wednesday 3 april 2013


operation family secrets…  by frank calabrese, jr., and co-authors

this is both the title of frank’s book and the name the fbi gave to the operation that brought down both frank’s father, and a big chunk of the chicago outfit.

because of the things that happened to me in 2008 and 2009, I have a fierce interest in true stories about mobs, their victims, and the sociopathic fbi. but I don’t want fiction. the true stories have so far been hard for me to locate, so, in my mob-story isolation, I devoured this book. after all, unlike the author, I did not have my family behind me when I was going through my own mob story, not even one lousy member. I don’t have them now. and while the people who have believed me over the years are some comfort, it isn’t the same as having someone in my family on my side, someone who is related to the family gangster just as I am. but no, I am a fruit-loop. despite the fact that it was a relative who confirmed part of matthew’s story for me, saying that family research had revealed that my grandfather was most likely a criminal and that in 1943 he suddenly disappeared, I am still a fruit-loop. no moral support for me, no nothing.

unlike me, frank knew of his father’s type of business from early in life. at age eighteen, he joined his father in such business. it makes me ask questions, this story of frank’s, questions shooting off in my mind all through the reading of the book like little fireworks, questions that no one will ever answer. for instance: my father had his mafia father for fifteen years, then my grandparents split up. by the age of fifteen, did my father know his father was a mobster? as the oldest child and a son, had he even been told by his father in a sort of macho, father-son talk? did my father know about grampa’s first family that he’d produced on the island of crete before ever coming to the u.s., the family to whom any mob earnings must have been sent, since my father and his siblings grew up in poverty? the few in my family who remain alive and might have some answers do not talk (denial and under-the-rug-sweeping are two of my family’s favorite psychological tricks). and matthew, who has the answers, will not talk either.

frank calabrese jr. finds himself of two minds in the early part of his life, and I very much understand this split. he both loves his father deeply, and is horrified by him. he follows him into organized crime, but it isn’t exactly clear to me from the book whether he does this out of fear of his father, or out of the same kind of rapacious greed that his father suffers from. or both. since I never knew my crime grandfather, since he betrayed his organization (how? matthew won’t tell) and was killed by them ten years before I was born, I have many questions about him. the stories told about him as I was growing up, few as they were, were not of a mobster. those stories were apparently mostly lies. I want to know exactly what he did for this mob of his, and who of his loved ones, both in greece and in the u.s., he put in danger with his way of life. I spent fifty-five years loving this man I never saw, loving him because he was my dad’s father and he meant something to him; loving him because he was absent, and therefore a magnetic mystery; loving him because he gave us our greek blood, of which I used to be proud. since 2008, I’m of two minds: the old me who loved this family ghost, and the newer part of me that is disgusted and ashamed.

eventually, frank, his father, his uncle, his brother, are all arrested and sent to prison on racketeering charges. while they are serving their sentences, frank decides to betray his father and get into bed with the fbi. this is not an easy choice for him, and I’ve heard him with his own voice on a radio show talking about the two separate sets of feelings he has for his father, and how very hard these things were for him. I hope that in his situation I would have done what he did, but I can’t know that for certain. he wears a wire in the prison yard and gets his father to talk about murders and all kinds of other illegal past behavior. he hands it all over to the feds. he takes their instructions. even the feds are shocked by the large role frank’s father had in the outfit, because they hadn’t known. what they had thought was going to be a relatively small mob case, taking a small but important bite out of the outfit, turned out to be, according to frank, the biggest bite out of a mob since the days of capone.

