tweedle dee, tweedle dum

sehnen posted on Aug 04, 2008 /views: 53 / Tags: smaointe ar na laethe

(oh, back to copying originals from soulcast)

mon 4 aug 2008….  greenfield

I guess I’m still an amoeba. I’m certainly still homeless, still without an apartment of my own, still renting a bedroom. Still tyring to claw more information out of Matthew concerning these crime-type things he has said are going on in my life. Clawing without success. It was bad enough, and hard enough, what I already had to deal with before any words came from Matthew. What the multiple-personalitied landlady did, what the ice-maiden, queen of deceit case manager at the DMH did. I didn’t need Matthew to tell me even more ugly things about my life and people in it, and then stop telling, refuse to answer my questions. If he wasn’t going to tell me all of it, then he should have kept his mouth shut.

There are those who think that as a result of the enormous trauma of being thrown onto the streets and having my animals stolen, I have gone nuts. Become delusional. That, while they know that Mattew truly exists because they see him on the streets themselves, they do not believe that he ever said the things he said to me. I have cooked this up in my sick mind. Well, they weren’t in the room with him when he has said these things, and I was. I didn’t make recordings of our conversations (although Matthew himself made recordings of some of them, as I have recently learned), and so I can’t prove he said the things he said.

For instance, we’ve just spent twenty-four hours together, which has never happened before. Ten o’clock yesterday morning to ten o’clock today. During this time, there were all the usual bizarre things I have to endure when I’m with him, plus some new ones. Since July 2, every single time I’ve gone to his apartment, he has gone to one certain window, where he stands looking out for about three minutes. Every single time. I find this to be out of the realm of anything I’ve ever experienced with any other person in my life, crazy or sane. The same window, for the same space of time, every single time I’m there. And then of course there is the whacked-out radio made to look like it’s a crazy accident, but I for one don’t buy it. And the sounds the radio makes. And the fact that he never listens to it for more than about 40 seconds.  And more.

Yesterday he had some new wrinkles for me. He asked me if I had my driver’s license with me — since we don’t have cars, what difference does it make? — and he’s never done this before. He asked me about every two frigging hours. And likewise, every time, he told me that his new license is coming in the mail any day. Every two hours. When I finally got sick of it and said what the hell do you care about all this license shit, he said this:  because we might be driving a car. maybe we’ll go to a new apartment for you. He’d already given me this answer yesterday morning after I got frustrated with something else. We’d come back from the health food store to his building, and it was hot, and I thought we were going inside to the air conditioning. He said we should go sit in the back yard. So we sat in the grass. And sat. And sat. And I got hotter and hotter. What are we waiting for now, I said. Maybe we’ll be driving to an apartment for you soon.

Now you can say he’s crazy, because that certainly is the act that he puts on much of the time. But when I’m alone with him, there are scenarios that are very different from that act. Because of things that went on at the building where I last lived, where I was thrown out, and because of other things that occur only when Matthew and I are alone, for which I sadly have no tapes or videos as proof, I have always found the unbelievable things he’s told me believable. If anyone credible ever convinces me that he’s been lying, then I will accept unequivocally that I’ve believed a liar. But believing a liar does not make a person a delusional, it makes a person wrong. Yet yuppies by the handfuls, yuppies who have degrees in social work, mind you, that exacting and meticulous course of study, have decided they can write about me on pieces of paper that I’m loopy because I believe a man who may turn out to have been lying. They insist Matthew never said these things. How, pray tell, can they prove that he didn’t say them, and that I’m nuts, anymore than I can prove that he did say them, and that I’m not nuts?

