painting the unpaintable

sehnen posted on May 31, 2008 | views: 51 | Tags: painting miseryx

Page Thirty-three      (copy)

sat 31 may 2008   greenfield

first, lest I forget, I need to leave someone a message here………

  bill said “you’re givin’ me agitta”


So… twice since the DMH destroyed my life, I’ve tried to paint certain things: hatred, rage, grief, dying….  to paint them in an abstract fashion. I’m new at painting, having tried it only twice while I still had my life and my animals, and now I’ve tried it twice more. How do you paint hatred, or rage, or grief? I suppose every person would do it according to their own imagination. I’ve used cadmium red and cadmium orange, the fire colors. It’s all those things to me, what the DMH has done: fire, blood, lava. Anyway, neither painting is finished, and I doubt they ever will be. But the thing that appeared on the canvas yesterday shocks and saddens me, as if it came from someone else. When I’d planned, back in my own life, to try painting, I’d wanted to paint abstractions that were beautiful, at least in my own eyes. This too, the DMH has destroyed.

Update 10 June 2009: I’ve done no more painting since I first wrote this post. After I fled Greenfield on August 20, 2008, my friends packed up the things in my room and took them to a barn. I made a collage while I was in Northhampton this January and February, but even that late in this ugly saga I still had hope that Matthew and his crowd would point me to a home and I’d get at least a few of my animals back. Since I gave up on that crowd this April, thinking that if in fact I was in protection, they had dumped me as far as a home was concerned, all my hope is gone. I’m back to not being able to read, no interest in art, and no interest in hearing any of the multifarious music that I listened to in my own life with my animals. I’ve said before and will no doubt say again: I have no spirit anymore.        


read…   Don’t ask…  (sehnen)

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


is cuimhin liom

sehnen posted on May 23, 2008 | views: 151 | Tags: remembering them with flowers (link)x

Page Thirty             (copy)

friday 23 may 2008    greenfield

— Memorial day weekend, and my fourteen stolen friends don’t even have graves for me to go to. Or if they have them, I don’t know where they are or have anyone to take me there. I never had fourteen to mourn all at once before.

                                             Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh
                                             in allen Wipfeln spürest du
                                             kaum einen Hauch.
                                             Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
                                             Warte, nur balde, ruhest du auch. 

                                                        — j.w. von goethe

                                   Si un jour, la vie t’arrache à moi;
                                   Si tu meures quand tu sois loin de moi;
                                   Si tu meures c’n’est pas de problème,
                                   Car moi, je mourrai aussi.

                                                         — edith piaf

                                             Ma shiúlaim o na laethe beo,
                                             an ghrían is an ghealach ar mo chúl.
                                             Nil uaim ach smaointe
                                             ar mo (charai)…
                                             Deora ar mó chroí go brón, (go deo).

                                                      —  mostly eithne brainnan

                                             Sí an crann marbh,
                                             deireadh an tuath.

                                                        — eithne brainnan

Bígí liomsa i gconai, lá is oíche.  No, that can’t ever be again. The mentally deficient and judgmentally hyperactive, control-freak adolsecents at the DMH and CSS took care of that go deo.

Update 8 June 2009:  They can’t be with me ever again, the 14 I love so much, who were the whole center and meaning and purpose to my life. I have a great need to be told what happened to each of them, but no one’s talking. Existence is empty and dark without them. And I failed them, by zigging when I should have zagged in yet another highly pressurized situation — the one with the venomous landlady and the psycho-chick with the mommy married to the mob.

Last memorial day I wrote a poem and posted it on another blog. It begins, “On the last Memorial Day of my life…” And I hoped it would be. I hoped I wouldn’t live for a second memorial day without them. But I have. Why? I remembered them with flowers again this year.



read…   Lifelines…   Mugsy’s book

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dona nobis pacem

Page Twenty-five

sehnen posted on May 08, 2008 | views: 121 | Tags: dona mihi eosx

thursday 8 may 2008   greenfield

Very tired today. Starting to have some trouble sleeping. I can get very tired anyway, even when I sleep. Chronic fatigue syndrome and raging immune system work together to sap energy.

Shirley Temple, may you lose whatever is dearest to you. Ditto for you, Cry Baby. Psycho landlady and psycho tenant? Really I’d prefer that you simply drop dead where you stand. I’m angry in my overwhelming sadness, can you tell?

Dona nobis pacem. I started making signs with those words on them way back in 2000 or 2001. It means “give us peace.” But as we know, my animals and I did not get peace, we got mayhem. And I had a little thing I kept in the kitchen not long before we were destroyed that said adh mor.  “Good luck.”  We didn’t get that either. Foreign languages were always a big part of the life that we shared together, because I’ve studied a bunch of them, and because long ago I used to teach Latin and German to people who mostly didn’t give a rat’s ass about Latin and German. But I studied a lot of languages that I never had to try to shove gently and cheerfully down someone else’s throat, and that was fine.

So we listened to lots of songs in lots of languages, and if I knew the song, I sang. They loved for me to sing to them. If I can remember the lines I want and how to spell them (I’m very rusty in some of this stuff), I want to put them here for my stolen friends. They were written by Edith Piaf long ago; I think they might well be the only lyrics she ever wrote. She wrote them for her husband, the boxer Marcel Cerdan, who had been killed.

                               Si un jour, la vie t’arrache a moi;
                               si tu meures, quand tu sois loin de moi;
                               si tu meures, c’n’est pas de probleme,
                               car moi, je mourrai aussi.

Anyway, for my lost ones. I haven’t seen these words written in many years, so my spelling may be off. And I don’t know how to do accent marks on a computer. What the do you care? You probably don’t read French anyway. See how angry I am.

Update 3 June 2009: I am still a homeless woman, more than a year after writing this post. I now have a rented room, which is civilized, but it is not a home. Home to me, in the physical sense, means at least a bathroom, kitchen, livingroom, and bedroom. And that is what I had for 55 years. I was never restricted to one bedroom of space to move around in, let alone a shelter or a respite or a hospital or a park. I am a loveless person; all the love was taken. And a hopeless person. It’s almost 15 months now that I’m homeless. Whoever it was that failed in their duty to help me find a home — the DMH or matthew’s crowd or both — those people have caused damage; damage in the form of humiliation and degradation and hopelessness. And worst, the loss of all the animals. Dona Nobis Pacem. My innocent, wonderful animals and I did not get peace. They got torn away from me and from each other. Some of them got free of the stress of all that followed by the death of the needle (and I’m not even told precisely how many were killed.), and some of them got adopted, which to me is not nearly the same as staying with your own family, when you are old and have been there all your life, till death.


(stained glass at

read…  Braon…  Stolen stars…  Soulcast

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