again, against the stream

Page Sixty-five

Wednesday 31 March 2010 …..   Turners feels frightening

Well, today, at 10:45 in the morning, I moved back to this town. I’ve moved to this town of poison and snowflake trees three times before, if you count the time I lived outdoors here for two months as my third time moving here. I came for the snowflake trees, and for the memories of me and my animals in my own life that’s gone. But the poison can’t be escaped. It couldn’t be escaped the first three times I lived here, and it can’t now. I only hope that now I can give a hefty dose of poison in return.

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ich habe die schnauze voll von ihm

Page Sixty-four

Tuesday 23 March 2010, Greenfield

Yes, I’m in Greenfield, but I was in Turners till about twenty-five minutes ago.

What I’m going to write here is the sort of thing I’ve usually put on the Sehnen blog, but today it’s going here.

About ten minutes ago, when I crossed the street from the bus stop, there was undercover man Lacoy, walking down the same stretch of sidewalk that I’d normally walk on. So I walked in the street. There we were, walking along beside each other, with maybe ten feet between us. I’d already had one of his walk-by’s at 10:30 this morning, one in which he kept quiet (for which I was grateful). But not this time. As we both walked along and I refused even to look at him, refused to leave the street and walk on the sidewalk, he gives me Hi in his idiot-voice. I ignore him. So he does it again. Louder.

For the last couple of weeks I’ve only been speaking to him in German. I have some cause to believe that he might understand German, though he never came out and said so. But when I used to go to his hovel, we’d talk about the various languages I’ve used in my blogs, and one night he asked me to talk to him in German, which I refused to do. But since he asked for German rather than any of the other languages, I thought he might have some knowledge there.

So… if you read the post I made on my website earlier today (it’s Page Twenty-two), you’ll know that I’m in very poor shape today. Poorer than usual. And undercover man Lacoy bothering me isn’t welcome on any day, but especially not now. So I yelled at him, and this is what I yelled: Ich glaube, ich kann nicht mehr hören.  And I pointed to my ear. Another man that I know for certain is a Matthew colleague, as Matthew once admitted it to me, heard me yelling and came back around the corner that he’d turned into a couple of minutes before. So, Lacoy left me alone after I finished yelling, and turned onto another street.

I think that finally, and this has only come about recently, I no longer love him. But I’ve said that to myself before, and it hasn’t turned out to be true. When I’ve seen him over the last two months, my reaction has been more like: that’s someone I used to love. I’m hoping that when I move back to Turners, he’ll be off on another big case (I say that with great derision). He told me himself that he’s the “best.” Whoever he works for,  he says himself that he’s the best. He told me in April last year that it was time for him to go, but he didn’t go. So go already. How can whatever organization you work for spare their best undercover guy on one assignment for over two years? Go already. Although there are some who’ve told me he’s been in Greenfield for years, so maybe here is his permanent assignment.

I don’t doubt that back in the day, when he said he did, this guy loved me. I spent a lot of time with him then, and I don’t believe, in the end, that it was more undercover shtik. I felt too much energy coming from him at times that was definitely love. But I’ve wrangled before in other blogs over what kind of love this was that he felt. Not the kind I need or want. Not the kind that can exceed his ego’s love for his job, and its love for the fact that he’s the best,  and its love for the thrill of catching the bad guys, what he called “fighting back.” It doesn’t seem to ever enter his mind that he and his colleagues have slithered so deeply into the muck to catch bad guys that they have become bad guys themselves.

(monkey at

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adventure in the style of a recluse

Page Sixty-three

Tuesday 16 March 2010 Turners

Such are the kinds of adventures my animals and I would have together, or at times I would be alone…  Adventures on the quiet, that didn’t cost any money, that rarely involved other humans. Things most people take for granted, I guess. Snowflakes changing as they fell, from large as quarters to smaller than dimes… Pileated woodpeckers being in sight (and sound) the moment we stepped out the door… One day near the end of us, a whippoorwill right on the ground in the morning, making it’s unique call at an unbelievable volume. The only whippoorwill I have ever seen and heard in the flesh. Scores of such things were our adventures, and would send my soul soaring as high as if I’d won a million dollars. That’s no exaggeration. Things that most people either take for granted or don’t even notice at all have been, for years, the things that excite and exhilarate me the most. And most of all when some of my animals were with me at the time.

And poetry — to read it or to write it — is still extremely hard. But this tiny gem, again from Robert Frost, sounds me many echoes of our adventures.


