tedium

tuesday 26 january 2016

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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.

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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.

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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

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the man with the white hair

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

 

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smile

friday 22 january 2016

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smile for the camera, matthew. smile that enormous, engaging smile that I know you can do. or smile one of your many other smiles. smile and I’ll take your picture.

 

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that was yesterday. but he did not smile. nor did he look sullen, or put on the idiot face, or look away. he just sat there on the sidewalk looking straight at my phone while I took his picture.

I didn’t get close, due to my aversion to being close to him at all, and so in order to discern his face I have to edit. but even the edit doesn’t show his face well, because I wouldn’t go very near. now that I’ve done it, it astounds me that I’ve never done it before. years ago I took photos of a couple of my other protectors, but never him.

and this all came about because my friend wanted to go agent-watching. we’ve done it a couple of times in recent weeks. we park on main street in front of the health food store, sit there with our coffee and cigarettes, waiting for undercover goons to show up and do code. my friend likes me to point out the goons and show her when they’re doing code. I state as I have stated before in this blog, I do not know what the code means. I only know when I’m seeing code. I have, after all, had it shoved down my throat for seven and a half years.

my friend was well rewarded yesterday, as matthew was already on the scene when we arrived. we got to see him do antics with other protectors, and perhaps with one thug too. I saw him twice do a hand-signal I’ve never seen until yesterday. and so, sitting there with the boss-protector already ensconced on the sidewalk, I suddenly got the idea to take a picture of the man himself.

my friend questions me a great deal about everything that has transpired between me and the protectors, and me and the thugs. in the course of her interrogation yesterday, an event came to mind that I haven’t thought about in several years. my friend found this vignette so entertaining that she was laughing and smiling. matthew over on the sidewalk could hear, I think, just about every word. so the story goes as follows:

in july of 2008, the busiest month ever for my protectors, I think, greenfield was having some kind of a two or three-day sidewalk festival going on. mob people from connecticut came to scope me out, and scope they did. unabashedly in their very shiny black cars. it was a very draining couple of days. on one of the days, matthew apparently wanted me to stay at the health food store for a while so goons could do their business without me trotting off, and to achieve this he put upon the sidewalk a very cute, very young man who was playing the guitar and singing beatles songs. knowing that I am old and like beatles songs, matthew had chosen his material well. the young man said his name was tucker. I stayed there with tucker and his friend for over an hour, chatting between songs, playing the comic to make tucker laugh, and occasionally dropping money into his guitar case. a jovial time was had by all. or at least that was what the three of us pretended.

the next time I went to matthew’s, I was pleasant. well I don’t know why you wanted me to stay at green fields market (and he did not tell me why), but you chose tucker well. music I like being played and sung by a very cute, personable young man. tucker was adorable, I say. absolutely adorable. I could just eat him up. I would love to have a life-size, wind-up tucker in my livingroom so that I could flick the switch and listen to him whenever I wanted. can you get me one of those, matthew, a fake tucker? he’s so adorable.

matthew, who had been beaming while I praised him for his cleverness, is by the end of my shtik looking down into his lap most sullenly, saying in a pout-voice: he’s not that cute.

my friend got a real laugh out of this story. I’m sure you will not, as it’s probably one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of things. I wonder what matthew thought of it, sitting there on the sidewalk listening. matthew lacoy, the second half of which name is phony. another that could perhaps be put in its place is miller.

matthew miller?

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read:  who was that guy

 

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

 

the badge

friday 22 january 2016

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recently I was telling my friend about the one and only time since this whole mess began in 2007 that I have ever seen a federal badge. the subject came up because she’d been looking at federal badges on youtube.

it’s in my journals somewhere, and maybe I’ve even written about it before in this blog. but since I lack the ambition to go digging through blogs and journals, I’ll just write it here.

my journal would tell me the day, date and time that this particular federal show was staged. all I can say now at a three-year remove is that it was in 2012, in the fall, on a nice day. I was on my back porch, which faced a large alley that runs between third street and fourth in the hellhole I call turners trolls.

sitting there smoking on a very nice day, and down the alley comes walking a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before. this in itself is bizarre, because I sat smoking on those stairs countless times, and knew every face, every body, every voice that ever came down that alley day or night. turners is a small place, and the very center of town, where this happened, even smaller. if you pay attention, as I have been forced to do by the situation I’m in, you notice immediately the face that is new, the face that doesn’t belong.

so down the alley strolls the face that doesn’t fit, into my yard, and right over to me smoking there on my back stairs. he walks over to me so purposefully, so intentionally, never casting his face around to see if there’s someone else he can talk to, that I can only conclude, both then and now, that I was his destination in the first place. that it was me and no one else he was gunning for, so to speak.

he asks me about the vacant house next to mine, which is for sale by the bank that foreclosed on it. but as his questions continue, he reveals that it isn’t really the house he cares about, but the man from whom the bank took it back.

