taim an oiche

Page Eighty …………   (copying the originals again)                                                                          

sehnen   posted Jul 08, 2008 / views 55 / Tags: hatred is a place

Greenfield, a Tuesday

Eighteen weeks today since the sheriff’s goon. Eighteen weeks and counting. I wonder how long that count will go on, until I have an apartment again. How long will I let it. I’m the only one who can end the counting. I’ve been told that there are others who would like to, but if Matthew has just recently (six days ago) told me something that is in fact truth, those people have thus far not ended my counting for me.

What is it like to live with the information Matthew gave me only six days ago? Many, I suppose, would have decided he was lying. I did not. I believed him based on the things I felt coming from him when he said the words; subliminal communication is not relegated strictly to animals. And I believed him in the context of other things that have been going on since that tenant that I will now call the mafia-chick moved into my building. What is it like to hear said to you something that you’ve only ever heard said in Hollywood movies, something that never should have touched your life, because you’re not a criminal of any kind, and you don’t hang with criminals. It is both real (because I believe him) and unreal (because it never should have happened to someone like me). It’s scary to a certain degree, but at not as big a degree as you might think. The DMH killed me in every way that matters when they sat back and let my life and love be taken from me. After that, terminal illnesses, accidents, bullets, are pretty much anti-climactic. And it’s infuriating, above all else. Because if this protection from this malice is the truth, then why this way. Why undercover. Why no people with ID’s coming to my door (when I still had one) and informing me in an open way about what was going on. Why did I not deserve that dignity. One of the questions I need to ask Matthew in the coming days.

And other questions: how many are working with you, and where do they come from, and how long will this last.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~

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

Irrational, whirling crap

Page Seventy-nine 

sehnen posted on Jul 07, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: death is speakingx

mon 7 july 2008…    Greenfield

So, not much time today. Animals still to tell about, and Nookie, and so on. But i’m sick. I’ve mentioned before the teeming hordes of babysitters who watch what I eat, when and where I pee, what I do and where I go.  Matthew and his bloody gang of pretend heroes. Anyway, my sickness began at 10 last night, and by midnight I could no longer lie down, couldn’t sit because I have no soft chair to sit in, and sitting in my hard chair was laughable with so much pain. So I took my illness out to the sidewalk to pace in an upright position, to breathe some slightly cooler air (though what I needed was air conditioned air). I was getting a little bit shocky too, and sometimes walking helps avoid the worst of the shock, and also the passing out. I was on that sidewalk. She didn’t ask me if I were okay or if I needed anything (in her livingroom she had both a soft chair and an air machine, but these weren’t offered to me). She nagged about my sweater hanging on her fence. I did not ask her directly if I could sit in her air conditioned livingroom in a soft chair, because she would most likely have given me a ration of demented talk, as she has in the past. There’s another person in the house she gives those rations to too. I will not in any circumstance approach any person who I know absolutely will give me a spate of irrationality. I’ve had to take that crap all my life,from many an irrational, dizzy-spinning mind, and about 3 years ago I decided that I don’t approach no such whirly brains no more.                                            

So Anne don’t get no help offered, even in diabolical pain that makes me go into shock. I’m still quite sick, 10 hours after it started and I began swallowing prednisone. Didn’t use enough. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how much pred a particular attack is going to need. So I have to abort journaling missions early this day in deference to the screaming pain and desolate exhaustion of my cells. Slán le na laethe bhí.

Update 27 July 2009: This was July 7 last year, and Matthew had only told me on the 2nd that people wanted to damage me. By the 7th he may have told me that it was feds from Burlington who were protecting me, but on that one I don’t recall the exact date. My memory is very good, but it can’t hold everything. But in spite of the newness of this ugly information, I had already been watching people watch me since March, when all the time I thought they were working for the DMH. So the anxiety and anger had already been building a good while, and in this situation of no information and lots of guessing, anger, and anxiety, I pulled many people into the group of my babysitters who didn’t belong there. And as far as a house across the street from my rented bedroom goes, people often watched me from the second floor, pulling the curtains aside just a tiny bit. They watched me too often. All they ever saw was me smoking on the sidewalk. Why did they have to keep looking at that? On July 2nd there finally came a smidgen of information: there were people who were real big and real wealthy who wanted to hurt me.

And the periodic irrational, unkind outbursts of my landlady were just another stress. Why has this happened to me again? My last landlady, the one who destroyed my life, was irrational and mendacious and unpredictable and frightening. Why was this happening again? Why does it seem that lunatics are drawn to me like moths to flame?