       The way a crow
       Shook down on me
       The dust of snow
       From a hemlock tree
       Has given my heart
       A change of mood
       And saved some part
        Of a day I had rued.


 click  this one to read more about adventure.

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 (s.shane crow at


the ides of march

Page Sixty-two

Monday 15 March 2010, Turners Turning

Wandering, again, meandering, through a tiny bit of poetry, but it’s very hard for me to do. From Robert Frost:

                  Never tell me that not one star of all
                  That slip from heaven at night and softly fall
                  Has been picked up with stones to build a wall.


I’ve said in other places that I don’t believe in the afterlife of the soul, but do believe in the science that energy cannot be destroyed. And so it comforts me just a little to think that some energy from my murdered animals has made its way inside a star, and that that star’s energy has in turn entered some stones of a wall somewhere by shining on it. And rock energy and star energy and energy of one of my loved ones are somewhere mingled together in an old stone wall. Maybe a stone wall that I’ll one day walk by, or sit on.

                       “The permanence of the soul can… only be proved
                         (and no one cares to do that) during the life of man,
                         but not, as we desire to do, after death.”
                                                             Immanuel Kant  
                                                             Prolegomena to any 
                                                             Future Metaphysics


the poetry, etc page of my website.

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gjoer det vondt?

Page Sixty-one

Monday 8 March 2010     Turners Feels?

Two years ago today my animals and I had our last Monday in a home, our last Monday together. Two years ago tomorrow the sheriff’s deputy came at noon to put us out. As I’ve said before, this was an illegal, retaliatory eviction, but I couldn’t afford a lawyer. Two years ago this coming Wednesday, I signed away my family because I had no place to bring them to, and did this signing to a smarmy little document that wasn’t even legal. Of all the anniversaries on the calendar, this one is the worst. This trauma was the worst.

Gjør det vondt? Tá mé cailte gan mó charaí, mó chlan. Hvordan lever jeg endu? Hvorfor lever jeg endu?


Wandering again, in heart and thoughts and memories. Yes, this is the anniversary. And because I don’t have a car, I cannot get to that house where we spent our last full day together two years ago today. Nor can I get into the woods where I walked my dear dogs two years ago. Trapped, hemmed in, thwarted: largely by poverty, but also by humans.

But I had another half to my life, the first half, in eastern Massachusetts. And there are many memories there as well that I can’t get to for lack of a car, and many places loved as dearly as the river and the canal and that woods here in Turners are loved. One place especially in eastern Mass is dear to me forever, and I can’t get there. Haluaisin lähteä merelle. Yes, lately I find myself wandering a little bit through languages again.

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march winds

Page Sixty

1. Saturday 6 March 2010, Greenfield

     Tessie       mother and love and wife

          25 Dec 1990 to Tues 7 March 2000

     Gretel fish       gold flame, gold grace

                            7 March 1998

2. Tuesday 9 March 2010, Turners

    At noon, I and my family were evicted from our home for no legally valid reason, on

    Tuesday 11 March, 2008, in Turners Fails.

3. Monday 22 March, 2010, Turners

     Shiloh       grandma-girl, tap-drinker, peek-a-boo

                  7 August 1992 – 24 March 2008

     Chan         a spy, a skinny glutton, a good cousin

                 17 January 1996 – 24 March 2008

     Ziidjian    the king, the scar on my hand that’s all I have

               17 January 1996 – 24 March  2008

     These three cats, (2 brothers, all 3 cousins) were killed by the

     animal “shelter” in Greenfield on Monday 24 March 2008, only

     two weeks after the eviction. Chan was killed, I was told, be-

     cause he “wasn’t very friendly.”   Though I asked, I wasn’t

     allowed to know who had killed them, who had cremated

     them, and where their ashes ended up.

4.  26 march 2010

     china…    tá brón mór orm

               7 august 1991 to 26 march 1992


a desk, a cat, and dolls

Page Fifty-nine

Thursday 4 March 2010      Turners Fell

Early this morning my mind was wandering over various memories of my own life (as always), and I landed on dolls. I’ve always loved dolls of many different kinds, and when I was 10 or 12 I started a doll collection for myself. The dolls came from some youth catalog I used to get. They were plastic, the size of a Barbie doll, all the faces were the same, and they cost $3 or something like that. I was dazzled by them. They came in cheap but flashy costumes from all over the world. I’d save my allowance and buy myself one every now and then. Maybe I accumulated 5 all together before I got on to a new interest for my money.