at some point during this discourse he tells me his name, despite the fact that I haven’t asked and I don’t give a damn what his name is. I think he even shook my hand. and after he gets done with his unwanted name, he says he’s with the department of justice, and I become internally frozen. a fed, I’m thinking. this guy is actually saying out loud to me, the little piece of mob bait, that he’s a fed. this scene is already so otherworldly that I’m now stunned, and then he makes it worse: I’m required by law to tell you that I’m armed, and with that he opens his tan corduroy jacket to show me his badge on his chest and his gun in its holster.

being stunned, as an aside, is something that the feds constantly use against me. they know that some people with asperger’s get stunned and locked up very easily by the behavior of neurotypicals, and the feds take mean advantage of this tendency of mine to freeze as often as they see an opportunity to do it.

my head, mostly frozen, is asking a million questions: is this guy who came down the alley to find me and is showing me his gun going to arrest me for something? is this the day the feds finally come into my home, give me some documents, and tell me badge and gun and all that yes, I am their piece of bait, and yes, they have been protecting me undercover all this time and now that’s going to change? now they’re going to treat me like a person?

the things I want and need, the things I’ve waited for for years, do not happen. yet again. he does not come upstairs with me, give me documents, tell me that yes, I have been in undercover protection all this long time, but from now on things will be different. the protection will throw off its covers, I will be kept informed of what’s going on, and my needs and wishes as a human being will be considered.

he asks me to show him where the man who owned the empty house lives, and I take him there. it’s just down the alley. after we say our good-byes, he walks into the backyard and up to the first floor door. but I have told him that the man lives on the second floor.

I watch him from behind a dumpster. he never goes to the second floor. he looks around for me, doesn’t seem to know I’m still looming, and walks away into fourth street from the side yard.

truth:

DOJ agents do not walk down alleys in dinky little places like turners trolls, in broad daylight, carrying guns and pretending to look for deadbeat landlords. they do not, and I will never accept that they do. such a thing would only occur if they were pulling some kind of a stunt, protective or otherwise, on their own private piece of mafia bait, who happens to live in little turners. such a thing would only occur, here in tiny turners, if a stunt were being pulled on me.

questions:

why does a law enforcement person show me his gun and badge if he is not going to arrest me? okay, maybe he’s questioning me about someone who has committed a federal crime. but why do I have to see the gun for that? wouldn’t the badge suffice? I was answering his questions anyway, without all that, so why the drama? the man he was asking about is someone I loathe, someone from whom I tried three times to rent one lousy apartment in 2011, and who is certifiably insane. he hacked into one of my email accounts twice (is that a federal crime? doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell the agent about that), and for all I know he’s been up to all sorts of other chicanery. but if this man is truly the reason for the DOJ guy’s visit, why does he not knock on this man’s door and talk to him, show him the gun and the badge? why does he walk away?

I believe that most rational people would agree, if they thought about it purely objectively, that there was absolutely no plausible reason for this man to have behaved in the way that he did, except for the fact that I am what I am: the feds’ own piece of bait and property, on whom endless tricks are endlessly played. I think most rational people would conclude, as I did, that this man came down the alley specifically to see me, to show me his gun and badge loudly outside the abandoned house. to protect me from someone? to perform yet another federal test of character, test of reactions on me?

my friend thinks he spoke so loudly outside the empty house and did the gun and badge thing because there was someone lurking in that house from whom I needed protection right that minute. it’s an idea I’ve never had myself, and yet it’s as likely as anything else. and it’s certainly true that I never get told, in an above-board and human-being sort of way, when someone who means me harm is very close to me. I get told by such dramatic stunts on the parts of the agent, I get told by frantic and lunatic code, by drama and stunts, and when the stuff around my person gets thicker and crazier and more extreme, then I know.

like the time so long ago now when matthew came power-walking down main street wearing a very thick winter parka (code) on a very hot and humid june day in 2008, in order to get between me and someone very near. it’s rare to see matthew, or any of them, move with that kind of speed. when they do that, when they add speed or a gun or a badge to their usual code and drama, I know it’s a very bad day.

 

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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

mucky birthday

wednesday 20 january 2016

it’s been my practice for a long time to write in this blog whenever ginger the mafia chick, or any of the undercover protectors, stage some kind of a performance at me. I’ve grown rather lax about that practice over the last couple of years. I’ve grown lax about writing in general.

matthew lacoy (this is not his real name, of course, but it’s the only one I’ve ever been told), the master of my protection and my so far unceasing torment, gave me a break for a long time. he did not put his body before my eyes for close to a year, from december of 2014 until 22 september 2015. it was a great relief. it’s been my contention for years (in 2008 I even wrote him a letter saying so) that if some protector has to do a bit of the endless code in front of me, or stand between me and someone who wants to hurt me, that it doesn’t have to be him. he has what feels like a million minions, and one of them can do whatever has to be done in front of my face. after preaching this message off and on for six years, I thought he’d finally received it. I thought he’d grown a fragment of a conscience.

think again, anne. were you not an idiot to think that he could ever grow something as alien to law enforcement as a conscience? you were.

he popped out this past september 22nd, when for the first time I brought my new grandson to main street in greenfield. in truth he didn’t just pop out in front of us, he was squatting on the sidewalk waiting for us when we parked the car. his next move was to come over very close to the stroller once we had the baby in it. he shadowed us two or three more times that day, as we moved from store to store.

