shut up; the hook doesn’t hurt

wednesday 29 june 2011                 (copying originals again)

sehnen posted on Aug 16, 2008/views 71/Tags: taim inis

saturday 16 aug 2008   greenfield

so here I am in this surreal, filthy situation that Matthew has informed me of. because of the behavior and insanity of the mob-chick herself, my fellow-tenant at my last home, I believe what Matthew has said. because of the mob cars that came to that house where we lived, I believe him. because of many bizarre things I’ve seen and heard since coming to greenfield, I believe him. because of the very serious energy coming from him — called vibes back in the seventies — when he told me these things, I believe him. because of some strange things in my own family, I believe what he has said about my grandfather.

so I believe him, whether you do or not. but I’ve asked him, and received no answers, why I’m being protected in this particular way. I only know about witness protection. the protection is arranged with the protectee. the protectors show the protectee some federal identification. the protectee is re-located by the fed types to a new home, and in very extreme cases, is given a new identity. I have never heard of the scenario being foisted on me, and when I ask Matthew questions about why I haven’t been located somewhere and given back my animals, I get nothing. when I ask him why Judith the crime-chick is not in jail, he says “Did you ever hear of big fish?” So I say yes. And then I say, So that’s what you people want, the big fish? he doesn’t answer. I nag him repeatedly: I don’t want to be protected this way anymore. I never agreed to this. I’m innocent, and I’m being treated like a criminal. I want to be protected in a home. I want to be located somewhere. tell your people that.

yeah, so he’s been talking about driver’s licenses and cars and new apartments for a couple of weeks. ain’t nuthin’ happened yet. a few days after his “big fish” remark, I came to the only conclusion I could on the skimpy facts that I have:  if the big fish want me, and if I’m not being protected in an above-board, humane way, then maybe I’m the bait for the fish. and if I am, then isn’t it just ducky for the protectors to leave me homeless, traipsing in the streets where I can attract fish. am I just supposed to be the worm dangling on the hook with no home, my animals where?, as if I were not a human being with needs and desires and a soul (not to mention rights), but only a convenient piece of federal meat? Matthew never, ever disputes the bait theory when I bring it up. is this silence an admission in itself?

well I will tell you, my slimy “protectors,” that the hook does hurt. it hurts a whole hell of a lot. it’s cruel, it’s degrading, it’s dehumanizing. lonely and ugly and insane. it deprives me of many rights as an amerikan citizen and as a human being, which I am, whether you choose to see me as that or not. if I am bait, you own the hook. you devised it and ran it through me, and I had, and have, no say. I will not shut up.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   from where I sit, and with what I’ve been told by Matthew, and what I haven’t been told by him, I see that all pain is acceptable if it’s being created by the one holding the fishing rod. all rights are disposable for the dangling worm. all systems are corrupt, my fifty-five years have taught me. political systems, social systems, social service systems, cop systems, and so on. all systems are corruptible and have in fact been corrupted. it grieves me, on top of all my other grief, that Matthew and some of his colleagues, the ones who are out in the field rather than sitting in the offices, did not, do not go to bat for me and protest to the office bosses about the way my “protection” is being handled; that I’m not a criminal myself and deserve a location and deserve to see ID’s and to be told exactly what’s going on, and who’s doing it, and how long they expect it to last. and if going to bat didn’t work, there’s always whistle-blowing. as far as I know, federal employees are all protected by a whistle-blower’s law, and they can’t be fired or otherwise punished for going over the heads of their superiors to report illegal/immoral conduct. wouldn’t it be great if Matthew, who professes to love me, would do that. it would cost him nothing but some courage and some conviction and some moral outrage on behalf of the woman he loves. but Matthew is as hollow as the rest of them, it seems. the mob-chasers are as morally bankrupt as the mob. and the hook hurts only me.


read…   Stolen stars…   Mishibone…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Share    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~    website 

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i’m not a human being

Page Eighty-four

sehnen  posted on July 17, 2008 /views 79 / tags: hollow men hunting with mommies

thursday 17 july 2008       Greenfield

 I’m not a human being, I’m not a human being, I’m not a human being. I need to make a mantra out of this statement so I won’t forget it, so I won’t commit the unforgivable hubris of believing for even one momentchen that I am a human being.