frank expresses respect for the agents he dealt with. my own attitude towards them is quite different. succinctly put, I detest them. but frank was treated one way by them, and I was treated quite another way. yet another question that popped up more than once while reading: why did frank, a criminal who was betraying his father, deserve to be treated like a human being by the feds, and I, a non-criminal, did not? why did he deserve that, and I didn’t? many criminals in the annals of the fbi have been treated with kid gloves compared to the way they treated me. I have always only been able to conclude that I was bait. matthew spoke once of big fish, when I was asking him why some of the minnows who had got me into this horror show hadn’t been arrested. big fish. and they came to greenfield in 2008, some of those big connecticut fish, believe me they did. and made themselves very obvious to me, no attempts to be clandestine. what became of them once they had been lured in? no idea. when asked, matthew wouldn’t tell. so frank respects the federal cops, and I do not.

a couple of things come up in the story that bring about a dark shiver, one of them being a method of murder favored by frank’s father and uncle. things involving strangulation and a knife. long ago when I was in college, my little cousin was murdered. the act involved strangulation and a knife, or so I was told by my aunt, the child’s mother. naturally I asked matthew about this cousin, after sitting there telling him yet another story that he already knew. the whole time I talked, he wouldn’t look at me. he stared out the window crying quietly, and only looked at me when I was finished narrating and asked my questions. he answered them in his undercover act, his pseudo-schizophrenic gibberish, and so I still do not know if the murder of my cousin came about in the way that we were told, for the reasons we were told, or if it was something completely different, and uglier, and more sinister. mobs have codes, many people have told me, and I know this. they don’t whack women and children, these people have said. and it seems that that’s true, that most of the time they leave women and children alone. but I’m a woman, and, according to matthew, they came after me because of some lies told to them by one of their lackeys (the one I call the mafia-chick). so if they would make a rare exception and come after me, why could they not also have made one forty years ago and got my cousin, a mere child? I think they could have. but I also think the killing could have been exactly what we were told it was. ad nauseam: matthew wouldn’t tell.

to me, frank jr. is a mostly brave and mostly selfless man. he does not see himself this way. he was afraid of his father, and this fear led to the betrayal. he emphasizes his fear. he betrayed him in order to be free of him. but in getting himself free of the old coot, he got many others free of him too. he did things along the way in the building of the case that were indeed courageous and selfless. he asked for no reduction of sentence, no immunity, and refused the witness protection program. in 2011, when this book came out and the radio interview was done, he said that he was not one to hide. and also, that he needed to give his father the opening for revenge. it was part of the code that his father, if released from prison, deserved to murder him, and frank felt he had to give his father that chance (part of the code is still in frank jr.). that’s brave in my book, to sit and wait for the day your father could come to kill you.

early this year (2013), frank calabrese, sr. died in federal prison. in honor of this death (or so it felt to me), that 2011 radio interview was re-aired.  hooray, the old murderer is dead. hooray, he never got released on parole to go and kill his brave son. hooray, frank never has to fear his father again. and yet I know there must be great grief for frank too, because, like me, frank continued to hope till the bitter end that his father would one day love him, one day ask forgiveness, and that even if for only a few years, if only on prison visits, they could have a somewhat normal father-son bond. he has hungered for this all his life, and I understand such hunger very, very well.

if I had a hat on, frank, I’d tip it to you many times over. all the cheap male cowards I have known. and then there’s you out there in the world. thank you for being out there in the world. a brave man. a mostly unselfish man. a man who hungers for normality and love.


read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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

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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testosterone town

Page Eighty-three

sehnen posted Jul 14, 2008/views 59/Tags: to drown us

monday 14 july 2008      greenfield

subtitle:  “All you need to know is that he won’t be
                    bothering you anymore.”     ~~  matthew lacoy


Very tired. Before I fall asleep and my head flops onto this keyboard, I’d like to paraphrase Lennon and McCartney:


They went out tiger hunting
with their elephants and guns.
In case of accidents
they always took their moms.
They’re the all-american, bullet-headed
saxon mothers’ sons.


All the children sing:
Hey Bungalow Bill,
what did you kill, Bungalow Bill.
Deep in the jungle
where the mighty tiger lies,
the bills and their elephants
are taken by surprise,
till Captain Marvel zaps it
right between the eyes.