I admit that it rattled me to see him come out for the baby. after months and months of staying out of my sight, here he is on the sidewalk waiting, here he is at the stroller, and in front of the jewelry store, and squatting at yet another store when we wheel the baby past. and that time, from his squatting position, he was nearly at eye level with the baby, and made this sweet, charmed little smile, the like of which I’ve never seen on matthew’s face before, as if to say: isn’t that baby so absolutely cute. and he is. he’s my only grandchild and I am hugely biased, but I do think he’s one of the prettiest and most facially expressive babies I’ve ever seen. apparently matthew was rather taken with him too. but it does cause me concern, still today, that after so many months of invisibility, he would come out and monitor us when we had the baby.

since that day, he has continued to get into my view nearly every time I go to main street, usually more than once. squatting  down and babysitting me when I am in a store, usually the store called zemi, and doing some of his other gambits as well. my grandson came again in december, and matthew dogged us a second time.

but the pièce de résistance was this past monday. it was my birthday. I went to main street to do things on my birthday with two friends (lucky accident of fate: at least this time I was not wading in the federal/mob muck alone).

he wasn’t waiting  on the sidewalk when we got out of our cars, but someone else was. our first stop was the health food store. I know from long and ugly experience that matthew uses this place as a sort of headquarters, partly because his cousin was for years a manager there. we were inside maybe 20 minutes when he made his grand move: he got right in between me and my friend at the coffee stand. his body was actually touching mine. when I turned my head and saw it was him I dashed away, of course, spilling a little trail of coffee all along my route.

we sat down inside and he went back to squatting outside in front of the store. we could see his head as we ate. actually, I could not eat the danish I had bought. I was too angry. lots of reasons for that anger, not the least of which being that after years of not making physical contact anymore, he suddenly decides he has to do it again, without an excuse me or a may I or any acknowledgment at all that I am indeed a person and not his federal property, that he is invading my personal space and that it is both rude and uncalled for. he may have to protect me, but he doesn’t have to touch me.

my original plan was to leave the health food store pretty quickly and go elsewhere, but I changed my mind. I wanted to see how long he would plague us. it was about 50 minutes. that’s how long my friends and I stayed, and that’s how long he glommed on. for a while it was no longer good enough to squat. he had to get right up on the store’s built-in bench (that’s where I met him lo these long years ago), right beside my friend. all that separated them was a thick pane of glass.

I was angrier than I’ve been in a very long time. from time to time I would go out on the sidewalk to smoke and rail about him and his federal ilk in a nice loud voice, rail while he sat there on the sidewalk listening and watching me. I did it inside the store too, and I would not cease. another federal boy, aaron, came to sit behind us in the dining area, and I railed about him as well.

eventually we went to other stores. matthew and another undercover sleaze called guy remained squatting in front of the health foods, and other protectors took up the babysitting as we moved further down the street.

when we went to eat at el greco, we sat watching the little parade of protectors pass by the window, and I pointed these people out to my friends. a couple of them came by more than once.

I’d planned to stay on main until 4:00, but the muck and the reason behind the muck wore me out. I quit at 2:40. one of my friends drove off and the other one took me with her. as she drove, she said to me: you’re safe from them now, you’re in the car. well we didn’t go far, only straight out the west end of main street to the dunkin donuts on the mohawk trail, a short distance in the merry haven of greenfield. we pull into a space and park the car, and there’s matthew. he’s sitting inside at a table with another man, and I am stunned. at the two tables beside him sit two more protectors, little bodyguards for him (I’ve seen this a few times before, on very bad days. while matthew guards me, he is also being guarded). I’m stunned because here he is again, and I thought I’d done with him for the day. but I’m also stunned because this is only the second time in seven and a half years that I’ve ever seen matthew sitting in a restaurant with anyone other than me, and the first time was way back in 2008. he is sitting with a man who is dangerous. I’ve had to be faced with dangerous men before. I can almost smell them.

while my friend goes in to get her coffee, I stand outside the window glaring in at him. I’m trying, if such a thing can be done, to pass the rage in my cells through the window and into his cells. I want him to feel how much I despise him and his colleagues. and I’m also studying, ananlyzing the body language and facial expressions of his little bodyguards, of him, and of the man sitting with him. I study them and know what’s up, because I have had years of practice doing this sort of analysis.

