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.

 

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.

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… 

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

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

the beast speaks

wednesday 28 may 2014

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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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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2014 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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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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

 

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soulcast redux, and sehnen

sunday 21 august 2011….    turners toils

Well, it’s another strange feeling of traveling back in time. Though this particular bit of time travel doesn’t bring the pleasure that others do. To be journaling on SoulCast again feels weird indeed.

My first online journal ever, in april of 2008, was this one, Sehnen, but it wasn’t here then. I started writing it less than a month after the absolute worst and most damaging events of my life. I was naïvely hoping very hard for several things to result from that first journal, things which never happened. I was unloading every day on public computers, into my journal pages, small pieces of the anger and pain and resentment… small pieces offloaded so that I could just have enough release of steam to carry on with each foreign, ugly, unwanted day.

Then a couple of things happened in january of 2010. One was that SoulCast’s owners had decided they didn’t want the site anymore, and so they didn’t maintain things, and so it developed huge spam problems and huge loading problems, and became a monumental mess. The other was that someone told me they could help me make a website on WordPress, and I wanted a website. I hadn’t originally planned to move the Sehnen blog here, but the SoulCast problems just got worse and worse.

I copied every single one of the many, many posts I’d written there from april 2008 to january 2010. Stored them in a folder, and deleted nearly all of them from SoulCast. These are the posts I label as “copies,” and I’m nowhere near finished getting them all into this WordPress version of Sehnen.

So it was a year and a half ago that I pretty much abandoned SoulCast. I’d stop by once in a while to write something short, see how many bloggers were left, how many new spammers had come, etc. By june of this year, there were almost no bloggers from the old days still hanging around. And the spam was phenomenal. This got me mad. Even though my website is here, and the bulk of my work is here, and my art and photos, I hated the idea of SoulCast being what it was when I went back to check in a few months ago. I decided that I would write there regularly again, no matter how many spam comments I had to delete and how many spam blogs appeared on the homepage. I was fired up to be there again, even if the ship had sunk.

I found out the site was up for auction on Flippa. Those few of us real bloggers who were left waited to see what would happen. One of them even suggested that we bloggers get together and buy the site, but I have no disposable income, so I stayed on the edges of that brief discussion. And then, a week ago, I went to write my usual stuff, and lo and behold, editing had gone berserk, comments too, and techno-glitches were everywhere. But this time the mess had been created by a new owner. This new owner was changing the server, implementing spam blockers, fixing bugs, and so on. The mess was because everything was in transition and there was a new owner who cares about SoulCast being a viable blogging site again.

And so I’m there as a regular again, something I never expected. I thought the days of me writing daily on SoulCast were long gone, and lo, here they are back again. But the original SoulCast Sehnen is here now, or some of it is, and eventually all of it will be here. So the journal on SoulCast that I call Sehnen is both the same one I started out on, and not the same. It’s here where I come to read those posts I originally wrote there. An odd feeling, really odd, to read in either one of my Sehnen blogs.

I want to support the new owner as much as I can, because they really seem to want to make SoulCast a good place. I want to support new bloggers who are slowly showing up (there must be an ad about SoulCast somewhere). And I want not to forget how I felt in those earliest weeks and months after my life was decimated, my animals vanished. I want not to forget the state of psychological shock  I was in. Writing on SoulCast, just being there, takes me back to that time that I don’t want to forget, but it’s eery to go there, to be sure.

Post number one hundred on this WordPress version of Sehnen. And the writing goes on, because the damage goes on.

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read…   Sehnen at www.soulcast.com …    and this Sehnen…

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why did I go

tuesday 5 july 2011…        (new post)

If anyone’s been keeping up with the last seven or so posts, anyone might be wondering why I even kept accepting Matthew’s invitations. All this wrangling, all this refusal to answer my questions, the cloak-and-dagger baloney, the tears and anger, both his and mine. There isn’t one pat answer. Layers of answers, because I’m a multi-layered, deep-feeling and deep-thinking person. Everything in life, absolutely everything, has facets and nuances.

Here are the answers, plural, to the question of why I went:

1. Matthew was the one who’d told me about this ugly, criminal situation in my life. He was the bearer of the bad news. Because he was the one who told me, I wanted to stay in his sphere.

2. I wanted information, and he was the one who had it. If all he would give me were crumbs, then I wanted those crumbs. And I stupidly kept hoping for more than that.

