the badge

friday 22 january 2016


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.


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.


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.



read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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the beast speaks

wednesday 28 may 2014


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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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.


read…     who was that guy…    why are you still alive….

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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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why do I live among these trolls?

sunday 27 feb 2011  tricky turners falls   (new post)

On my way to this blog just now, I saw a quote by the, apparently, very troubled Charlie Sheen. Here’s said quote:  “My motto now is you either love or hate and you must do so violently.”  I agree with this statement in its basic principle, but not in its every detail (just because Sheen seems to be flipping out at the moment, doesn’t mean that the intelligent man he used to be isn’t in there somewhere).  But I would alter the sentence to read: You love in some places, you hate in others, but you ought to do both with passion. And this belief actually has something to do with what I was planning to write about before I saw Mr. Sheen’s quote. At least tangentially.

Why do I live in this town among these despised trolls?  I’ve been asked this question, in various words, several times over the eleven months I’ve been living back in Turners again. All of the people, but one, who’ve asked it have done so in a snide way, the message being: You hate us so much, get the hell out of here. We hate you too. I have some readers, you see, among the Turners denizens, and they take great umbrage at what I say about them in my writing. My responses? 1.  Deal with it, shmuck. I’m telling real things about the way I’ve been treated by real Turners-ites over 25 real years. You can’t handle having your own disgusting behavior written about on the internet and tossed back into your face, well tough. 2. Show me you’re better than you’ve presented yourselves to me in the past. Apologize, for starters. After you do that, treat me well. What’s that old saw?… when hell freezes over.

The one person who asked me the question without being snide, did so on the library steps back in the summer. He was a man I’d never met before, but he’s lived in this town for decades. He looked at me with intense scrutiny and asked me how I was doing. I told him not very well. He said “This can be a hard town.” I told him that it has been for me. He wanted to know the name of the woman who had evicted me, and I told him. He said he and his wife don’t do any business with her, and I said I was glad of that.  And then he said “So why…” and he hesitated. I finished it for him: So why am I living here again? Yeah, he said. And I told him.

After our conversation he told me to take care. I haven’t seen him since, but I know he’s still around because he’s a long-term townie. He just happens to be one I never met before. And since we’d never met in any formal way, I can only conclude that he must have known things about me from my blogs, or from town gossip about my blogs.

In several posts scattered around my many blogs, I’ve written at least a sentence or two about why I came back to this crucible. Now I seem to have decided that the subject needs a post of its own.

I came back here because it was here that my animals were stolen from me and hidden from me in various other towns, where they were eventually killed. I came back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, to the scene of the worst trauma of my life, because I’m not capable of being anywhere else. I have a good friend out in the county where I spent the first 32 years of my life, and part of me longs to go back there and be near her. That same part of me misses the ocean more than I can say. And theoretically, I could go back. In a couple of months, having served my sentence in the ponystall, I will presumably be given movable rent subsidy that I can use anywhere in the state. I think about going back. I think about it a lot.

Every time I consider it, I know that I can’t, in spite of the very strong internal forces that want to pull me there. I can’t leave the scene of the crime. My heart’s not ready. It may never be ready. And before that crime was committed nearly three years ago, this town was the scene of the years and days and minutes and hours spent with my animals, spent as myself, to the extent that the landlords and fellow tenants of this burg let me be myself.

I need to be able to walk the river or the canal any hour of the day or night… and remember. I need to walk by the buildings that were once our homes any time the yearning comes… to remember. I feel closer to the stolen animals here, and to the person I was and the way of life I had before the crime. I cannot go.

It would be different if I had a car. Then I could live in Deerfield or Greenfield or Leverett, and come here to the places of my memories any hour I needed to. But lacking said car, leaving this town cuts me off from walks at five in the morning, or ten at night, or any other time when the grief is weighing a ton and that longing strikes.

The fact that I despise these trolls passionately is one of the reasons I experience misery here in this armpit. But the fact that I loved and love those animals, and every minute I had with them, with, as the cliché goes, every fiber of my being, is the reason I cannot leave. Love with passion, hate with passion. If someone deserves your contempt, if that’s what they have earned, then they deserve it one hundred percent. If an animal has engendered my love, then they deserve that love one hundred percent. My own belief.

I hope that I’ve cleared up the question for anyone who may have it, as to why I came back here to poison.


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yuletide yuppification

Page Seventy

Wednesday 1 December 2010

Oh-so-tasteful (whose taste) in Turners….   (and yet another interruption in the copying of older posts)

Ich sehne nach die alte Beleuchtung.

So it’s very, very early in the morning of the first day of December. Everywhere around Massachusetts, over at least two decades, the conformity and uniformity of design dictated by the gentry who pay for the gentrification of each and every little town, has turned the towns into little replicas of each other and eliminated to a great degree their individuality.