Enough of that for now. On to musings that often wander through my mind when I think of everything that’s been done to me and my animals over the last two years.


fog and rain
london town’s the same
borrowing time from friends
circles have no end….      ~~ anon


But you can jump out of any circle. I hope I’ll jump.


smaointe ar an lá
raibh sibh ar mo thaodh
ag inse scéil
ar an doigh a bhí
is cuimhin liom an lá
gan gach gan gruaim
bígí liomsa i gconai
lá is oíche….        (e.brainnan)


But they can’t be with me, my animals. Now or ever again. I don’t want something different. I wanted to keep living my own way, to the small extent that I was ever allowed by anyone to do that. I hope that autism, in extremis, will offer some interesting ideas of its own on how to jump out of the circle. And if not, there are always the old, familiar ways.


jåg kjann segler for ütan wind
jåg kjann ro ütan ohrer
men en huilhjas fron vennen min
ütan ot fehler tohrer…     ~~  trad.


As with some other things I’ve cited, I haven’t seen these traditional words in print for about 14 years, so my spelling may be whimsical. Oh, what do you care. Maybe you’re lucky if you can do acceptable spelling in english, and yet maybe you expect someone wordy like me to spell flawlessly in any language that pops into my head. If you do, then you expect too much.

Update 5 Aug 2009:  On year later. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, of Alice fame. For I’ve said more than once that soon after that crime-chick moved into my building in 2006, my animals and I fell into a rabbt-hole of lies and abuse and illegalities and surreal madness (other people’s, not mine) that we never made it out of. The animals all dead and gone now, killed by the people and the events and the madnesses of this rabbit-hole, and me still alive in a surreal, hideous existence that is in no way my own life.

(monkeys at

 Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

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Polly puppet

Page Eighty-two

wed 9 july 2008       Greenfield    (copying originals again)

sehnen  posted on Jul 09, 2008 / views 47 / Tags: tie these anchors to our eyes


pretty polly puppet
was strangled by a string,
and the cry was deafening.

           ~~  barbara-anne dorn


I hope Barbara-Anne is okay. It’s been so many years, and I can’t find her with a Google search. I can find someone with her name, but that one’s much too young to be the one I knew. I always loved her poetry, and wish I still had it with me.

So often I’ve felt like the powerless marionette, anybody with any kind of power over me pulling the bloody strings whenever they feel like it and contorting me out of myself, out of my personal freedom. And if you think that poverty doesn’t make you a marionette, just try it on for size. Try long-term poverty that you will never get out of because your body will never be fit enough to hold any kind of decent job again. Try government programs, and see how they pull your strings. Try being a lifelong poverty-renter, never having the personal freedom of your own home, and see how power-tripping landlords and substance-abusing fellow tenants pull your bloody strings. Try it on for size. Then Matthew comes along and tells me that he and other federal types from Burlington are pulling my strings. Try that one.

Will I get to make an ear-splitting, deafening cry before I strangle? Doubt it. The powerless are rarely heard, no matter how loudly they scream.

The human race sickens me. Including Matthew and his gang, who fancy themselves fighters of crime and defenders of right. They’re egomaniacal and sociopathic, and they break any law they like in order to get who they want to get. Respect for the law is anathema to them. They respect only the hunt and the kill.

And on homelessness:


I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red.
Around the world I’ll beg my bread,
until my parents shall wish me dead.
Siúl, siúl, siúl….


~~~  anonymous

Siúl, siúl…. it takes up fifty percent of the homeless person’s time. The other half is hanging. Hanging here, hanging there. All of this hoofing and all of this hanging are contributing (I hope) to the critical volume of death energy as much as the heat is. Let this energy accumulate at a faster rate.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Taim inis anois

Page Seventy-seven

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

sat 5 july 2008    Greenfield

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

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


Only stars,                                                                                                                           

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

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





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


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


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

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

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

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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This and that and song

Page Seventy-four

(back to the copying of original posts)

sehnen posted on Jun 26, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: time has no regardx

thurs 26 june 2008   Greenfield

 Oh, a little of this and a little of that today. Whatever comes into my head.

Let’s see… last Thursday and Friday two big, important? men were brought to public places to have a gawk at me. I can’t say much more about them, as I have no idea who they were. Never seen them before. Christ, I should be charging money for all this damned public gawking and testing of me that’s been going on. In some ways, among certain people, I have become a perverse kind of celebrity in turners and greenfield. On one level it’s farcical. On another it’s sickening. One of them was in Bart’s Cafe in Greenfield, and the other was in the library in Turners Falls. And there was no doubt at all that these men were where they were in order to have a look at me. It wasn’t imagined, it wasn’t self-consciousness, it was unmitigated marching in, coming near to me and having a sustained and pointed gawk, and marching out again. What was it all about? I will never be told.


Here’s another song from the 90’s, the very first one I wrote in my three-year song-writing binge.



Oh low moon, all alone,
roll along solemn sky.
Solo moon, slow your song,
sing along silent sky.


Moon won’t sing, only cries,
shadows stole her will.
Sky rise in her eyes,
watch this moon stand still.


Lonely moon, lost your stars,
gone like leaves before the wind.
Silent sky, lift your eyes,
lull the cries of moaning moon.


Where her stars on this night,
why this moon alone,
mourning here stolen stars,
spirit lost and gone.


Solemn sky (songless moon)
sing or sigh (so low moon)
darkness shadows evening’s eyes
Silent sky (mourning moon)
lift your eyes (oh low moon)
lullaby the lonely moon,
lullaby the lonely moon.


If I do say so myself, this song, written in 1994, was a wee bit prophetic. Disastrously so.


What else… most of the biggest things in my life have been either ruined or brought about in a completely damaging way to me by other people, neurotypical people. As much as my raging immune system has contributed to wrecking things I wanted to do, and as much as Asperger’s has done so, neurotypicals have done so too. To a diabolical degree.


I’d like to recommend the following books on sociopathy. About once every 30 years, someone in amerika writes a good book on the subject. The next one’s due about 2034. I won’t see it. but I’m glad I saw these:

                              Hervey Bleckley THE MASK OF SANITY (ca.1945)

                              M. Scot Peck  THE PEOPLE OF THE LIE (ca.1975)

                              Martha Stout  THE SOCIOPATH NEXT DOOR (ca.2004)

They are all written by psychiatrists. Facts from them I still remember: worldwide, 4 out of every 100 people are sociopaths, and in the u.s., this ratio is on the rise. Also, most psychobabble boneheads don’t believe in sociopathy because it’s incurable and untreatable, and they don’t want to believe in something that their pills and their idiotic therapy sessions can’t fix.


Another message for the secret someone:

bill building, and me with the nails, but you didn’t know us yet. I couldn’t do very much, but I helped where I could.


Update 21 July 2009: The above song was after the death of one of my cats. I had lost one of my stars, but in the poetic license of the song I describe the moon as having lost all her stars. Now, as I said above, I sometimes see this song as eerily prophetic, but then at other times it’s a bitter coincidence. I wrote about the moon losing all her stars, no longer wanting to sing, her spirit gone, and 14 years later, it happens to me. Did the mind got a foreboding of where things were heading? Anyway, I am now that creature that I called the moon in the song. Lost, spiritless, crying, all stars gone, lonelier than I have ever been.

On the day I first wrote this post, I had only known for three days that something criminal was going on in my life, but I didn’t yet know what.

 ~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Nxonfu II