I’m renting the same room again from the same woman, and this time it’s easier because she has a diagnosis and is reading books about her condition. It’s all out in the open, we talk about it. We talk about my depression and anxiety and Asperger’s. There are still some terrible days, and they still affect me the same way they did last year, but at least now the cards are on the table.  And she let me rent the room again, for which I’m grateful. All the social service clods have to offer is places where I have to share bedrooms with other people, which makes me just about homicidal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taim inis anois

Page Seventy-seven

sehnen posted on Jul 05, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: loathing is a placex

sat 5 july 2008    Greenfield

A mish-mosh today, suspension of regular business. I’m suspending that a lot latelyt, partly due to fatigue, and partly because one can’t get too predictable.

Doesn’t everyone who writes songs have  to write at least one corny love song? Isn’t that a rule or something? Anyway, this is mine. From 1995. I’m about to emend the title, which has always been Serenade for —, and then a certain person’s name. To hell with all that. There’s a new title. In spite of myself, I’m rather fond of the music for this one. Nihil est: all fondnesses are forfeit now, thanks to DMH and company.


Only stars,                                                                                                                           

these points of fire.
Feel no loss, know no desire.
Only light
through endless night,
traveling free, sailing far.
But if a soul can reach and fly,
if souls can spiral high,
then I will  go with
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.

i ngrá leat i gconai
i ngrá san oiche, faoi bhron
an uaigneas mor,
an ghealach chiuin
is na suile speir i mo chroi





Only love,
this silent flame,
burns every loss, knows longing’s name.
Lonely you, out under stars,
wandering away, drifting far.
But if a love can reach and fly,
if love can spiral high,
then I will meet you in
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.


i ngra, i gconai
i ngra, faoi bhron
an uaigneas, an ghealach
is na suile speir i do chroi


Okay, mish-mosh, tick-tock. So here’s something I’m real fond of from Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes (all fondnesses are forfeit now). There are many, many turns of phrase that I love in that book, but here’s only one.

Frank has gone to confession over something ridiculous because his grandmother made him, and she’s standing outside the confessional trying to eavesdrop. The priest chuckles during this ridiculous confession. Frank exits, and there’s grandma. She wants to know if the priest was laughing, and if Frank was telling jokes. Goes a lot like this, the grandma: If tis a thing I ever hear you tellin jokes to jesuits, I’ll tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. Isn’t that rich, tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. I love that.

Cruelly and wrongly done, the countless lies from the DMH, CSS , phony police chief, animal control officer, and the whole rest of the cast. Cruelly and wrongly done, sitting back and allowing my whole life to be taken away, making a bum out of me, making a funeral out of me. Cruelly and wrongly done, surveilling me and running psych tests on me in public places without my consent. Disappearing my family, lying to me repeatedly about where they were, never arranging for me to visit them, allowing me to suffer over nearly18 weeks and making my suffering a public spectacle for gawkers, psychobabble boneheads, sheriff’s boneheads, et alia. And one and all know that I can’t afford an attorney, have no brother or sister or aunt or whatever to step in and advocate for my rights. One and all know they can do whatever comes into their sadistic little heads to anne nakis, because anne nakis is, in this society, powerless and marginalized. Wrongly and cruelly done.

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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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.

~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   Share  

(part of the book Stolen Stars)

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Give me a jeweled dagger

 Page Seventy-five

sehnen posted on Jun 27, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: no rightsx, no sayx

fri 27 june 2008    Greenfield                                                                                                    

Have to hurry; clock is always ticking on the public computer time. Guess I’ll go on with the very public testing of me, without my consent, that began last Tuesday, the 17th. That first afternoon it was the disgusting food, but I didn’t reconginze it as a test right away. The next afternoon, Wed 18th, it was a hissy fit. Again at one of those free meals. One of the guys — let’s call him Wally — who’s been in my face all the time since I came to Greenfield was sitting at another table, which was fine with me. Then he got up and came over to sit near me. It really uspet me, as I’m pretty sure he’s one of Matthew’s pals, and I like them to keep more distance. And lately I’ve begun to mouth at some of Matthew’s pals when they don’t keep their distance (men hovering outside the ladies’ room door when I pee, pals of Matt’s sitting right beside me while I type, or hovering a foot away when I’m shopping, etc, etc.). I was really quite upset, and absolutely sick of this guy being in my face all these months, so I said to W., “You frigging little troll, go back where you were.” He took exception to this, as anyone would. Then he proceeded to throw a real drama-queen hissy fit that the whole room could hear, after which he returned to his original seat. How was an aspie supposed to react to this fit, I wonder? What do the textbooks say” I have no idea. Haven’t come across it in my reading. But this particular aspie reacts to verbal hysteria with the deer-in-the-headlights, frozen in place thing. It’s one of the few situations in which I can keep my eyes glued right to the eyes of the other person. I am entirely focussed on the fit, on watching the enemy’s eyes to see how far this enemy is going to go. Will there be blows? Will things be broken and thrown? How far will the irrationality go? Did I pass or fail this particular unauthorized test? And is acting like a true aspie, if indeed I even did so, a pass, or just another one of my failures?

