fifty-five years have taught me. political systems, social systems, social service systems, cop systems, and so on. all systems are corruptible and have in fact been corrupted. it grieves me, on top of all my other grief, that Matthew and some of his colleagues, the ones who are out in the field rather than sitting in the offices, did not, do not go to bat for me and protest to the office bosses about the way my “protection” is being handled; that I’m not a criminal myself and deserve a location and deserve to see ID’s and to be told exactly what’s going on, and who’s doing it, and how long they expect it to last. and if going to bat didn’t work, there’s always whistle-blowing. as far as I know, federal employees are all protected by a whistle-blower’s law, and they can’t be fired or otherwise punished for going over the heads of their superiors to report illegal/immoral conduct. wouldn’t it be great if Matthew, who professes to love me, would do that. it would cost him nothing but some courage and some conviction and some moral outrage on behalf of the woman he loves. but Matthew is as hollow as the rest of them, it seems. the mob-chasers are as morally bankrupt as the mob. and the hook hurts only me.


read…   Stolen stars…   Mishibone…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

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the man in the white bandana

tuesday 28 June 2011             (new post)

This is a companion post to the man with the white hair. This is what happened next.

Before July 21, the day when the guy called Jim said the names Luigi and Vittorio Greif in my hearing, there was a little more excitement in store for me, and I say that both sardonically and with bitterness.

The man with the white hair disappeared from Greenfield very early on Friday 11 July in 2008. A mere one week later, on Friday 18 July, there came the man with the white bandana.


Early on that morning, I’m having my breakfast at the health food store, sitting right beside the very large window. I can see everything on sidewalks and a good chunk of Main Street. And what I see, before I’m even finished eating, is a man riding toward the store on a bike. What takes me aback for a moment is that the man’s head is white. As he gets closer, I see that the white isn’t hair, but a bandana tied over the top of his head. When he’s even closer, I see that the bandana has a small black print on it. But I’ve been noticing other things too. His skin tone is very familiar. His body type is too. The shape of his muscles and bones, the way he holds himself on his bike, are all very like white-hair’s. This man’s facial expression is serious and grim. When he gets level with me, he turns his head and looks right at me, and it isn’t a happy look. I can see that his eyes are blue. There are a few others sitting beside the window, but he doesn’t look at them. He turns his head to the right only long enough to fix me with that not-happy look. I get up and go onto the sidewalk to keep watching him, his movements, the size and shape of his limbs, etc. When I can’t see him anymore, I finish eating and go back to my room.

I’ve been keeping spoken journals on audiotape since 2000. Back in my room, I talk into the microphone about this latest man. I say that there’s a physicality and a skin-tone that are very like the man from last week. I wonder aloud if this is a younger brother, or a cousin. There are these similarities. I also say in my journal that I’m going to the library about noon to reserve time on a computer.

This I do. All the computers are taken, and I make a reservation for one hour later. Going back out, standing at the top of the library steps, I see Matthew down on the sidewalk. Just standing there watching me. When I go down to him, he asks me to come over. I tell him I’ve just made a reservation and he asks me if I can go in and cancel it. No idiot shtik today. He’s acting like his genuine self. I get short periods of this, usually at least once while we’re together, sometimes for as long as an hour. This is the Matthew, the one not acting, that I want to be with, to talk to. The man behind the performance.

I cancel my reservation and go with him. In those days, I would go anywhere with the real Matthew. As soon as we’re in his hovel, I start grilling him about this new man. He wants to know why I think this man is related to the other one, and I list my reasons. I’ve never, thus far, seen him look depressed, until I finish my list. He does indeed look depressed. And then I do something that I didn’t do with Matthew nearly often enough: I take a stand.

I tell him I’m not going back to my room, that I’m staying with him tonight. I tell him that just in case that man is going to come riding up my street tonight with a helicopter flying over him, I don’t want to see it. And just in case there might be more people outside my windows at 2 a.m., I don’t want to be there. Once was more than enough. At first he says okay, and we talk of other things. He goes out to Dunkin Donuts for coffee, and when he comes back, he starts nagging me to sleep in my room tonight, and I refuse. He tries to cajole me: Come on, it’s okay. You won’t get hurt, I promise. I tell him I know bloody well I won’t get hurt, but that if any weird things are going to happen on my street and outside my room again, I do NOT want to deal with it. This is your world, I tell him, not mine.