So, is there in fact, as Matthew (who in his own mind is his own special version of Captain Marvel) has said, a very grim situation in my life which could possibly result in some zapping? Well, I’m sure that most of you choose to deny the truth of the things he said to me by saying either that I misheard what he said, or imagined what he said, or that he in fact said these things, but he was lying. Or he was imagining them. Whatever, I suppose, you need to tell yourself in order continue your denial.

But I was present for everything. Everything bizarre, everything illegal, everything cruel, that has happened in my life since the day the crime-chick moved into my building. I’ve been present, and you have not. And I’ve been with Matthew when he’s told me the few things he has, and you haven’t. I know, based on two years of emotional horrors and repeated illegal acts, based on things I’ve seen and heard and wondered mightily about when they happened, based on Matthew’s demeanor when he said these things, that he didn’t lie.

So I believe him, but I certainly don’t hold him or his breed up as Captain Marvels in my estimation. I view them derisively, angrily, bitterly. They’re little children to me, feeding their egos, and possessed of an enormous capacity of their own for denial: they believe that what they do is right, and that they’re on the side of right. They don’t smell their own stink, because they don’t want to.

I’m the only one who’s been zapped, and thus far all of that zapping has been of a type that leaves me still technically alive (that’s all that matters to Matthew: still technically alive). The psychotic, law-breaking landlady has lost nothing. The crime-chick herself has lost nothing (Matthew has said that only “big fish” are wanted). She has served not even one day in jail for drug-dealing, or for any of the illegal things she has done to me. I, the only innocent one in this moral farce, am the only one who’s lost, and I’ve lost everything that mattered. All of it was taken by various players in this farce.

And I’ve met yet another untrue man, only five days ago. If I told you how I met him, and why it was so important to him to meet me and speak with me, and what he does for a living, you wouldn’t believe me. If I were to tell you what happened on a certain night, you wouldn’t believe me. You would continue your denial. If you had minds that were open to accept bizarre realities in the life of an innocent person, you might be able to imagine at least a little how I must feel to have landed, through no illegal activity of my own, smack in the middle of this ugly drama. The denial I myself would like to practice, to say: No, this isn’t happening. But I’ve been through too much horrible truth since July 2006 to be able to pull that denial off.

I had a moral code when I still had my own life. A code designed completely by me, which was quite strict in certain areas, and to which I held fairly tenaciously. It’s unraveling. Thread by thread, I care less and less every day about the morality of my own conduct and wishes. I value human life less and less every day. Excessive trauma, excessive psychological abuse, turn out to have a coarsening effect on some people, and I’m one of them. I grow coarser and more vicious in my attitude towards human beings every day. And I do not care. Tell me I shouldn’t let the darkness that has been levelled at me infect me. You can talk till you’re blue, and I don’t care.