Page Sixty-seven

Friday 13 Aug 2010… (yes, another new one)



V unq pbzr gb gur ubhfe, va n pnir bs gerrf,
Snpvat n furre fxl.
Rirelguvat zbirq, — n oryy uhat ernql gb fgevxr,
Fha naq ersyrpgvba jurryrq ol.
Jura gur oner rlrf jrer orsber zr
Naq gur uvffvat unve,
Uryq hc ng n jvaqbj, frra guebhtu n qbbe.
Gur fgvss onyq rlrf, gur frecragf ba gur sberurnq
Sbezrq va gur nve.
Guvf vf n qrnq fprar sberire abj.
Abguvat jvyy rire fgve.
Gur raq jvvy arire oevtugra vg zber guna guvf,
Abe gur enva oyhe.
Gur jngre jvyy nyjnlf snyy, naq jvvy abg snyy,
Naq gur gvccrq oryy znxr ab fbhaq.
Gur tenff jvyy nyjnlf or tebjvat sbe unl
Qrrc ba gur tebhaq.
Naq V funyy fgnaq urer yvxr n funqbj
Haqre gur terng onynaprq qnl,
Zl rlrf ba gur lryybj qhrg gung jnf yvsgvat va gur jvaq,
Naq qbrf abg qevsg njnl.


                                             ~~  louise bogan

Nxonfu I  ~~  Poetry  ~~  Nxonfu III

(gabriella veronese’s mask in original state at



Page Forty-six

sehnen posted on Jun 09, 2008 | views: 131 | Tags: Ix, in company withx

mon 9 june 2008    Greenfield

Still another of the fourteen stolen, Lizzie was a Senegal parrot, and the only parrot I’ve ever had. She was three when I got her in 1991, and is now twenty, if she’s alive. And she had yellow eyes, which never ceased delighting me.

I’ve been told recently by two different humans that she’s living with that unholy, smarmy, lying priest in Turners Falls, but both of these people have lied to me before, so who knows? Senegals are not talkers, not in human style anyway, but she always spoke perfectly fine Senegal parrot. She learned cockatiel pretty well, and for several years spoke a very respectable cat. Lizzie was definitely an oddball, like me, and through the long years we had our adventures, especially when she decided to exit her cage without permission. Parrots are very prone to this, anyway. She gave me one excellent bite in January, not long before we were destroyed. Got infected and everything. Parrots are prone to biting, too. But over seventeen years Lizzie only bit me four times, and only badly that once. Maybe she knew we were finished, and wanted to give me one hell of a bite to remember her by. I remember it, Lizzie Bean. But I would have remembered you in any case, bite or no bite.

For all our shared years, there was the continuing and never-solved mystery of the top of Lizzie’s head. It was bare as a boiled egg when I got her, and for more than seventeen years I tried to get those damned things to grow in and stay in. They grew in scores of times. They were perfectly happy to grow in. They just never stayed for very long.

I tried everything. Things I read in my bird magazines, things I talked over with the pet shop owners, things other parrot-keepers told me. Everything. No, I didn’t take her to the vet, but I did ask vets about it when I had another animal in their exam rooms. My small amount of money had to stretch for a lot of animals, and I never could pay for vet visits that were for something harmless. The first theory for bald birds is always nutritional lack, but I offered Lizzie a huge variety of things. Most of them she declined to eat, being always an extremely finicky eater. Next I tried vitamins in the water. All of my birds got these for at least half of every year anyway, starting with spring molt. Second after nutrition is always the anxiety theory. Anxious birds often pull out their feathers. I gave Lizzie more time out of her cage, etc. I set her up so she had no other birds too close beside her, etc. And still her head would fill in and look nice, and then go bald again. I would occasionally catch her eating a feather she would hold in her little birdie hand, but it was almost never a head feather. Wing and tail were the kind she liked to munch on, and only when they were falling out anyway. She never yanked them out herself until they were already loose. Nor did I ever, in more than seventeen years, catch her pulling out a head feather, and I was home a great deal of the time.

I never solved the mystery. The day Lizzie was taken from me and hidden inside the sleazy priest’s house (I wasn’t allowed to go inside and see my birds), the top of her head was bald again. This priest, and some others he’s palsy with, started passing malicious and patently false gossip about me and my animals two days after the eviction; gossip relating to what “terrible condition” they were in and how I was “a hoarder who didn’t take care of them.” One hundred percent nasty, bullshit gossip, and very typical of the filth in this town. Lizzie’s head wasn’t one of the slander items brought back to me from Turners by the friend I was staying with in Greenfield, but I’m sure it must have been passed around as further evidence of my cruel neglect of my animals. May all who passed this stinking dirt rot in the fiery hell that they believe their made-up god will send them to if they sin. They sin.

If Lizzie (and supposedly four cats too) are really with this priest, why didn’t these people who were only too happy to tell me this, offer to take me to visit them? Because cruelty, taunting and teasing, are a whole lot more fun than mercy and kindness, it seems. Even to self-desribed christians.

once, in the care of morning
in the air was all belonging.
once, when that day was dawning,
I was with you.
once, as the night was leaving
into us our dreams were weaving.
once, all dreams were worth keeping,
I was with you.
once, when our hearts were singing
I was with you.    
~~~  roma ryan