I will say for Turners that it held out against this trend, at least on the question of Christmas lights, for a long time. I believe that in 2003, there was still the traditional Turners lighting. Maybe even 2004.

But at last the purveyors of conformity and ennui won out. We are reduced now to one short string of white lights on only the tops of certain light poles down Avenue A. Sometimes every third pole, sometimes every fourth. We are reduced to an upper-middle-class cliché.

And what did there used to be, from the time I came here in 1985 until six or seven years ago? There used to be this: The central section of Avenue A is lined with trees on either side. Crabapples, maples, oaks, and even a couple of ginsengs. It’s quite lovely when the crabapples are blooming in early spring. At Yuletide, however, these trees were festooned, and I mean festooned in the most positive and cheerful sense of that word, with COLORED lights. And please don’t picture a strand of multi-colored lights on each tree. That would be to imagine entirely the wrong effect. No, each tree had single-colored strings of lights, so that one tree would be yellow, the one beside it red, the next one blue, etc. And when you stood at either end of the decorated section of the avenue, the effect was like bursts of fireworks, all in a long row, and each burst sprayed out its own particular color. It was like a winter carnival; it was warm and inviting and festive (the only thing I ever knew about Turners that was warm and inviting). It was a Christmas revel for every single citizen to enjoy: rich, poor and in between. And kids LOVED it, including my own. Even when she was a teenager, she loved those lights on Avenue A.



What have we got now? Boring. Cold. Dictated by big-pocket buyers of property and influencers of the select board. Nothing warm, or inviting, or festive, or individual. Christmas on Avenue A is now as much of a visual drag as it is in many other towns that have fallen under the boot of the controlling yuppies.

POSTSCRIPT:   ……  Well now it’s nearly 12 hours since I wrote this post. Just popped over to the bakery for something really fattening, and what do I see at the restaurant right before the bridge? MANY COLORFUL LIGHTS. On the shrubbery, around the edges of the roof. And yes I got a lump in my throat to see a carnival of color on Avenue A again, even if it’s a very small piece of Avenue A.

~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~

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



Page Sixty-six

Tuesday 10 Aug 2010… new      Turners turned away

I’m being very slow about copying the original Sehnen posts from the now dead Soulcast website here onto WordPress. Slowly is the only way I get anything done. But I came across a soulcast post from Wed 8 Oct 2008 in some papers last night. Most of the post is no longer relevant, as I said some things about Turners in it that I no longer believe to be true.  On October 8 of 2008 I had just had my sleeping-in-the-laundromat privileges withdrawn, and had moved to camp on the canal for about a week and a half. I spent a lot of time in the library (and the women’s center, and the senior center) in order to be inside, and it was in the library that I wrote this poem. It was one of the last ones I have ever written.

Of course, how could anything else be true, it is for Lizzie, Canajoharie, and Tuuschi; For Brainse and Mishi; For Mandy, Judah and Shiloh; For Chailin, Ziidjian and Chan; For Aram, Abel and Chani. For those fourteen who were my children and friends and life companions, who were stolen and hidden from me, whose wereabouts were lied about, who were eventually killed. And none of those who have the answers about where and when and how they were killed will give them to me.


I am lost without you —
words used too much, by too many,
I suppose.
Heaven knows, though,
if heaven there is somewhere,
these words are true:                                                                                                                    
I am lost without you.


I walk blind without you.
I’m dancing too much, too frilly,
far too false.
Laughing false; shamed
to hear my throat to laugh
when this is true:
I walk blind without you.


Everything of me
that touched the stars
and met the moon
and melded with the water;
everything of me
that spoke of timelessness
and chainlessness
and why we walk this rock
was bound to you.


I sleep cold without you.
    (everything of me that touched the stars…)
I dream tears about you.
    (everything of me that met the moon…)
I walk blind without you.
    (love melded with the water…)
My share of timelessness
and chainlessness
and magical response
are carried off.
I am not fully I, or truly I,
or only I:
that I is lost without you.


I find us here in Turners, living outdoors, more every day, in the places I can get to without a car that were ours. I find us and cry, but despite all the pain, I am happy, happy, at the same time, to find us.

You suffer when someone you love suffers. No one at all, as far as I know, has suffered one moment for me in all these seven months, and therefore, there is no human who loves me. And the ones who did love me — the animals — what happened to them?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~     to the Poetry page




Page Sixty-four

Wednesday 28 July 2010         Turners Fools

My teeth are clenched…  my face is wrenched up in a grimace… I’m snarling…

RiverCulture is a Turners Falls concept and an idiocy and a promotional scheme that makes my blood boil. I first found out about it in 2008, when I was living outdoors in this burg, but I don’t know exactly how long it’s been in existence or exactly who hatched it. I saw it on the tube one day when I was hanging out in the laundromat, watching the local access cable station. On comes this show, starring as host a homely woman who is a recent incomer to Turners. Pseudo-yuppie, pseudo-progressive, pseudo-“community” rah-rah girl. Everything about this female is pseudo, with the exception of her vacuousness. That’s plenty real.

