Page One hundred eleven

Tuesday 23 November 2010…       Tiresome Turners Fails


Line by line,                                                                                                                     
the song of lamentation seeks its chords.
Word by word, a river slides to its waiting sea.
To the harp, sing the song?
To the theremin, sound the end?
To the wind, to the warp and weft,
to the grey-waiting sea?








 Or to the former stars, now letting bloods of eons?


How large is emptiness?
How dark is black?
Who will avenge the breath of truthful eyes?
Who will eat up the thieves of love?
Who will burn off  the poison and leave the snowflakes


Let the stingy djin come back (say dreams, say screams),
come back with double-open hands this time,
to stand a lightning tree
with kindled justice in its hands (this time, this fiery dream),
on a scorching and relentless plain of sand.
Christmas roses fall from a hand, land on the current,
run far and further from hand, and eyes, and heart.
The Christmas roses are for you.
They are for us.
(to follow, to follow)
Silence rains on the heart’s picture-book,
rains in the spaces where the music lived,
on homely objects clutched out of debris.
Silence reigns; queen of the landscape of 
the clasp torn apart.
Let the stingy djin come back.


(part of the book Being Toward Death)    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~   Share  ~~~~~  Fourth February

(dragon frame at


All the odds and ends

Page One hundred ten

Wednesday 17 November 2010, TF                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Miscellanea is a little a book I’m construdting from blog posts that don’t fit into any of the other little books I’m piecing together, and this is its foreword. I’m very much in favor of a whole lot less formality in the writing of books, especially autobiographical ones. I’m not much for either pretense or conformity.

All of this blogging began in April of 2008, after the worst psychological and emotional trauma of my life: one that has changed me drastically and for the rest of my days. I had no idea in that April that I would be without a rental unit of my own for two whole years, or that the Department of Mental Health would completely fail to help me find a place, or that other things were going on in my life that I wouldn’t find out about until July. I had no idea that I would keep writing on the internet for such a long time, or that I would come to decide that I wanted to turn all of this writing into books.

Nine of the books I’m turning all this writing into have their particular themes, and the vast majority of the blog posts will fit into one of those. But there are others that are just thoughts and feelings on different subjects, or maybe on a book or a poem or a piece of music. All of the leftovers are getting tossed into this little stew of a book, mainly so that I can satisfy my new fever to organize all of this writing that I never dreamed I would do.

So, imaginary reader, read it or not. It’s just here.

~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~  the ten books  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


rarefied air

Page One hundred nine

Wednesday 3 November 2010

I’m going to go on about love here. After a short diversion.

My one and only human friend just recently gave me a quote from Temple Grandin, that very famous person with Asperger’s. It’s a quote of hers I hadn’t encountered before, spoken to describe how she feels among neurotypical people: Like an anthropologist on Mars. This is a time when I have to say a very loud DITTO to the words of Ms. Grandin. That’s exactly how I feel among neurotypicals. Anthropologist on Mars, mermaid on the land, and whatever other metaphors of alienation you want to construct. Absolutely as if I am among creatures who are backward, whose movements and words and behaviors are mostly illogical to me, and coarse, and incomprehensible. Lacking sensitivity and sensibility and reasoned thinking. Thrown in among creatures whose words and actions constantly hurt and offend and exclude me.

All of this being true, human love has been a thing with much darkness in it for me, much insecurity and uncertainty and pain. Love as we’d like it to be, as I need it to be, and as many writers and poets have described it down the centuries… that kind of love I have experienced with humans only in certain moments on certain days. To experience it on a daily basis, over years, I always had to turn to animals. And likewise to give love in the way that it absolutely should be given is only possible for me with animals.

Before I go any further, I’m going to warn my one and only human friend to stop reading right now. She doesn’t like sentimentality, or maudlin feelings, or probably a number of other states I might evoke in this post. And since I don’t want her to reach the gagging state, I’m telling her to leave off right here.

The rarefied air I’m talking about in the title is the air you breathe when you breathe it with someone you love, who loves you in return. The air of which I have so very little since my animals were stolen from me on March 12 of 2008. That air that is like no other, at least for me, at least in the 57 years I’ve been breathing on this planet.

I can’t describe this air to you. If you know it, you do, and if you don’t, I can’t help you. It’s the air produced by sharing time and space and breathing in a state of mutual love. It’s the air that makes you feel and do and say corny things, things you might not want all kinds of peripheral people to hear or see. Because that’s one of the things that real, sincere love does to us. It affects us in a place so fundamental and unsophisticated that we are thrown into the realm of the sentimental and the maudlin and the corny. So what. The two greatest lines Billy Joel ever wrote, to my mind, are these: I don’t care what consequence it brings. I have been a fool for lesser things. A fancier way of saying: I love you. I will be corny and vulnerable for that love. So what. It’s worth it.

The air you breathe sleeping in the presence of someone you love, walking with someone you love, acting silly with someone you love. That air that feels like yours alone, and the rest of the world is shut out of it. Moments that make whatever crap happens in one’s day more bearable.

This is air that materialized in my first 55 years infinitely more often in relationships with animals than with people. I always had multiple animals, and therefore multiple sources of love, multiple places in which to put love. Having now just the one animal is not at all the same, and not nearly enough. I lie down at night waiting to feel it, but there is very little there.

(part of the book Neverending Solitaire)

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(peacock at

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