when we pull out of the parking lot, a light bulb of an idea turns on. I say to my friend: damn it, I should have gone into that place, marched up to him, and blown his cover again. I should have said you federal undercover slime, stay away from me. but my friend didn’t turned the car around, as I was hoping she would, and a fantastic and extremely rare opportunity was lost. I bitched about it for the rest of the afternoon: here was a little golden goose of a chance dropped in front of me, and I realized it about 3 minutes too late.

at my friend’s house, we watched on youtube a very short video in which a woman was saying: I hate the fbi with a boiling passion. I was clapping my hands. she had just finished describing a little psychological trick they had done to her that morning, a trick which has also been done to me many times. I could find out very little about this woman, but it seems she is either in or has refused to be in the witness protection thingy, WITSEC.

there have been people over these years who’ve thought me ungrateful. their thinking is this: the feds have kept you alive since september of 2007. stop hating them and be grateful. but I am autistic after all, and I do view life and people in a way that most neurotypicals find to be skewed. I still maintain, as I always have, that keeping me alive is one issue, and they have, yes, so far done an excellent job with that. but another issue is morality, and yet another is my status as a human being with both human and civil rights. my right, for instance, not to be used as mafia bait without my consent. my right to have had the agents come to my door in 2007 in their ugly suits and inform me of the trouble I was in, and inform me what was going to happen next, and locate me and my animals somewhere, and only use me as bait if I agreed to help them in this way. and the likelihood is great that I would indeed have agreed to help them as long as they were protecting me, because I am no fan of organized crime.

you can say that it is eight and a half years that they’ve kept me alive, but you can also say that it’s that same amount of time that they’ve treated me not like a person, but like a piece of property that they have bought and paid for. it is for this complete lack of morality that I despise them the most. I repeat that they are as sociopathic as the people they are fighting.

I haven’t been through these years of amoral, even cruel, undercover protection for nothing. I’ve learned many things about code, about undercover procedures, about matthew’s own particular style of mounting an operation. I know that what happened on my birthday happened because someone was in the health food store who wanted to hurt me on my birthday, and apparently wanted to do it right then and there. I usually, after so much time, can spot these people when they’re near me, but I was distracted by the presence of my friends and didn’t suss out whoever it was. in any case, my brithday wasn’t ruined because matthew had some malicious desire to do so, although I would really like it to be that. but I have learned, and I’ve had other days like monday. I know he ruined my birthday in order to keep me from physical harm. well done, matthew. does that feed your colossal ego enough? nonetheless I despise you.

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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where is he

saturday 22 august 2015

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long time no write here. long time no write anywhere.

I don’t recall whether I’ve said it here earlier in this blog, and don’t at the moment have the motivation to check back and see, but I now have a therapist who does not think me a delusional and who believes me concerning the law enforcement versus crime types theater that has existed in my life for nearly eight years. I have had this therapist since 2013, and it’s a relief not to be called a wing-nut, in whatever euphemistic PC terms therapists have used to call me said wing-nut.

last night I was doing some housecleaning. I happened upon a notebook from the summer of 2008, a summer that has been much discussed in this blog. the summer when the dramas between my protectors and those who hunted me was at its most bizarre, and most ugly. there were not nearly enough notes on those pages to suit me: I didn’t keep up the written notes as well as I wish I had, but I was taping things onto recorded journals too. that summer. that summer out of a movie, that summer out of time and place; time and places as I had never known them before.

I’ve tried before in this blog to quantify the rage I feel at the fbi, and can only fail. never can I find the right combination of words to describe it accurately, so that anyone reading the words would get a good sense of the hugeness of the anger. and the anxiety, and the sorrow, and the resentment. i was bait, I was property, but I was not a human being.

it’s been a long time now since undercover man extraordinaire, matthew the bold and the brave, has put his carcass in front of my face. the longest time ever, I’m sure. so long that I no longer know exactly when the last time was that he did it. august 2014? september?

when I don’t see him for a while, I engender daydreams: he’s dead. or he’s finally quit working for the fascists. or he’s been assigned some other territory and will never gawk at me again. I have engendered the daydream many times over the last seven years that he will one day do right by me, even though the rational part of me knows perfectly well that if he were morally capable of doing right by me, he would have done so long ago. but there’s a part of me that needs so ferociously for someone in the fbi or dea or atf to finally do right by me… and matthew, having professed his so-called love for me back in that evil summer 2008, has always seemed the most likely candidate for a moral conversion. there are no moral conversions among the ranks of the various gangs of federal police. at least not for me.

seven years later, I have still never written in my blogs about all of it. baffling that the story of one wretched summer has still never been fully told, that the undercover tales of one ugly summer could fill a couple of hundred pages if I were to write it from beginning to end. an absolutely ludicrous pastiche of costumes, codes done with cigarettes and cigars, hand signals, planes, motorcycles, helicopters, dogs, whistling in the dark, gunshots in the dark, lies, manipulations, very sleek black cars with connecticut plates, and more, and more. and all the time I was the bait, and I was the property not allowed to be taken by the other side, but I was not a person.

