the beast speaks

wednesday 28 may 2014


ginger rubberboobs, aka the mafia chick, had words for me today.

this is now an unusual stroke, as she hasn’t spoken directly to me since the summer of 2008. driving by me in her white chariot on the streets of greenfield (while I was being protected from people she had sent after me), sticking her arm up to wave, turning her face to me and YELLING, Hi there.  since then she has sometimes spoken about me, in my hearing, when we are in the same store and she has someone with her. she has also sometimes bullied me in her car (NOT the white chariot as of 2010), crawling slowly along the curb, following me, smirking out the passenger window (yes, leaning right over from the steering wheel to put her unlovely face at the passenger window) as I walk on some street.

but as of this past december, she is ramping up her revolting appearances. I have seen her five times since new year’s eve, five times in as many months. I haven’t seen her five times in five months since she moved out of turners trolls in december of 2007. moved to erving. but I think she might be back in troll-town.

so what did she have to say… I was walking up seventh street, and she was driving down. in a chariot I’ve never seen before (she has changed chariots often since 2009). she pulled the chariot over, stopped it, put her unlovely face out the window and loudly proclaimed: Miss Anne Nakis, you better stop talking about me or your ass’ll be in court.

now, I’ve been talking about her since 2006: eight years, as she has likewise been talking about me. I’ve been writing about her now and then on my blogs since 2008: six years. and suddenly now, this particular day, she decides to get her thong in a knot over it? now she wants to bully me again? she bullied me in a plethora of ways for the seventeen months we lived in the same building (aug 2006-dec 2007), and her greatest coup was to steal money/drugs from mobsters in connecticut, tell them I did it, and get me hunted. and that’s not enough? far more than enough? I’ve known many a drug-addicted (like her), alcoholic (like her), insane person (also like her) who would have been fully content with the seventeen months of devious, underhanded, unrelenting bullying and harassment. would have considered that enough of a victory over someone they detested. but rubberboobs had to get her mob pals on me. apparently even a vicious, sadistic, drastic move like that wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger for power over me for more than… six or so years. now she needs to launch a new campaign, one that begins with attempts to bully and intimidate me out of my right to free speech?

I can talk to anyone I want to about her and say anything I like, just as she can about me. we both have free speech. only in my case, anything I say about her is the truth as I have experienced it. she, on the other hand, lies pathologically. I know this. I’ve been on the receiving end of it.

I’ve thought about this a good bit today, and have decided that one very possible reason she is acting up again now is that someone has got her jazzed up. someone who knows me, who used to be my friend, and to whom I have talked about the rubberboobs abuse. two candidates, whom I will call Joni and Lulu.

lulu was my landlady in 2012. she told me she met rubber at her church in 2010, that rubber had a brief period of turning to religion. I have since won a legal judgment against lulu (though she hasn’t paid yet, of course), and if lulu ran into rubber somewhere (at church again, say. rubberboobs flirting with religion a second time?) and, furious at me over legal matters and of course no longer my friend, then she could have fanned the flames of rubber’s ever-irrational fires.

and then joni. she and I have been friends four different times since 1991, most recently this very year. joni knew rubber long before I ever did. knew some of her family too. anyway, the first three friendships with joni ended with her throwing a temper and walking out of my life. this gave her a feeling of power, I’m sure, as each time she got to be the dumpER. but this past april she called me on the 25th, we spoke, I hung up, and have never called her again. the simplistic and shallow among you are no doubt thinking: you ended it so that this time YOU could be one with the power. you are, as simplistic and shallow minds always are, quite wrong. joni was telling me all about her plans to move far away by the end of this year. very far. so she was going to end the relationship anyway. we weren’t going to be spending anymore time together after that. I couldn’t stand this fourth ending looming up in front of me, hanging over my head like damocles’ sword. so I decided to end it sooner rather than wait for what was looming. get into the pain of the ending straightaway. but joni, who has very definite control and power issues, could have become so radically bent out of shape over the fact that this one time anne decided to end things, that she ran into rubber somewhere and, in that loud and very mean way joni has at times, gave rubber an earful, fanning those psychotic fires.

