expunging

thursday 21 march 2013

the delusional thing. a diagnosis made on what basis? I occasionally asked this question, back in 2008 and 2009, of various psyhcobabble boneheads. they didn’t answer me. they changed the subject. and no matter how many breaths I wasted telling them that that conclusion was an insult to both my integrity and my sanity, that a flesh-and-blood human being (the infamous matthew lacoy) had taken me to his apartment numerous times, had told me certain things, and had done some very undercover-cop-like things in my presence, no one was moved to write something other than delusional on their little pieces of paper. no matter how many of them told me that it was true that I didn’t have the affect that delusionals normally  have, or the multiple fairy-stories, still they wrote what they wrote. when I objected that I was not receiving sinister messages from my toaster, or my TV, or the inside of my head, the psychobabblers looked down at their shoes, or out the window. and regardless of how many times they asked me, in how many different places, had I ever heard voices? seen visions?, and my answers were always NO, they still wrote what wasn’t at all true on their papers. they asked me what year it was, who was president, how old I was, and other such things, ad nauseam, and I always had the right answers. but still they wrote their totally erroneous words on their little pieces of paper (which later got transferred to their computer files on said fruit-loop, anne nakis).

it’s bad enough when ordinary people dismiss you as a delusional (and by no means every ordinary person has. a good number have believed me), but it’s far worse when the psycho-corps writes it on papers whose words get typed into computer files and you, the incorrectly diagnosed, cannot erase one word of it. even after you are quite dead, anyone who might decide for whatever reason to go nosing around in your life can potentially find these untruths about you and take them as truth. after all, if a psychobabbler said it, it must be true. right?

though I strain this old brain, I can’t now remember who it was I had the expunging discussion with, which particular psychobabbler in which particular town. nonetheless the conversation was had, in which I asked what would I have to do to get these totally false diagnoses removed from my various records. the answer was that I would need to 1.) be evaluated by at least two separate psychiatrists who would both declare that I was not delusional… that perhaps matthew was, or that he was just a creep who was hoaxing me for some reason, but that I myself was simply repeating words that he’d said to me and relating things that he and others (including the mafia-chick herself) had said and done in my presence; 2.) hire a lawyer to go to court with me and present the testimony from these psychiatrists, and said lawyer would urge the judge to order that my records be expunged of words like delusional or schizophrenic.

as if I have the proverbial snowball’s chance in hades of hiring shrinks and some lawyer for the mentally ill, on my disability income of less than $1500 a month. as if I ever have any prayer of getting this job done. with no other options, I have written for five years in the sehnen, braon, and mishibone blogs about absolutely true words and events of 2008 and 2009. I have talked myself blue, with the result that some people believe me, and some don’t, and those who don’t are mostly the airheads who write the slander on their pieces of paper. after my death, all of this slander will still exist in various psychobabble computers, and there is nothing I can do to clear my name in their realm, to defend my sanity and my integrity.

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read…     who was that guy…    why are you still alive….

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

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

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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.

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read…    Lifelines Scealta liatha

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

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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.

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

anne nakis: ocean

Page Sixty

sehnen posted on Jun 19, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: enormous snaily rocksx