only part of me wants to know where he is. most of me is content not to see him, so that the daydream that he could be dead and gone can be allowed to grow. because only if he’s dead can I be certain that I will never see his face again. and most of me wants that very much. can you imagine the anger, can you imagine the sorrow? probably not.

and as to ginger rubberboobs… there was some trouble with her last year several times, shooting off her psychotic mouth at me. finally I asked a detective in town if he would have a word with her. did he? I don’t know. he said he would, said he’d tell her not to speak to me. I don’t believe much that people say anymore. in any case, I daydream often that she’s locked up in a federal prison, where she belongs, and that they’ve sunk the key to her cell in the sea in a block of cement.

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

calabrese

wednesday 3 april 2013

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operation family secrets…  by frank calabrese, jr., and co-authors

this is both the title of frank’s book and the name the fbi gave to the operation that brought down both frank’s father, and a big chunk of the chicago outfit.

because of the things that happened to me in 2008 and 2009, I have a fierce interest in true stories about mobs, their victims, and the sociopathic fbi. but I don’t want fiction. the true stories have so far been hard for me to locate, so, in my mob-story isolation, I devoured this book. after all, unlike the author, I did not have my family behind me when I was going through my own mob story, not even one lousy member. I don’t have them now. and while the people who have believed me over the years are some comfort, it isn’t the same as having someone in my family on my side, someone who is related to the family gangster just as I am. but no, I am a fruit-loop. despite the fact that it was a relative who confirmed part of matthew’s story for me, saying that family research had revealed that my grandfather was most likely a criminal and that in 1943 he suddenly disappeared, I am still a fruit-loop. no moral support for me, no nothing.

unlike me, frank knew of his father’s type of business from early in life. at age eighteen, he joined his father in such business. it makes me ask questions, this story of frank’s, questions shooting off in my mind all through the reading of the book like little fireworks, questions that no one will ever answer. for instance: my father had his mafia father for fifteen years, then my grandparents split up. by the age of fifteen, did my father know his father was a mobster? as the oldest child and a son, had he even been told by his father in a sort of macho, father-son talk? did my father know about grampa’s first family that he’d produced on the island of crete before ever coming to the u.s., the family to whom any mob earnings must have been sent, since my father and his siblings grew up in poverty? the few in my family who remain alive and might have some answers do not talk (denial and under-the-rug-sweeping are two of my family’s favorite psychological tricks). and matthew, who has the answers, will not talk either.

frank calabrese jr. finds himself of two minds in the early part of his life, and I very much understand this split. he both loves his father deeply, and is horrified by him. he follows him into organized crime, but it isn’t exactly clear to me from the book whether he does this out of fear of his father, or out of the same kind of rapacious greed that his father suffers from. or both. since I never knew my crime grandfather, since he betrayed his organization (how? matthew won’t tell) and was killed by them ten years before I was born, I have many questions about him. the stories told about him as I was growing up, few as they were, were not of a mobster. those stories were apparently mostly lies. I want to know exactly what he did for this mob of his, and who of his loved ones, both in greece and in the u.s., he put in danger with his way of life. I spent fifty-five years loving this man I never saw, loving him because he was my dad’s father and he meant something to him; loving him because he was absent, and therefore a magnetic mystery; loving him because he gave us our greek blood, of which I used to be proud. since 2008, I’m of two minds: the old me who loved this family ghost, and the newer part of me that is disgusted and ashamed.

eventually, frank, his father, his uncle, his brother, are all arrested and sent to prison on racketeering charges. while they are serving their sentences, frank decides to betray his father and get into bed with the fbi. this is not an easy choice for him, and I’ve heard him with his own voice on a radio show talking about the two separate sets of feelings he has for his father, and how very hard these things were for him. I hope that in his situation I would have done what he did, but I can’t know that for certain. he wears a wire in the prison yard and gets his father to talk about murders and all kinds of other illegal past behavior. he hands it all over to the feds. he takes their instructions. even the feds are shocked by the large role frank’s father had in the outfit, because they hadn’t known. what they had thought was going to be a relatively small mob case, taking a small but important bite out of the outfit, turned out to be, according to frank, the biggest bite out of a mob since the days of capone.

frank expresses respect for the agents he dealt with. my own attitude towards them is quite different. succinctly put, I detest them. but frank was treated one way by them, and I was treated quite another way. yet another question that popped up more than once while reading: why did frank, a criminal who was betraying his father, deserve to be treated like a human being by the feds, and I, a non-criminal, did not? why did he deserve that, and I didn’t? many criminals in the annals of the fbi have been treated with kid gloves compared to the way they treated me. I have always only been able to conclude that I was bait. matthew spoke once of big fish, when I was asking him why some of the minnows who had got me into this horror show hadn’t been arrested. big fish. and they came to greenfield in 2008, some of those big connecticut fish, believe me they did. and made themselves very obvious to me, no attempts to be clandestine. what became of them once they had been lured in? no idea. when asked, matthew wouldn’t tell. so frank respects the federal cops, and I do not.