3. I was extremely alone. Animals gone, my way of life torn to shreds, only one friend who lived some distance away and didn’t come to greenfield very often. Matthew was the only company at my disposal. And with him, I didn’t have to keep all of the same secrets I had to keep with other people. With him I could at least talk about the landlady and the mafia chick and the protection. And as weird things happened out on the streets, Matthew was the only person on the planet with whom I could talk about them and not be treated like a nut.

4. I was in love with him, after all. And as totally abnormal and twisted as this relationship and this crime situation were, it was the one and only place in my existence where love made an appearance, however mangled and distorted that appearance might have been.

Not every single moment with Matthew was a moment of tears or anger or refusal to answer questions or cloak-and-dagger tricks. Most of them were, but not all. There were moments of laughter and mutual teasing. And others when we talked about books or music or our pasts. Once I brought bubble-soap and blew bubbles over to his chair for him to catch. He didn’t want to at first. I suppose it struck a macho crime-fighter like him as too childish. But after he’d grudgingly caught a few, he started smiling and getting into it. Then I blew the bubbles over his head so he’d have to reach for them. There were the rare times when we’d talk about the things we would do together after this was over. There was the time he had bought tea for me, and even made it for me, and served it to me in a little white china cup. He had some too, in an identical cup, even though he is a coffee person. It was the one and only time he ever behaved as if I were a special guest. Never happened again, at least not to that degree. Sometimes he would find me on the street sick from the humidity and my attacking immune system. Often at those times he’d take me back to his hovel, turn on the air conditioner, and make us rice for supper. He’d watch me very intently when I was sick. No matter what idiot face or idiot voice he might be using, his eyes were always real, and on many occasions I saw the unmitigated concern there in those large blue eyes that bored into mine. Once I’d fallen out of bed right onto a wooden captain’s chair and had got a huge hematoma on my right leg. When he saw the thing, he lost a great deal of his facade. Worry, worry, that’s all he was. How did you get that? he wanted to know. I told him, and he didn’t believe me, evidenced by the fact that he continued to ask me throughout the afternoon. He asked me if I didn’t think I should have a doctor look at it, and would it go away, and did it hurt. About the fifth time he asked me how I got it, I got exasperated. I told you how I got it, and I told you the truth. You know I’d tell you if anyone hurt me. Then he looked at me with puppy-longing eyes and said: You promise? I promised.

That was some of the good stuff that passed between Matthew and me. There’s more, but I’ve made my point. And though there wasn’t nearly enough of it, and though all the dark stuff outweighed it by far, it was the only good stuff available to me in the world. In every empty, ugly minute of every empty, ugly day, it was the only good stuff I could lay my hands on.

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read…    Poison and snowflake trees…   Mental hell

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who was that guy

tuesday 5  july 2011              (new post)

a little preamble…    Just heard a story on the radio, another interview with another soldier in afghanistan. He says he’s not re-upping anymore after this tour. Doesn’t want to “get to the point where I have no respect for humanity anymore.”  And he says he’s close. I understand this man completely, and anyone like him. A soldier has one kind of trauma and emotional strain. I’ve had different kinds, far removed from battle and war. Others I’ve known have had different kinds yet again.  It doesn’t matter what the traumas are, what the overwhelming emotional strains are … there are hundreds of different kinds, I’m sure. What matters is that there are people, and I’m in that group, who break under this weight, and break for good. This soldier is aware that this could happen to him. I’m aware that it has happened to me. No respect for humanity as a species left. Not since 2008. None. And I’m fine with that. I wouldn’t have been fine with it in 2007, to despise the human race to the degree that I do now, but as of 2008, my conscience regarding humans gets shut off whenever I choose to flip the switch. My life brought this about. The ice-cold actions and words of other people brought this about.

This particular guy was my own age, or maybe slightly older, and I’m going to be blunt and say that his face was rather ugly. I didn’t like to look at his face. I never saw this guy until the very end of June in 2008. It’s certainly possible that he was in greenfield before that time, but if he was, he never ended up near enough for me to notice him until that time. I thought he was one of the many older, low-income alcoholics that live in greenfield and turners. His clothes were old and often not very clean, hair always just slightly greasy. At the end of June, he took to sitting on the bench in front of the health of food store and saying hello to me, though he never asked me for any cigarettes or money, as certain others did. By the end of June I was extremely sensitive to faces and bodies on this particular bench, because it’s the place where Matthew and some of his pals so often sat. When a new face appeared there, I noticed. The first day this guy was sitting there and said Hi to me, I noticed everything about him, and that he was new to me.