He’s not pleased, but he finally stops nagging and says okay. We’re both hungry, so we head up to the health food store to get supper. One or two houses up from Matthew’s there’s a very small plaza on Main Street with a laundromat and a couple of other stores. This plaza has a short driveway that goes to the street. When we reach this driveway, there’s a cop parked in it, blocking anyone else from using it. Engine shut off. The cop watches Matthew very intently as we walk by, and I watch the cop. Matthew stares straight ahead, but he’s very grim.

The health food store is a bit of a trek from that driveway, at least for my short legs, and I’d say it takes about ten minutes. We go into the store, spend some time picking out what we want, spend some more time paying and bagging, and then head back to eat in the hovel. By the time we reach that driveway again, we’ve been gone at least twenty-five minutes. And that stinking cop is still sitting there in that driveway, and still he watches Matthew intently. This time Matthew doesn’t ignore him. When we reach the passenger side window, the young cop’s face eagerly gazing at Matthew, Matthew shakes his head no. This isn’t meant for me, because we are not speaking at the moment. He just shakes his head no. The cop sees this and suddenly springs into life. Starts the cruiser and revs it loudly. Backs out of the short driveway like a bat out of hell and heads up main street at a speed that I’m sure was over the limit.

During the rest of the evening Matthew tries a couple more times to get me back to my room, without success. I stay in my stand.

Early in the morning we go out for coffee and Matthew acts bitchy and I go back to my room. I never see the man with the white bandana again. When I later grill Matthew about this, I get nothing. A few weeks later, an identical bandana will appear on the head of yet another new man in Greenfield, but that’s another post. The July 18th man is never seen again by me, to this day.

And on July 21st, Jim — another of those who is always in my face wherever I go — asks someone to “pray for the repose of the souls of Vittorio and Luigi Greif.” After he says this, he turns around and gives me a nasty look.

I have a great deal of wondering….  were they brothers, these two men, or at least cousins? why did they disappear? were they called Vittorio and Luigi? were they dead? how many of these things and people connected to each other, and how many didn’t? why did that cop sit there and apparently wait for me and Matthew to come back? why did Matthew shake his head at the cop? and so on, ad nauseam. And it all remains wondering, three years later, because Matthew would answer not one of these questions when I asked them.


Greif, Gambino, what the hell difference does it make. The people from whom I’ve presumably been protected can be called Wienerschnitzel or Nakis or Jones, because gangsters are gangsters are gangsters, no matter what their names. The only reason I’d like to know the names is because this has happened to me. All of this sordid cloak-and-dagger, this cruel bait-on-hook, has damaged me, has hurt me. Not you. Not Matthew Lacoy. Not any of the people who have chosen not to believe me. Not Judith the crime-chick. Me. Anne Nakis. Who had a right to be treated like a human being by the psychotic landlady. Who had a right to be treated like a human being by the Department of Mental Health. Who had a right to be treated like a human being by the frigging feds. Me.


read…    Mental hell…   Kaikenlainen

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the man with the white hair

sunday 26 june 2011…     (new post)

This post is a companion to another one called testosterone town. That one was written in 2008. Today I’m going to say more than I said then.

There were reasons that I thought were good ones for not writing all of it three years ago. The biggest of those reasons was that in July of 2008, I was still very sappy about Matthew and the others said to be protecting me. I didn’t want any of them to be hurt protecting me, and I certainly didn’t want it to be because I gave too many details in my blogs.

I’ve long since lost my sappiness about these people, and the straight, unpretty truth is that I don’t give a flying banana what happens to any of them. So why haven’t I given the details before now. Well, first because it’s hard now to write about these things. In 2008 I had to sit down and vent every day in order to just keep going. But now… now I know that my contempt for Matthew and his colleagues is so huge that nothing will ever vent it; and I will never, unlike the people in the Whitey Bulger case who sued the feds and won, get any justice. Another reason… I’m sick to death of being called delusional. It’s insulting and it isn’t the truth. I’ve known delusional people and I’ve read books about them. They have a certain way of talking and emoting, a certain affect, that I don’t have. And the delusions multiply, in the cases I know about. It may start with a belief that there’s a plot to kill the mayor, and then another plot to kill someone else evolves, and so on. The tree of imagination is always growing new leaves, and sometimes those leaves are very different from one another — whole new stories appear. A few so-called therapists have even said to me that I’m not the way delusionals usually are, but they write delusional on their pieces of paper anyway. What I tell has always been the same at its core. Sometimes new elements have appeared, and that has always been the result of what some other living person said to me, not inventions in my own head. I have always told the truth as far as I know it, and owing to Matthew’s refusal to answer most of my questions, I know very little.

