love and murder every july

Page Fifty-eight

Friday 2 July 2010……..   Greenfield  ~~~  website  ~~~ 

One of these days I’m going to get back to the job of copying the Soulcast Sehnen posts into this blog. I guess I’m burned out on the copying process and need a break.

But on this fine Friday (in terms of weather) I’ve come to tell you that it’s 10:20 in the morning, and Matthew and I are both here in the Greenfield library. He followed me in. He was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I arrived. He spoke, but I gave no answer. Love and murder. Isn’t it romantic. Out of those particular lips in that particular sun-reddened face, first came the words two years ago that there were people who wanted to kill me. Those lips and that face are not far from me at this moment, and it was two years ago exactly, to the date.                       

And I’m having serious anxiety, as I always do now when I see Matthew, but not for the reason you might think. Not because Matthew = protection = bad people may be near me and I’m afraid. No, I’m not afraid of the people Matthew told me about two years ago. They can have me. I don’t care much. It’s Matthew himself I fear — the way I once felt for him, the fascism involved in what he does for a living, the fact that Matthew loves nothing more in this life than feeding his ego, and that I was never able to compete with a thing like that.

He’s babysitting me here in the library today, sitting in a chair pretending to read a newspaper, and I emphasize the word pretending. My hero, my “protector,”  watching over me for more than two years.  He just left.

If you’re one of those who’ve decided I’m delusional, you’re too obtuse for me to address yet again, and you’re extremely naive  about where and how organized crime operates these days (as naive as I was myself before 2008).  Or if you’re one of those who thinks that Matthew simply has played a big hoax on me, well that’s how you formulate a reason for him telling me the things he did. But since I believed him then and have never been given any cogent reason to cease believing him, I know that today is a bad day. When Matthew waits for me on the sidewalk and follows me inside, I know it’s a bad day.

And I know other things too. That he loves me, for instance, in the only way he’s capable of loving: ego first. And part of his machismo, his ego-gratification, is that he will take a bullet if necessary in the performance of his job. He’s been shot once before, and I have seen the skin graft.

There was a day in June 2008 that lives in my memory as if branded there with red-hot iron. A day that was another very bad one, but it was before I knew anything about being protected from potential killers. Matthew behaved so strangely that day, so urgently, so undercover, that later, after he’d told me what was going on in my life, I realized that on that June day there had been someone very, very close to me, ready to do whatever, and Matthew was racing for all he’s worth to get between us, racing and sweating and determined to get between us, to take whatever was meant for me, if this person went through with it. They did not. The thugs know who many of the undercover goons are, what they are, and this presence often deters them, it seems. They know Matthew very well.

Every time I think about that day, the only day, the only moment that I ever saw even a hint of fear in Matthew’s eyes, I know that if he can in any way manage it, he will take on himself any physical violence anyone tries to inflict on me, or on any innocent person. That brings tears. Yes, it’s dedication to his job. It’s also love for me, at least in part. Once when I had a bad hematoma on my leg he kept asking me if someone had hit me, even though I’d already told him that I’d fallen. He kept asking me if I was sure, if I would tell  him if anyone hurt me. About anyone hurting me physically he is almost pathologically concerned.

But emotional hurt? He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the emotional hurt of what the DMH did, or that of losing the animals, or that perpetrated by himself and his superiors by not protecting me in the normal, legal way. He just doesn’t get it. In his world of machismo and ego-driven action, the only threats to the woman he loves are physical ones. And he, the protector, will battle to the death if necessary to prevent those.

And I? I would have preferred a hundred thousand times over that he had got the hell out of that fascist line of work, come and been just a person with me, and if the thugs got us, then they got us. Anything that meaningfully could be called my life was stolen in 2008, so I’m in a very real way the walking dead anyway.

The third July of Matthew. Love and murder every July. Does it ever stop; stop while I’m still breathing, I mean.


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


eleven weeks

sehnen posted on May 20, 2008 | views: 85 | Tags: protectionx

Page Twenty-nine                 (copy)

20 may 2008   greenfield

eleven weeks today, tuesday 20th may, and the maggots at the DMH and CSS have done nothing that I know of to help me find something better and more permanent than just a bedroom to live in. if you find it too angry, too over-the-top to call them maggots, try to empathize yourself into my situation. you might be flaming pissed off too.

Shirley Temple the actress, the case manager, the charmer and manipulator (and boy was I conned by her act) still has her home and her life and what’s dearest to her, but she had apparently not a single qualm in her iceberg of a soul about doing this to me and my animals. she could drop dead where she stands. in theory. it happens to people sometimes. I’ll meditate on it; maybe there’ll be a harmonic convergence.

I’m real, real fed up today, in case you couldn’t pick that up.

Update 6 June 2009:  I feel the anger in these posts, the anger I was feeling when I wrote them. first at the DMH, then later at other, even bigger bureaucrats. and I remain angry, but the medications dull it down. those dark, black bands running through me of grief and anger and hopelessness. I came early on to beleive that I was bait to matthew and his gang, after he made his comment about “big fish.” and I still believe it entirely possible that I was used as bait, without my consent, to attract certain people from connecticut. for how long? I don’t know, but I would say at least from march to the end of july 2008. maybe it ended then, for all I know; the protection, the catching of big fish, whatever. since matthew never told me the scope of the thing — how many people were involved and how long it would go on — I was left to try to figure things out from events and people around me, and I undoubtedly guessed wrong on a lot of it. he should have told me everything or nothing. telling me only a little created too much uncertainty and too much pressure, and I cannot function in highly pressurized situations; I just shut down. undercover man has a lot to answer for, but he has completely run away from that and from me. so much for love.

(like this mad hatter, matthew has very blue eyes and a very big smile. he even served me tea once — ONLY once — in a little white teacup. and part of his act is that he’s nuts. the figurine, not the actual matthew, is at


read…     All my stars…   Being toward death

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


Page Twenty                                 (copy)

sehnen posted on May 05, 2008 | views: 141 | Tags: poetryx, do not thinkx

it’s monday, 5 may, 2008    greenfield



Number 24


You took away
the love I gave and got.
You want me living loveless.
Maybe you think
your tablets are just as good.
You took away the love
that was my guide.
You want me living aimless.
Maybe you think
bumhood is all I deserve.
Or maybe you think
that one like me,
one so out of synch with average,
so at variance with
people-bla-bla bullshit,                                                                                                  
shouldn’t be alive at all.


I’m alive.
I breathe, my heart bangs.
I am a biology.
But what will you
poke or prod or prick
to see if my soul is living?
What do you think loveless means?
Could be
you don’t think at all.    

here to poetry links

Not much else to say, really. So much was so frozen for weeks. I guess it was a kind of mental shock. Grief, memories came in spurts. But now it’s constant. Now it’s thawed.

Update 29 May 2009: That is the crux of what was done to me: all the love I received in this world was taken from me, and everyone to whom I gave love. I have lived a loveless life for more than 14 months. You really can’t count Matthew’s love for the time that he felt it: it was love of such poor quality. And yet the hope that his love would turn out to be better than it looked was there for a number of months. The hope that there was some love yet to know. But no sale. His love was/is self-involved and uncaring.


read…   Shadowpoems…   Lucked out

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