The Scrapbook Art III

Page Seventy-one

Wednesday 1 Dec 2010

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       You can’t imagine how frustrated I get trying to arrange these things without custom CSS. The way it all turns out appears to a techno-boob like me to be almost totally arbitrary, at the WordPress programming’s ridiculous html code WHIM.                                                                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                          

 

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

The Scrapbook Art I  ~~  II

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Bereft

Page Sixty-six

Tuesday 10 Aug 2010… new      Turners turned away

I’m being very slow about copying the original Sehnen posts from the now dead Soulcast website here onto WordPress. Slowly is the only way I get anything done. But I came across a soulcast post from Wed 8 Oct 2008 in some papers last night. Most of the post is no longer relevant, as I said some things about Turners in it that I no longer believe to be true.  On October 8 of 2008 I had just had my sleeping-in-the-laundromat privileges withdrawn, and had moved to camp on the canal for about a week and a half. I spent a lot of time in the library (and the women’s center, and the senior center) in order to be inside, and it was in the library that I wrote this poem. It was one of the last ones I have ever written.

Of course, how could anything else be true, it is for Lizzie, Canajoharie, and Tuuschi; For Brainse and Mishi; For Mandy, Judah and Shiloh; For Chailin, Ziidjian and Chan; For Aram, Abel and Chani. For those fourteen who were my children and friends and life companions, who were stolen and hidden from me, whose wereabouts were lied about, who were eventually killed. And none of those who have the answers about where and when and how they were killed will give them to me.

Uaigneas    

I am lost without you —
words used too much, by too many,
I suppose.
Heaven knows, though,
if heaven there is somewhere,
these words are true:                                                                                                                    
I am lost without you.

 

I walk blind without you.
I’m dancing too much, too frilly,
far too false.
Laughing false; shamed
to hear my throat to laugh
when this is true:
I walk blind without you.

 

Everything of me
that touched the stars
and met the moon
and melded with the water;
everything of me
that spoke of timelessness
and chainlessness
and why we walk this rock
was bound to you.

 

I sleep cold without you.
    (everything of me that touched the stars…)
I dream tears about you.
    (everything of me that met the moon…)
I walk blind without you.
    (love melded with the water…)
My share of timelessness
and chainlessness
and magical response
are carried off.
I am not fully I, or truly I,
or only I:
that I is lost without you.

 

I find us here in Turners, living outdoors, more every day, in the places I can get to without a car that were ours. I find us and cry, but despite all the pain, I am happy, happy, at the same time, to find us.

You suffer when someone you love suffers. No one at all, as far as I know, has suffered one moment for me in all these seven months, and therefore, there is no human who loves me. And the ones who did love me — the animals — what happened to them?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~     to the Poetry page

 

 

If I’m not human…

Page Sixty-five…    another post from Soulcast

sehnen posted on Jun 21, 2008 | views: 71 | Tags: death is speakingx

sat 21 june 2008   Greenfield

Today is P.N.’s birthday. I often wished, when I had my life and made wishes, that my birthday were on the other solstice, the winter, because while I was living my own life I really loved the winter solstice. And my actual birthday is only a few weeks off.  Anyway, wishes, like everything else, are all in the past, except the one wish that remains.

I was going to discuss today how my female dog, Brainse, may well have come to belong to the sociopathic, amoral, psychotic, deep-pocketed landlady who illegally threw us out. That would be due to the tender mercies of Shirley Temple at the DMH, who seems to have decided that she didn’t want me having my animals, and looked around for people to give them to. I had mentioned to her several times that the landlady had always coveted Brainse, and she got really, really interested in that. It was one of the few times she seemed like she had a pulse.

And also I was going to talk about the experiments and tests conducted on me in public places, without my consent, and how truly twisted these DMH people (and CSS, and others) turn out to be, and how not a single neurotypical participating in these juvenile, unkind, and non-consentual activities ever stops to think how this psychologically aggressive and intrusive behavior makes me feel. How worthless, unregarded, disrespected, how like a piece of dogshit that anyone at all who takes a notion can kick around or step on. I always thought psychobabble boneheads had to have consent to do testing and experimentation, and that it was done in private, not on streets and in churches and restaurants. But, like my landlady and the psycho-tenant and the cops and the sheriff’s department, the doctors and social workers and whatever do not have to abide by the law when they are dealing with a piece of garbage like me, and they don’t have to behave morally, either. They add daily, hourly to my resolve.

Update 14 July 2009: Unless and until I’m told otherwise, I still believe that the landlady who illegally threw us out ended up with my dogs and euthanized the male because she didn’t want to deal with his epilepsy. It was the female she’d always taken a shine to, anyway. I still believe this came about because of an agreement made behind my back between the landlady and Shirley Temple at the DMH. Until someone tells me otherwise. And have I ever been allowed to visit my dog? Of course not.

