tuesday 26 january 2016


I’ve just been sifting through older posts in this blog, as I sometimes do to find information and find where I’ve put it. it’s tedious — I have little patience for such tasks, but it’s the only way to find out what I’ve already written about, and where it is.

this blog, more than any of my others, has always been a struggle. I began it in april 2008, nearly eight years ago, on soulcast rather than wordpress. when later I moved a lot of the original posts to this website, I didn’t get them all. never finished the job.

the struggle has always been the how. how do I write about the department of mental health, the landlady, the mafia-chick, matthew and his colleagues in a way that will be credible? knowing that I was not then nor have ever been delusional, I wanted to figure out a way to make the bizarre and sick story that I’d got stuck in believable. I don’t think delusionals worry about that sort of thing, if they bother to write things down. don’t think they worry about how to write their story, what moods to use, what words. don’t think they go over their writing again and again to change some words, change some emphasis, in the constant desire to get the bizarre and sick story believed.

it started with a lot of anger and sarcasm in 2008. at that time I thought that if my outrage was crystal clear, some of that same outrage at the way I was being treated by both the people chasing me and the people protecting me would rise up in a reader. later I changed my thinking, reasoning that my fierce anger at the federal people would probably only be construed as nutty. anger in general is usually seen as nutty. we live in a politically correct world of vanilla sensibilities in which anger is not welcome. so I went through many, many of the earliest sehnen posts and toned down my fury quite a bit. I didn’t want to eliminate it totally, because then, as now, I felt my anger was absolutely justified.

over the years I’ve added details I originally didn’t want to use: place names, street names, the undercover names of matthew and some of his pals, and so on. there was a certain amount of fear in the early months of writing these things. fear that some of the agents might get hurt if anyone read what I was saying (I was still quite sappy and stupid about my protectors back then), and fear of the feds themselves. if I said the wrong things, would they shut down my blog? a number of people were telling me this: that if the fbi didn’t like what I was saying, they would simply blotto my blog. they haven’t done so thus far. over time, a year or two, I realized that my blog is no threat to their protection operation: they know that very few people believe me, ipso facto, their doings are not threatened.

I have no clue how many of them even look at this blog, but I know of one. one who, I’m nearly certain, reads every word I ever write online, has been doing so since I began. after all, I was already in protection for about nine months when I began blogging, and didn’t know it yet. that one reads, and that one knows, and maybe it’s even because of that one that my blogs are for the most part left alone.

by 2011 I was trying hard to include ever more specifics in my posts, to the extent that I have them. telling myself to be very clear about what I know for certain, as opposed to what someone else told me, as opposed to what I have had an educated guess at. another tweaking designed, as always, to create as credible a narrative as I could.

nothing seems to help. if any readers do believe me, they certainly don’t leave comments saying so. they don’t share my outrage at this immorality, they don’t offer any kind of support. I think it’s possible that of the readers who do in fact believe me, many of them do what people I know personally have done: they decide that matthew lied to me. that way they don’t have to call me a delusional, but neither do they have to get up the courage to accept what I say as truth. they can skirt around all of that by saying that matthew lied, and I, poor sap, believed him. I’m not delusional, I’m just gullible and stupid. my own friend in eastern mass believes this. how can she tell me every now and then how sharp I am, how correctly I have assessed the human race, and then strongly imply at other times that I am ditzy enough to believe a whopper matthew told me long ago? I don’t understand how she can think me astute about people most of the time, but as concerns matthew’s words to me, I am a putz.


I fought believing it myself early on. or part of me did. one part of me had no doubt at all that matthew was telling me the truth, but another part did not want to accept it: this cannot be true in my life. I’m not a criminal, and mostly it is traitorous criminals who end up in protection. the others are hapless witnesses, who saw or heard something that turned out to be dangerous for them. I’m not one of those either. so I have ended up in illegal, immoral protection that uses me as bait without my consent, and I’ve done so through a means I’ve never heard of before. I was lied about, and then my life was in danger. the fact that I’ve never heard of this particular road to federal protection before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened to someone else somewhere; it only means I haven’t heard of it.