So, years pass, and I’m 33 years old, living in Turners for slightly over a year. One weekend when my mother comes to visit, she has with her an inexpensive ($20) porcelain doll. The doll is all dressed for winter in a red

velvet coat and cape, a white fur muff and hat, and white fur trim on her coat.  My mother announces that this is the first doll in the doll collection she’s going to give me, since she couldn’t afford one when I was younger. I thought it was one of the nicest things my mother had ever done for me, and it was her own idea, nothing that I’d asked for. But I didn’t say this to her. I was a very locked-in person for many years, and didn’t talk much about things in my heart. Was this because of Asperger’s, or because of the often explosive nature of my family life? I don’t know for sure what caused it, but I’ve often wondered whether those seeds of destruction that were always in my human family might not have grown into such bitter weeds if I had managed to unlock myself many years before I did. Would it have made a difference in what happened to my family later? I don’t know for sure, of course, but I wonder. And probably one person all alone (even if I had been able to unlock myself earlier) cannot save a family.

So the dolls kept coming. Every Christmas at first. Then every Christmas and every birthday. Eventually Easter was added. They came from 1986 through 1996, and there were 18-20 of them. They also  became a good deal more expensive. I bought one or two myself along the way.

At Christmas 1997 I was living with my parents again briefly, and found a psychological horror show there in that house that I’d never expected, even in light of knowing my family’s foibles all my life. Part of my mother’s attack on me at that time was not to give the Christmas doll. It was going to be the one and only bright spot to a Yule that was blacker than any I’d ever had to that point, and it didn’t come. And though I’d had a whole lot of other messages from my mother to say that I had become a loathed creature in her eyes, the failure of the doll to come at Christmas was the thing that finally got that message across to me one hundred percent.

I no longer have them. Three of those many dolls are in my storage unit, and that’s it.  All but those three had had to be left behind when I moved back here to Turners in 1998. Almost everything I owned was left behind. I escaped with little more than my animals, and they, of course, were the most important thing.

The photo is my cat Chan at age 11 months, who loved to get up and sit on that desk with that group of dolls (there were more dolls in other rooms). It was late 1996. We lived at Six N Street in Turners. My mother hadn’t totally crashed and burned yet, and I still had a human family in a certain fragile way. The dolls are gone. The desk is gone.  That apartment is gone. And Chan was one of the animals taken from me on 12 March 2008, and executed two weeks later at the local animal “shelter” when he was 12 years old. They killed him, they told me, because he “wasn’t very friendly.” You can click here to the Stolen Animals page of my website to see another photo of Chan. Here to read more about my human family. Not light reading, to be sure.


Postscript:  Even the desk the dolls and the cat are sitting on was something I wanted to keep my life long. The bedroom furniture that my siblings and I had had always been used items that my father would paint to match each other. But when we were pre-teenish, Mum got a better job and suddenly decided to buy us each some furniture that was brand new and that matched. I got the French provincial. A chair and desk and dresser that matched. It was another of my mother’s rare ideas that she came to all on her own without any of us asking for it. I was thrilled with that furniture, and was still using it in my forties, when this picture was taken. I still miss it. It’s all old and careworn now, drawers sticking, etc. But I love it because it was a surprise, and it was my mother’s own idea for her children, and because it came from the heart. Will I ever see it again?


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ag inse scealta liatha go deo

Page Fifty-eight

Tuesday 2 March 2010, Turners Falling Down

I have lamented before in other places — and the way I’m feeling today, lamented is not too strong a word — that most of the blogging I have had a chance to read on various websites is either adolescent or fluffy in some other way, and full of jokes (mostly bad ones). It’s true that I don’t get much computer time, and therefore not much time to read other people. But in the reading I have done, I haven’t found very much of substance.

But the stories I have, the true stories, the things I first came to the internet to write about, are neither fluffly nor badly witty nor fun. They are grey, black, sad, infuriating. And for me, there aren’t going to be any other kind. The only things I have left to tell are these grey things that just about no one wants to read. It takes some courage to read about ugly things that have happened to someone else, and it takes compassion.  I haven’t found large amounts of those things on the internet as yet, but still keep hoping (foolishly?) that at some future time, I will.

Ag inse scealta líatha go deó — cailte gan mó charaí
grá agus deora, deora agus grá, is uaigneas ró-mhór
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009 – 2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.