Update 22 July 2009:   Anger. At the things Matthew had told me about my life. Because I believed him, there was anger that he and his people should handle the protection in this way. All undercover, all behind my back, all without telling me (except the little that Matthew himself told me) and showing me IDs. On the day I wrote this, I didn’t know about feds and mobs yet, only that something criminal was going on, and that I was sick and tired of being followed and watcjed by people I thought at the time were ordinary undercover police. Anger at this testing in public without my consent. I’m sure my insurance paid for it, but who ordered it, who asked for it? It lasted about a month, and at the end of it, Matthew told me I have Asperger’s. Anger at all the secrecy. Anger that would come later at being dragged into the mentally ill world of organized crime and the equally mentally ill world of federal agents. All of that anger is still with me. Matthew and a lot of his boys from last year are still here, and what does that mean? I asked him on April 27 of this year if it was over, this protection crap, but he wouldn’t answer me.

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

(gecko at whatonearthcatalog.com)

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This and that and song

Page Seventy-four

(back to the copying of original posts)

sehnen posted on Jun 26, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: time has no regardx

thurs 26 june 2008   Greenfield

 Oh, a little of this and a little of that today. Whatever comes into my head.

Let’s see… last Thursday and Friday two big, important? men were brought to public places to have a gawk at me. I can’t say much more about them, as I have no idea who they were. Never seen them before. Christ, I should be charging money for all this damned public gawking and testing of me that’s been going on. In some ways, among certain people, I have become a perverse kind of celebrity in turners and greenfield. On one level it’s farcical. On another it’s sickening. One of them was in Bart’s Cafe in Greenfield, and the other was in the library in Turners Falls. And there was no doubt at all that these men were where they were in order to have a look at me. It wasn’t imagined, it wasn’t self-consciousness, it was unmitigated marching in, coming near to me and having a sustained and pointed gawk, and marching out again. What was it all about? I will never be told.


Here’s another song from the 90’s, the very first one I wrote in my three-year song-writing binge.



Oh low moon, all alone,
roll along solemn sky.
Solo moon, slow your song,
sing along silent sky.


Moon won’t sing, only cries,
shadows stole her will.
Sky rise in her eyes,
watch this moon stand still.


Lonely moon, lost your stars,
gone like leaves before the wind.
Silent sky, lift your eyes,
lull the cries of moaning moon.


Where her stars on this night,
why this moon alone,
mourning here stolen stars,
spirit lost and gone.


Solemn sky (songless moon)
sing or sigh (so low moon)
darkness shadows evening’s eyes
Silent sky (mourning moon)
lift your eyes (oh low moon)
lullaby the lonely moon,
lullaby the lonely moon.


If I do say so myself, this song, written in 1994, was a wee bit prophetic. Disastrously so.


What else… most of the biggest things in my life have been either ruined or brought about in a completely damaging way to me by other people, neurotypical people. As much as my raging immune system has contributed to wrecking things I wanted to do, and as much as Asperger’s has done so, neurotypicals have done so too. To a diabolical degree.


I’d like to recommend the following books on sociopathy. About once every 30 years, someone in amerika writes a good book on the subject. The next one’s due about 2034. I won’t see it. but I’m glad I saw these:

                              Hervey Bleckley THE MASK OF SANITY (ca.1945)

                              M. Scot Peck  THE PEOPLE OF THE LIE (ca.1975)

                              Martha Stout  THE SOCIOPATH NEXT DOOR (ca.2004)

They are all written by psychiatrists. Facts from them I still remember: worldwide, 4 out of every 100 people are sociopaths, and in the u.s., this ratio is on the rise. Also, most psychobabble boneheads don’t believe in sociopathy because it’s incurable and untreatable, and they don’t want to believe in something that their pills and their idiotic therapy sessions can’t fix.


