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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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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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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read…     Mishibone…    Neverending solitaire

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who, why

thursday 30 june 2011              (new post)

I’ve written just in the last several days about the who. The name or names that Matthew would never give, still won’t give me. He told me that people wanted to hurt me, he told me I was being protected and by whom, but he never said any names of any family or families who are the ones from whom I need this so-called protection. This lack of names is a thing that, to my own mind, speaks to my sanity, to the fact that I’m not delusional. I do believe that if I were nutty, I would simply supply the names. I’d take them out of my memory of old news stories, or whatever, but as a delusional, I would have names. It would be the names that would be a salient feature of the delusion as a story, a story that included all the necessary names needed to complete the scenario. I’m sane, and so I have no names, except that one possible Greif. But that one didn’t come from Matthew. If it had, I would be certain of that name. No other name, except my own, oddly enough, has ever come up. The grandfather that Matthew told me was a mob man had the same last name that I do, so there’s that. I would have more details if this were a delusion.

Just as important to me, the purported object of a hunt, as the who, is the why. Why? Many bad therapists and many regular people have asked me this question over the last three years. Some psychiatrists too. Why do they want you? The response I have is flimsy: because I lived in a building with a very insane and substance-addicted woman who loathes me, and she’s connected to these people by marriage, and she asked them to hurt me. My answer doesn’t live up to the drama of the situation — other people’s drama, not mine. I didn’t ask to be told by a man that I was in this kind of trouble and this kind of protection. It happened to me. The drama of crime mobs and protectors and undercover crap belongs to the mobs and to the protectors, not to me. I didn’t dream it up, and I didn’t choose it. But when I talk to others about all of this, all the drama doesn’t, of course, escape them. And rather than allowing for the possibility that this has happened to me, they prefer to stay in their denial and decide that I either invented this drama because I love drama, or I imagined it.

I want the answer that isn’t flimsy, and have always wanted it. I’ve paced around Matthew’s livingroom floor, smoking, stepping around the day’s pile of clothes-code, with tears in my eyes and with my volume escalating: But what do they care about me? I’ve never witnessed any of their big crime-doings, I never stole any of the money or the drugs. I’m nothing to their world. I pause in my pacing and crying and near-yelling to look at him and see if he will speak. Sometimes he does, and spouts some of his idiot-shtik. Nothing real. Other times he just keeps quiet. I go on: So what if their little Judith hates me and asked them to hurt me. So what! Do these gangster types go around bumping off everyone little Judith hates? Do they really spend their time and their resources that way? Don’t they have better things to do, more important things to do? I hurl these questions at Matthew repeatedly over two months, and I never get the answer. On July 26 of 2008, when he tells me about my grandfather, I ask again: So what? Is this because of Judith and my grandfather? So what? Whatever my grandfather did that made them kill him, it was over sixty years ago. If they want to bump off people in my family as some kind of a vendetta, why haven’t they been doing it for the last sixty years? Why now? Why me?

I get no logical response. I get shtik. But while I am railing about sixty years ago and vendetta and all that, I suddenly remember the murder of my cousin, and a whole new area of question and of pain floods through me: my cousin. All those years ago. I’m sitting now. The pacing is fairly rare. I usually plant my butt on the futon and do my railing in minimal comfort. So I start telling Matthew all about cousin Billy, and I can see in his eyes that he already knows, but he chooses not to say so and lets me keep talking. This has happened before when I’ve told him certain things about myself or Judith or the landlady: he already knows. It’s there in his eyes. But he’s not going to admit that to me. So, as always, I pretend I don’t see what’s in his eyes, and I don’t say You already know, and I just keep telling my facts.

When I get only a few sentences into my facts about Billy, Matthew turns his face towards the window and keeps it there. Stares out the window while I talk. Will not look at me, not even once. As I go on, as I start to cry, the side of his face that I can see, the right side, gets red. His right eye gets red. Little slow tears begin falling from his right eye, but he won’t look at me, and he won’t speak. When I finish the facts about Billy, the facts as they were told to my family long ago, I start it up again: Did they kill Billy? Did they? I want to slap his face over and over until he answers me Yes or No, but I don’t. I just get louder, I cry more. I ask the questions again. And then this, not for the first time and not for the last: You’re not gonna tell me. Same old story, you’re not gonna tell me. I have a right to know. I’m the one in this situation and I have a right to know. But who the fuck cares about my rights. Not that psycho-landlady and not the DMH and not you and your people. And then I shut up and start smoking again.

