lovetaste

(the crow is by susan dorf and available from www.gaelsong.com)

Page Sixty-eight

tuesday 17 august 2010
turners molders

I love blueberries, their taste, texture, even the way they look. But this morning I got blueberry blood on my nearly pristine white hand towel (can a thing be nearly pristine?). It annoyed me. My Asperger's klutziness annoys me.

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The continuing micro-saga of bill:


bill was the grampire vampire

more bill

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I started a blog on a different site back in October 2008, while I was living outdoors in this poison-haven called Turners Falls. Let's call it the J.blog. I considered it to be different than the others I had at the time because I didn't have any plan. It was just a place where I could sit at the keyboard, let my mind wander a few minutes, and see what came out. A sort of vacation from the ugly stories of the Department of Mental Hell, and Matthew and his "protectors," and my disappeared animals. All the things I was discussing in some detail in my other blogs. Not that these subjects didn't also come up in the "vacation" blog (they did), but I approached them there in a much more extemporaneous way. So here's what came out on the very first post, and the blurted-out poem is indeed for Matthew, and for all who talk a good game about love...

14 Oct 2008

Go tell Aunt Rhodie
the old grey goose is dead

I fear she is dead, the old grey goose who lived in the river these past years along with all of the wild water birds. She moved in from somewhere and became the boss of the ducks. I think she died around two days ago. I saw the beginning of her death, attacks by a Canadian goose trying to usurp Goosie's position. They do this when they sense the leader is dying. She cried out to us, her human and duck friends, on Friday the 10th, but there was nothing any of us could do. She's been my friend since 2002. I didn't want her to die before me. I wanted to go first, and go knowing that she was still there in the river, a domestic barnyard goose, bossing all the ducks around.

Kimmy, another lost friend, today's your date, but not your day. You were real and true and completely yourself. When comes a new October/and I walk the wild inferno of the trees....

There is no collapse in a closed system, says Goldstein, says Bohm, but I can't keep my systems closed. They are open every minute to attack, and to entropy, and thence to collapse.

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put your love on this plate
and I will eat of it
if the taste is too sour
I have to get the sour gone
before I choke and blue and die
put your love on the sand
and let the broken waves lay over it
will it disappear beneath their weight,
or is it deep, deep enough
to be there when the water inches back
put your love in this candle-flame
and let it slow-burn loyally,
and if you never blow it out,
and if you hold truth to the flame,
and if the flame is warm,
then maybe
maybe
maybe....

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read... Extemporaneana... Mishibone... Soulcast...


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

This is an old post from the original Mentalhell blog, which is now just about defunct, so I've moved this here.


thurs 17 april 2008 greenfield

Emily Dickinson wrote a poem that begins something like: I'm nobody, who are you?/Are you nobody too? I am nobody now, even more so now than I was before the DMH got done with me. And like Emily, I'm a reclusive person who also writes poetry and wants to keep separate as much as possible from everyday human doings. It just isn't for me. Thus the animals, all of my life. But I guess Emily's family had some money and she could get away with being odd. When you're poor and you invite the DMH mind-police into your life, you can't get away with the great crime of being who you are. Of course I didn't KNOW they were the mind police and the self-appointed controllers of where and how I would live, and with whom, when I invited them into my life. No one had ever told me the REAL mission of these mini-dictators. I was told I would get ASSISTANCE.

So they did what they did, they destroyed my life and left me with nothing, homeless, 55 years old, physical illnesses, PTSD, anxiety, depression, and they helped me right out of my life. After all the trauma I'd already had in my life, they delivered me the worst one ever, the king of pain, the queen of grief.

Here's a poem I wrote years ago, but it now runs through my mind just about every day:

I have come where mountains cry,
where tales of failure wander by
and fill the sundown sky with streaks of grief.
I've sung a strangled, unloved song,
but I can still those notes before too long,
since everything was wrong, and strange, in me.

If you see me on the cliffs of stone,
remember that I've bled and screamed alone,
and earned the right alone, to jump and die.


The poem is only partly factual: I was alone in the realm of humans, but I always had the animals, and they did love my song, and they were a large part of what always stopped me from jumping. Now the DMH has robbed me of them. Some have been killed, though I'm not sure how many. The others have been adopted to other people, and I don't know who or where. This is one of the things I used to say to them:

I love you as big as the sky,
as big as the sea,
as bright as all the light that ever was.