Another message for the secret someone:

bill building, and me with the nails, but you didn’t know us yet. I couldn’t do very much, but I helped where I could.


Update 21 July 2009: The above song was after the death of one of my cats. I had lost one of my stars, but in the poetic license of the song I describe the moon as having lost all her stars. Now, as I said above, I sometimes see this song as eerily prophetic, but then at other times it’s a bitter coincidence. I wrote about the moon losing all her stars, no longer wanting to sing, her spirit gone, and 14 years later, it happens to me. Did the mind got a foreboding of where things were heading? Anyway, I am now that creature that I called the moon in the song. Lost, spiritless, crying, all stars gone, lonelier than I have ever been.

On the day I first wrote this post, I had only known for three days that something criminal was going on in my life, but I didn’t yet know what.

 ~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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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.”

~~~~~ website ~~~~  Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

this post is part of the book Spite and Malice

(funky doll at www.signals.com)

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Page Seventy-two

(back to the copying from Soulcast)

sehnen posted on Jun 25, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: whispers to mex

wed 25 june 2008    Greenfield

So…  Ziidjian. Today I return to the stolen animals. A few days ago I talked about Chan, his brother. Like Chan, Ziidjian (pron. zeejan) was slaughtered by the local “shelter” on 24 March of this year. Ziidjian and Chan were a lot alike, and a lot like their mostly-Siamese mother. Shy, aloof, etc. But Ziidjian had a lot more of the famous Siamese high-strung nature than the rest of his family. And he was extremely fearful of new people and strange animals.

In 2003, we were still in the home of my housemate who had died, and we had a bit of yard. Since Chan and Ziidjian had been indoor cats for a long time, I decided to take them to the great outdoors again. They were having a fine time. But Ziidjian had slipped into the abutting yard, and the next thing I heard was horrible yowling. A cat I hadn’t seen before was facing off with Ziidjian under a pine tree. I knew his nerves well enough to chase the other cat away, then wait for Ziidjian to calm down before trying to pick him up. I miscalculated. Picked him up too soon, while he was still in panic mode. Sank his fangs to the root into my hand. The pain was diabolical, but from many years with animals, I knew better than to pull my hand away, which would have resulted in the tearing of my flesh being added to the puncture wounds — and stitches. I waited. Eventually, when his fear was spent, Ziidjian removed his fangs. Within two hours, I knew I had blood poisoning, septicemia. I didn’t care. We were being evicted (a legal, above-board eviction after my housemate’s death), and had no place to go. As far as I could tell, we were all doomed anyway, and if I died of blood poisoning given to me by someone I loved as big as the sky, well, there were lots worse ways to die. And I would have my family around me when it happened (now that is ruined too). Over the next 48 hours the condition got much worse. I am stubborn (and I truly was hoping that I’d just die in my sleep of the infection). I loathe doctors, nurses and hospitals, a residue of my always-at-death’s-door childhood. I already had a doctor appointment set up for something else, so why not just hang on till then. If I didn’t make it, oh well. I waited the 48 hours till the appointment, and the doctor was not well pleased. He threatened me with the hospital and IV antibiotics. I said I would release myself if he did that. Bla bla bla.


                                       (10 mos. old; black cat, white rabbit)

I didn’t die. And that time, in 2003, my family and my life were not destroyed. Not until 2008. The scars from Ziidjian’s bite that day sit here on my hand and are dearer to me than I can say, now that he has been executed. I wish, I wish, that he had done the same thing to his killers. Sunk his fangs in to the root and infected them. I carry the marks of his intense fear, a fear as intense as my own, and a reminder not to get overconfident. I’ve been taking care of animals since I was about 4, and have learned a great deal by patient study and observation, and by reading books. But I say from time to time that animals can always surprise. Witness what happened to Steve Irwin, a one-off nut, a tireless and fearless animal person, and a hero of mine. And I believe that if Steve had been given a choice of his method of death, he would have chosen being killed by a frightened animal over anything else. He got that death.

I wasn’t so lucky. I survived the blood poisoning given to me by a frightened animal, by someone I loved deeply. When I think of my stolen and murdered Ziidjian, I think many things. Memories of a bossy kitten that I called King Z; memories of a grown-up cat who had a terror of strangers; of the little gurgling sounds in his throat when he ate something fresh I had cooked for the cats. The  serious, earnest look in his eyes when he would make a very high-pitched meow and ask me for something to eat. The way he would rub his slim body against me. And I look at my right hand where the one puncture scar remains, the only one of the five that was deep enough never to fill in, and I thank him for this scar to remember him by. I wish again that that infection had been the end. I much prefer it to the ending my animals and I did get.