read more about the man with the white hair

~~~~~~~~~ website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

read…    Spite and malice…   Braon

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aram and abel (me an crann marbh)

Page Seventy-six

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

tues 2 july 2008   Greenfield                       

sleepy, sleepy, but on with it…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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the pushy cow in the chariot of tin

Page Seventy-three

Wednesday 8 December 2010 Turners Tarts

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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this post is part of the book Spite and Malice

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judah — suite blue

Page Fifty-one

sehnen posted on Jun 14, 2008 | views: 121 | Tags: slaughtering sweetnessx

sat 14 june 2008   Greenfield

Steven Stills. Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. Referring to Judy Collins. I’m old. I know this tidbit, I remember that song. I remembered it when I was presented with a little Siamese-mix kitten in September 1994, my only cat ever with blue eyes. I believe it was my kid again, not me, who chose the name Judah. Once so named, and having blue eyes, I coudn’t resist using Suite Judy Blue-Eyes as one of her nicknames.

Judah was 13 and a half when she was taken from me on 12 March 2008. She was of the sealpoint type of Siamese, and had the color range in her hair from cream to a very dark brown. Aloofness, privateness was the only “typical” Siamese trait she had. While it’s typical for Siamese to be vocal, Judah was quiet in the extreme and rarely spoke. She was, in fact, so quiet, that often I’d go looking around the apartments when I hadn’t seen her for hours, hunting her out to make sure we still had her. She was neither demanding nor antsy, like many Siamese. 

                                    blue eyes with red camera-flash pupils

She came to us when she was five weeks old, dumped by someone into the back seat of my friend’s car. She still wanted and needed a mommy, and she found one in my old mama cat, who was the most motherly female cat I’ve ever known. She even mothered me, from day one. Ditto for baby Judah, and she loved it. Sadly, Maman only lived another month, and Judy kitten was left motherless again. She evaluated the other cats and eventually chose a grown-up to cuddle up with, but I’ve forgotten now who it was.

In late 1995 I mated Judah with one of Maman’s sons, but he belonged to someone else, so this mating had to be set up. We’d had several deaths in Maman’s family besides her, and I wanted more of them. Maman’s line was very, very special. It’s not looks I’m talking about. It was nature, it was sweetness. Anyway, four of the nine cats stolen from me in March were Maman’s grandchildren, and the “shelter” slaughtered three of them.

Judah never knew (or did she?) that her hubby and her children were also blood family to that old mama cat she’d loved when she first came to us. But I knew it. And whenever I looked at Judy’s kids through the years, I would think of how their mama would cuddle up as a tiny cat with their grandma, who was only a month from dying.

The last time I ever saw Judah, she was in her carrier in the oily garage of a very oily and unholy priest (may he rot in that hell he believes in). She was being very vocal that day. Crying to me to take her home and end all the anxiety, the strangeness. And crying out to her daughter,with whom she had remained very close over the years. The night before, the daughter and three other cats had been allowed — by two intellignce quotient 40 turners falls trolls — to escape into the adjacent garage, which was full of crap, and no one had yet caught them. Judah was crying on one side of the dividing wall, while her daughter cried on the other. The separation that had been brought about by the mental midgets the previous night turned out to be forever.

Update 26 June 2009: Judah. Supposedly put into a foster home with Mandy, but I was never told where or allowed to visit. Judah, whom I loved and took care of from her babyhood in 1994 until March 11, 2008. Judah, who was taken from me and hidden by the conniving and underhandedness of state employees who are paid to “help”. Is she still alive?

The bulk of my grief has been so delayed by all the upset last year created by the things Matthew told me about my life, and by the long-lasting shock the theft of the animals put me into, that I’m grieving now in the way I should have a year ago. I’m feeling the crushing totality of the loss that I should have felt a year ago.

I love you as big as the sky, Sweet Judy blue-eyes, and despise the humans who took you from me, among them that multiple-personality, delusional landlady. I didn’t get to see you to the end.

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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Far and Countless Cries From Home

Page Forty-nine

Wed 5 May 2010…   Turning harder

This title is the last line of a poem I wrote years ago, and since those poems (the whole notebook) seems to have been thrown into the dumpster by the psycho landlady on the day she was moving me in to her building, I haven’t seen the thing for years. I no longer remember the rest of it. (Yes, mental landlady took it upon herself to throw certain of my belongings into her dumpster on the day she was moving me in, without so much as a by-your-leave).