unless either joni or lulu makes an admission, I’m never, of course, going to know for certain which one of them I have to thank (irony) for mafia maid’s flare-up today. but knowing these three women as I do, I am quite certain that rubber was made looped-up by someone, lulu and joni are the best two candidates on offer. the only two, really. with ex-friends like these, who needs enemies.

what did I say to rubberboobs today? only one word. the aspergian shock I experience when people behave outrageously most of the time leaves me tongue-tied. later I think of all kinds of clever riposte I could have used, but in the period of shock, I can produce little or nothing. all I could croak out there on the sidewalk was the single word DIE. it may not be clever, stinging, or witty, but it is a one-word truth. I have wanted her to die for a very long time. so that the abuse will be over once and for all.


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shut up and wiggle, worm

sehnen  posted on Aug 08, 2008/views 41/

friday 8 august 2008….   greenfield    (8-8-8… the chinese think this is a lucky day. for some, I guess)

αποθανησκειν θελω….  So the sibyl supposedly once said, when she had been trapped. I wonder if the sibyl had Asperger’s. I myself hate to be trapped, either physically or psychologically.

Enormous disgust for the three females who were the three principal players in the ravaging of my life. Total animosity for Matthew and his colleagues, if in fact he has told truth about himself and these colleagues “down from Burlington,” as I, so far, believe. Antipathy for those I am, according to him, being protected from.

Picture yourself in my situation. But you probably can’t. Probably don’t have enough empathy to do that. In my situation, you would see three women, one of whom was supposed to help you, who took nasty, salivating delight in destroying you. You would see the pack of the mafia-chick’s associates, knowing already, as most amerikans do know, what kind of filth organized crime are. You would see only metaphorically the grandfather you never met, whom you thought was an immigrant painter of houses, now turned into an organized crime guy himself, says Matthew. And you would see Matthew, who brought this crime-news to your life, doing his undercover performing, and his pals doing it too, and quite possibly using you, without your consent, as bait for people that the undercovers are drooling for. And what else could you see, if you could picture yourself in my situation,  but human evil, human consciencelessness, human ugly muck? Unless you live in fairyland, or in total denial (and maybe fairyland is where you are when you live in total denial), how could you be in my situation and see the human race as anything but black?

Maybe you could, but it is beyond my make-up. I’ve been a misanthrope with Asperger’s all my life as it is, and every stinking thing that is done to me and mine by any human, or in this case by a great many of them, only makes me fear and detest my own species with more heat.

Matthew, from where I sit, you and your pals are as dirty as the ones you fish for.

I’ve said before that while I have enough rage for homicide, I don’t have whatever else it takes to pull it off. Apparently my grandfather had it, but I don’t. Nor do I, thus far, have what it takes for a fast and decisive suicide. That I hope will change, as my own intellect tells me that it is an idiocy for me to continue to live in such enormous grief and rage. My own personal reasoning tells me that if living is only darkness and struggle and hurt, then it is a waste of time and breath. I hope I’ll become able to end it.

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aram and abel (me an crann marbh)

Page Seventy-six

sehnen posted on Jul 02, 2008 | views: 37 | Tags: the missing kittensx

tues 2 july 2008   Greenfield                       

sleepy, sleepy, but on with it…

It’s probably doing them an injustice, but I always think of Aram and Abel as a pair, whereas I don’t do this with the other set of brothers, Ziidjian and Chan. But Aram and Abel stuck to each other like glue for about the first five years of their lives, in a way that the other brothers didn’t, though the other two certainly had a bond. Chan and Ziidjian were my black brunette brothers, and Aram and Abel were the blondies, like their mother. Abel was tan (or “buff”, as some snooties once called it), and Aram orange. They both tended to bullyhood when they were feeling insecure, but Abel was much stronger in this role than his brother was. Aram was more of a people cuddler than Abel was, and liked  to kiss faces and make squeaky noises. Abel was invested in overseeing the household and making sure all animals were behaving themselves, as he himself defined behaving.

