soulcraft

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for ages I’ve wanted to put this poem on one of my blogs, but can’t rightly recall at this moment whether I’ve actually done so. at the risk of duplication, I’ll put it here now.  this excerpt of a longer poem is remarkable to me simply for what it is, what it says and the way it says it. but it’s all the more remarkable for having been written by a ten-year-old, long ago in 1922.

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I shall be coming back to you
From seas, rivers, sunny meadows,
       glens that hold secrets:
I shall come back with my hands full
Of light and flowers…
I shall bring back things I have picked up,
Traveling this road or the other,
Things found by the sea or in the pinewood.
There will be a pine-cone in my pocket,
Grains of pink sand between my fingers.
I shall tell you of a golden pheasant’s
       feather…
Will you know me?
 
______________________________

from I Shall Come Back by hilda conkling

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read…   scealta liatha…     shadowpoems

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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lexicon lost

Page one hundred twenty-four

wandering through things lost… again… as ever

the dear, important things lost this time are words. some I rarely hear anymore… out of strangers’ mouths. some I never hear. but these words were part of the years before I was excised from my human family as if I were some kind of putrid, deadly tumor. as if I were worthless, deserving of no love, no respect, no regard. words of forty-five years. I can’t recall them all at one sitting, and so will have to edit and edit this page as lost, missed words come back to mind. words as much a part of my lost family as our meals, our furniture, our house, now also lost.

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you’re standing in the way of progress

you’re a pimple on the posterior of progress

you’re giving me agitta

oh go soak your head

take a long walk off a short pier

standing there posing for animal crackers

like a fart in a windstorm

that was a doozie

that was a blinger

slumgullion

myirror

birthtay

philadelthia

if he was any slower he’d be going backwards

if he had a brain he’d be dangerous

a la casa linga (sic)

numbnuts

padade

licky locks

the great one

the piazza

god love ‘im

bullcookies

ha-past eight

clam up

go top shelf

that frosts my cookies

(more in future)

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ashes and flames

Page One hundred twenty-two

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monday 25 february 2013

hello, small, stalwart clutch of readers…

I come, sorry to say, with no good news.

I am supposed to be in mourning now. I am in mourning, but not so much for the matter people (even you) expect  me to be grieving for.

less than twelve hours ago, I learned that one of my siblings is dead, and has been dead for some days. the youngest of us. and all will agree that I’m supposed to be mourning this loss. please remember that I am not average, or even normal, as people are constantly telling me. please also remember that I have asperger’s, which produces in me an outlook skewed off from the common neurotypical.

phone call by phone call I learned new pieces. the first phone call only told me death, as the date of death was not yet known. said date seems to have been tuesday 19 february. I wonder will that info change.

…(so many years I’ve been wandering a-stagger among the ugly, damaging, high-flown dramas created by my blood relations. every time I decide we are all too old for anymore such nightmares to be engendered, voilá… someone makes a new one. or, more rarely, the stinking randomness of living makes one)

since I’m a dogged devotee of truth, be it ugly, pretty or betwixt, I might as well cut to the chase and say that I no longer feel any love for this sibling. not for years. not in the psychological and behavioral configuration that this sibling adopted fifteen or so years ago. and phone call by call, I was given more reasons last night to resent and rage at this individual, now no longer alive.

this person had an alcohol problem for many years. alcohol costs money in large quantities, and is bad for the health. there was also a long-standing gambling issue, which costs money. and gourmandising on only the best restaurant food (another lifelong pursuit). there was apparently yet another finance-draining addiction that I never knew about, and that I’m too disgusted and ashamed to name. and since this person was in possession of our family home, they had the power to squander money on addictions, get very sick and unable to work, fail to keep up mortgage and make more than one refinancing arrangement, and fail to keep up payments, and lose our family home. this happened ten months ago, but I was only told last night. they never would have told me if the sibling had lived, because they are a right gaggle of cowards, and always have been. they knew my pain and my anger would be great, and they were too sissified to face it. this also rankles, as I’ve had to put up with temper and insanity and lies and all manner of other ugliness from blood relations all my days, but they can’t put up with my grief, or anger, or anything else.