So I know that in writing anything at all about the crime-chick and her connections, Matthew and his colleagues, bizarre things that have gone on around me since 2008, puts me again in the witness box where I will be judged a loon. I am no loon. Whatever other insults people can justifiably throw at me, I am rational and sane and suffer no delusions. On with it, then.

day one

It was a Wednesday, 9 July 2008, hot and humid, early afternoon. I was living in the rented bedroom where I had no kitchen privileges, and so had to get all my meals out somewhere. I didn’t spend too much time in the room, because it hurt too much not to have my animals there all around me. I had only been told seven days before, by Matthew, that people wanted to hurt me. I hadn’t had much time to adjust to this news.

I had taken my lunch, book, notebook and drawing pens to the only picnic table that exists on Bank Row in Greenfield. This was one of my frequent sitting spots. It’s a very small, grassy area with one side edged in trees. I get up from the table to stretch a little and try to relieve the pain in my joints. I have my back to Bank Row and its intersector, Deerfield Street. Because I’m facing the wrong way, I can’t see the man coming at me on the bicycle. I’m lost in my own thoughts and don’t hear him either, not until he’s nearly on top of me.

I turn quickly and there he is, looking as though he’s going to run me down. He squeals on the breaks about three inches in front of me. I have known about certain things for only seven days, and so I memorize him as much as I can for a later grilling of Matthew. His eyes are very blue, like Matthew’s, but not as big. The most identifying feature about him is his absolutely white, shoulder-length hair. He can only be in his early forties, but he’s gone snow-white. When he stops, he says to me that he’s new in town (I already know this — I’m familiar with all of the scruffs in Greenfield by now, and he’s decked out like a scruff), and he wants to know where all the drunks hang out. He’s smiling, but the smile is mean. Despite his every-day words, I can feel the hostility coming from him, can feel that he despises me, even though I don’t know him, even though he’s new in town.

I tell him in a snotty way that I wouldn’t know where they hang out because I’m not a drunk. I tell him to go up to Main Street and ask somebody there. Lots of drunks are on Main Street. He says, still smiling that leering smile, that he can see that I’m in a bad mood so he’ll leave me alone. Thanks for the information.

I go back to the table and start to cry. Not about the man, but about my animals. I sit there crying, smoking, and a car comes down Bank Row and stops straight across from me, right in the middle of the street. For five or so minutes no traffic comes down Bank Row, so the car is able to remain stopped dead in the road. The windows are so darkly tinted on this car that you can’t see the driver, or anyone else who might be in it. It looks like the car has driven itself to the middle of the street. It looks very new, is thickly layered with black paint, and shiny as a mirror. In these ways it’s like the mob cars, but I don’t think it’s one of them. It’s not from Connecticut, for one thing. And for another, it has several thick antennae sticking up from it, which I hadn’t seen on any of the mob cars. I hardly ever see them on any cars. Only when traffic comes down the Row behind it does the car drive off.

I’ve had two very weird occurrences in the space of ten or so minutes, added to those seven days of knowledge given me by Matthew. I’ve done all I can: I’ve memorized the man and his words, and then the car. I’m powerless. I can do nothing to send that man back where he came from, and I can do nothing to find out who was in that car. I continue my thoughts on my animals and my tears a couple minutes more, and then I leave.

I’m thirsty again, so I decide to go to the health food store for something. That is Matthew’s base, that store, and his cousin is one of the big shots who runs it. I’m still crying about my animals, I’m not in the mood for Matthew’s undercover shtik at the moment, so I go down the alley to enter the store from the back. And there he is. Matthew. Coming at me from under the awning over the back door. Using his phony whine-voice and his phony I’m-just-a-nut grin. How are you he says, as usual. I play along. Oh not so good today, Matty, how about you. Are you having a happy day? Somewhat, he says. And then his eyes bore into mine very sanely, very intelligently, full of concern, despite the phony idiot grin on his face. Still cryin’? he asks me. I say yeah. He has his right hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, but he stretches out the middle finger and presses it against my upper arm. Says very quietly, so no one around us will hear, Hang in.