Update 18 July 2009 A couple of the scars from the bite that gave me blood poisoning are still here (though one is now almost gone), but the dearly loved boy who gave them to me is long dead. How I always failed them by being an oddball, by being unacceptable to others, and those others would so often deliberately try to hurt me and bring me down. It’s because a landlady and a crime-connected tenant hated me that Ziidjian is dead, that others are dead, that I remain without a home. It’s also because of lazy and indifferent social workers who didn’t like me much either, and so did not do their jobs. I’m used to being disliked and found unacceptable, but what I’ve never understood is why so many who have disliked me have felt the burning desire to go for my jugular in some way, and have acted on that desire. If they don’t like me, why can’t they just leave me alone and let me be odd. Wrongly and cruelly done.

                                   ~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~    Share  

                                           (part of the book Stolen Stars)

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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.


Still wrongly and cruelly

Page Sixty-nine

sehnen posted on Jun 24, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: whispers to the gullsx

tues 24 june 2008   Greenfield

It is sixteen weeks today. It’s 12:28 pm. At this time on this day sixteen weeks ago I was standing by the roadside with my duffle and backpack, standing there staring back at the building in which everyone I love was still trapped, unable to come with me. Soon the lunatic with the white van would drive up and lie to me, make me believe there was a safe foster place to take all 14 animals, all of them together. All a lie. I cry here, rage here.

Whatever it is that the DMH and CSS and police departments and sheriff’s department and landlady and animal control officer and more and more neurotypical bullies have been doing to me for the last two years, it has been wrongly and cruelly done. It will be two years on July 15 since the mafia-chick first drove onto the property where I was living.

This community, Franklin county in Massachusetts, has finally been the death of me, and I have known since about 1995 that if I couldn’t break free of it and STAY free, it would, in fact, kill me. It has taken them a total of 22 years, but they have finally managed it. Do you know the legend of the thorn bird, who impales itself upon a huge thorn and sings its most beautiful song ever in its dying? In my terminal grief I will not sing a beautiful song, but a song they will all hate. A truth-song about the things this community has done to me, individual by individual, office by office, bureaucracy by agency, ad nauseam.

And the clock is ticking, and there are loose ends still being tied, and there are still poems to put up and chronological stories to tell and messages to leave for my friend, but once in a while I can suspend regular business and sing the thorn bird’s song.

So there’s a landlord I had in Turners Falls. Let’s call him Nookie, since that and booze were all he ever thought about, anyway. I see him around. He looks terrible. This delights me. This man and his girlfriend tried very hard in 2003 to get my animals given away and/or euthanized. They managed to relieve me of my car, and a great many of my belongings, but they didn’t quite succeed with the animals, though it was very close. Nookie himself, over the period of four years when I lived in his asylum, drank his life away and nagged me about animals from time to time, but then he would leave off and he and I would have peaceful relations. But in spring 2001 he got a chick, and this chick is the proverbial iron fist in the velvet glove, and a real sneak. She whispered into his ear that he should do this to me and that to me and get rid of me and get the animals away, and he, led around by the penis as he was, did everything she said. And she was another bend-the-law-to-my-own-will person, like the landlady of more recent times. Anyway, tick-tock. Will have to finish Nookie and his chick, and the tests performed on me last week, another day.

Update 16 July 2009: This was the first of my many “wrongly and cruelly” done posts on several blogs. In post-modern amerika we are not supposed to call things “cruely” that are done by professional people or our neighbors or our family. Cruelty is reserved for things like murder or molestation or physical torture. Psychological torture is not cruelty, supposedly. Insane landladies and mafia-connected, substance-abusing tenants are not supposed to be called cruel, no matter what reprehensible thing they do. Social service people aren’t supposed to be called cruel, no matter how underhanded and mendacious they are. So yet again I make myself and oddball and a misfit and a heretic by saying: My landlady was both insane and cruel (still is). The mafia-chick was insane and in bed with organized crime and cruel (still is). My case manager at the DMH was a liar, and vicious, and cruel (still is). Will they ever get what they have earned?

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

(doll, undistorted, at www.signals.com)

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