a couple of things come up in the story that bring about a dark shiver, one of them being a method of murder favored by frank’s father and uncle. things involving strangulation and a knife. long ago when I was in college, my little cousin was murdered. the act involved strangulation and a knife, or so I was told by my aunt, the child’s mother. naturally I asked matthew about this cousin, after sitting there telling him yet another story that he already knew. the whole time I talked, he wouldn’t look at me. he stared out the window crying quietly, and only looked at me when I was finished narrating and asked my questions. he answered them in his undercover act, his pseudo-schizophrenic gibberish, and so I still do not know if the murder of my cousin came about in the way that we were told, for the reasons we were told, or if it was something completely different, and uglier, and more sinister. mobs have codes, many people have told me, and I know this. they don’t whack women and children, these people have said. and it seems that that’s true, that most of the time they leave women and children alone. but I’m a woman, and, according to matthew, they came after me because of some lies told to them by one of their lackeys (the one I call the mafia-chick). so if they would make a rare exception and come after me, why could they not also have made one forty years ago and got my cousin, a mere child? I think they could have. but I also think the killing could have been exactly what we were told it was. ad nauseam: matthew wouldn’t tell.

to me, frank jr. is a mostly brave and mostly selfless man. he does not see himself this way. he was afraid of his father, and this fear led to the betrayal. he emphasizes his fear. he betrayed him in order to be free of him. but in getting himself free of the old coot, he got many others free of him too. he did things along the way in the building of the case that were indeed courageous and selfless. he asked for no reduction of sentence, no immunity, and refused the witness protection program. in 2011, when this book came out and the radio interview was done, he said that he was not one to hide. and also, that he needed to give his father the opening for revenge. it was part of the code that his father, if released from prison, deserved to murder him, and frank felt he had to give his father that chance (part of the code is still in frank jr.). that’s brave in my book, to sit and wait for the day your father could come to kill you.

early this year (2013), frank calabrese, sr. died in federal prison. in honor of this death (or so it felt to me), that 2011 radio interview was re-aired.  hooray, the old murderer is dead. hooray, he never got released on parole to go and kill his brave son. hooray, frank never has to fear his father again. and yet I know there must be great grief for frank too, because, like me, frank continued to hope till the bitter end that his father would one day love him, one day ask forgiveness, and that even if for only a few years, if only on prison visits, they could have a somewhat normal father-son bond. he has hungered for this all his life, and I understand such hunger very, very well.

if I had a hat on, frank, I’d tip it to you many times over. all the cheap male cowards I have known. and then there’s you out there in the world. thank you for being out there in the world. a brave man. a mostly unselfish man. a man who hungers for normality and love.

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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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….

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the matthew

moonday 15 august 2011          (new post)

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matthew belongs in the sehnen blog. he has appeared in my other blogs over the last three years, but he began on Soulcast, in the Sehnen blog, and this is where he belongs. I write in orange today because for the first three months that I knew him, matthew was always orange. one shade of orangey hair, another shade of orangey-pink skin, and orange clothes. before I knew his name, I thought of him as that orange guy who’s always in my face.

to re-cap, for myself more than for anyone else:

~~  I saw him for the first time on 14 march 2008, three days after the
       illegal eviction
~~  ever since, whenever I was in greenfield, he was in my face almost
       daily, from 14 mar 2008 to 2 sept 2010. two and half years.
~~  from 2 sept 2010 to 31 dec, he stayed out of my face. four whole months.
       I began to be less anxious when I had to go to greenfield. I began to enjoy
       going there again, just a tiny bit. and then he strikes again, appears again,
       and ruins the small gains I’d made.
~~ then he stays away a second time: from 11 march 2011 until last tuesday,
      august 9. five months this time. I’d become convinced that he was going
      to at last extend me the mercy of never appearing before me again. you’ll
      no doubt say: how can he not be visible at times when you go to the town
      where he lives? the answer, that you won’t believe because it’s more fun
      for you to think I’m nuts, is this: Matthew always knows where I am. I’ve
     seen and heard and been through too much with him over more than three
     years to ever doubt again that this is true. and because he always knows
     where I am, he can stay away from me if he chooses. he has fooled
     me twice now into believing that he will at long last keep himself off.

he has a new look now. the reddish-brown hair is no longer down to the shoulders, but stops at the top of the neck. and there is now a beard of several inches. he’s forty now. for all I know, he may have a new shtik too. I no longer have anyone in Greenfield to give me reports. the I’m-just-a-drunken-schizophrenic act that he’s been putting on for years may have been jettisoned and replaced by something different.