When I wrote it, I still had my human family (though the way I had them was always precarious) and my animal family. I was much more “at home” than I am now, and yet there was still always this feeling of not having found the “home” of someone who understood me.

How much further I am away now… the human family lost in 1999… animal family taken and killed in 2008…  Further, and infinitely more cries from home… a literal home, a soul home, a heart home…

Letting go tears in deserts where I stare and roam,
Far and countless cries from home.
(part of the book Being Toward Death)
~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it’s all so funny

Page Forty-eight

sehnen posted on Jun 12, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: at the summer watersidex

thurs 12 june 2008   Greenfield

Well, I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that since my life was destroyed (not to mention my mental health) by the DMH and CSS three months ago, I have been, with a great many people, a joke. Here’s a partial list: a bank manager, several librarians, a woman running for city             council, a deli-maid, a guy I used to live next door to, and many more. These people, when I first told them what the DMH had done, leaving us for the sheriff and disappearing animals and lies about where the animals were and the illegal behavior of the landlady and me being homeless, et cetera, giggled or smiled and said things like: “good luck,” “hope it turns out,” “hope you have a good resolution,”, and all kinds of other bull, when it was too late. No good luck had been in evidence, the animals were gone, I was homeless, and I couldn’t imagine why they would think it was anything to smile and giggle about. Even one of my doctors, as late as April 8 (we were destroyed on March 12), was patting my shoulder as if I were some kind of poodle and saying, “we have to get your animals back,” and she was beamingHow get the animals back, I’m thinking, and where from? And if I got them back, where would I take them to, me being homeless and all, and the DMH doing not one bloody thing to rectify that homelessness? But I am a joke. The situation calls for smiles and giggles and clichés. All the inappropriate and insensitive smiles and giggles I have received in the last three months have only deepened by far my conviction that neurotypical people are so shallow and lazy in their cogitation that they border on the mongoloid.

None of it has been a joke to me. I lost home and belongings and identity and purpose and privacy and autonomy and, most precious of all, the family that held me to my otherwise failed and strenuous and insubstantial life. It is not a joke to me. It is the end of my life, such as it has been. And they are still grinning at me when they see me, many of them. Idiotic clown grins that show no sympathy, or empathy. A complete inability to imagine themselves in my situtation and think, “Would I want someone grinning and chuckling and saying vapid things to me if I had lost my whole life, and my identity, and all my love? Would I want that?”

So, cretins at DMH and CSS, cretins in the public at large, I am not a joke. What was done to me and to 14 innocent, ageing animals was not a joke. Illegal evictions and the poverty not to afford an attorney are not a joke. Sixteen months of relentless harassment by a psychotic, drug-dealing, mob-connected drunk are not a joke. The hours and hours of excruciating physical pain that psycho caused me, pain that puts me into shock and makes me pass out, were not jokes. Living with no home at 55 (when all your life you’ve had one) and no dignity and no autonomy and no meaning and no purpose and no love is not a joke. It is so much not a joke that if I were the homicidal type, a great many of you would have had your funerals by now. But though I have rage enough for the crime of passion, I am not a killer. I don’t have whatever else it takes besides rage to be able to kill.

Laugh and smile away, all brain-dead ones. I don’t owe a single human being a goddamned thing. I will verbally insult you, I will give you the finger, I will do whatever I can to protest your notion that I and my animals, and what was done to us, are some kind of joke.

Update 25 June 2009: I can feel again the anger and insult I felt when I first wrote this, though in somewhat duller fashion because of the antidepressant and the depression itself. Depression flattens you out a lot, robs you of spirit. Another person who constantly smirked an idiotic smirk at me was case manager Dolittle from the DMH, who had been my case manager for four months and done not one thing to try to help me find a place where I could have some of my animals. To have this incompetent, lazy excuse for a man and a social worker give me that idiotic smirk every time he saw me, as if the destruction of my life that he helped bring about were funny, was almost more than I could bear many times. How often I wanted to smack that smirk right off his brainless face.