I didn’t think he had anything to do with my situation. Most people didn’t — it was only certain ones. I thought he was just a drinker who had perhaps lived in greenfield for a long time and only recently taken a liking to that bench. I tried to be pleasant to him, because I felt sad, not about his presumed drinking problem, but about the ugliness of his face. It both repelled and saddened me. A couple of times I sat down beside him if there was room, smoked a cigarette with him, and talked about innocuous things like the weather or the mayor or whatever. He was just this ugly, down-and-out man that I tried to be nice to, though I certainly never sought him out. If he was around, I was nice.

All of that changes on Sunday 13 July. I go to the health food store shortly before ten to wait for them to open so I can have breakfast. This is a routine for me on most Sundays, since the health food store is the only place in the center of greenfield where I can pay for my meals with food stamps. Lots of other low-income people go there for the same reason. Well he’s there too, and another guy, on the bench, waiting for ten o’clock. I begin the usual empty, meaningless social chit-chat. And then he jolts me. I happen to be looking right at his face, sitting right beside him, when he says, in a slightly taunting tone: You have a daughter, don’t you? I’m completely upset by this question, try to hide it, and pretend I didn’t hear. I return to whatever subject it was we were on before he shot that question out of nowhere. But he won’t let me ignore it. He asks the question again, the nastiness in his tone having increased. I’m angry. I say a very terse Ya and look away from him. I’m about to get up off the bench, but he has more to say: Well you can be my mother now. I don’t look at him when he says this, and I do get up. He’s not finished. Did you hear me, he asks, I said you can be my mother now. Whatever, I say to him. Someone unlocks the door of the store and I go in, making sure I don’t go anywhere near this ghoul while I’m in there.

Please bear in mind that at this point in time it’s only been eleven days since Matthew said the kill-word to me. Not enough time for me to process this stuff. It’s only been three days since the white-haired man. And while I’m still trying to process comes this stranger saying these things. He is a stranger. I buy my food with the question repeating in my mind: How does he know I have a daughter? This question is both valid and sane. I’ve only been living in greenfield for four months. Most of the people I’ve met there know almost nothing about my life before the eviction, including that I have a daughter. She lives in another state, we haven’t spoken in two years, and I just don’t tell most people that she even exists. Nor do I tell them much of anything that doesn’t directly bear on the landlady, the eviction, the animals, and the DMH. So how in the hell does he know, and why does he put that emphasis on the word daughter? Why does he say I can be his mother now, again with the emphasis on a certain word?

I ponder this during my breakfast. I ponder some more after I leave and go walking, for the sake of the blood sugar. I can perceive this man’s remarks, in light of what Matthew has told me, in only one way: this is some kind of threat against my daughter. This is my intellectual conclusion, but my psyche certainly doesn’t want to accept it, and so I push it away by thinking about other things. Denial. I cannot always defeat denial.

Later in the day I leave my rented room a second time to get lunch, and Matthew shows up and invites me over. I’m well steeped in my denial now, and have not thought about this stranger and his words for hours. I go to Matthew’s and am there two hours before this man comes to the surface again, and it only happens because Matthew and I have got back onto the subject of people wanting to hurt me. I’m asking him more questions, trying, and not succeeding, to get more information out of him. Then I remember the ugly guy and the things he said. Denial is, for the moment, overcome.

And what about this ugly coot this morning, I ask my Matthew. I’ve only been seeing him for a couple of weeks. What’s he all about? Why did he say those things about my daughter? How does he even know I have one? Then Matthew asks some questions of his own. When did this happen, and where. What does this guy look like, and exactly what did he say. After we go all through it, I take another of my infrequent stands: I want to know if she’s all right, I say. And I know you can find that out for me. Find out. I want to know. As I recall, I didn’t have to do too much demanding before he said Okay. Then he said, let’s go outside. I’m already used to the stupid cloak-and-dagger way Matthew does things. I’ve met the weird radio. Before I stop talking to him later that summer, I will meet the weird VCR, which eventually replaces the radio. I watch the posing in front of the window every bloody time I go there. When he says Let’s go outside, I don’t even bother to ask why.

There’s a square table in the backyard with two chairs. He says we sit there, and so we do. We sit for what seems ages in the heat, and in my restlessness to know about my daughter. At last a young guy comes out of Matthew’s building from the front door, carrying a big circle of garden hose around his shoulder. He watches Matthew as he walks from the front of the house to the back. Matthew makes a hand signal at him, and the guy goes back inside through the back door. I hate this stuff. I say Now that you’ve made your little signal to your little pal, can we go back in to the air conditioning? Not yet. So we sit some more. Finally he says we can go in.