my father’s house, which he wanted to have stay in the family, the very boards and bricks of which are imbued with his decades of labor at them, is gone to booze, bets, belly, and even more shameful addiction number three. my father’s house, which was taken away from me and my daughter in favor of this other sibling, which I desperately wanted to see stay in the family, is gone to the selfish, hedonistic obsessions of a liar and con-artist. and this person, in the days when we still spoke, was quite proud of being able to con people. and that’s only reason number one that I do not grieve the death overmuch.

on the other hand, I grieve greatly and in fury the loss of our family home, my dad’s house. purchased in 1958 by a young married couple with a very sick child (me, of course) who had to be got away from the dampness of the lakeside house we had, and foreclosed on because of an addict in 2012. I grieve. I rage. I deplore.

if there is a sibling to mourn, it is a long-lost configuration that existed for no more than thirty or so years… out of the fifty-five years and three months that this person lived.

… to assign the nightmares, the flames of drama that yield the ashes that yield yet another set of flames until, I guess, the moment of my own death… to assign the newest nightmares to their categories: the loss of the house one of the myriad high, ugly dramas created in my life by one of my blood relations; the death itself, and the fact that it was not discovered for some five days, might belong to the beastly randomness of living category. it might.

I look now at what I know about this person’s entire life (and I don’t know all of it, to be sure), and over and over again I think on a phone conversation between us in the mid-90’s. this person had the unmitigated nerve (always had this) to hold forth with a speech to the effect that they had always expected me, with my “talent and brains and education,” to do something really significant with my life, to succeed greatly, to be the “flagship” of the nakis family. and what a “disappointment” it was that I had got sick and ended up on disability (the implication was: such a failure). but I did not fail, financially or otherwise, because of booze and bets and belly (and the nameless thing). I failed because of physical illness, and I think, because of asperger’s, because of never fitting in anywhere. and the other thing? the other thing is that my siblings have easily as much quantifiable IQ as do I, and an equal share of talent to mine, if in some different directions. so why did this troll lay it on me alone to be the great success, to be the family’s “flagship?” why wasn’t it equally lain on the other siblings themselves? why was I yet again singled out for the blame and the shame? I compare our two failed lives and state: my failures were made in good faith, in spite of many strenuous efforts, and I have striven to live as clean, decent and honorable a life as possible (according to my personal definitions of such things), even if weird, even if asperger-oddball. I can’t say the same for the lost one, the proud con artist.

if you think me horrible for these emotions, lack of other emotions, for telling such a type of truth, then that’s what you think.

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

another ianua, another door

Page One hundred twenty-one

wednesday 23 january 2013

time has wandered into yet another year. every january, through the old roman door with a double face looking both forward and back, time slithers into yet another year. the world’s time, the world’s calendar. but also my own. every time the world slides over that threshold, all the january babies do as well. a long-ago january baby, my personal calendar turns another page each time the world’s does.

I haven’t written on this website for several months. too busy. over forty days of physically strenuous moving. by the time that ended, it was time for the holidays, about which I wanted to make as big a deal as I could in 2012/13. my first holidays since 2007 with an apartment, and some animals. and all of this busy-busy and push-push of course required the almost constant use of prednisone to shut up my immune system. and still I got sick. more than once. really sick.

at each holiday, beginning with thanksgiving, I thought how I had, every year since 2008, been assiduously writing my holiday posts on one of these books or blogs: 2008, 09, 10, 11. but not for 2012. I wanted to be doing it for a fifth consecutive year, but time and energy were both in short supply. it wasn’t possible. so in the interests of the moving and the holidays and the sicknesses, the website has been ignored. I grow ever more angry when I’m forced to ignore these pages, because I see them as much more important than simply something that fills needs of mine. I see them as something for my animals as well. all the animals of my life, the four animals I have at this moment, and, most importantly, those fourteen animals who were stolen from me in 2008 and eventually killed.

a thanksgiving with an apartment again, after five years. a solstice with some animals again, after five years. a christmas with things I had had for fifty-five years, until unhinged, malicious people decided to take them away. really a very huge holiday season, and no words of mine could do justice to the enormity of it.

after new year’s, the birthday. and though on a soul-level I hate this birthday more than I’ve hated any other, on the outside, in the realm of humans and what humans do and get and say with other humans when there’s a birthday, I had more “riches” than I’ve had on a birthday in at least twenty years. maybe more. grateful for that, yes; for a temporary reduction in isolation, in being ignored. grateful. but the fact remains that neither the human attention nor the gratitude cause me to loathe this particular birthday any less or to stop wishing that it had never come.

holidays with animals again. any bored humans can now leave, as I’m about to thank those mahatmas, those great souls, who live with me now and were here to make the holidays of some kind of value again. thank you one thousand times Shiloh-Chailín, and Judah-Meredith, and Cerulie-blue, and Canarie-yellow. do you have any idea what a difference you make.