I do believe I have Asperger’s. Matthew told me I do, but even if it turns out that M was for some reason hoaxing me, I still believe I have it. And one of the things that always ties me in knots about neurotypical people is this inappropriate smiling. We don’t smile much, we aspies. But I much prefer that to the inappropriate smiling that goes on like phony waterfalls. Smiling at someone you’ve hurt, smiling when you know someone’s in a very bad time, smiling while you lie through your teeth. Most neurotypicals look like blithering idiots to me with all the superfluous, unwarranted smiling that goes on.


                        (part of the book Spite and Malice)

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

                  (happy gecko at


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



Page Forty-seven                                                                                                                         

sehnen posted on Jun 10, 2008 | views: 101 | Tags: linger breathingx

tues 10 june 2008    Greenfield

Fourteen weeks homeless, lifeless, loveless today. Three months tomorrow. I wonder if anyone reading this would deem it a mean-spirited, insensitive, unkind thing to do to shadow and crowd a person who is reclusive, private, frightened, and maybe a bit autistic. Would anyone find that a nasty, juvenile thing to do?

So Tuuschi. I’ve talked about him before. Born October 1994, 13 and a half years old when he was stolen from me on March 12. He was one of a family of 6: his parents Toby and Tessie, his two older sisters Tari and Tiki, and his sister and mate, Tammi. All these trochaic names. But ever since I read long ago that animals like and respond better to trochaic names, I’ve almost always used them. Anyway, Tuuschi was the last of his family still alive, and had lived longer than any of the others. Born crippled, his way was never an easy one, and yet I took years of pleasure in his almost unceasing happiness. He didn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed by being crippled, by the fact that he had a disability and couldn’t do simple things in the same easy way that other birds could. Well, he didn’t know it, did he, that other birds’ legs were formed normally and that for them, every movement was easy. He had to devise alternate ways to do these same simple things. He would hang upside-down from the top of his cage with his less-crippled leg, and he thought that was a great trick. So did I. His whole family had hung upside-down, but most of them could use two legs to do it, and Tuuschi and his dad were the ones who did it the most and loved it the most. Lovebirds are by nature somehow more bubbly than most other birds. Something about the shape of their beaks and the light in their eyes makes them look like they’re always smiling, even in the moment of death. But Tuuschi was bubblier and happier even than most lovebirds, and a great, great treasure, as all purity is.

He loved his Tammi, until the day she died. His need and desire to bond was so great, that even after twelve years with Tammi, he was willing to make a new bond. Not all birds will. Some birds just fade away after a long-term bond ends. Things were very bad with the landlady and the crime-chick at the time that Tammi died, and I didn’t want to get another lovebird, a new animal to come to the garbage and uncertainty my poor animals and I were trying to get by in. Enter the parakeet, whom we already had. I put their cages side-by-side, very close, and eventually the friendship was formed. To a much greater degree than I’d dared to  hope for. They took a great delight in each other.

I’ve written on another blog about Tuuschi’s love of bells, so won’t do that again here. Of all the memories of my stolen Tuuschi that stir the pain, the grief, the anger, it is often remembering him with bells that evoke these emotions most forcefully.

Update 24 June 2009: I imagine Tuuschi has been dead for some while, he was so old. The last of his family, and I was not with him when he died, and I don’t know the date or the place of his death. Supposedly he was adopted by someone in that damned Polish church in Turners Falls, and I’ve never been allowed to know who, and I was never allowed to visit him, because these turnersites exhibit so much goddamned christian kindness. I was supposed to see him, to see all of them to the end of their lives. That was my duty as their friend, their human mother; a duty I loved and wanted to fulfill.

What I was writing about in the first paragraph of this post was the group of men who had been watching me and following me since I first came to Greenfield last year. They were all pretending to be loopy, and I could see in their eyes that they were sane and sober. Matthew was one of them. I thought the DMH was doing something ridiculous by having these men watch that I didn’t kill myself after having lost all my animals. I thought the DMH was trying to mop up the mess it had made by having a year to help me save at least some of my animals and doing almost nothing to that end. And where were they getting the money for this? This post was first written on June 10. It wouldn’t be until June 23rd that I would decide it was something criminal. And when in the next few days I asked Matthew about this, he said yes.


(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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


Page Forty-six

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

mon 9 june 2008    Greenfield

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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