It's still true.

Update 28 July 2009: I have come where mountains cry... I will never leave the place inside me where mountains cry, no matter where I go. It's very hard to produce actual tears on celexa, the antidepressant. I noticed that side effect when I took it back in 2003, and that's why I eventually stopped taking it: it felt too wrong not to be able to cry. But though my eyes produce few tears, there is a constant crying inside me, even screaming, and a dark emptiness. Will I jump? It's not too likely. I tried several times last year to end myself, to get out of the hell of having lost everything that mattered, and the hell of being in sneaky, undercover federal protection, and the hell of having people show up in Greenfield who wanted to kill me, and the hell of the ignorance of Greenfield and Turners Falls. I tried to jump. But something in me won't do it. Maybe I have too much of an aversion to killing, even when killing is the only thing that makes any sense.

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read... Scealta liatha(poems in english)... website...
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noli me tangere

Page Nineteen

Wed 28 May 2008 Greenfield

It's yet another anniversary, the heinousest of all. And the symmetry of it is probably diabolical. Eleven years ago today exactly, on Wed 28 May 97, the universe in its perversity threw me into what I with bitterness and rage and intentional acerbity call the Hell Years. The quantum energy field has had a great deal of assistance from vicious humans along the path of these eleven years, and now, thanks to the DMH and CSS, the hell burns hottest of all. I feel nothing but contempt for anyone who participated in doing this to me, and to my innocent animals. I don't apologize for rage, or bitterness, or contempt. After a lifetime of abuse, I've earned those dark emotions. Last year, maybe, I heard a writer discussing some famous person on the radio, but I didn't get the name of the famous person. This writer had written a biography of said person, and said of him "He started out life a very gentle person. But if you hurt a gentle person too much and too long, maybe what you get is a monster." If I am a monster now, then it was all the bullying, stupid, mean-spirited neurotypicals of my life who created me.

Tempus fugit, so let's have a poem:



Disobligata

in undis
alma mea semota
natans
noli eam revocare

sub mare
alma mea demota
ululans
noli eam revocare


here to another poem: Sehnen


If you're dark and serious and enjoy reading depressing stuff, I remind you again that you can find links to other pieces in this ugly story that is my true, actual existence at my website braonthree.wordpress.com.

I don't owe any neurotypical human being a bloody thing. I don't owe the quantum field that made me a bloody thing, not anymore.

Update 21 November 2009: A year and a half after writing this, I can say only that my feelings are still the same. Yes, I take an anti-depressant now, and an anti-anxiety, but my feelings remain the same.
And in May of last year I didn't yet know about the criminal angle that had emerged in my life. Matthew Lacoy hadn't yet told me about all that. I found what he said believable, and still do, until someone can unequivocally prove to me that he was lying, playing a hoax. And if what he said was true, then I can add the FBI to the list of individuals and organizations that treated me as if I were less than human.

poem sixteen

Page Seventeen

Saturday 17 May 2008 Greenfield

On April 24 I met a woman who turned out to belong to a NEW pack of mental health workers (the Recovery Learning Community), and they say they're going to help me find an apartment and find out how many of my animals are still alive, and where they are. But they are not as talented in the field of acting as they perhaps think they are, and there's a variety of facial expressions (badly acted), over-empahsized words, etc., that ring very false with me, very off-kilter. And as it turns out, their funding comes from the DMH, the walrus that destroyed me and destroyed my life. Will anything come of their promises to help?

Last Sunday was the first Mother's Day of my entire life without animals. An exercise in pain, that day, but then again they all are now. Tomorrow's another special Sunday. Exactly 33 years ago, on Sun 18 May 1975, I graduated with my first college degree. I was 22, the future was before me. I did not train for a career while at college, I only studied what I liked, so on that day when they put that degree into my hand, I had no idea what the future would BE, but I did believe that there would be good in it. I did believe I would have a husband and a house and children like everybody else I knew. I also believed that marriage might end in divorce, like so many, but I at least believed it would happen. At 22 I knew that I was odd, that I was in some puzzling way different from other people, but I didn't know yet how vast my difference was, and that IT, together with my raging immune system, together with the cruelty of the neurotypicals around me, would lead to 33 years of failure and poverty and trauma and loss. I didn't know on that day that I should have taken that new degree, run across the esplanade, and drowned myself in the Charles River right then and there. I didn't know that all that lay before me was failure, and poverty, and worst of all, the cruelty of other people. How COULD I know such a thing on such a promising day....