When we get there, I ask him if my daughter’s okay. He says we have to wait a bit. He lies down on the floor and I park on the futon. We talk, and sounds are coming from upstairs. This doesn’t throw me. I’ve heard footsteps in the upstairs of Matthew’s apartment before. This time it’s a squeaking chair. Someone is sitting in it, making little movements that cause the chair to squeak. After about seven noises, Matthew comes out with a question, a disingenuous, phony question: What is that creaking noise? I bite, as always. It’s a butt sitting in a squeaky chair. I better go see who it is, he says. He goes upstairs and stays there a little while, then comes back down with a red face, sniffles, and wet eyes. He dashes right into the bathroom. When he comes out, he says the noise was a door blowing in the breeze. There is no breeze today. And in August, when that room has been emptied and I’m allowed to go into it, I will learn that there is no door. The upstairs of Matthew’s apartment turns out to be an attic that has been loosely made into a couple of rooms. The one above Matthew’s livingroom not only has no doors, it doesn’t even have a frame for one. The second room is further back and has a door. To this day I’m willing to bet my last nickle that whenever I was around, at least, that door was locked.

After the bathroom, he parks himself in his favorite chair and starts talking about something or other. Is my daughter all right, I bark at him. Yeah, she’s okay, he says with impatience. Are you telling me the truth? Yeah, I wouldn’t lie to you about that. But this time I don’t entirely believe him. I didn’t like the way his face was, and the sniffling and wet eyes, when he came down the stairs. I get angry. I take another stand, one he completely ignores. I want you to tell me yourself or send me one of your monkeys every day to let me know she’s all right. I’m speaking very angrily when I say this, and he gets annoyed at my anger. He has absolutely no justifiable reason to resent my anger. He’s the one who told me about this situation in the first place, and he is not stupid, not by a long way. Surely he has no right nor reason to expect me not to get angry at these things. He’s angry that I’m angry, and once again I just want to slap him, and so I leave.

I go to my room and start trying, without success, to reach my daughter. The sheriff’s department in her town goes to the address I give them, but she doesn’t live there anymore. They say that on Monday they’ll call her office and try to reach her there. Monday comes and goes with nothing, and I figure they forgot. But they didn’t. They’d called her and talked to her, and had only forgotten to call me. In any case, I don’t hear from her until Tuesday. All those hours of waiting since the drama at Matthew’s Sunday afternoon. Many things happened in those waiting hours that I’m not going to write about here because I’ve had enough right now of walking down these dark roads. Maybe another time.

That July, by the time I heard from the daughter on the 15th, had already seen Matthew introducing the k-word on the 2nd, the white-haired man on the 9th and 10th, and was about to produce the man in the white bandana on the 18th. It was quite literally one bizarre, hollywood insanity after another that July. There was never time to recoup, time to absorb. It just kept coming.

And from that Sundaythe 13th on, the man with the ugly face is my enemy. I see him in future almost everywhere I go, often sitting down on the sidewalk. He makes occasional nasty remarks to me over the rest of the summer, and then I leave greenfield. When I return to greenfield for a long-term stay in June of 2009 (it’s been nearly a year since I lived there), he pops up all the time again, and makes his periodic nasty remarks. Sometime in late 2009, he disappears. If he’s still in greenfield at that time, I certainly never see him again.

And also from that Sunday on, I refer to Matthew and his pals as monkeys. I do this for over a year. I even buy stuffed monkeys and carry them around with me, another one of my quirky ways of showing them, in public, how much I detest them.

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why are you still alive?

friday 1 july 2011….        (new post)

That’s another question that a collection of very lousy therapists, plus a whole gaggle of regular people, have asked me: Why are you still alive? If there are these nasty types who are so bad that you have to have this undercover protection, why haven’t they got you? It seems to me, so many of them have said, that if they wanted you this badly, they’d get you. No protection would stop it.

Most of the people who have put forth this argument have done so in a very superior and arrogant manner, whipping out their trump card and pronouncing judgment on my sanity with gloriously smug, self-satisfied smiles. Slap, slap. That’s what I want to do, but of course I don’t. There are a great many people in this world who need a good slap or two. It is this attitude I despise, this smugness. The unspoken words: The very fact that you’re not dead means you’re nuts. Well, that is indeed one thing that my continued existence could mean. But there’s one more thing it could mean, and it’s a thing no backwater greenfield graduated-at-the-bottom-of-my-class therapist would even allow as possible: I’m still alive because the protection is very efficient. I despise the attitude, but not the question. The question is one of the many that I have myself.