I have questions I can’t ask because we’re in public. I can’t ask: why did you say still crying, as if you knew I’ve been crying for a good while? Were you in that car? Who was in that car? Who was that man with the white hair? What am I supposed to hang in against, and for how long? I wait to see if he’ll invite me to his hovel so I can ask these things, but he doesn’t. I get something to drink and leave.

day two

10 july and a Thursday. Three, four times I see the man with the white hair. Every time he gives that same smile and says Hi there. I don’t answer. Matthew I see not at all, all day long, and that’s very, very strange. I return to my room for the last time that day after I’ve had my supper somewhere.

At 7:30 I go outside to have a cigarette. As soon as I do, a state cop car drives past me down the street. I smoke and go back in. At 8:00 I go out to smoke another. There’s a state cop helicopter flying fairly low over my street, away from town. And here’s the man with the white hair, pedaling furiously in the same direction, chuckling, as if he’s trying to outrun the helicopter. When he gets even with me, he looks over at me with that same grin, but says nothing this time. Up the street they go, helicopter and bicycle.

Now I’m more nervous. This man who clearly has contempt for me has seen where I live. Matthew has asked me to hang in. I don’t like this stuff. It’s hokey and over-dramatic and cloak-and-dagger. It’s Hollywood. And most importantly: it does not belong in my life. I’m not a criminal, and never have been. I don’t have criminals as friends or as family (Matthew hasn’t yet told me about my grandfather). This stupid, sociopathic drama that goes on between mobs and the people who hunt them is NOT MINE. I don’t deserve it, I don’t want it, and I hate it.

I can’t sleep. I just keep listening to the radio and going outside to smoke. At two in the morning, I start hearing sounds outside my windows. It sounds like people punching each other, but there are no voices. First the sounds are at one window on one wall, then they’re at the others on the other wall. I sit on the floor, listening. When it stops, I finally go to bed, but I’m a long time falling asleep.

day three

friday 11 july…  In the morning I look at the bark mulch under my windows. There are large footprints in it. They weren’t there yesterday. I know this because of one of my personal quirks. When someone lays down new mulch, as my landlady had just done, or new sand or new soil, I like to look at it every day while it’s still untouched, before anyone steps in it. I like the unspoiled look of it. So I knew with no doubts or delusions or paranoia that those large footprints were brand new.

I walk all the same streets and go to all the same places that I did yesterday, but there’s no sign of the white-haired man. Early afternoon Matthew comes along and invites me over. I ask some of my questions, but I’m so tired that I forget to ask all of them. And this is what I get:  All you need to know is that he won’t be bothering you anymore. The line I quoted in the other post. He said it with pride, on the edge of arrogance, as if the big strong boys had done their macho thing and they were proud. And I — the little lady, the little victim, the little piece of bait?  —  mustn’t go on asking questions. I did go on asking questions, but he gave me nothing else.

These things really happened. These words were really said. I’ve never seen that white-haired man again, in either Greenfield or Turners. He was in Greenfield for less than three days. Dear Matthew said that he’d never bother me again, and he never has. 

Ten days later, on july 21, a man called Jim said something to someone (in my hearing) that made me wonder if this white-haired man was someone named Greif. Vittorio or Luigi Greif. But that’s only a maybe, only another unanswered question.


read…  Mugsy’s book…   Lucked out

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robin hood, riding through the glen

friday 24 june 2011…           (back to copying originals)

sehnen posted on Aug 12, 2008/views 71/Tags: waiting for friar tuck, no singing

~~~  I know someone who is 54 today. I’m neither celebrating this person nor cursing them. Simply noncommittal.