Have I mentioned that I dislike the folk of Franklin County, and of Turners Falls in particular? It bears repeating though, because these feelings grow stronger with each new casual cruelty, with each new abrogation of my citizen and human rights, with each new ravaging of privacy and dignity. With each new day that carries me further away from the animals and the life that was mine before a whole gang of individuals decided to deprive me of legal rights. Franklin County has finished me off. Though I walk and breathe, any number of very important parts of my former self are dead and buried.

So if Matthew has told truth, how do I feel about the possibility of bullets in the head? Well, it’s fast. It has that in its favor. But unless I’m firing those bullets myself, it’s once again someone else taking control of my life, and of my death. Two poets I like, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, opted for noxious gases. Alchohol mixed with pills is a route that a lot of people have chosen. I’d rather end my life myself than let the people Matthew talked about do it. And what I’m doing now, what I’m doing since a gaggle of controlling, abusive people took my way of life from me, is something I want to end. And I’d like to have the control in my dying that others have always usurped from me in my living.

Well it’s too hot. And in spite of the library’s air conditioning, I’m sweating right down to the fingertips tapping the keys. Need to go for ice cream.

Update 31 July 2009:   A year later, my feelings remain the same, or even stronger. I wasn’t a human being to the psychotic landlady and the crime-chick tenant: just an annoyance they wanted to be rid of,  no matter how they got that job done. Nor was I a human being to the Department of Health, who were too lazy to look for the kind of rental my animals and I needed in the country, on a farm. And if the things Matthew told me are true, then I’ve certainly never been a human being to the crime-chick’s connections in Connecticut. And I’m not a human being to M and his kind either. I’m only an opportunity to use.


Me-Myself&I said on July 17

i have read this 3 times. sigh… wow…. another sigh… Bless your heart. i know the pain but i have never heard it told that way! you touched me with those words. i love ice cream too. have a good one, try. take care

part of the book Spite and Malice

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seven weeks

Page Fifteen                         (copying oldies)

sehnen posted on Apr 29, 2008 | views: 62 | Tags: their namesx

tues 29 april 2008    greenfield

Seven weeks homeless today, at this very moment, 12:05 pm. Lunchtime the sheriff came. Shame, humiliation, sorrow, loss, homelessness. This is how the department of mental health aided and assisted me to keep my depression, anxiety and PTSD from getting worse, and to keep at least half of my family, which I’d hoped and asked to do.

Ah, the landlady. I mentioned her once, I think, but maybe not again. Of course she has her part in this destruction. She has her share of the blame, her share of the cruelty. But I’d known what sort of person she was for a long time, and I’d learned to expect lies and illegalities and immoralities from her. That’s who she is. I naturally expected much better from the DMH.

Someone just sat down beside me here whom I’d like to get away from. I know him slightly. So maybe that’s all for now. Wrote a little on the blogspot journal, but not much. Am sick today from getting too chilled yesterday, and am even more depressed today. Everything I value and love is gone and in the past, and most of who I am/was is frozen there in the past too. There is  no authentic present moment for me anymore. It’s all phony, pretend. Phony smiles, phony chat. Playacting a real person. I’m no such thing. The real person I was was hacked to pieces seven weeks ago today. It’s 12:15 now, and at this time I was standing with my bags at the roadside, staring over to the doors and windows where everyone I love remained to be hauled away; I was crying, folding and unfolding my hands. Shame, humiliation, loss, tremendous pain. The DMH did this for me.

I need to write their names again, the fourteen stolen: Mishi, Brainse, Judah, Mandy, Shiloh, Chan, Ziidj, Chailin, Aram, Abel, Chani, Lizzie, Tuuschi and Canajoahrie. I love you as bright as all the light that ever was.

Update Sat 23 May 2009: How to write here again, with all the hope and denial of a year ago all gone. I really did hope so mightily that the DMH would help me (and later Matthew’s crowd) and I’d see at least a few of them again. And the people who know what became of everyone I love will  not talk. Shirley Temple at the DMH, and certain people in Turners Falls. They will not talk. No compassion whatsoever for the pain of not knowing what happened to my children. People believe they have the right to keep this from me, as if I were a child and not worthy of adult consideration. They will keep these secrets for years if necessary, rather than give me the truth I need, the knowledge of how and where they ended, the knowledge of where any living ones might be. So much cruelty leveled at me by so many, as if I were some heinous criminal, and the punching bag for anyone who wants one.

illegal eviction: here





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read…    Mental hell…    Stolen stars

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