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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cloudminders

Page Sixty-seven

wednesday 21 July 2010 turners faltering

I've said in other places on my online journals, which are still all being inter-linked to form one website, that since my animals were taken in an illegal eviction more than two years ago, I can no longer pursue many of the interests that were an ongoing part of my life as I previously knew it.

One of those interests was photography. But now, aside from pictures of my guinea pig or animals outdoors, I no longer take pictures, and certainly not what I used to refer to as my "artsy" ones.

The two things I was most driven to photograph -- and I mean driven -- were water, and the sky (which is just more water). Water as liquid, as ice, as snow, as mist. Nothing but animals fascinates me more than the way different qualities of light act on water in all its forms. So...

In 1998 I became friendly with a woman who owned a bookstore and had me as a part-timer there. We didn't know each other terribly well yet, but were spending a lot of time together. One evening in summer we went to supper at a place that had outside picnic tables (I had my dog and one of my rabbits with me), and when our order was called, I went to get it. I'm returning to the table and I see Elizabeth pointing a camera up towards the sky. Do you take pictures of clouds?, I ask her, and she looks immediately both embarrassed and guilty. Well, sometimes,, she says in a meek little voice. And I tell her no, no embarrassment, that I take pictures of clouds too, but I've never seen anyone else do it, and I'm really pleased that she does too. It was, at the time, just another odd thing that made me believe that Elizabeth and I should be friends for life.

I'm sad that in the end, we did not stay friends for life, but it wasn't for lack of me wanting it. I still miss her. And of the many things we had in common, cloudminding was the one that surprised me the most.

I can't put one of my cloud pictures here, as they are all locked up in storage waiting for the day (if such a day ever comes) that I live again in a real apartment, rather than a ponystall.

read... Braonwandering... Being toward death...

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

meandering among friends

kimmy


chan


tuuschi










lizzie

mandy

judah

to a search

mugsy

frosty
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romance undercover

friday 2 july 2010, turners falling


Yes, it's about 1:00 pm and I'm computering here in Turners. But earlier I was in good old Gruenefeld, computering away there. Had a surprise waiting for me on the sidewalk as I approached the library in that other town.

And the surprise led to panic, and sadness, and the old trying to write as much of it as I could out of my system on a blog post.

This Matthew Lacoy, who used to say he loved me (and maybe, in his own completely unacceptable way, he does) was the surprise on the sidewalk, there on the sidewalk doing parts of what is his job. I have seen these undercover antics so many times before, and when I saw him there with one of his colleagues, both waiting for me and doing the pacing-smoking dance, which Matthew alone must do wearing a heavy winter parka fit for a blizzard, there I saw that in this sick-club way, he was telling things to me, as well as to others around u. To me he was saying: it's a bad day, and I myself have come down here to this sidewalk to take charge, and to speak to you, and to impart to you with various elements of body language that you learned two years ago, that today is a bad day.

He spoke to me twice, and looked into my eyes, as is often his way, and waited for an answer. He didn't get one. There's no point saying things to him that I've already said, things he either refuses to understand or really doesn't understand because he doesn't have Asperger's, and I do; or because his way of being in the world is so ego-driven and mine is much more soul-driven.

So, here's the post I wrote there in Gruenefield to try organize the great caldron of feelings that arise in me every time I see Matthew Lacoy.

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read... Sehnen... Braon...

~~~ website ~~~~

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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another round of fire

wednesday 2 june 2010 turners turned stony


Well, as the result of recent things that have gone on behind the scenes of my various blogs, I feel it necessary yet again to address the subject of whether or not I am delusional... delusional vis a vis Matthew Lacoy and the things he told me about my life and my grandfather.

I have to say in complete truthfulness that I deeply resent having to continually go over this again, both verbally and in print, more than two years after this Lacoy person said the things that he said. I am furious and MYSTIFIED by the fact that supposed ADULTS can't seem to distinguish between delusions and believed statements.

So, an object lesson: If someone that you know only casually one day invites you to their home and gives you shocking news about your own life, what do you do? Let's say the person tells you that your mother and his father had a secret affair long ago, and the two of you are siblings. I use this example because I've actually known people to whom this has happened. What do you DO? What do we as sentient (supposedly) beings do when someone is talking to us? Ok, I'll tell you. We evaluate a variety of factors going on in that person: 1. the actual words they are saying, the particular words they choose 2. the tone of voice and inflection they are using 3. their body language: is there a tightening of the jaw, a hardening of the eyes? You evaluate these things every single time someone speaks to you, whether you are consciously aware of it or not. And this is what Anne Nakis did on the days Matthew Lacoy told her these things.

And having performed this evaluation that we all engage in AUTOMATICALLY, I decided that he was not lying, that he was telling me truth, and that is what I still believe. If anyone ever proves to my satisfaction that Matthew Lacoy was lying to me, then so be it. But no one has proven that thus far.

So, let's allow for the possbility that he WAS lying. What does that make ME? What does that make ANYONE who believes a lie someone told them? Gullible? Dumb? Too trusting? Mistaken in their judgment of this person's sincerity? YES, damn it; any or all of those things. But not DELUSIONAL, not IRRATIONAL, not INSANE. When did the DSM definition of delusional suddenly become: anyone who believes a lie someone told them?

And why do I continually try to stick up for myself, for two years continually try on the internet and in real life to expunge this notion of DELUSIONAL from people's minds and from the twisted little papers they fill out about me? Because the word is insulting to me, and because it's a lie. It's an insult to my integrity, my sanity and my intelligence, as I've said before and will no doubt say again. And because it's a lie. It isn't truth. NO ONE wants a lie circulated about them. NO ONE wants complete fabrications believed about them in this town and that town and this office and that office. You wouldn't want it either, if it were happening to YOU.

Am I angry about all this? Absolutely. With no apologies or excuses. Anger is not a mental illness, despite what the psychobabble boneheads would have you believe.
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read... Spite and malice... Braon...

~~~~~ website ~~~~~ on twitter @annegrace2
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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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turners falls, tarting up

wednesday 19 may 2010

So, folks, google Turners Falls and see all the invented glory that comes up. They are trying so very hard to increase tourism and get "quality" (read: monied, shallow, hollow-brained yuppies) to move here, that the town is advertising itself in most mendacious manner on the internet, complete with black fishnet stockings, red lipstick, spike heels, and all the other tools of the hooking trade.

Don't be fooled!

You'll read nothing on the internet about the high rate of alcoholism and drug use in this pit, or the high rate of business failure. Nor will you read about teenagers beating other teenagers to death with baseball bats while still other teenagers look on. You won't read about the abysmal school system, the pregnant teens, and so much more fun.

A whore, after all, when you remove all the fake stuff, is pretty much like any other whore.
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read... Poison and snowflake trees... Braonwandering...

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

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