but it was all too bizarre, all too melodramatic and hollywood, all too restricted to the world of deranged thugs to be happening in my life. I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t true. and then I’d go out my door. I’d see the various dirtbags and protectors around me, watch them do the code that was becoming ever easier for me to spot. to translate? no, I repeat that do not know what any of the code means (a delusional would. a delusional would have all the answers because they make them up). I only know when I’m hearing or seeing code. I’d go out my door — any door I was behind anywhere — and immediately the show would begin. my heart would sink, my brain would say jesus, it is true, and every day it became less and less possible to deny it.

when I was still naive, I thought I could run away from it. telling myself that it was probably just a small mob that was chasing me, completely disregarding the fact that they had come across a state line from connecticut to find me, I decided to leave. I started with the county. out of franklin county I went, into the county called hampshire. I was crushed when I arrived there and saw the circus waiting for me. crushed, but not yet deterred. I decided to leave the state. surely that would do the trick.

I went to new hampshire, to keene. if the circus was there waiting, as I now know it had to be, it was not obvious to me right away. it grew up around me as I hung out there on the main street, bloomed and grew larger like some macabre garden of fertile sociopaths. I sat there on that main street, hot and tired and homeless, and was crushed yet again: there was no running away from it; it would be waiting wherever I chose to go.

the plan was to sit there till night, then find some cops and ask if there was a shelter. I didn’t have to go looking for cops, by the way. they were cruising all around me for hours in their cop cars, back and forth, back and forth. anyway, the plan was altered when I became sick. apparently from something I’d eaten earlier in the day, food allergies rearing up in their distressing way. I got very sick. and when I was so sick I couldn’t stand up anymore for the weakness, when I sat down on cement and collapsed against the brick wall of a cumberland farms, the police came to me. three agents got there first, quietly guarding me out there, very close, parking their motorcycles in a row in front of me, creating a sort of wall between me and the street. the store manager had called the cops. he thought I either had alcohol poisoning or was repeatedly shooting drugs in his bathroom.

the moral: there was no running away. it was most likely not a tiny mob. I could not get away from it, not in the living state, anyway. I entered a deeper level of despair that night. the feeling of being trapped magnified remarkably. the feelings of being powerless to do myself any good. without a badge number, without a document or two, I could never sue the feds and get them to stop this undercover torture, to talk to me openly and keep me informed of what was happening in my now very insane life.


sehnen means longing. when I chose that blog name I was longing for news of my animals, for a home, for the department of mental health to do right by me. only three months into the writing, matthew told me about the other business going on in my life, and more longings were born. the longing for people to believe me, the longing to find some lawyer or journalist who would try to help me confront my protectors, the longing for these mob people to be given the message that I’d never done anything to them. the longing for matthew to stop participating in this scheme — a scheme that maybe he himself had designed, for all I know — to protect me and use me as juicy bait at the same time.

what does longing become when it lasts, unsatisfied, for years? I ask myself that periodically. does the longing for fulfillment of a need become a great hard scab after years of denial? does it become a malignant tumor? in my case, it has certainly become an ever-growing contempt for the human race. but what else has it become? it doesn’t feel the yearning way it did when it was young. it’s much different.

but it is still there in some metamorphosed shape. the longing for belief, the longing for proof, the longing for a way to get the feds to stop all the cloak-and-dagger theatricals and treat me like a person.

and I sort of lied. there was one indeed one smidgen of code that I translated: when a male agent takes off a grey shirt right in front of me, it means I’m leaving town. I did a lot of town-leaving back when I was homeless. anyway, this bit of code was by far the easiest, and the only one I ever thought I’d figured out.

lontano dagli occhi d’amore



the man with the white hair

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2016 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


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

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


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

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


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

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


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.