matthew lacoy. the name that he gave me, that he gives everyone. he once stated that matthew is indeed his real first name, but strongly implied that lacoy is not his real last name. these things used to matter to me, back in the day. we were in love, after all, and I wanted to know his real names, both of them. I was only allowed to know one.

it’s probably much too difficult for me to try to describe why it’s so upsetting to see him, all the conflicting things I feel when I see him. and yet I guess I’m about to try.

he’s a reminder. a reminder of the dark, ugly things he told me were going on in my life. there are plenty of other reminders of that sordid story in greenfield too, but mattew is the one that hurts the most. he’s a reminder of my being used as a means to an end. and more, much more. as regards his work, and how he was doing it in my existence, and the way in which he did it, he is a trigger of trauma and an object of my undying, immutable scorn.

and then there’s the personal angle, which had nothing to do with his work, or my need for his touted skills, but had to do strictly with me and with him, as two people. he’s a reminder of loving him, and all the attendant shame and rage that I feel for having fallen in love with someone like him. the extent to which I demeaned and devalued myself by falling in love with someone with no conscience, with an ego the size of jupiter, and who did and does and always will love his job (which strokes his mighty ego mightily), more than he does me. I feel just as sullied by having loved him as I would if I’d fallen in love with a serial killer, or a mafioso. I fee polluted. and every time he stays away for months, that black filth that I feel in connection with him starts to get infinitessimally smaller, to recede just the most minute bit into the past. but when he puts himself in front of me again, there it all is, fresh and new as if it had all begun just yesterday: the protection, the criminals, the codes and crap and secrets, the love that cannot surmount his ego, the stinking undercover hovel and the selfishness. the shame. the co-operation in demeaning myself. the good moments, however few they might have been. his arrogance. my god, is he arrogant. the scar where he was once shot. these things and so many more all come back to me with force and clarity and rage and pain, the instant that I see him.

it doesn’t matter where he is. if he’s two feet from me or a hundred, the inner onslaught is the same. If he speaks to me or if he doesn’t, the damage is the same. his physical presence, anywhere at all where my eyes can see him, is like the attack of a slavering emotional army that I cannot attempt to bring to heel, ever, unless I never see his face or body or clothes, any small part of him, ever again.

move away, you might say. but I can’t. I’ve discussed elsewhere why I have to stay in a townful of people I can’t stomach, who can’t stomach me, and stay within matthew’s reach. I can’t leave the memories of my illegally stolen animals and my stolen life. can’t leave the scene of the crime. I feel closer to those animals and to my former self here in turners trolls than I do anywhere else. the only solution open, regarding what happens when I see matthew, is for him to be merciful, to stay away from me. twice now I thought he was finally extending me that mercy. twice now he couldn’t keep it up, just go on with his sick life and his filthy work without ever again putting himself in my face. he is, apparently, capable only of temporary mercy. as long as I continue breathing, apparently, I can look forward to the profound inner suffering of seeing him. it takes me days to get back on my inner feet, such as they now are, after one of these sightings. hell, it’s been a week tomorrow, and I have not got back up on my bleeding emotional feet yet, else  I wouldn’t have felt the need to write this post.

he got a message to me a few months ago. he does this now and then, and he does it in his customary sneaky, underhanded, undercover ways. and the message was: I’ll always be in love with you. what kind of love is it that can bestow neither kindness nor truth nor commitment nor mercy.

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read…   Braon…   Scealta liatha

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eleven weeks

sehnen posted on May 20, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: protectionx

Page Twenty-nine                 (copy)

20 may 2008   greenfield

eleven weeks today, tuesday 20th may, and the maggots at the DMH and CSS have done nothing that I know of to help me find something better and more permanent than just a bedroom to live in. if you find it too angry, too over-the-top to call them maggots, try to empathize yourself into my situation. you might be flaming pissed off too.

Shirley Temple the actress, the case manager, the charmer and manipulator (and boy was I conned by her act) still has her home and her life and what’s dearest to her, but she had apparently not a single qualm in her iceberg of a soul about doing this to me and my animals. she could drop dead where she stands. in theory. it happens to people sometimes. I’ll meditate on it; maybe there’ll be a harmonic convergence.

I’m real, real fed up today, in case you couldn’t pick that up.

Update 6 June 2009:  I feel the anger in these posts, the anger I was feeling when I wrote them. first at the DMH, then later at other, even bigger bureaucrats. and I remain angry, but the medications dull it down. those dark, black bands running through me of grief and anger and hopelessness. I came early on to beleive that I was bait to matthew and his gang, after he made his comment about “big fish.” and I still believe it entirely possible that I was used as bait, without my consent, to attract certain people from connecticut. for how long? I don’t know, but I would say at least from march to the end of july 2008. maybe it ended then, for all I know; the protection, the catching of big fish, whatever. since matthew never told me the scope of the thing — how many people were involved and how long it would go on — I was left to try to figure things out from events and people around me, and I undoubtedly guessed wrong on a lot of it. he should have told me everything or nothing. telling me only a little created too much uncertainty and too much pressure, and I cannot function in highly pressurized situations; I just shut down. undercover man has a lot to answer for, but he has completely run away from that and from me. so much for love.