Update 22 June 2009:  Is Lizzie dead? She would be 21 if she were still alive. Is she still with that priest? Was she ever? I was told so many things about my animals last year, some of them conflicting, that I still more than a year later don’t know what to believe. And if that priest truly did have Lizzie and four of my cats, why was I never granted the kindness of being allowed to visit them? There are people in Turners Falls who know the answers to these questions. Church-going “christians” who keep these secrets from me for over a year, despite the pain and grief for me. I want to know how christian that is.

The lyrics I wrote here on this post last year are something I can only glance at, they tear at me so. I was with you, since you were babies, and human cruelty tore it all apart.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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

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Ola ta Eepofero

Page Forty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 06, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: kalisperax, my lost friendsx

still fri 6 june, 2008   Greenfield

A little poem an old lady taught me a long, long time ago. It’s a poem you can say to anyone you love, and I, of course, am leaving it here for my 14 stolen friends. The verbs are all singular (like you know or care?), and I, being the fussbudget about such things that I am, should change one of them to the plural, and I’m not going to. But I do have to transliterate. That’s not something dirty. It’s something languagey people do all the time.                                        

esee may vas anyeezees
ma ti boro na po
ola ta eepofero
yatee se agapo.
———— (anonymous)


Eenay ola eleenyeeka ya sena

Loose ends to tie up, etc. The loose ends are taking a bit longer than I thought they would. Loose ends on blogs, loose ends in this existence that isn’t my own life, and other kinds of loose ends as well. Still trying to tie them up.

Some more words for my animals. I like corny old folk songs, and the older, the better. And the more versions of each one I can find, the better. I’ve heard 3 different versions of this one, all called Ned of the Hill, but with different music and different words. Anyway, I don’t know the name of the person who wrote these sad, corny lyrics. However corny you may find them, I like them, and they fit what I’ve been going through. 

through frost and through snow
tired and hunted I go
in fear of both friend and neighbor.
my horses run wild
my acres untilled
and all of it lost to my labor.
but what grieves me still more
than the loss of my store
is there’s no one who’d shield me (us) from danger.
so my fate it must be
to bid farewell to thee
and languish amid strangers.

So much waste, so much broken, so much useless struggle. It wasn’t worth it.

Update 17 June 2009: I was very depressed when I wrote this post, and angry too. I can feel little bite in some of my words. But last June I had absolutely no idea how very long it was going to go on: the wandering on streets through frost and snow and heat, and no one to shield me from any of it. If the feds were protecting me from a bullet, they were not protecting me from the homelessness, from the humiliation and degradation, from the 15 months of living a nightmare and languishing among strangers. I also had the belief still (when I first wrote this) that the DMH would help me, and that I’d get to visit some of my animals in their “foster” homes, and that I would get some of them back. Early June 2008, when this was written, I had no idea how very bad things were going to get and how long they were going to go on. And I kept myself going whatever way I could (denial, shtyk, pushing away my grief, living outdoors), because after Matthew told me “feds,” I believed without question that I would be located in a home somewhere and have some of my animals returned to me. And he knew I believed this, and never told me otherwise.

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

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.

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

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thirteen weeks tomorrow

Page Thirty-four

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

mon 2 june 2008    greenfield

1.     another message for someone remaining unnamed:

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

2.     Disobligata I


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

Disobligata II                                                                                                                     


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


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

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

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


read…    Scealta liatha…    Shadowpoems

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twelve weeks

sehnen posted on May 27, 2008 | views: 111 | Tags: brainsex, sisterx

Page Thirty-two                         (copy)

still tuesday 27 may 2008   greenfield

First, a few words to moonriver, since I don’t understand any of the other ways to do messages:

If you have something you’d like to mention to me, you could email me at ———-, or you could leave me more comments. The poem you sent is direct and sincere, a nice poem, and I hope the special friend you wrote it for appreciates it.