This is yet another fact that I believe speaks to my sanity: If I were delusional or lying, I would have a Why. It would be there as part of the structure of the delusion, or it would be there as a fabrication. I don’t have, and have never had, a Why of substance.

I’ve waited a long time to be able to write the things I’ve been writing for the last week, the things I deliberately left out in 2008. And when I now write them, three years later, I am there in the room again with Matthew. I’m crying and pacing and smoking and questioning. Or planted on the futon, smoking, firing questions at him. I’m there in a room with a man who says that he and others are protecting me from me from some very nasty people. In the room with a protector who says he’s fallen in love with me. I’m there, thrown out into the streets and my animals disappeared, talking to a man who says he’s in love about criminals he says want to hurt me, and every single moment of my hours and days is that much-abused word, surreal. This is not MY life as I knew it for 55 years. These things should not have happened to me. I paid my rent. My eviction was illegal. The DMH was supposed to HELP me. I’m not in a crime mob, and never was. I never did anything to this crime mob. I should not be homeless at this moment. My animals should not be hidden from me, waiting for the lethal injection. I should not be in this room with this agent-type man hearing about these bizarre things, talking about these bizarre things. He shouldn’t be in love with me, nor I with him. We should never have met. None of this is MINE.

In retrospect, I see Matthew as my handler. No, it’s not just in retrospect. I did feel that three years ago, too, but would never allow myself to use that word, even in my thoughts. I have only ever heard of the criminals getting federal handlers, but just as my protection is not the normal kind, my role as target seems to have warranted other exceptions, too. I got a handler for a while. I’ve been hearing a lot about federal handlers lately, in the news stories about Whitey Bulger, and on radio shows that just happen to be interviewing retired agents who were undercover and were, at times, handlers.

Matthew my protector. My handler. My love. My rage and torment. All in the summer of 2008. But when I write it now with no holds barred, I’m there in that room again, wanting to slap him and slap him again, until he tells me what I deserve to know. I’m there in that room crying about one painful element of all that surreality, while layers and layers of other painful elements sit just beneath the surface that I give to Matthew and to the world. I’m trying to hold, always, the tsunami of grief and anger at bay. It escapes in spurts. In my tantrums that I throw on my blogs in 2008. In my occasional outbursts to Matthew. In the tantrums that I throw all alone in my rented bedroom. And in my many bouts of grief-tears for my animals, sometimes being spilled in the libraries unabashedly, while I sit and write about these souls who were the center of my world.

I want the Who. I want the Why of substance. I deserve them. I have paid in pain, and still pay, for the right to this Who and this Why. And I will never, ever get them.

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read…  Don’t ask Mugsy’s book

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dickie wall-eye

monday 16 may 2011…         (new post)

Dickie wall-eye is yet another bleeding freak who came into my life’s periphery in May of 2008, the same year that a whole batch of new, as yet unendured, bleeding freaks came into my life, Matthew Lacoy among them. It’s three years now that I’ve had to have Dickie wall-eye dogging my days.

The first time I ever saw Dickie and his wall-eye, I was sitting in front of the health food store in Greenfield (where Matthew reigns supreme because his cousin is a manager in that store). I was talking with yet another bleeding freak I’d only recently met. Why was  I talking to him? In my own defense I have to say that back in 2008 this guy was only mildly freaky, and was still capable of carrying on a reasonably intelligent conversation. Three years later, he is drastically more bizarre than he was then, both in appearance and in his now totally decayed mind. Anyway, he and I were talking about what had been done to me and my animals. The loss was still very, very new then. Up walks Dickie, sits himself between us, and starts shoveling up his two cents’  worth, though no one had as yet invited him into the conversation. He starts holding forth: “Well I always wanted to have land and have dogs and all that, and it ain’t gonna happen. So your animals are gone. Move on.” Ever after that day in May three years ago, Dickie wall-eye has been in my face.

He lived in Greenfield somewhere that year, and, like Matthew and certain others, was there beside me or across from me or behind me, just about everywhere I went in Greenfield. Before you jump up and scream Coincidence! Paranoia!, I’d invite any math types to either calculate or look up what the odds are that in any town or city anywhere, a certain ten or twelve people would pop up everywere a certain other person goes. We did not work at the same place, or go to school at the same place, or live in the same building, and we weren’t friends. And it wasn’t everyone in Greenfield who popped up in my face all the time, just these ten or twelve. I’d never experienced any like this in fifty-five years of living. It exceeds the odds of coincidence. It isn’t paranoia. It’s fact.

