a luddite

Page Fifty-one

Thursday 28 Jan 2010                                                                                                               

Well, this making a website… I guess what I really wish is that someone else would do all the linking and image adding and whatever else for me, and that all I’d have to do is write. Someone who thinks computers and other technology gadgets are fascinating and wonderful. I’m having to learn how to do things that I really don’t want to learn. That I don’t care much about. That I am not starry-eyed impressed about, the way so many people who embrace techno-wonders are. I am Luddite. I am technophobe. And I further stand very firmly against quite a lot of technological activities.

But there’s no one to do it for me, and if I want this website, I have to go on learning what I wish I’d never heard of, and doing what I have very little interest in and patience with. And all because a trio of reprehensible women decided to destroy my life. If such had never happened, would I have run headlong to a computer to start blogging, trying to reach some kind of a public? I very much doubt it.

~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~

(monkey at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

deirdre, a myth

Page Fifty

Saturday 23 January 2010…   Greenfield

I’ve read a number of books by Carl Jung, as well as a number of others written about Jung’s approach to psychiatry. And in these writings one technique that particularly appeals to me is the choosing of archetypes that fit your personality. You can choose more than one. They can be general, like Earth Mother or Father Sky; or they can be specific, like Hercules or Aphrodite.

One of the archetypes I chose for myself years ago was Deirdre of the Sorrows. This myth comes from Celtic, specifically Irish, culture. I think I’ve given a quick synopsis of this story, which appears in several versions, on another journal on soulcast, but I’ll do it here again:

Deirdre is so beautiful from birth that she is hidden away, lest she cause fighting among men of royal families. But it happens anyway. She falls in love with Naoise, and when a rival family learns of this, their king has Naoise and his brothers killed, steals Deirdre for himself, locks her up in his castle.

So there’s Deirdre kidnapped and forced to live for 12 years with a man she hates, and some versions of the story say that she never lets him touch her. For all the 12 years she cries. Finally her grief breaks her completely, and when the King is taking her out somewhere in a carriage of some type, she hurls herself out of it onto a stand of boulders, smashes her skull, and dies. She is finally free of the King and of her grief.

I always told people, for years, that if I lost all of my animals because of some cruel landlord, I would die of the grief. I didn’t say it for drama, or to get attention. I said it because I believed it.

And it’s nearly two years since they were taken. I wonder: why haven’t I died of the grief? But I bring Deirdre of the Sorrows back to mind, and think, maybe sometimes dying of grief takes time. A long time. Maybe I just have to cry, and wait.

 here to a tad more on archetypes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~

(greeting card photo)



making a website


Thursday 21 January 2010, Turners Flails

Today I’m in one of the places where I go to use public computers, and in speaking to someone, I happened to express a wish: Someday I’d like to have a website. To my great surprise, she answered that she knew how to make a blog-based website on WordPress, and she could teach me how to do that. That work has begun, right away today, and now I have such a website in its infancy. I hope to interlink all of the blogs I’ve been writing for nearly two years, and to make them all as similar in appearance as possible, so that they will look like they belong to a larger whole.                         

~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~



Page Forty-eight

wed 20 jan 2010…..    Turners Falls

Wandering, still, always…

wandering through the memories of what was my own life…

Fourteen years ago today, I had a litter of kittens born. They were no accident: I had bred them on purpose. There were six, and I kept three of them. Those three were among the 14 animals stolen from me on 12 March 2008, and later euthanized. I prefer the word killed.    

The labor began at 6:30 a.m. and lasted, well, I’m fuzzier on the ending time. I know it took at least 3 hours, possibly four. I was able to be outside the house where this all happened at 9:15 this morning, when, possibly, the birth wasn’t quite finished yet.

I know that if I were as unselfish as I’d like to be regarding my animals, I would say now: that birth should never have happened. After 12 years of love and family, the three cats born on this day were taken from me and from each other, put into cages in strange places with strange people, waiting in vain for me to come get them, the way I had come for twelve years when one of them was in any kind of jam. I never came. They were frightened, separated from me and the rest of our family, and under tremendous stress. Then killed. Knowing that horrible ending that these cats were given by human beings who decided to take over my life (the Department of Mental Health being the biggest offender), I should wish them never born.     

But I don’t. I wish myself never born (they were my birthday kittens, as my own birthday was the very next day), but not them. I am still so delighted that they were born, that I knew them, that they were part of my family.

Maybe someday I’ll come to the other view: if they were destined for such terrible endings, then they never should have come to be, no matter how much happiness their birth and their existence gave me. But I’m not there yet. I cry tears of happiness still that they were born on this day, that I knew them, that my other animals knew them. And tears of grief over what was done to them. And tears of rage at every single human being who had a hand in it.


~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




wednesday 13 january 2010

Page Forty-seven


Once, as my heart remembers
all the stars were fallen embers.
                                        ~~ roma ryan

I sang it for them, the song that begins this way, the song that isn’t one that I wrote… Sang it for them on Friday, Jan 8, when I went to visit one of my animal cemeteries. Left flowers for them there on top of the snow.

It was my first visit to that cemetery since 14 September 2007, when I buried the only male soulmate I have ever had, and he was a dog, not a man. My first visit to those graves since the day I buried Mugsy.

Update, Jan 2011: And now that cemetery has been taken from me too. The person on whose property it sits will no longer allow me anymore visits to leave flowers, plant plants, pull weeds. The human nastiness goes on, unrelenting.


~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


semper tempus fugit

Page Forty-six

Wednesday 6 January 2010

So it’s 2010. There hasn’t been a change-of-year that’s been in any way cheerful and at least a little celebratory since the 2005-2006 change. Every new year that has arrived since then has been clouded over with threat, and fear, and strain. After all, the mafia-chick  – aka judith, aka rubberboobs –  moved into my building in July of 2006, and after that there was no year I was glad to see coming.

Yesterday I visited the canal in Turners, and the river as well,  for the first time in 2010. On Thursday the 31st, I had visited them for the last time in 2010. These places where my animals and I had so many beautiful minutes. What is there now but a great, yawning emptiness. There’s all the rage, too, at the many people who brought about this destruction, but this rage is mostly dealt with on my other blogs. Braonwandering, this blog, is primarily for the emptiness, and the memories, and the drifting.

If I died this minute, sitting at this keyboard, it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.

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


Ianua, the door

Page Forty-five

Turners Frauds

1. Tuesday 5 January 2010

    FROSTY  snowman and father extraordinaire

                       Tuesday 6 January 1998

2. Friday 8  January 2010

    SÍLE  irish wee finch, tá mé go brón

                       Saturday 9 January 1999

3. Wednesday 20 January 2010, Turners

    Chailin, Ziidjian, Chan  stolen and murdered

                        after 12 years

             born Wednesday 17 January 1996

    Ginger        the white-star-forehead girl

                 1991 – 17 january 1998

4. Saturday 30 Jan 2010, Greenfield

          Edmund Arthur Constantine Nakis

                   1939 – Sun 31 January 1999


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

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.