This failure mommy marches on in bumhood and soul agony. Nearly 11 weeks homeless, and to my knowledge, the Department of Mental Health and the Community Support Services in Greenfield, Massachusetts have not done ONE thing to find me a place to live. Around the end of March Shirley Temple made some mutterings about some things she MIGHT do, but as far as I know they were never done. And they think that no one dies of grief....

The other day I saw the sociopathic landlady for the first time since sheriff day on March 11. Still fat. Still bleaching the hair. A professional person in the Turners-Greefield community who has everyone convinced (as she once had me convinced) of her sweetness and sainthood. But there is no law she won't break to get her way, and there is no unethical or immoral thing she won't do to get her way. And there's no amount of money she won't spend to get her way....

We should have a poem. Time isn't as reckless as it used to be...

Number 16

I dream.
Sometimes of you, the stolen,
I dream.
Sometimes I dream of the thieves.
Dream only in the night now,
only in tossing sleep.
Daydreams are all away,
vanished,
pilfered,
like you.

Remember? Do you recall
how many were the daydreams
I could make?
Do you recall
how very good I was
at dreaming?
Absent now,
the pages torn.
Like you.



to the poetry page of my website.

Update 18 Nov 2009: The Recovery Learning Community did not help me, anymore than the DMH had. The RLC had said they were going to locate my animals and stop anymore killings, and they were going to help me find a place to live with whatever animals were left. They did nothing. Once again I was led around by a string and then dropped like a hot potato by a social service agency. To see any of these people on the street triggers me, if you know how that word is used in relation to Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. To see Matthew triggers me, and the psychotic, criminal landlady, and the mafia-connected tenant. Trigger, trigger, trigger, every time I walk out my door.

number fourteen

Page Seven

still Mon 28 April, 2008 Greenfield

Another poem from the little, growing book...

Number 14

Bring light here,
bring here the flame.
Those words from my hand,
once upon a time,
when you were young.
Bring light here,
said my hand,
while the darkness all around us
tumored larger every passing year.
Bring here the flame,
I said,
while you grew up
and I grew more afraid.
The more the tumor grew
on people's ignorance and bile,
the more I lit the flames,
clung tighter and tenacious
to our love;
the more I dragged out
all the light I knew.

And still
the tumor swallowed us.

the poetry page of my website.

Update 22 July 2009, Turners: That tumor. It was made, in the end, of mental instability, hatred, lies, and maybe even some jealousy. It was made of money and power. All congealed in two very disturbed people, the landlady and the mafia-connected dealer that moved into the building. And I would not give very many cents for the mental stability or intelligence or compassion of my former case managers at the DMH. Not that I don't have my issues too. I guess the one that annoyed landlady the most was that I withdrew from her more and more all the time. This is what I do when a person is behaving in a way that I don't understand and don't know how to handle. Nevermind, though, that she withdrew from me first. That didn't count in her mind.
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(candle stand at www.toscano.com)

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mental devastation

Page Four

friday 25 april 2008 greenfield

I don't know how to describe things inside me. No words seem to match the emotions. And who would possibly identify with me, even if I had the right words? Who feels the complete bonding with animals that I feel? Anybody? Who feels as fearful and bored and uncomfortable in the presence of humans as I do? Anybody? Who's been screwed in every possible way by humans, as I have? Anybody? Tell me if you know.

Number 15

Explosions.
No one hears them,
nor imagines they exist.

Volcanoes erupt in souls
and go, for the most part,
unremarked.

Complexities
inside us,
seismic events
and black holes,
the kaleidoscope parade
of chips that make a soul
are left to the buffoons
who set up files,
proffer pills,
misdefine you,
and flee.
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poetry page of my website


Update 16 July 2009, Turners Fails: After the DMH and CSS sat back and let my life be destroyed, I still am very bitter about social service agencies, and don't trust them (what reason would I have to ever trust one again?). I'm working with a new one now, but am very wary. And the grief that was in spurts and was distracted by all the anxiety caused by the things Matthew Lacoy told me, is now in its full spate. Where it should have been last year. Living is emptier than it's ever been. --- Greetings to AtomicPunk.
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read... Spite and malice... Fourth february...

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.