Just about every bloody time I used a pay phone from May to August of 2008, there would be Dickie wall-eye. He’d stand a few feet away, hearing every word I said (whether this was his aim or not, he was so close that he had to hear). No matter where in Greenfield the pay phone was that I was using, I could just about count on Dickie wall-eye being a few feet away. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a pal. Before you jump up and say He was waiting to use the phone!, forget it. That’s what I myself thought, the first time I saw him looming near me and my phone call. So I shortened my call with my friend to allow the freak to use the phone. He did not use the phone when I hung up, he simply walked away when I did. And so it went for four months. He would hang around my phone calls, then walk away when I was finished. Fact.

When I stayed at the Turners shelter in September 08 for the first time, there was Dickie. Now living suddenly in Turners, in the house right beside the shelter, and coming daily to the shelter to hang out. All the shelter residents rode the shuttle to Greenfield most days, but not me. I stayed in Turners. And mostly, so did Dickie. His passion for Greenfield was suddenly gone, and he now loved to hang out in Turners. There he was as I walked on just about any sidewalk. There he was in the grocery store, in the park, on the canal, in any one of several stores. There he was, in a different town, and still in my face. Fact.

I left this area in December 2008 and didn’t return for more than a few days until April 2009. In May that year I again went to stay in the Turners shelter, and there Dickie still is, living in the house beside the shelter and coming to visit every day. But this time I decide to ride the shuttle to Greenfield every day, and guess what….  so does Dickie. His passion for Turners is now gone, and he goes to Greenfield every day, and his ugly maw is once again in my face all the time. I now use a cell phone, but whenever I do, I look around to see if Dickie is near. He often is, so I learn to talk on the hoof, keep moving. 

Then I rent the room again in Greenfield, the same room I’d rented in 2008. Dickie, as far as I could tell, stayed still in the house near the Turners shelter, but nonetheless managed to be frequently in my face until April 2010, when I moved into this ponystall in Turners Falls. I didn’t see him for three, four months. I thought great: maybe he’s dead; maybe he moved to Noho; maybe he moved to bloody Timbuktu, as long as I never have to see him again. It wasn’t just the frequency of his appearances near my person, or just his eavesdropping on phone calls; it was also that Dickie was right near me when any number of very bizarre things happened: the kinds of things that were prone to happen when I was with Matthew. Exceeding the odds of coincidence. Not lies, not paranoia. Facts.

So when, exactly, did Dickie move into the very building I live in? I think it was about last August (2010), after I’d already been here for four months. Months I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him, then suddenly he lives right here. We are civil if the need arises to say hi to each other or hold the door for each other, or whatever. But I still want him either dead or in Timbuktu.

And then everything takes a new twist. In early March, only a couple of months ago, Dickie turns vicious, and who knows why. Despite my loathing of him, I’ve never said or done any single mean thing to him that would reveal my feelings. I’ve always been civil and have held the door for him if he was there. But in March, Dickie had to start calling me a bitch. He doesn’t say this within the walls of this building, because he could get thrown out. This building full of ponystalls is a special program for people recovering from alchoholism or drug addiction. So far as I know, I’m the only person living here who is not in recovery from substance issues. There was one other, but she moved out in February. I got in here because of a different aspect of the program: the prolonged homelessness aspect.

When the wall-eye wants to call me a bitch, he does so in public. On the sidewalk, at the bus stops, in the stores. He does not use vocal chords most of the time, but instead uses a very loud stage whisper that can’t help but be heard both by me and by anyone standing near us. So this morning I go down the street to the convenience store, there’s Dickie when I go to cash out. He’s at one register, I’m at the other, and we’re only about three feet apart. Suddenly I hear coming into my left ear that great stage whisper, and the word bitch. Now I know he isn’t talking to the cashier because she looks at me with this sort of “I’m sorry” look on her face, but she doesn’t tell him that he can’t call the other customers names. My own cashier is male, and he has a very embarrassed look on his face, as if he wants to melt into the floor, but he doesn’t say anything to Dickie either. Neither do I. To this moment, I have never made any response when he calls me a bitch.  He had to say it a second time before he walked out the door, just to make sure I didn’t miss it. No paranoia, no fantasy, no lie: fact.