But get these boys outdoors, and they literally cried for their mama, namely me. They never even saw the outdoors until they were three years old, and they did not like it. They would stay out there reasonably happily if I stayed with them, but as soon as I went in, the howling and scratching at the door began. And I mean howling and scratching. As if someone were pulling out their fingernails. Such tough guys. They were odd cats in some ways, maybe not quite all there in some hard-to-define way, like their mother and their sister. Though their mother was very sweet and never bullied anyone, so they must have got that trait from the old man, whoever that was. The mating of their mother, Laxa, was not a deliberate one, but rather was due to my inadequate repair of a hole in a screen door. As birth time got nearer, I prepared her a nest box, but she wanted no part of it. Late that morning I left for about five hours of shopping and lunching and general social time with my friend. Laxa had been fine. Lying on a bed grooming herself. No sign of the onset of labor.

What a day of panic that was — a mother about to give birth had disappeared into thin air. I got home and could not find her. I feared she had whizzed out the door when I left and kittens were being born outdoors somewhere where I’d never find them. And yet I knew she hadn’t got out the door  —  I’d been very careful about that. But where the hell was she? At last Iwent into the largest bedroom, to check in there for the umpteenth time. There was Laxa sitting on a windowsill. She hadn’t been there any of the dozen other times I’d looked. She was no longer pregnant. The search for the mother over, now the hunt for the kittens began. When I finally found them more than an hour later, they were right beside that very windowsill, at the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry that was, I kid you not, ten feet high. The washing machine had broken, and I’d gotten very behind. I hauled the kittens out, examined and admired, put them into a wicker dog bed in the bathroom and shut their mother in there with them where I would know where they were. No more hours of bloody anxiety. Then I collapsed in exhaustion. Animals can always surprize; my decades of living among them and caring for them and sharing life with them certainly taught me that. In retrospect, this birth at the bottom of a tower of dirty clothes is funny; but it was not funny on that day. Tiny little Laxa’s three kids were about eleven hours shy of being summer solsice babies. That would have been nice. But they were safe, and beautiful, and brand new in the world.

June 2oth, just a couple of weeks ago, was their eighth birthday. Are they still alive? Are they still living in that smarmy priest’s garage full of crap, or has someone taken the time and trouble to catch them?  Here I sit, not allowed to visit them. Not allowed to help catch them, not allowed to know where and how they are today. As if I were some animal-abusing criminal whose animals had been seized, rather than the victim of an illegal eviction and an inept social service agency.

I can almost never dwell on thoughts of four of my cats living all alone in a stinking garage. No love, no family, no sense of home and of things being all right. Afraid of every person who opens that garage door and yells at them, or talks phoney sweet to them. I can’t bear these thoughts anymore. It hurts like the end of the world.

Update 24 July 09:  That birthday that those three cats had, the one I wrote about on this post last year, was my first without them. Their first without me and their family. This year they had their 9th birthday on June 20, if they are still alive anywhere. I’ve said before and will no doubt say again: in May last year I was told by two different people that these three cats and one other were living with the priest of the Polish church in Turners Falls, but I was never told that I could visit them, nor have I ever been told that since. Such visits would have meant so much to me, would have given my heart back a tiny fraction of what had been stolen. Are those cats still with that priest, or did he have them put to sleep after a while? No one in Turners Falls who knows — and there are those who know — will tell me. It’s more important for these people who claim to be christians to keep the ugly little community secrets than it is to be merciful. I’ve said before and will no doubt say again: I do not forgive them. I do not claim to be a christian. I am an atheist. One who believes in holding people accountable for their immoral behavior.

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(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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the pushy cow in the chariot of tin

Page Seventy-three

Wednesday 8 December 2010 Turners Tarts

Another post that’s brand new, rather than a copy of the original Sehnens. I know I keep bouncing back and forth between new and old, but I get bored easily with the copying, and there are some new posts that simply belong in the Sehnen blog.