And I still believe that Asperger’s testing was done on me in  public last year. Matthew took me to a couple of the tests. He answered a question for me about another one, one I didn’t understand the purpose of. And when they were over, he told me I have Asperger’s.

The anger is in this orginal post too. It will stay. All the emotions that were pulling me away from the grieving I should have been doing — hope, belief, maybe some denial, confusion, anxiety and anger — had to get written into these blogs every day so I could carry on at all, and they propelled me to keep moving, keep trying during all the months I was waiting for Matthew and his bunch to tell me where they wanted me to live.

Matthew knew I expected them to tell me where they wanted me, because I told him this. If it wasn’t going to go that way in my case, he should have told me.

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thirteen weeks tomorrow

Page Thirty-four

sehnen posted on Jun 02, 2008 | views: 112 | Tags: luna stellaequex

mon 2 june 2008    greenfield

1.     another message for someone remaining unnamed:

Bill said, “She’s so fat, they had to roll her in on casters.”

2.     Disobligata I

 

                            in undis
                    alma mea semota
                            natans
                   noli eam revocare
                         sub mare
                   alma mea demota
                          ululans
                  noli eam revocare.

Disobligata II                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                 

                 inter stellas negras
                  alma mea remota
                       lacrimans
                 noli eam revocare
 
 
 
                      
                  sub luna tenebra
                 alma mea semota
                           ululans
                noli eam revocare. 
 
 
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      (here to poetry)
      (here for languages)

 

Update 11 June 2009:  It was thirteen weeks of homelessness, of the absence of everyone I love, when I first wrote this post. Today it is fifteen months. I never dreamed when I first wrote this that I would be homeless so long, that I would never get any of the animals back. And I still had not yet heard the things from Matthew about federal protection and people wanting to harm me and my long-dead grandfather having been a mafia man. Nor had I yet heard from him that I had Asperger’s, for he was the one who told me that little bit of news too. He did so after a series of tests had been done on me in public places, without my consent. I think anyone would have to have been brain-dead not to have recognized these things as tests of some kind, since the clodhoppers who conducted them were decidedly unsubtle. Matthew even told me what one of the scenarios (staged in the health food store) was testing for, so he was in the project up to his eyeballs.

I was pretty sure I had it anyway, but I felt that Matthew’s pronouncement after the tests was believable and real, just as I found him believable when he gave me the other, uglier information.

My soul cannot be called back from the worst trauma of my life.

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read…    Scealta liatha…    Shadowpoems

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

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painting the unpaintable

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

Page Thirty-three      (copy)

sat 31 may 2008   greenfield

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

  bill said “you’re givin’ me agitta”

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

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

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

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

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thursday 18 february 2010

 

Page Ten       (new post)

turners fails

If you’ve read any of the previous posts, you can see that I’m copying the original Sehnen posts from Soulcast into this new Sehnen blog. It’s a time-consuming project, but I can’t deal with the slowness on Soulcast anymore.

It was my first blog, and I’ve probably said that already. I chose the site because the name of it precisley fit what I was going to do: cast my grieving, outraged, frightened soul onto the internet. And I still  like the name Soulcast, but I can’t deal with the site’s problems. And I’m still casting my soul — in sorrow and despair and anger and in truth — onto the internet. My way of life was stolen. Consequently I don’t have a hell of a lot to do besides write.

I’ll say some things here that I didn’t say in 2008, as well as some things that I did say, but not thoroughly. I had waited from March 12th until June 6th of that year for the DMH to come up with an apartment and give me back at least some of my animals. Things that were said to me by my mailman, one of my bank managers, one of my doctors, and an ordinary Turners citizen had led me to believe that everything was going to be okay, that I would get my animals back (those who hadn’t yet been killed). As it turns out, I was absolutely right and not delusional to have believed this, but I had to wait a long time to hear it said. Late in 2009, my then therapist told me he had asked some questions and found out that there had indeed been a plan to get me an apartment and give me back some animals, and that I had been “screwed by the system.” The plan had fallen through. He didn’t say what the plan had been or why it hadn’t happened. I am sick to bloody death of people keeping from me, as if I were not an adult with rights, information about my animals and my life. But it’s still going on, three years later. And wasn’t it nice that a mailman and a doctor and a banker and a citizen got to know there was this plan, but anne nakis didn’t get to know.

So I was waiting. I said in my blogs and to other people that my animals and I were finished, but in my heart I didn’t fully believe it. I believed there was a plan. And I kept that as my secret, in a superstitious belief that if I talked about this plan I believed in, I’d somehow jinx it. Shut up about it and wait was my strategy.