Twelve weeks today since the sheriff came for us. Every time I think on it, my whole body reacts, along with my soul. I have a new day to add to the list of the most horrible days of my life: the day my father died, the day my alpha dog died, and the day the sheriff came.

Here’s an old poem from 2001.

What Was Solid Once

Snow rots,
and with it,
more slowly,
the ice.
And with them,
drop by drop,

And the next one I wrote for my female dog, who is now probably the dog of the landlady who threw us out, thanks to the tender ministrations of case manager Shirley Temple, may she drop dead where she stands. But that’s a chapter in the destruction story that I haven’t told yet. Anyway, I don’t like this poem much, but then again, no poem would say what I want to say about her, for her. I’d need a book.

Number 29                                                                                                                             

This kidnapped soul:
I’ve put it off
a hundred times,
this tellling a little of you and me.
I want to now, again;
to close the book,
to put aside the pen.
I veer away,
and feel disloyal.
What are the words
for the sister of my heart?                               her brown eyes are lost here
What are the words
to tell you my remorse?
They are as undiscoverable
as you are.
You were so anxious,
anxious for weeks,
watching me pack,
telling me in all your
no uncertain terms:
No. I don’t want this.
What are the words
for the mother
who wants with a fierce hot wanting
to calm her child’s fears,
to hold her sister’s hand
and make all the darkness
ennervate with light?
What are the words for the shame
when you cannot?
There are no words, my sister;
nothing I can find, my big girl,
to tell you how I shame inside,
and hurt inside,
and want you, want you
want you,
want you  back.            (Brainse’s poem)



Update 9 June 2009: I like this poem better now than I did when I first wrote it, but it’s still true that I would need a small book to say everything I have to say for and about Brainse (pronounced bransha). I still believe that the landlady who threw us out and destroyed us as a family, destroyed my life, took my two dogs, fairly quickly euthanised my epileptic dog (Mishi), and kept Brainse for herself. I believe these things because of certain behaviors I saw from her near the end of my life, and from certain oblique remarks made by Shirley Temple in those days. But I have been told nothing, and I have a great need to know what happened to each member of my family.

May she drop dead where she stands. These words came from my anger and my pain, knowing full well she wasn’t going to do it. Words don’t have that kind of power. No, she is fine, Shirley Temple, as I knew she would be. So are the vicious landlady and the mafia-chick. Nothing has been taken from them, their lives have not been destroyed by any cataclysmic events or cruelty from other people. What goes around does not come around. Not in most cases, anyway.

It was done by a landlady, and a tenant, and a lawyer, and by the unceasingly dense bureaucrats at the DMH and CSS. And as I’ve said, most of these creatures were women, my sisters.

I cringe at everything that appears that was something I shared with animals my entire life, and particularly these 14 animals that were stolen from me. Morning and evening I shared with them, and rain and snow, and my favorite music, and illnesses (theirs and mine), and our radio shows. I cringe at the sight of animals now, and turn my face away from any animals that are not mine. I’ve loved and helped and stuck up for animals all my life, but that’s over now.

It’s morning, it’s another day without them, and I don’t want it

29 January 2009, Northampton  —- I still cringe, 9 months later. The thieves of the mornings, the thieves of my animals and my life, the bringers of rainpain and snowpain were, in the end, the DMH, the helping agency that didn’t help. It’s still nothing but painnothing but murdering away one minute after another in a way of life that is not my own.

Update 16 May 2009: Regarding the protection stuff:  if matthew is not an agent, but a liar; and if the other people who gave me little crumbs of information were not his colleagues, but more liars, then I remain guilty of nothing more insane than gullibility. But if it’s true that they’re matthew’s bunch and these bizarre things have happened to my life, then I am a victim of horrendous government abuse. Please keep your minds open to both possibilities.

Matthew, by the way, seems, after 14 months on thSoulcast.ese sidewalks and living down the road in a stinky undercover hovel, to have gone. Seems to have gone.


read…   Scealta liatha...    Soulcast

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