The day under discussion is a Saturday, the date is July 15, and the year is 2006. It’s a nice morning and I’m out in the front yard working on my flower beds. A person drives by on the main road headed towards town and honks. I look up and see a cheap, small white convertible made by Ford of tin and chewing gum — Found On Road Dead we used to say where I grew up. I don’t know this car, and I don’t know the driver, so I wonder why the honk.

I go inside for a while, then return to my gardening. The car comes by yet again, this time in the opposite direction, and this time the driver gives me a wave with her arm stretched out in the air and her hand flapping back and forth like that of a blithering idiot, and I don’t know her. I go inside again, and a few minutes later she speeds up in front of my apartment and comes to my door. Babbling 90 miles an hour, quite probably high on something besides caffeine, but I don’t yet know about her substance use. She’s interested in the empty apartments in the house, one a studio and the other a one bedroom. This drive-by shit and waving and honking were my very first clue that she was out of it mentally, but I missed it at that moment. Later I realized that a halfway normal individual would simply have driven in in a civilized manner on one of the first two passes, and inquired politely about vacancies.

She babbles on; I can barely sneak in a word. We make a circle of the house, while she goes on and on. She tries both doors of the two apartements, even though I’ve already told her they’re locked. She stretches up on tiptoe to look in every freaking window. And she tells fables. — I used to have a friend who lived here. Her daugther was Mikaila. This was Mikaila’s bedroom. I don’t have any kids. — But then later: I had to ship my son off to his father, you know, puberty (much later I found out from someone else that her son wants nothing to do with her)… My daughter lives out west. We tried to buy a house, but the bank’s giving us a hassle. We’re living in a trailer, and I hate it. I want to rent both the apartments and make them into one, bla bla. I interject that if the studio is going to be melded with the other apartment, that I a long time ago had asked if I could have the sunroom, which had originally been part of my apartment anyway, before I got there. Oh, okay, moos the cow. Fine.

We arrive back at the chariot after our circling. I take out a cigarette. She pulls one out too, and says: I don’t really smoke. And I’m thinking, so you only pretend smoke? What’s that thing in your mouth?

She demands to know if the landlady is around, and she is, but I lie and say not. The landlady is so unbalanced herself that I fear if I send this blabbermouth over to her on her day off, I might well be punished, and I’ve had a snootful of her little punishments already. But  psycho landlady comes walking out her door, and mafia-chick looks over and says Is that her, and I say yes, and over she goes to lie and bullshit the landlady. When she comes back to me, she says: She’s gonna open up the studio and you can have that room with the windows. After more verbal diarrhea, she finally goes away.

Next day landlady comes to the house to wait the arrival of mafia-chick and boyfriend-on-leash so that they can view the place. Tells me that Judith wants all the space for herself, including the sunroom, and she’s going to get it.

That was the very first time that the chick with the family member married to the mob screwed me over, but it was by no means the last. Sure, landlady screwed me over too. She could have given me the room. But I’d already spent two years with her mental crap, and I wasn’t much surprised that she’d rather give the room to a blabbermouth and liar that she’d only just met, than to scummy old me.

And though my conscious mind could not know on that July day so long ago, that the meeting in the sunshine of the these two females who are so profoundly unstrung upstairs, would eventually mean the end of everything that was my life. But in the subconscious, something must have been registering, because from that day on I was nervous and anxious constantly, and I was always afraid. And from that day on I was told more lies by the landlady and was handed out more snide little punishments than ever before. 

Yesterday mafia-maid came trawling for me again. She does that once in a while. That is, she happened to be on one street, and I was on one very near it, and when she saw me, she decided to drive to the street I was on and proceed down it very slowly, hugging the right side where I was very closely, and rubber-necking so far over to point her homely face at me that she almost toppled into the passenger seat. And what is the expression on her face saying when she does this, when she leans over so far and points her homely face at me? It’s saying: I won. And she did. She lost nothing, I lost everything. She was never arrested, so far as I know, for her drug dealing, or for asking her mobfriends to physically damage me. And I always thought that both of those things were against the law. Ah, but Matthew didn’t want her. He wanted the “big fish.”