~~~  Tonight I’m wearing plaid. Plaid has been sickeningly prominent lately in the clothing of Matthew Lacoy and his pals. Occasionally Matthew will leave a great pile of a certain type of clothing in the middle of the livingroom of his two-story apartment. He leaves them in the only room of his two-story apartment where I ever sit. He could leave them upstairs. I’ve come to feel that these piles are meant to be seen by me, but what they mean is anyone’s guess. You won’t believe this, of course, because it’s more fun just to call me nuts, but I have seen many other oddities in the behavior of Matthew and his pals that you don’t even know about yet, and I have learned by observation (not imagined via insanity), that these oddities have a meaning to Matthew and his gang. It’s a language I can’t understand because no one has taught me the vocabulary. And they never will. These piled clothes —- sometimes they aren’t even dirty, haven’t even been worn. Clean and creased from the package. So it was with the great pile of plaid shirts. Clean and creased from package. A line from a Scottish folk-song sings in my brain every time I see him or one of his pals in plaid (which is many times a day):

         They’ve but hired young brigands with belted-up plaids.

The brigands of my days. The landlady; the crime-chick; the goons at the Department of Mental Hell; Matthew and his pals; and the crime-chick’s pals too, if Matthew’s words are true. Since I have my reasons for believing his words are true, exactly what am I supposed to do in a moment-to-moment stress that is impossible to describe? What the landlady and the DMH did, and the resulting loss of home, way of life, and everyone I love. What Matthew and his pals and their opponents do every single day. What am I supposed to do with a load of stress and anger, grief and emptiness, that is larger and heavier than I can describe? I don’t know what you would do, but these are some of the things I do… I come and dump my emotions into these blogs. I suppose the emotionality is one of the things that leads people to decide I’m delusional. Emotional = nuts. But I have to sit at a computer and dump some of the load before I can proceed with the day… Sometimes I walk the streets with little stuffed birds that sing their song when you squeeze them. Every time I see one of Matthew’s pals, or one of the crime-chick’s, I squeeze the little bird and make it sing. My own quirky way of saying to them in a public forum that I see them and that I despise them…  Sometimes I sing right in a store or restaurant, or as I walk the street. Just at a normal volume, but people hear. I do this because I want to scream very loudly. At Matthew and his pals, at crime-chick’s pals, at case managers from the DMH. But screaming is not socially permitted, so I sing to release some pent-up anger instead. This public singing is also not terribly socially acceptable, but nobody throws me out or puts me in jail for it.

~~~  Lately Matthew has been saying that maybe I’ll be getting a new apartment very soon, and he’s said it more than once. On a Sunday nine days ago he made sit with him in his backyard for close to an hour in the heat. I kept asking him what or who we were waiting for, and all I got was:  Well you might be in a car driving to a new apartment.  And about every other day for two weeks he’s been asking if I have my driver’s license, and saying that he’ll be getting his new one very soon. On Saturday one of his pals said to me, in a ridiculous manner that I don’t even have the energy to describe, that a town called Nottingham (in New england, not Old england) may figure in my life soon. So I’m thinking of getting more deeply into the Robin Hood legend. It’s one I love anyway. How could a marxist-leaning person like myself not love it? Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? It’s right up my street. So, when I get finished with my plaids, I’m thinking of buying earthy greens and browns, and maybe tights, though it’s too hot to wear them right now. I have a robin-hoody hat in my storage unit, but who knows which box or bag to look in to find it. That hat is dear, dear to me. I found it one morning when I was walking my dogs at the river in turners falls. Just sitting there all alone on a picnic table at 5 a.m. I kept it. For a short time I used to let the dogs take turns wearing the hat, but as they were not terribly fond of this sport, I gave it up and kept the hat for myself. And the last two of those four dogs were stolen from me five months ago. Five months ago exactly, on the 12th of March.

~~~  dona mihi pacem…  peace is not happiness. peace isn’t the restoration of things stolen. there is no moment coming in which broken things can be made whole, or impossible things made possible. but peace at the age of fifty-five, would be, at least, peace.


read…    Lifelines Scealta liatha

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thursday 23 june 2011…                (new post)

On Tuesday, the solstice, at 4:05 pm, I heard a news story locally produced at our public radio station in Amherst, that stirred up all kinds of things which exist in me all the time anyway. They’ve existed in me since Monday 23 June 2008. Exactly three years. It was exactly three years ago that, after wondering for more than three months why certain people were appearing everywhere I went, doing things that I’d never encountered before, and pretending to be drunk when they weren’t, etc, that a lightbulb went off in my head and said:  this must have something to do with the crime-chick. And when I asked Matthew a day or two later if something criminal were going on in my life, he said yes.