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



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

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

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


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.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script



Irrational, whirling crap

Page Seventy-nine 

sehnen posted on Jul 07, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: death is speakingx

mon 7 july 2008…    Greenfield

So, not much time today. Animals still to tell about, and Nookie, and so on. But i’m sick. I’ve mentioned before the teeming hordes of babysitters who watch what I eat, when and where I pee, what I do and where I go.  Matthew and his bloody gang of pretend heroes. Anyway, my sickness began at 10 last night, and by midnight I could no longer lie down, couldn’t sit because I have no soft chair to sit in, and sitting in my hard chair was laughable with so much pain. So I took my illness out to the sidewalk to pace in an upright position, to breathe some slightly cooler air (though what I needed was air conditioned air). I was getting a little bit shocky too, and sometimes walking helps avoid the worst of the shock, and also the passing out. I was on that sidewalk. She didn’t ask me if I were okay or if I needed anything (in her livingroom she had both a soft chair and an air machine, but these weren’t offered to me). She nagged about my sweater hanging on her fence. I did not ask her directly if I could sit in her air conditioned livingroom in a soft chair, because she would most likely have given me a ration of demented talk, as she has in the past. There’s another person in the house she gives those rations to too. I will not in any circumstance approach any person who I know absolutely will give me a spate of irrationality. I’ve had to take that crap all my life,from many an irrational, dizzy-spinning mind, and about 3 years ago I decided that I don’t approach no such whirly brains no more.                                            

So Anne don’t get no help offered, even in diabolical pain that makes me go into shock. I’m still quite sick, 10 hours after it started and I began swallowing prednisone. Didn’t use enough. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how much pred a particular attack is going to need. So I have to abort journaling missions early this day in deference to the screaming pain and desolate exhaustion of my cells. Slán le na laethe bhí.

Update 27 July 2009: This was July 7 last year, and Matthew had only told me on the 2nd that people wanted to damage me. By the 7th he may have told me that it was feds from Burlington who were protecting me, but on that one I don’t recall the exact date. My memory is very good, but it can’t hold everything. But in spite of the newness of this ugly information, I had already been watching people watch me since March, when all the time I thought they were working for the DMH. So the anxiety and anger had already been building a good while, and in this situation of no information and lots of guessing, anger, and anxiety, I pulled many people into the group of my babysitters who didn’t belong there. And as far as a house across the street from my rented bedroom goes, people often watched me from the second floor, pulling the curtains aside just a tiny bit. They watched me too often. All they ever saw was me smoking on the sidewalk. Why did they have to keep looking at that? On July 2nd there finally came a smidgen of information: there were people who were real big and real wealthy who wanted to hurt me.

And the periodic irrational, unkind outbursts of my landlady were just another stress. Why has this happened to me again? My last landlady, the one who destroyed my life, was irrational and mendacious and unpredictable and frightening. Why was this happening again? Why does it seem that lunatics are drawn to me like moths to flame?

I’m renting the same room again from the same woman, and this time it’s easier because she has a diagnosis and is reading books about her condition. It’s all out in the open, we talk about it. We talk about my depression and anxiety and Asperger’s. There are still some terrible days, and they still affect me the same way they did last year, but at least now the cards are on the table.  And she let me rent the room again, for which I’m grateful. All the social service clods have to offer is places where I have to share bedrooms with other people, which makes me just about homicidal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taim inis anois

Page Seventy-seven

sehnen posted on Jul 05, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: loathing is a placex

sat 5 july 2008    Greenfield

A mish-mosh today, suspension of regular business. I’m suspending that a lot latelyt, partly due to fatigue, and partly because one can’t get too predictable.

Doesn’t everyone who writes songs have  to write at least one corny love song? Isn’t that a rule or something? Anyway, this is mine. From 1995. I’m about to emend the title, which has always been Serenade for —, and then a certain person’s name. To hell with all that. There’s a new title. In spite of myself, I’m rather fond of the music for this one. Nihil est: all fondnesses are forfeit now, thanks to DMH and company.


Only stars,                                                                                                                           

these points of fire.
Feel no loss, know no desire.
Only light
through endless night,
traveling free, sailing far.
But if a soul can reach and fly,
if souls can spiral high,
then I will  go with
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.

i ngrá leat i gconai
i ngrá san oiche, faoi bhron
an uaigneas mor,
an ghealach chiuin
is na suile speir i mo chroi





Only love,
this silent flame,
burns every loss, knows longing’s name.
Lonely you, out under stars,
wandering away, drifting far.
But if a love can reach and fly,
if love can spiral high,
then I will meet you in
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.


i ngra, i gconai
i ngra, faoi bhron
an uaigneas, an ghealach
is na suile speir i do chroi


Okay, mish-mosh, tick-tock. So here’s something I’m real fond of from Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes (all fondnesses are forfeit now). There are many, many turns of phrase that I love in that book, but here’s only one.