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this post is part of the book Spite and Malice

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love and murder every july

Page Fifty-eight

Friday 2 July 2010……..   Greenfield  ~~~  website  ~~~ 

One of these days I’m going to get back to the job of copying the Soulcast Sehnen posts into this blog. I guess I’m burned out on the copying process and need a break.

But on this fine Friday (in terms of weather) I’ve come to tell you that it’s 10:20 in the morning, and Matthew and I are both here in the Greenfield library. He followed me in. He was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I arrived. He spoke, but I gave no answer. Love and murder. Isn’t it romantic. Out of those particular lips in that particular sun-reddened face, first came the words two years ago that there were people who wanted to kill me. Those lips and that face are not far from me at this moment, and it was two years ago exactly, to the date.                       

And I’m having serious anxiety, as I always do now when I see Matthew, but not for the reason you might think. Not because Matthew = protection = bad people may be near me and I’m afraid. No, I’m not afraid of the people Matthew told me about two years ago. They can have me. I don’t care much. It’s Matthew himself I fear — the way I once felt for him, the fascism involved in what he does for a living, the fact that Matthew loves nothing more in this life than feeding his ego, and that I was never able to compete with a thing like that.

He’s babysitting me here in the library today, sitting in a chair pretending to read a newspaper, and I emphasize the word pretending. My hero, my “protector,”  watching over me for more than two years.  He just left.

If you’re one of those who’ve decided I’m delusional, you’re too obtuse for me to address yet again, and you’re extremely naive  about where and how organized crime operates these days (as naive as I was myself before 2008).  Or if you’re one of those who thinks that Matthew simply has played a big hoax on me, well that’s how you formulate a reason for him telling me the things he did. But since I believed him then and have never been given any cogent reason to cease believing him, I know that today is a bad day. When Matthew waits for me on the sidewalk and follows me inside, I know it’s a bad day.

And I know other things too. That he loves me, for instance, in the only way he’s capable of loving: ego first. And part of his machismo, his ego-gratification, is that he will take a bullet if necessary in the performance of his job. He’s been shot once before, and I have seen the skin graft.

There was a day in June 2008 that lives in my memory as if branded there with red-hot iron. A day that was another very bad one, but it was before I knew anything about being protected from potential killers. Matthew behaved so strangely that day, so urgently, so undercover, that later, after he’d told me what was going on in my life, I realized that on that June day there had been someone very, very close to me, ready to do whatever, and Matthew was racing for all he’s worth to get between us, racing and sweating and determined to get between us, to take whatever was meant for me, if this person went through with it. They did not. The thugs know who many of the undercover goons are, what they are, and this presence often deters them, it seems. They know Matthew very well.

Every time I think about that day, the only day, the only moment that I ever saw even a hint of fear in Matthew’s eyes, I know that if he can in any way manage it, he will take on himself any physical violence anyone tries to inflict on me, or on any innocent person. That brings tears. Yes, it’s dedication to his job. It’s also love for me, at least in part. Once when I had a bad hematoma on my leg he kept asking me if someone had hit me, even though I’d already told him that I’d fallen. He kept asking me if I was sure, if I would tell  him if anyone hurt me. About anyone hurting me physically he is almost pathologically concerned.

But emotional hurt? He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the emotional hurt of what the DMH did, or that of losing the animals, or that perpetrated by himself and his superiors by not protecting me in the normal, legal way. He just doesn’t get it. In his world of machismo and ego-driven action, the only threats to the woman he loves are physical ones. And he, the protector, will battle to the death if necessary to prevent those.

And I? I would have preferred a hundred thousand times over that he had got the hell out of that fascist line of work, come and been just a person with me, and if the thugs got us, then they got us. Anything that meaningfully could be called my life was stolen in 2008, so I’m in a very real way the walking dead anyway.

The third July of Matthew. Love and murder every July. Does it ever stop; stop while I’m still breathing, I mean.