When I’m finished paying up, he’s already outside. I go out the door, and there he is pumping gas into a vehicle that does not belong to him, but apparently someone lets him use it. He does it again, and though I’m at least twelve feet away from him, I can hear that stage-whispered bitch. I’m walking away from this verbal bullying, as I always have with Dickie thus far, and then I change my mind. I turn to face him, make some pathetic whining noises like I’m a little kid crying, and then I scowl right at him and say prick. I do not whisper, stagely or otherwise; I use my vocal chords.

It feels good. I’ve decsribed in other posts some of the nasty things the trogs around here have said to me over the years, and have also said how I regret all the times I didn’t answer back to their ignorance and their bullying. Not that answering will make it go away, but getting past my innate tendency to freeze up when someone is being a turd makes me feel better. I may never answer Dickie back again, but I managed it this once, and I’m proud of that. May all the gods I don’t believe in afflict Dickie with a horrible throat catastrophe that leaves him with a permanent trach tube, rendering him incapable of making any verbal sounds at all, except for the occasional gasp.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~     (sp+ma)

(photo:  detail from greeting card)

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Maybe They Should Stone Me

Page Sixty-two

sehnen posted on Jun 20, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: in the stand of treesx

still fri 20 june 2008    Turners Falls

Back in Turners Flails again. According to recent fairy tales (or are they?), four of my cats and one of my birds are living quite close to where I now sit. But has anyone ever said, Anne, you can go and visit them. Just be polite and call ahead. No, no one ever has. Because taunting and teasing are so much more fun than kindness and mercy. Well, speaking of taunting and teasing,  the teasing, demented flake with the white van in which I and my family spent our last hours together ever, was just plaguing me in the store. She was in the row next to mine, her eyes possessed by this perfectly insane glaze, staring at what? Her eyes weren’t pointed towards me, and they weren’t pointed towards the clothes. A few inches above the clothes, I’d say. and the insane, glazed look was straight out of a bette davis movie.

There are people in this burg who often don’t seem very pleased to see me come here: I sell drugs; I beat people up; I steal; whatever. No, I don’t do any of those things, and never did. But I am weird, odd, eccentric, angry, blunt, not much of a housekeeper, always had “too many” animals, and I’m an autistic atheist. All of these non-mainstream, non-conformist idiosyncracies are tantamount to evil in this town. I am evil in the flesh, come back to haunt their streets. This town of such great rectitude that in my 22 years here, for part of which iIwas raising a child, I saw more murders, rapes, drunkeness, drugs, theft, psychological bullying, and all kinds of other ugliness, than I ever saw in the neighborhood I lived in in boston. But I am the evil to be shunned. I am one of the worst things that’s happened to turners falls in the last 23 years.

                                                                                                                                                     

Update 9 July 2009: Those are the feelings I got from a lot of people in Turners back at the time I wrote this, but not from every person. And I was angry, and stayed angry for a long time. Everything had piled up: the 17 months of illegal harassment from the mafia-chick (which no one would do anything about); the technically illegal, retaliatory eviction; the lack of help and the laziness of the DMH and the CSS; the fact that because of a psychotic with connections and a dead grandfather with connections, I was now in this unbelievable protection situation; the “fact” that M. loved me, but sat back and did nothing to help me as a person, just did his shtyk and his job; the fact that I had lost my home and my way of life and everyone I love. It had all piled up, and I was furious all the time, for months. I’ve heard many times that depression is repressed emotion. So if I was angry for months, very angry, I am now repressing a lot of it. And for a long time I was repressing a lot of my grief. I guess I still am, because I’m in a living situation where crying is not allowed, and I very much need to cry.

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

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(emily balivet tapestry at www.gaelsong.com)

 

turn, turn

Page Thirty-nine       (copy from soulcast)

sehnen posted on Jun 04, 2008 | views: 65 | Tags: psycho returnsx

june 4, 2008   turners falls

Back in the homeplace again, or one of my homeplaces. This, Turners Falls, was home for twenty-two years; first twelve, then a gap, then ten. I just a few minutes ago saw the mafia-chick who harassed me relentlessly for seventeen months, and no one — not the landlady, not the DMH, not a lawyer, not the police, not any social service agency — did a damned thing about it. I saw her two days ago in Greenfield, and a week before that in Greenfield as well. I find it slightly odd — since she now supposedly lives in a town called Erving — that for eleven weeks I didn’t see her at all, anywhere, and now I’ve seen her thrice in two weeks. Someone’s been calling on my cell phone at 3:30 in the morning off and on for a couple of weeks, leaving voice mail. I don’t listen to voice mail, as it uses up minutes. And someone’s been leaving me text messages twice a week for the last couple of weeks too, which I also don’t read because it uses up minutes. People who know me and are in contact with me, know that if I don’t answer the phone, they have to just hang up. Whoever’s doing this is not in any kind of normal contact with me. And this is one of the things she used to do to me when we lived in the same building: harassment over the telephone.