But while I was waiting, there were these folks who were in my face all the time, Matthew among them. They had started doing this on March 13, my first day out on the Greenfield streets, and it continued every single day. As time went on, it became more egregious. Already in April I was complaining to my friend about these people. I had lived in the Greenfield-Turners community for over twenty years, and I’d never had such a thing occur. It exceeded by far the dictates of coincidence. The only explanation I could find for these people swarming around me like flies on poop was a weak one, but it was all I had. Over the months from January to April, I had made many complaints about the lack of service I’d received from the DMH. I complained to the Northampton and Boston DMH offices. I complained more than once to the governor’s satellite office in Springfield. I complained to Health and Human Services. My case manager at DMH made a special point of whining to me how much trouble I’d caused them.

I’d complained so much to people higher up than the Greenfield DMH, and I’d said so often that if I lost the animals, I’d die of grief (and I absolutely believed this. It baffles me as I sit here, on a couple of levels, that I’m still alive), that I began to wonder if these people who were always dogging me were some kind of watch-dogs the DMH had hired to make sure I didn’t commit suicide before they implemented their plan. And I knew it was stupid, this theory, but when my brain is presented with a puzzle, it’s compelled to solve it. If one solution turns out to be incorrect, then brain will start over to find another one, but there must be a solution. My brain can’t exist in a daily state of unsolved puzzle, and neither can my psyche. My solution was stupid because I had never said I would kill myself. I’d said I would die of the grief. It was stupid because these watch-dogs wouldn’t be able to stop me doing suicide, if that’s what I wanted to do. It was stupid because the DMH has many depressed clients, and why would they put watch-dogs on just one? But here was the puzzle of these people literally stalking me, and all the trouble I’d supposedly made for the DMH was the only solution I could, at that time, come up with.

I grew so sick of these people, Matthew and the rest. I tell you it was so bad that many times I would come out of a public restroom to find one of them standing right there, so close that I almost hit them with assorted bathroom doors. And no, they did not want the bathrooms. As soon as I came out, they went away, or they would follow me. I would rage inside that I couldn’t even bloody pee without these people hovering around me. They would sit at tables next to mine and watch me eat. On and on. It was real, it was extremely obvious, and it was extremely upsetting. Around the fifth of June I decided I would no longer be a client of the DMH, and then this would all stop. I wrote them a letter saying I no longer wished to be their client. When you do this, there’s a thirty-day waiting period in which you can change your mind, if you like. This meant that about July 7th, I would be officially quit of the Department of Mental Hell. Yes, I thought about my animals and the plan. I thought my letter of termination would spur my case manager into finally telling me about this plan, so that I would remain a client, get an apartment, and get animals back. But the letter spurred nothing, and over the thirty days of waiting I decided that the plan had already been ditched.

The thirty days would pass. I would no longer be their client. I did yet more waiting. Waiting to watch the stalkers not stalk me anymore. Waiting to see them just go about their own business in the shops and on the streets, like everybody else, and leave me alone. But by mid-June, it hadn’t stopped. It had got worse. So brain-that-hates-puzzles goes back to the drawing board in late June. Solution one was not correct. These colossal pains in my bum have nothing at all to do with the DMH. Now what?

On 23 June, a Monday, I’m walking Main Street between one hanging place and another, and suddenly my crime-chick neighbor comes back to mind. The mob cars that had come to the house to visit her in August and September of 2007 came back to mind. Every single thing she had done to torment me for seventeen months came back to mind. Her dealing drugs in the backyard came back to mind. It was the lightbulb going on in the head; it was the proverbial epiphany: this all has something to do with her. And why didn’t I think of this sooner, because if I had, I wouldn’t have terminated with the DMH just yet.

A day or two later, I found Matthew doing his vigil again beside the health food store. I’ve written this part before, and to me it’s worth writing again. I say to him: You people following me and watching me all the time. You’ve got nothing to do with the DMH, do you? He shakes his head and says in one of his idiot voices: No. Then I say: this is something criminal, isn’t it. And he nods and says in the same voice: Yes. And for the second time since March 12 — only three and half months — the fabric of my days was torn to threads. Still ahead of me on that day: On 2 July, a week away, Matthew Lacoy would pick up those unraveled threads that were my hours and days, and he would cut them up into even more pathetic little pieces with his own special pair of scissors. Those scissors were the one word kill.

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read…    All my stars…   Stolen stars

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

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

 

tuesday again

Page Seven                          (copying originals)

sehnen posted on Apr 22, 2008 | views: 226 | Tags: tuesdays in the blackworldx

tuesday 22 april 2008   greenfield

Forgive, forgive. Don’t put out negative energy. The people who hurt you have problems too. Well, if you like this kind of thinking, you’d better get out of this blog. It’s Tuesday again, and my life was destroyed six weeks ago today, and I’m monumentally angry at every single person that participated in it.