I’ve written before and will write until the day I die about things Matthew did tell me, and about the many other things that he did not. Today I’m focusing on one of the lacunae, one of the things he has never told me, though I asked. And that issue is: who. You tell me, Sir Matthew, on July 2 that people want to harm me. You tell me a week or so later that I’m being protected from these mysterious people by other people who come from the fed day camp in Burlington, Vermont. You tell me on July 26 that my long-dead grandfather, whom I never knew, was a mob man who betrayed the mob in some way and was killed by them. But you never tell me who. Who wants to harm me? Who did my grandfather work for and betray? Crime families, I imagine, come in large and small, famous and not, notorious and hardly known by the average person. And all of these families are made up, actually, of several families, and there are a number of last names floating around in the soup. So what are the last names of the various biological families who comprise the crime family that Matthew says wants to hurt me? Just one of the myriad questions to which I never got an answer. A man who calls himself Jim did bring up in my presence once two names: Vittorio and Luigi Greif. Utterly unknown to me. Why should I recognize them. But Matthew himself never said any name at all.

Along comes this news story, which reports the arrest of a man in Connecticut who is charged with murder and taking protection money from businesses and all kinds of other gangland stuff. The story says this man has long been believed by authorities to be “an associate of the Gambino family.” The word Connecticut hits me like a slap. The very obvious mob cars that came to the house where the crime-chick and I both lived in 2007 were licensed in Connecticut. A couple of other very obvious mob cars who came and parked very close to me in Greenfield in the summer of 2008 were licensed in Connecticut. These two cars just parked very close to me for a while, the drivers (two different ones) watching every move I made. And each time, as soon as the car in question left, Matthew suddenly appeared on the sidewalk out of nowhere, coming to see me. Too much coincidence to be coincidence in the statistics jugglers in my brain. Always has been and always will be.

So along comes this news story to tell me that the Gambinos have “associates” in Connecticut. This is something that never occurred to me. I just blithely assume that the most infamous crime families have their family caves somewhere in New York and slither around in that state, and I never ponder on where they might have “associates.” Those Connecticut cars, straight out of a mafia movie. “Protection” from the fed day camp in Burlington. Could it be? Could it be that the name Matthew would never give me is the name Gambino? Could it be that farcical? All I can tell you for certain is that the cars were from Connecticut, the protectors were said to be from Burlington, and that the crime-chick was/is a criminal mind indeed. That news story has given me a great deal of food for thought about that name that Matthew would never speak.


Precisely forty-nine hours after that news story, there appeared two more. One local, one national, and they aired just a few minutes apart. These stories dealt with the arrest of our own special Massachusetts gangster, Whitey Bulger. In these stories it was reported that quite recently, 2006, I think, families of two of Bulger’s victims did in fact sue the feds. And they won. The reason for their suits was that back in the day, about 20 years ago, the FBI in Boston used Whitey as an informant on other gangsters, and in the process protected Whitey. They not only protected him from arrest for a good while, but they told him the names of people who were in turn informing on him, and he killed these people. The coup de grace of FBI corruption was that when finally, in spite of Whitey’s pals’ efforts, he was going to be arrested, his thoroughly suborned FBI “handler” tipped him off. He went on the run to California, where they found him late last night, California time. After sixteen years.

These families sued the feds and won. Meanwhile at least ten people have told me over the last three years that you cannot sue the feds. I’ve believed them. Now it appears that they are wrong. You can sue the feds when they fuck up.

You can sue the feds if you have the money to pay lawyers, which I don’t. You can sue the feds if the agents who harmed you have been arrested and convicted already, which isn’t so in my situation. You can sue them if you have a paper trail for their misconduct, which I don’t.

I have to keep the name Robert Muller in my memory. Keep the name of the man who directed the FBI in the summer of 2008 (and still today), when a certain man told me I was in danger and that I was being protected by feds. The man who directed the FBI in the summer when all of this protection was strictly undercover; when I was never shown any ID’s by anyone; when I was never located anywhere by these people to be protected in a home; when the only conclusion I could come to after Matthew’s remarks about “big fish” was that I was the very convenient and very inhuman bait.


read…   Spite and malice...     Braon

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