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read…   Mugsy’s book…    The pygmies keep dancing...

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved

arwen

saturday 28 april 2012

Arwen was a friend of mine, lost this month to memory and, I presume, the tender mercies of a chain saw. Lost on the 9th, or 10th, or 11th or 12th of this month. I had let my trips to the river lapse for a few days, going out on easter morning but not again until the evening of the 12th. On that night, Arwen was gone. Had I known this destruction was on the way, I would have said a deep good-bye to this old friend on the morning of easter.

Arwen was a white birch tree, standing alone in a corner of what the trolls in turners call Unity Park. Standing there for I don’t know how many years. I used to visit “her” when I walked my dogs to and from the river, the only white birch in the entire park and riverbank. A lone white gleamer in a landscape of firs, maples and oaks.

The eradication of this beautiful tree has come about because of a stinking skate park, and if you can’t discern my feelings about skate parks from the use of the word stinking, then you’re being obtuse. We had a skate park in that section of town before, right beside where the new one is going. I lived only a stone’s throw from it, had to walk my dogs past it all the time, and it was a scum-scene all the way. The longer it was there, the scummier it became. Skateboards, shoes, even bicycles were often thrown over the fence, with no regard whatsoever for any of us pedestrians passing by on the sidewalks. The language emanating from the place was foul. At night, it was a drug pit: buying them, selling them, using them.

But the powers that be here in this sinkhole have decided that a new, very large, very expensive skate park  must be provided for our little criminals-in-training, and so for this noble purpose my old friend Arwen had to die. I grieve this beauty that lit the corner of the park with white bark, especially in winter when white snow joined white bark to make us a vision of a pearl on moonlight nights of white on white on white.

I know I’ve mentioned before that I, being a misanthrope, dislike human beings, and that I particularly dislike the ones who inhabit turners falls. This can come as no surprise to any of you. Close your eyes and imagine Arwen, standing as a lone sentinel at the front corner of the park. Try to see “her” in her winter splendor of triple-white on a moony night, and ask yourselves what I ask myself: why couldn’t the haven for the druggy little vandals have been designed around her? Why couldn’t this white light have been saved?

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read… All my stars…    Stolen stars

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved

de profundis in extremis

wednesday 24 march 2012

destruction day. family-stealing day. the day of the phony police chief. that’s what today is. the anniversary thereof, that is.

these are some of the names, but by no means all, that I have for the second wednesday in march of 2008, the worst day of my life, bar none. and now here it is again: the second wednesday in march.

have I mentioned, in my hundreds of pages of internet writing, that I loathe the human species? I’m very sure I have — at least once or twice. as a person with Asperger’s, I  never had a great fondness for humankind to begin with, since way back in toddlerhood. but since this day four years ago, I can say that extreme trauma has exacerbated my natural autistic tendencies not to understand or particularly admire homo sapiens to a pinnacle of disgust, mistrust, and resentment. these are facts. if post-modern, new-age drifty readers don’t want to read words of this kind of truth, then they’d best get out of this blog right now.

what names would you give such a day, if such a day should happen to you? a day on which you lost your way of life as you had always known it, and on which every single being that you loved was torn from you… what names would you call it? and if this great disaster had not been brought about by a fire, a flood or an earthquake, but rather by the viciousness and malice aforethought of other human beings, what might you feel?

maybe the answers to those questions wouldn’t contain any let’s-stay-positive-and-let’s-forgive new-age fluff. or maybe they would. if your answers would contain such drivel, then you should definitely get out of this blog. I have little tolerance or mercy for such attitudes on an ordinary day, but I reach absolute zero today: family-stealing day; destruction day.