Frank has gone to confession over something ridiculous because his grandmother made him, and she’s standing outside the confessional trying to eavesdrop. The priest chuckles during this ridiculous confession. Frank exits, and there’s grandma. She wants to know if the priest was laughing, and if Frank was telling jokes. Goes a lot like this, the grandma: If tis a thing I ever hear you tellin jokes to jesuits, I’ll tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. Isn’t that rich, tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. I love that.

Cruelly and wrongly done, the countless lies from the DMH, CSS , phony police chief, animal control officer, and the whole rest of the cast. Cruelly and wrongly done, sitting back and allowing my whole life to be taken away, making a bum out of me, making a funeral out of me. Cruelly and wrongly done, surveilling me and running psych tests on me in public places without my consent. Disappearing my family, lying to me repeatedly about where they were, never arranging for me to visit them, allowing me to suffer over nearly18 weeks and making my suffering a public spectacle for gawkers, psychobabble boneheads, sheriff’s boneheads, et alia. And one and all know that I can’t afford an attorney, have no brother or sister or aunt or whatever to step in and advocate for my rights. One and all know they can do whatever comes into their sadistic little heads to anne nakis, because anne nakis is, in this society, powerless and marginalized. Wrongly and cruelly done.

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


Give me a jeweled dagger

 Page Seventy-five

sehnen posted on Jun 27, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: no rightsx, no sayx

fri 27 june 2008    Greenfield                                                                                                    

Have to hurry; clock is always ticking on the public computer time. Guess I’ll go on with the very public testing of me, without my consent, that began last Tuesday, the 17th. That first afternoon it was the disgusting food, but I didn’t reconginze it as a test right away. The next afternoon, Wed 18th, it was a hissy fit. Again at one of those free meals. One of the guys — let’s call him Wally — who’s been in my face all the time since I came to Greenfield was sitting at another table, which was fine with me. Then he got up and came over to sit near me. It really uspet me, as I’m pretty sure he’s one of Matthew’s pals, and I like them to keep more distance. And lately I’ve begun to mouth at some of Matthew’s pals when they don’t keep their distance (men hovering outside the ladies’ room door when I pee, pals of Matt’s sitting right beside me while I type, or hovering a foot away when I’m shopping, etc, etc.). I was really quite upset, and absolutely sick of this guy being in my face all these months, so I said to W., “You frigging little troll, go back where you were.” He took exception to this, as anyone would. Then he proceeded to throw a real drama-queen hissy fit that the whole room could hear, after which he returned to his original seat. How was an aspie supposed to react to this fit, I wonder? What do the textbooks say” I have no idea. Haven’t come across it in my reading. But this particular aspie reacts to verbal hysteria with the deer-in-the-headlights, frozen in place thing. It’s one of the few situations in which I can keep my eyes glued right to the eyes of the other person. I am entirely focussed on the fit, on watching the enemy’s eyes to see how far this enemy is going to go. Will there be blows? Will things be broken and thrown? How far will the irrationality go? Did I pass or fail this particular unauthorized test? And is acting like a true aspie, if indeed I even did so, a pass, or just another one of my failures?

Update 22 July 2009:   Anger. At the things Matthew had told me about my life. Because I believed him, there was anger that he and his people should handle the protection in this way. All undercover, all behind my back, all without telling me (except the little that Matthew himself told me) and showing me IDs. On the day I wrote this, I didn’t know about feds and mobs yet, only that something criminal was going on, and that I was sick and tired of being followed and watcjed by people I thought at the time were ordinary undercover police. Anger at this testing in public without my consent. I’m sure my insurance paid for it, but who ordered it, who asked for it? It lasted about a month, and at the end of it, Matthew told me I have Asperger’s. Anger at all the secrecy. Anger that would come later at being dragged into the mentally ill world of organized crime and the equally mentally ill world of federal agents. All of that anger is still with me. Matthew and a lot of his boys from last year are still here, and what does that mean? I asked him on April 27 of this year if it was over, this protection crap, but he wouldn’t answer me.

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

(gecko at whatonearthcatalog.com)

 a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script


« Older entries