Dogs pass me constantly on the streets. Dogs with their humans. Dogs who haven’t been torn away from everything they knew and from the person they love. I turn my face away, I swear, I hurry by. Birds yak at me from trees and buildings, and I think of my own three stolen birds, and I tell the wild birds to shut the hell up. Cats are everywhere. Cats that look something like the nine cats stolen from me. I run from them. If they get too close, I stamp my foot. I’ve loved all animals all my life, for 55 years, but that’s over now, at least for a while.

I hang around in eating places, writing a collection of poems about my animals and what was done to us. Here’s number 8, and this one’s for the bastards at the department of mental health, and their cronies at community support services (greenfield, ma):

Number 8

 

                             Remember me.
                             In the dense fog of your buttocks-brains,
                             remember me.
                             My name is enfiled by you,
                             and the day I was born.
                             (Who will tell you the day I die?)

 

                                                 Remember this:
                                                 I told you I would bleed.
                                                 I told you where my breath was,
                                                 where my beating heart lived,
                                                 what love it was that held me.
                             I asked you
                             not to leave me naked.
                             In the dense smoke
                             of my death fire,
                             remember what you did.

                                                          

Where are you, my fourteen friends, my family? Three at least are killed. The rest of you? I love you as big as the sky.

 

Update 18 May 2009: Yes, where are you? Are any of you still alive, belonging to strangers? Why couldn’t I even ever be told what became of you, and whose cruelty is that? The DMH’s, to be sure, and certain people in Turners. I have always been rather suspicious that Matthew knew, and knows, exactly what happened to my animals, and would not give me one word, this man who supposedly loved me. I asked him on May 3rd, a couple of weeks ago, if he had been the one who decided to take my animals away and put me on the street. In one of his phony voices he whined (he often whines) No, no that was … and then he trailed off into nonsense. I don’t think I believe that he knows nothing about them.

Meanwhile, no one has proven to me that Matthew isn’t what I know he is.  I saw and heard too many things from him that were serious and convincing, and also very cloak-and-dagger. But if there is proof out there that he’s only been lying to me about my life, then I want that proof. If they were lies, they cost me a great deal and hurt me deeply, including the wasted months waiting for him and his people to locate me somewhere.

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read…   Judahblog…   Kaikenlainen

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website  ~~~~~~~   Share    ~~~~~~~~~

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longing

Page Two

tuesday 16 feb 2010…    turners falls falls

Sehnen is a German word that means longing, or to long. Longing, extreme longing, was one of the things I was feeling when I began the original  Sehnen blog. Longing for my animals.

I used a fake name because everybody else on Soulcast had done so. Some months later, I decided I wanted to use my real name for my newer blogs, but the name Anne was always already taken. So, I’ve chosen my blog names often for my animals.

Here’s the second Sehnen post from 10 April 2008:

I went to them for help, and the help I wanted most was to find me a place I could afford where I could have my animals, or at least half of them. I had 14: nine cats, three birds and two dogs.they were my whole life, my world. maybe you think that’s weird, but that’s okay.there are lots of lifestyles out there that I think are nuts, but everyone gets to choose for themselves what makes their life worth living. for me, the biggest thing was the animals. they were all rather old, and they’d been with me since they were babies.

So in march of 2007, when my landlady (controlling, self-centered and delusional herself) began an illegal eviction process against me (I paid my rent every month), I went to the massachusetts department of mental health (hell) for help. and they helped me so well that I sit here at this computer in a library, homeless for one month, my animals scattered I don’t know where, because no one will tell me the same story twice. at least three cats have already been killed (on march 24) by an animal “shelter,” one of them because “he wasn’t very friendly.” Well, he wasn’t MEAN either, and he was friendly to ME.

It isn’t a feel-good story, this story of how thoroughly my life has been torn apart by this huge bureaucracy that was supposed to help me.

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read…    Neverending solitaire…   Stolen stars

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website outline

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

starting over

Page One

                                                        

tuesday 16 february, 2010…    turners fails

today begins a re-make of a journal that I originally wrote on the blogging site Soulcast. Soulcast has been plagued lately by a lot of spam, and the page-changing time has been terribly slow. because of all the new spam-caused problems with trying to work on Soulcast anymore, I’m putting here the contents of that blog called Sehnen, which began in april of 2008 and continues.

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This was my first blog entry ever, written in Greenfield on 10 April 2008. I kept it very short so I could publish it and see if I did it right:

Living in mental hell, thanks to the Massachusetts Department of Mental Health, Greenfield office.

That was it — one sentence for the first try. The mental hell having been brought about by a trio of spiteful, malicious females about whom much more will be said. Their names after emendations are Judith, Lolly and Shirley.

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read…   Mental hell…   Shadowpoems

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

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website outline

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