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read…   Extemporaneana…   Being toward death

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

four years

tuesday 6 march 2012

on goes the drifting. that’s truly what being alive is for me now, since march four years ago. sometimes the drifting has a certain amount of direction to it, but there are now so few directions that matter in any deep way that this small amount of direction rarely carries with it an imperative.

there is a real apartment now, for the first time in four years, and I live in it. since february first. naturally the guinea-pig princess, her royal highness Shiloh-Chailín, lives there with me. we are no longer just a pair. we have become a family.

on the ninth of february, two parakeets came to live with us. they were still too young to sex at that time, perhaps five weeks old, but now, a month later, it looks as though one is a boy and the other a girl. I had hoped for two of the same sex, but things have turned out a different way.

there is a family again. this lightens the burden of the last four years to a certain degree. so does having a real apartment after four years, after a totally illegal and brutal eviction. things that belonged to me are slowly being brought from the storage unit, and this, too, restores a certain element of the past: of the way I lived for fifty-five years before psychotics took over my life and ripped it to rags.

but no apartment will ever be a pre-devastation apartment, as I learn each day that I live in this new one. no family will ever be the one that was stolen and killed. the darkness dumped on my soul by the actions and words of deceitful, disturbed individuals can never be completely lifted. holes can be poked into it, and through those holes some light can pass. a real apartment again is such a hole. the two birds and the pig are such holes. the belongings retrieved are such holes. piercings in a dark black cloth where the sun injects itself in narrow beams.

I’m grateful for the holes, for what else would I have of meaning, of value, of purpose, without them. at the same time it weighs heavily that nothing that used to bring joy can bring quite that same level of joy ever again. what is dulled, what is darkened, is damaged for all the days remaining. how many is that, I wonder.

the sound of birds is within my walls again. seed hulls scatter on the floor, and I have to sweep them. I had birds for nineteen years. the joys and sorrows of bird-keeping were well-known to me, threads in the fabric of everyday, normal (for me) life. how familiar and second-nature it feels to do it all again, and at the very same time how foreign and unbelievable.

this dichotomy exists in the apartment as well. for fifty-five years I lived in houses and apartments. I lived in spaces that are considered in this country to be what a person should have for living space. and then four years of deprivation, of being trapped in small spaces and deprived of things like a kitchen. going back to normal now feels, on some days, exactly right: this is the way I always lived, and this is the way it should be. on other days, the space feels overwhelming, and it feels wrong. I get a fleeting, panicky need to flee the space and get back into confinement, as if confinement were somehow right. it is not right. but I’ve been conditioned by four years of claustrophobia and mental cruelty, and there are moments now when my psyche seems not to know what to do with personal space.

I wander on. wander through the space I now have. wander, as ever, through the memories of life before psychopaths. wade through the grief, the rage, bitterness, with a princess of a guinea pig and two ebullient parakeets by my side. we are seeking our cat. when we have her, that will be the limit of the family I am currently allowed to have. when you don’t own your own home, others dictate to you. one of the many ugly warts of being a renter. a renter is always walking among the warts.

greetings from down the street to Shiloh-Chailín, Canarie and Cerulie. take care of each other. I’ll be back soon.

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read…   Spite and malice…   All my stars

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

internet phd’s

Page One hundred twenty

wed 23 feb 2011

In the three years I’ve been writing on the internet, I know I haven’t done nearly as much reading in blogs as a great many seem to do. But I have done enough, I think, to give me a reasonable sampling of what’s here in cyberspace to read.

One of the good things that the internet is, is an equalizer. Anyone who can get to a computer, whether they own that computer or not, can write a blog if they wish to. On any subject they like. No one needs to wait for a publisher to want their words, or to have the money to self-publish. All over the world, most people have the chance to write. This democratizing effect of the internet does a lot to thin the line between those who get to publish their words and those who don’t. There are people who abuse the internet, to be sure, just as there are lunatics and predators and abusers in the flesh life. You need to exercise the same cautions you would with people you could actually see, and some people are much more cautious than others.