She and her guest were discussing murals painted in the town over the last several years, and then they start blabbering about how it’s all part of RiverCulture, and they uttered this word as if they were saying the rapture, or maybe the holy grail. The word had an enormous gravitas, as if it were sacred.

So it turns out that it is this campaign to emphasize to potential tourists that TF has a river running through it (and a big one, at that: the Connecticut), and that that is special, and that that river, and its attendant culture, is a mighty big reason for all you out there to come to Turners and spend your bucks here.

And what is the yuppy (and pseudo-yuppy) idea of river culture? Fishing, perhaps. Strolling along beside the water on this tar-scar they laid down in 2005 or so, or rollerskating, or bicycling, along this scar of tar. Spending money is the main thing, and spending it right here in Turners. After you’ve traversed a piece of the scar, maybe gone to the fish ladder, you are hungry and thirsty and will spend in local eateries. Shop in local stores. Perhaps you’ll take photos, show them to all the folks back home, and become a living ad for RiverCulture.

I lived beside the canal for five and a half years, and beside the river for four and a half. I walked the canal all those years with my cats, and the river with my dogs, at all hours of day and night in all seasons, and in the days when there were NO tar-scars ruining the natural state. I’m not a yuppy, but I have more education than any yuppy whose butt is now firmly planted in this town. I also have a much greater sense, apparently, of what it is to experience the culture of a natural space.

Here’s my take on what the culture of the river-space is: Watching the sun go down or the full moon come up over the water; meeting a young moose running towards you at five in the morning; meeting a beaver on your path at ten at night, watching deer move ahead of you beside the water, keeping a safe distance from your dogs; watching the leonid meteor showers (hundreds of them) in the dark at five a.m. in 2001 (my dogs and I were the only ones out there — no one else in downtown Turners got up early to watch the show of natural fireworks over the river); listening to snowflakes sish as they hit the water’s surface; and bard owls and bats and bald eagles, cormorants catching fish, geese, gulls, otters hissing at you as they swim past you in the dark, their heads and necks above the water. All of these things that you only see and hear if you are out there to catch them when they happen, at odd hours and in all seasons, and if you go peacefully, without arrogance or aggression. You catch damned few pieces of the flux and rhythms of the water and the wildlife, not to mention the many wild and cultivated flowering plants, if all you do is skate or bike or walk along a scar-tar once a day, and only in good weather.

I know what real river culture is, and my dogs and cats knew it, too. And the animals I have always fed beside the waters of this town (squirrels, land birds, water birds) know it too. Yuppies know squat about being real, about moving with nature’s rhythms, about getting dirty or wet or cold in order to hear those snowflakes hit or listen to the ice-floes creak. Yuppes know only superficialities, and the joys of spending, and the ease of keeping nice and clean and warm and dry by “drinking in” river culture from the seat of a bicycle for ten or fifteen minutes on a nice day.


And the geese?  ~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(owls at

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anne nakis: ocean

Page Sixty

sehnen posted on Jun 19, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: enormous snaily rocksx

thurs 19 june 2008   Greenfield

A message for the unnamed one:

~~~   Bill and I pulling periwinkles off the rocks in Maine, but you didn’t know us yet. We took them home and ate them. No one else would touch them…. by the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, you and I, you and I, oh how happy we’ll be… do you remember that gaggy old song? ~~~


Update 6 July 2009: This is another one of those private messages I’m not going to explain. I’ll say, though, that I spent 32 years of my life by the sea. I never should have come to Franklin County; that’s way too clear, way too late. Because whether you believe I had one horror last year (being made homeless and losing everyone I love) or two (being in undercover federal protection), either way it’s still enough to make me deeply and darkly regret I ever left eastern Mass.

 ~~  website  ~~~                                                                                                                 

        (crab at



 ~~~~~~~   sea shell from a magazine


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Another loaded day

Page Fifty-seven

Wednesday 30 June 2010             Turners twisting

            Wednesday 2 July 2003   a very black day for me and the animals
            Wednesday 4 July 2007   the last 4th of my own life
            Wednesday 2 July 2008   Matthew tells me people want to harm me


Another loaded day, full of echoes and shadows of dark things on summer days. Triggers of trauma. Memory that picks at the scabs of those days, making them sore and red, infected with the loss, the meanness, the uncalled-for casual cruelty of humans.

It happens from time to time, a loaded day. So today is another. I wish all that pain in my scabs today returned to you a thousandfold: returned to the alchy landlord, Nookie, and his chick; returned to the insane landlady and the insane mafia-chick (and all her cohorts); returned to Matthew Lacoy; returned to Shirley Temple at the DMH. I owe you all a debt of suffering. If I could pay that debt with my thoughts alone, I’d be doing so this moment.

~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 (sandcastle at


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