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


Whips, Chains and Satan’s Children

Page Fifty-six

Wed 9 June 2010

Yeah, yeah. Another brand-new post. This one’s for two specific people, which the rest of you are free to ignore. You won’t understand the references anyway. I apologize that I sometimes have to make these specifically-directed posts, but there are certain earthling carbon-and-water-based units with whom I can only communicate through blog posts — I have no other form of access to them.

So Judith: I see that you and Marcus now have this clandestine little business arrangement. Does M. know about it? I saw M. the other day, and maybe the next time I see him, we’ll have to have a little chat. You know, even when I can’t get a good look at his back, I know there are whip marks on it. I’ll have to check out Marcus’ back too, the next time I see him, and I see him fairly frequently. Now I know that frequently is a big word. Do you know what it means? Then I’ll tell you: it means almost the same as ‘often.’ And I’m sure you can handle that one. Anyway, I know I’ll find those nasty whip lashings on his back too.

Do you still have that wretched cat you never took care of? Just for your information, the word moulin is not pronounced moo-lawn. If you can do nothing else for the poor beast, you could at least pronounce her name right. I understand that it’s a challenge, that your general ignorance and your substance abuse make it difficult for you to pronounce even the simplest English words, much less French ones. But you might exert yourself a bit for the sake of the cat.


And to the rest of you — after all, as soon as you ask a person to ignore something, that it’s not intended for them — they suddenly want to pay attention to it all the more. Well, knock yourselves out, but I assure you that only Judith and Marcus and M. will know what I’m eluding to.

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

(necklace at





Page Fifty-five

June 4 2010

Haven’t got back to the copying yet; this is yet another new post. Did it on Soulcast and linked to it from the Mafia Chick page of my website. But soulcast has become so erratic again that I sat there and waited and waited for the linked page to appear, it didn’t, and I got fed up and just copied the whole bloody thing here.

Another Soulcast Rantcast

edit delete

sehnen posted 8 days ago | views: 43 | Tags: me toox, $$$$$$x, 666x, rantingx, linkx
Wednesday 26 May 2010           Turners turning deader
What I want to know is this: Why do the spam blogs even make it into the first few Featured Posts pages? They should be relegated to the end, so that on the first several pages we can find only other real bloggers to read. Why the spam on the early pages? Do these spammers peddling their wares pay Brian Ree and company to appear on the first few pages, where the real bloggers should be?
And here’s another rant. This one’s about Turners Falls.
Well, now it’s the second of June, and it’s become necessary for me to address some comments a couple of people have left me. While I have looked at copsunite’s blog once or twice and found nothing there I can relate to, I’ve never looked at the blog of satanx. But once in a great while these two show up here and leave me some kind of lunatic fringe comment. I don’t know who they are, or if they’re the same person with two blogs, but I don’t expect to be troubled by them again. There’s always the possibility that the satanx blog belongs to Judith, the mafia-chick, particularly in light of this most recent comment: I still own you. That’s exactly how she always behaved: she owned the whole house, the whole yard, the whole neighborhood, the disturbed landlady, and she owned me. And of all the truly insane people I have ever encountered, she is the most insane of all. But whoever satanx is, it’s no one I’m interested in. I haven’t wanted to ever use my block option on any website, believing that anyone at all is free to come to any of my journals and disagree with me, as long as they do so civilly. But the lunatic fringe is another matter, and comments like I own you are totally unacceptable and uncivil.
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~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~



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He says that no one says…

Friday 28 May 2010      Greenfield, escaping Turners power outage

Another interruption. Another new Sehnen post while I’m still in the process of copying the old ones here.

A conversation recently with someone, in which we were discussing some things that had been said to me in March by a guy named Rick W. One of those things Rick W. had said about himself was this: “I don’t know anyone who thinks Rick W.’s an asshole.” (his emphasis). Well, the third party that I was talking to said that Rick W. was clearly very messed up and that I should write a blog post containing this unequivocal statement:

                                 Rick W. is indeed an asshole

So there it is. Blog post with direct statement. I myself would have called Rick W. extremely immature for a man of 60, lacking in integrity, a dweller in a dreamworld, somewhat underhanded…  But asshole is Rick W.’s own word, so that’s what I’ve used.