(like this mad hatter, matthew has very blue eyes and a very big smile. he even served me tea once — ONLY once — in a little white teacup. and part of his act is that he’s nuts. the figurine, not the actual matthew, is at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

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read…     All my stars…   Being toward death

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

canajoharie swallowed up

Page Twenty-four          (a copy)

sehnen posted on May 07, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: oh for the wingsx

wednesday 7 may 2008    greenfield

Well, what now. Someone, and I don’t of course know who, has fiddled with the tag line from Saturday’s post (the nettle, danger; tag line as I wrote it was the flower, safety)

Where all the little teasers are, the tag line reads: the flower, safety, life. I did not write the word life in that line, and neither did Shakespeare, so far as I know, though his line could be longer than I think. Anyway, I didn’t write the word life, someone else did. So I went to edit that post and get the word life out, and it isn’t there in my original copy. Someone added it to the teaser, and I don’t know how to get it off. So there’s that. This is how things go on Soulcast.

I saw one of the purveyors of  “mental health care” this afternoon. These moribund, hazily educated, highly lazy employees of the department of mental hell. I see them all the time in this town (greenfield). They’re like lice. A female, this one was. One of my “sisters.” Right.

Shirley Temple (duplicitous DMH case manager), however, I have  not seen. Not since March 17th, and I spend a lot of time in a place that she used to frequent, but not no more. Wonder if she’s feeling a little ashamed of herself, a little reluctant to see me. Not likely, I suppose. More likely she’s puffed up with rectitude for saving my poor abused animals from the likes of me. May the ocean’s dogs devour her.

P.N. came from her town to visit me today, bought me some things I needed that I can’t afford, because for half the month (until my food stamps come) I have to buy all of my meals out, and it goes through a lot of money. I’m becoming good at finding food for $2 at places that also let you have free water, but sometimes I’m hungrier than that. I take prednisone for my raging immune system, and it seems to make me hungry.

Back to the stolen for a moment   A cameo: Canajoharie was a very shy little parakeet that I bought in 2004. She’s the only one of my 14 stolen who’d been with me for less than 9 years. But she bonded beautifully with Tuuschi the lovebird after his mate died, and was very sweet to him. He was born crippled and could never stand on the edge of a dish to eat. Always had to have his food straight on the floor. And once a day, Canajoarie would go down to the floor of her cage and sit there while he ate on the floor of his. She’d keep him company like that. After a while a finally got the idea to put some seeds on Canajo’s floor too, so that she could also eat while she kept Tuuschi company.

Parrots are known for holding food in their hands to eat it. Other hookbills  —  lovebirds, cockatiels, etc.,  —   are not known for it. I had a good number of small hookbills in my bird years, and there were only two who would eat parrot-style like that; one of my cockatiels, and Canajoharie. A piece of lettuce or spaghetti or bread or whatever would be held in the hand and eaten. Or, she would use her modified method. This called for the piece of food to be clamped to the perch with one hand, and then she would bend over and take bites off of it. This, like many animal behavior inventions, was a source of amusement, and fascination, and pleasure to me. Whenever an animal came up with an oddball little feat of their own, I was as proud as I was the day I saw my daughter take her first steps. Just as proud. No difference. No “lesser” feeling for the animal’s achievement than I had had for the human’s.

Update 2 June 2009:  No, Shirley Temple feels no remorse over what she helped to do to me. Nor does Cry Baby at the CSS, or the disturbed landlady, or any of the people in Turners who know what happened to my animals and will not tell. It has been a rare experience in my life to see someone feel remorse over some rotten thing they have done, to apologize, to make whatever amends can be made. Matthew is just the latest example. If he hoaxed me, it was a rotten thing to do. If he’s truly an undercover “protector,” and if he was in love with me, as he said, then he treated me very badly and feels no remorse. He has been avoiding me since the letter of May 22 (this year) that I sent him. If Matthew wasn’t going to tell me everything about this protection business he spoke of, then he should have told me nothing. To give me only small bits of information and leave me like that in anxiety and tension, wondering who was part of the protection and how far it went, put me under much more stress than if he had just told me everything and I had had concrete facts. He has not apologized for any of the dishonorable ways he treated me last year, and he never will. No one else will either.

Is Canajoharie still alive in some Turners Falls home right now, kept secret from me and I’m not allowed to visit? She was only 4 when she was taken from me. She should still be alive.

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read…   Stolen stars…   Soulcast…   Mental hell...

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