I’ve gone through my blog pages from the very beginning and mostly sanitized the anger I was pouring out in 2008 and 2009. There are equations in people’s heads that have been put there via trickle-down from the psychiatric community over the last twenty-five years: Emotional = nuts. Angry = nuts. Washing your hands too many times = nuts, and so on. I thought that some readers might reconsider the whole sanity issue if I took out my angriest words and sentences, or if I toned them down, and so for the most part I’ve done this. Another word I extracted almost every time I found it was the word kill. I’ve replaced it with harm, hurt, things like that. Saying that someone wants to kill you = nuts.

But that was the word in the room, and if I’m to hold to the truth as I’ve heard and seen it, I have to use that word in this post, because that was the word. On Wednesday 2 July of 2008, that was the word. Matthew and I were in the room, and we were there with the word kill. It wasn’t that people wanted to hurt me or harm or get me. It was the k-word.

Can you imagine what a shock that was to me, can you empathize with that? I’d only known for ten days that I was being protected from criminal stuff. And in those ten days, this is what I had envisioned someone possibly doing to me: a beating; broken teeth; broken bones;a stay in the hospital; maybe even as far as rape, but that was it. The idea that Judith’s pals would actually go all the way to the k-word was so ridiculous to my own mind that it never even entered my head in those ten days. That’s what I was nagging Matthew about on that July second: you’ve got too many people in the library with me all the time. I don’t like it. Nobody’s gonna beat me up in the library, for christ’s sake. And that’s when the k-word entered the room, and that’s when I kept saying You’re kidding, right? I couldn’t take it in. It took me days to take it in.

So why am I still alive? I don’t know. Matthew never told me how the protection works, how many people are involved in it, and why it is that someone doesn’t just shoot me while I’m walking along the street. No answers, no answers. The word kill was the one that Matthew used, and I have a sense that fed types from Burlington, Vermont would only get involved in the first place if it was a potential k-word situation. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t believe such mucky-mucks in the cop world would have protected a nobody like me unless the k-word was in the picture.

Another question never answered? How long is this going to go on? Little crumbs that told me almost nothing were all I got. On 13 July, a very bad day (this day has to be a page of its own), I got a crumb. We were sitting across from each other at a table in his backyard, waiting for his pal to do something I wasn’t supposed to see. We were both grim. I said: This has gone on longer than you people thought it would, hasn’t it? He says Yes in one of his idiot-voices, but there is no idiot in his eyes. His eyes are intelligent and sane and serious, as they always are, and they are full of regret. There is never an alcholic, idiotic loon in his eyes, no matter what ludicrous things he is wearing or saying or doing. Matthew’s eyes are always sane, and always contain the evidence of an extremely keen mind.

Another couple of crumbs: during the first two weeks of August there was all the talk about driver’s licenses and cars and maybe going to a new apartment. Around the twelfth there was a request that I should buy him a present. I argued, but my arguing was mostly just teasing. And he says: After all this, you can’t buy me a present? And I asked if “all this” was going to be over soon, and he said, of course, Maybe. And then, during the wee hours between August 17th and August 18th, just once: it’s almost over.

I don’t know why I’m still alive. I asked him more than once, no response. How am I still alive, also unanswered. When do they get tired of me and move on to other business? Unanswered. When do you people go on to other business and stop following me around? No answer. The fact that I cannot describe the process that has resulted in me still being alive doesn’t mean I’m nuts. It means I’ve asked for the knowledge, the description of this process that kept me alive, and have been denied this information. The fact that I can’t answer these things doesn’t mean the k-word was not in that room on that day in July of 2008. The fact that these protectors chose to protect me in this hellish undercover manner, never to show me an ID, never to knock on my door and tell truth to me, does not make me nuts. It makes me their property, perhaps. Their bait, perhaps. But it doesn’t make me nuts.

In this very town, turners falls, two people over the years have mentioned the word mafia to me in relation to their own lives. Two women. In 1993, one of these women told me she and her family believed that one of her sisters had been murdered by her mafia boyfriend. In 2009, the other one told me that her former husband had been a mafia man. And my mind, my intelligent, educated mind, did not jump up inside me and say: Nuts! Inside me my mind allowed for both possibilities: the possbility of ordinary people stumbling into mob people, and the possibility that these women were very angry and hurt and wanted to find the cause of their suffering. But never nuts. I’ve thought these two trolls unstable over other things, but not over using the m-word, and not over believing that they or their relatives had unwittingly brought mob people into their lives. Why can’t that same objective, critical thinking be afforded to me.

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