So let’s add another thread to the tale of the DMH incompetence, or indifference, or whatever, and discuss the mafia-chick a little. I’ve only done that once before on these blogs. Here’s just a sample of the violation of my tenant’s rights that she foisted on me:

1.      She knew which room I slept in, and that I slept right against the wall, because you could just look in my window and see that. All the tenants who’d lived there knew where I slept most of the time. And no matter what time of day or night I tried to sleep (remember my raging immune system), psycho-mafia-chick would either bang on the wall, shriek outside the window, or have her hound barking outside my window or on the other side of the wall. She’s psychotic and doesn’t require much sleep, so it was nothing for her to come to the wall at midnight and slam cabinets, or 2 am, or 3 am, or any time she wanted.

2.      We shared a cellar for laundry and storage, and there was a stairway down to the cellar. On more than one occasion she loosened the light bulb on the stairway so that it did not function when I hit the switch. I fell down two of the stairs at night on one of the occasions when she did this.

Just a very tiny sample of her insanity, her viciousness. After she’d been living there for about thirteen months, I heard her say to one of her friends that she had a deal with the landlady to drive me out. When it didn’t work, the landlady evicted me for complaining about this psycho-chick’s harassment. That’s an illegal thing for a landlord to do in Massachusetts, but I couldn’t afford a lawyer.

Update 15 June 2009:  So this post was first written on June 4, 08. I was still living in the rented room. I only gave you a small sample of the ways this psychotic, substance-addicted (and substance-dealing) tenant harassed me for seventeen months because to go through the whole litany of abuse all at one sitting is too much for me. I still feel sick and depressed and trapped and afraid when I occasionally think back on what I had to put up with from her. And when I wrote a letter of complaint to the equally psychotic landlady, she evicted me. And she knew full well it would destroy me, that there was no place else for me to go with fourteen animals, and she knew they were my whole life. She pretends to be an animal-lover, this professional woman with money and clout and at least one pal (the psycho-chick) with  mob connections.

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read…  Spite and malice Mugsy’s book

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(kooky doll at www.signals.com; yes, she’s verkehrt on purpose)

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

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devices don’t equal insanity

Page Thirty-seven

friday 26 march  2010         greenfield  (new post)

In spite of the fact that I’m far from finished copying the original Sehnen posts from Soulcast here to WordPress, I’m going to write a new post. I interrupt myself in all the copying when I feel the need.

Throughout all of my online journals over the last two years I’ve made liberal use of thingies that are called literary devices. Most people who’ve studied literature have had to memorize them all at least once, and so have I. There are pages of them, and once upon a time I knew them all by heart, names and definitions and examples, but a lot of that is now deeply buried in the passive memory. Some of these devices also get carried over into conversational speech, and I come from a family who used some of them in large amounts and taught them to me long before I had ever had to memorize the stuff.

I’ve used these ways of speaking and writing with ill effect for me, it seems. Certain people I’ve talked to and certain who’ve written have taken my use of such stylistic elements to mean that I’m delusional, or otherwise insane. So, here are a few that I’ve used a good deal and with which I have therefore hanged myself in respect to being taken for a sane person:

                                                                  Simile                                        
                                                                  Metaphor
                                                                  Hyperbole
                                                                  Irony
                                                                  Sarcasm

Since I stopped teaching at the end of 1990, I’m not going to move into cyber-teaching and define these things for you or give you examples.  Certain of you will know them already, some won’t. But they’re age-old, legitimate stylistic tools, and the use of them doesn’t mean that a person is not living in reality. I’ll admit that I’m resentful over being hung out to dry as far as my sanity is concerned because I choose to use certain styles in my writing and speaking. I’m resentful that these snap judgments are made not on the basis of the events I present, but on the basis of a use of english that many undereducated folks seem not to be acquainted with.

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(gecko at http://www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

read…   Cutting the pie…   Extemporaneana

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

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