thurs 19 june 2008   Greenfield

A message for the unnamed one:

~~~   Bill and I pulling periwinkles off the rocks in Maine, but you didn’t know us yet. We took them home and ate them. No one else would touch them…. by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, you and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be… do you remember that gaggy old song? ~~~

                                                                     

Update 6 July 2009: This is another one of those private messages I’m not going to explain. I’ll say, though, that I spent 32 years of my life by the sea. I never should have come to Franklin County; that’s way too clear, way too late. Because whether you believe I had one horror last year (being made homeless and losing everyone I love) or two (being in undercover federal protection), either way it’s still enough to make me deeply and darkly regret I ever left eastern Mass.

 ~~  website  ~~~                                                                                                                 

        (crab at www.toscano.com)

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 ~~~~~~~   sea shell from a magazine

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The ugly are safe and sound

Page Fifty-nine

sehnen posted on Jun 19, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: in electric summer lightx

thurs 19 june 2008   Greenfield

There’s a great variety of ways to be cruel.

The current variety being levelled at me remains baffling, namely: why didn’t the DMH care enough about saving my life to find (in 11 months) a home for me and maybe half of my animals? Or why couldn’t they at least pretend to care enough to do that, as it’s what they get paid to pretend. I haven’t figured out the reason for that particular cruelty, though several people have suggested to me that because I made complaints to the governor’s office and to health and  human services, the DMH decided to really let me have it and allow my life to be destroyed. I can see them reacting that way on an emotional level, disliking me that much and wanting to finish me off. But they work for a state agency. Would they behave that way with the agency’s reputation? And let me say, I have never yet in my 15 or so months with DMH (though I have dumped them as of June 10) heard anyone say anything to suggest that the DMH has a good reputation (a great shame I didn’t know that before I signed on with them). But still, even if the agency’s reputation here in western Mass sucks, would the employees vent their fury on me, a disliked client, by letting me be ruined and making their reputation even worse? The answer to that seems to be Yes, despite the fact that these people are company people, sheep, teammates, and I don’t understand why they didn’t try to make the company look good, even if they despised me. This is the part of that cruelty that I find so baffling.                            

Update 2 July 2009: Another cruelty, which I was deliberately often vague about last year, was all the following and watching me certain men were doing, men who were pretending, as I’ve said, to be nuts or drunk, and they clearly were not. This had been since my first homeless day in Greenfield, which was March 13, 2008. For four more days after writing this post, I continued to make myself believe these men were working for the DMH. But on June 23, another explanation would finally take root, that something criminal was going on, and that was admitted to me by Matthew Lacoy.

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

(yoda’s beady eye at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

 

Another loaded day

Page Fifty-seven

Wednesday 30 June 2010             Turners twisting

            Wednesday 2 July 2003   a very black day for me and the animals
            Wednesday 4 July 2007   the last 4th of my own life
            Wednesday 2 July 2008   Matthew tells me people want to harm me

 

Another loaded day, full of echoes and shadows of dark things on summer days. Triggers of trauma. Memory that picks at the scabs of those days, making them sore and red, infected with the loss, the meanness, the uncalled-for casual cruelty of humans.

It happens from time to time, a loaded day. So today is another. I wish all that pain in my scabs today returned to you a thousandfold: returned to the alchy landlord, Nookie, and his chick; returned to the insane landlady and the insane mafia-chick (and all her cohorts); returned to Matthew Lacoy; returned to Shirley Temple at the DMH. I owe you all a debt of suffering. If I could pay that debt with my thoughts alone, I’d be doing so this moment.

~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 (sandcastle at www.toscano.com)

 

anne nakis in massachusetts

Page Fifty-two

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

mon 16 june 2008   Greenfield

                                   Bill in heaven at the white star… 

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

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

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

HUMAN BEINGS ARE A LOT MEANER AND STUPIDER THAN THEY THINK THEY ARE.

                                                                  

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

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

it’s all so funny

Page Forty-eight

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

thurs 12 june 2008   Greenfield

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

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

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

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

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

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

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                        (part of the book Spite and Malice)

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

                  (happy gecko at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

 

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

 

homeless weeks and dying ribbons

Page Thirty-five                    (copy)

sehnen posted on Jun 03, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: sissiesx

tuesday 3 june  2008     greenfield

Well, a song I wrote in the 90’s — I wrote lots of songs in the late 90’s, in the last gasps of the 20th century — comes to mind these days. I might as well put it here. What else does an educated homeless bum who went to a huge social service agency for help and got her family and life destroyed have to do?

dying ribbons

 

I, in company with gulls and swallows, 
linger breathing at the summer waterside.
Life looks new and full of long tomorrows,
moments bursting in electric summer light.

 

But death is waiting in the stand of trees there.
Death is speaking in a low, forgotten voice.
Whispers to the gulls, the swallows, to me
that time has no regard for tears or joys.

Then tie these anchors to our eyes to drown us,
tie these ribbons to our hands to light our way.
See the swallows as they dive around us,
see the ripples as they run and roll away.
We will raise our hands above this water,
colored ribbons floating on the water’s eyes.
Dying ribbons telling whisper stories,
stories breathing in electric summer light.

                                                                                    

We will echo in the quiet canyons
where the seekers of the silence come to stay.
We will echo in the blue of evening,
echo colors in the rising of the day.
So chain these anchors to my eyes to drown me.
Bind these ribbons to my hands to light my way.
Grieve the swallows as they fall around me.
Count the ripples as they roll and die away.
 
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So what next. Words from people whom I admire, maybe. That is, I admire both the people and the words.

Human beings are a lot meaner and stupider than they think they are.

~~~   kurt vonnegut

I’ve been a doormat in a world of boots.

~~~   jean reese

The unexamined life is not worth living.

~~~   aristotle, I’m pretty sure. but if you appeared before me now, Ari, I’d tell you that my life, even though very much examined, was not one iota worth living, except for the animals I knew.

I am a spirit of no common rate.
The summer still doth tend upon my state.
And I do love thee,
therefore go with me.
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
and they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
and sing,
whilst thou on pressed flowers dost sleep.

                  ~~~   the bard of avon. Though if you appeared before me now, Will Shakespeare, I’d tell you that I couldn’t give my loved ones very many fairies, and always hoped to give them more, and failed. I’d tell you that being a spirit of no common rate hasn’t been a good thing in my life, but rather just another reason for Kurt’s mean and stupid humans to lash out at me.

If I disappeared today, what would I leave behind that anyone would give a damn about?

the tyranny of the weak

~~~   f. scot fitzgerald —- and if you appeared before me now, Scot, I’d tell you that my life has been plagued, and finally destroyed, by weaklings, sissies. For all my fears and illnesses, I’ve been through more hell than anyone I personally know, and am on certain levels stronger than anyone I personally know, most of whom would already be in the loonybin halfway through my 11 hell years if they had to bear it all alone, in poverty, without a car, with nasty physical pain. Sissies who have money and position and cars and some type of economic or bureaucratic power over me have made my 55 years a study in pushing the legendary boulder up the hill. Sissies, weaklings, whiners. The tyranny of the weak has been one of the stories of my mangled existence.

Update 13 June 2009:   I read through this blog and see all the poetry, and there is poetry on my other blogs too. I started reading poetry when I was 7, writing it when I was 9. It hasn’t been in my life quite as long as animals were, but it’s been a very long time. Especially in emotional pain I have always turned to writing poetry. But the sheer devastation of all that has happened to me in the last 15 months has finally wiped the poetry slate clean. I don’t want to see it, don’t want to hear it, don’t want to write it. It was part of my own life that ended 15 months ago, and right now I can’t stand the pain of getting near it. Again, my spirit, of which I had so much, is mostly gone. And of course I’m angry in this original post; very angry.

read…   Extemporaneana…   Mental hell

~~~~~~ website  ~~~~~~ Share ~~~~~

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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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