Living in Greenfield again, very briefly, since yesterday afternoon. Power went out 11:17 Wed night. Third floor tiny space with only one window, no power to run fans. Fridge defrosting and food spoiling. Only have a microwave to cook with, and it won’t work. Can’t charge the cell phone. Grocery store closed down for lack of power, and no money to eat in restaurants, which were closed anyway for lack of power. Hot, hungry, asthma breathing, no radio to listen to, etc. And it was so great of the building manager to come around yesterday and see if the tenants were okay, if any tenants needed anything. Yeah, right. I’m sure all she gave a damn about was that she had a day off from work. And of course Matthew Lacoy, who loves me, was right there at my door with a nice meal he’d got me in Greenfield.

Yeah, right. But now that I’m in Greenfield he’s dogging my footsteps in his usual undercover, amoral, unloving, egomaniacal fashion. May the ocean’s dogs devour both him and all his colleagues.

Back to the power. Turners Falls is partially owned by guess who: Northeast Utilities. They own the riverbank because they have a hydroeleltric dam there. They own the canal banks and the canal because they have a hydroelectric plant there. There are patches of Turners that are filled with high-tension wires, and big ugly junction boxes pop up here and pop up there. And yet we can’t have electricity since 11:17 Wednesday night. Go figure.

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the nettle, danger

Page Nineteen

sehnen posted on May 03, 2008 | views: 131 | Tags: lifex, the flowerx, safetyx

saturday 3 may 2008   greenfield

I got a radio on Mayday. Radio, music and audiobooks were the background sounds to our lives since the fall of 1998, radio. I couldn’t afford cable anymore. I’ve been listening to some of the shows we always listened to, and the grief is growing…

The sods at DMH, and maybe even mental health care in general, are destructively dense and limited in their thinking. They believe that as long as you’re not holding a razor or a bottle of pills, you’re not going to die. Your cells die slowly as your soul does…

I need their names in cyberspace again: Mishi, Brainse, Lizzie, Tuuschi, Canajoharie, Judah, Shiloh, Mandy, Chan, Ziidj, Chailin, Abel, Aram, Chani. The stolen, the killed, my family…

In the fall of 2007, our last fall together, I found yet another quote from Shakespeare that became a favorite (my animals were used to hearing Shakespeare; from the radio, from me, from books on tape):  Out of this nettle, danger,/We pluck this flower, safety. I hoped so hard that we’d pluck out that safety flower, but with so many malevolent humans working against us… Our helping pals at the DMH in Greenfield Massachusetts  saw to that. And a multiple-personality landlady, and a mafia-chick.

Update 29 May 2009: Who knows precisely how many cold human souls were involved in the destruction of my life. The landlady for sure. The uncaring social workers at the DMH and CSS, for sure. But feds too? According to Matthew, yes, and I see it as entirely possible, in light of the things he said and in light of things I saw and heard.

Depression and loneliness are much more severe now. There was the denial practiced by a psyche that could not accept the worst blow of its life. There was hope: that DMH, the feds would do something and give me back some of my family. People spout a lot of rose-colored, really very silly things about hope. But at bottom hope, when it goes on too long and in the face of too much contrary evidence, is just another crutch grabbed at by denial.

Again, I didn’t put the tag life on this post. Someone or someones out there enjoy adding tags I don’t want.


       moonriver said on May 03, 2008…. delete block user

I want you to know that I’ve started reading your blogs with deep interest, from the first one you posted, onwards. You have a unique view on life, which I’d like to understand. I hope you’re coping well.

I wonder how moonriver would have coped with the events of my life since 2006, if they had happened to HIM. Moonriver and me.


read…  Don’t ask…    Poison and snowflake trees

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starting over

Page One


tuesday 16 february, 2010…    turners fails

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


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

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

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


read…   Mental hell…   Shadowpoems

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

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