So lots and lots of people get the chance to write. This is good. But it’s what and how so many people are writing that I find largely unappealing and uninteresting, and yet again I am staunchly in a very small minority in my opinion. Even tweets on Twitter fall into this same pattern that has so disappointed me in blogs. Namely this: so many people are self-appointed experts. Experts on every hobby, every art, every emotional state, every life situation, every political situation you can name, and that’s only a short list of the things everyone’s an exert on. So many blogs, so many tweets, are telling us what to do and exactly how to do it. How and what to cook. How to parent. How to care for animals. What photography is. What music is, and how to write it. How to lose weight. How to respond to pain. How to heal. How to make tablecloths. How to write your memoire. What books to read and movies to see and music to hear and gadgets to buy. On and on and on and on. Do this, think this, feel this, follow these instructions. I wince when I see these things, and hope that my periodic recommendation of a book isn’t being construed as another in this endless list of instructions.  I make an offering: if you’re interested in this particular subject, I found this book helpful or informative or extremely well written. Take a look at it or don’t. It’s no big thing to me.

My father might have responded to this kind of internet writing with one of his favorite quips: Who died and made you king? Precisely. Who told anyone that they have the last and best word on animal care, or nail care, or anything else.? So many on the internet pontificate like honorary PhD’s in their chosen subjects.

This isn’t what I’m looking for when I take the time to read what regular folks who aren’t being published by New York or London or wherever are writing. I’m not looking to be told how to proceed or what to think or how to feel or how to write. I’m looking for the person. If someone is writing a cooking blog, I don’t want to simply read lists of ingredients and procedures that are the only right ones in the world. I want to read what you cooked today, and why you decided on that particular recipe. What are the flavors and textures that you like about this dish. Who did you serve it to, and did they enjoy it. What is it that you love about cooking and baking; in what ways does it feed your heart and your creativity. What is the joy and beauty in it for you. What kind of a day were you having when you decided to make this dish today, and what was the weather like, and how were you feeling. I don’t want to be told what to do, or what to think, or what to feel. I look for you to say words that make me think about something I haven’t thought much about before, or think about it from a deeper perspective. I look for you to show me what makes you motivated or pleased or angry or discouraged. I look for you to tell me who you are.

Does it sound like I’m telling you how to write your blog and tweet your tweets? Maybe it does. But that’s truly not my intent, because I know perfectly well that I don’t have the last, best word on blogging or tweeting or anything else. I’m only telling you what I as one person am looking for when I go about reading in the shadowy micro-chip world of cyberspace.

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Tuesday 28 July 2009

Page Nine

Turners Falls

Yes, I’m here again, haunting. I haunt Turners, and Turners haunts me. And it seems it will always be this way. And all this haunting is for the same reason: I haunt the town because it’s where my life was and all my love, and the town haunts me for that reason, and for the further reason that this is where we were destroyed, these are the people who didn’t care, who left me living outdoors for two months without ever an offer of a couch or a spare room.

                                                                      

This is only one person’s story. Isn’t that all that any journal is, one person’s story? But it’s no fiction, it’s all truth, and it’s complicated, and my reactions to everything that’s happened since the psycho-chick with criminal connections moved into my building in 2006 are complicated. It may be a dark story, and I may be a dark, wandering ghost, but everything in the blogs is truth, as far as I could identify the truth at any given time with all the lies and smokescreens being thrown my way.

Related page:   Future

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going nowhere

Page Three

mon 22 june 2009       greenfield                                                          

that’s how it feels, like going nowhere. there’s nowhere important to go anymore, except to my one friend, who is in this case a human being. nothing that I do anymore is very important. yes, I have to fill out reams of forms to apply for various subsidized housing, and that is important in a very narrow way. but for fifty-five years I had animals and took care of animals, and to me that was almost always the most important thing I did. and it made me feel important, and useful, to take care of them.

I see nothing when I look at something like, oh, tomorrow. more walking the streets an empty, mortally wounded shell. I see some kind of a housing project in the more distant future, and that’s only more darkness, because I detest most things about  housing projects. I see the same lack of interest in me by other people that there has pretty much always been, and the difficulty on my part in dealing with people (I have Asperger’s. makes me, apparently, universally unlovable). in the untouchable heart and soul I am quite dead, but the physical heart goes on beating and the lungs go on breathing, for now. I feel alive a bit only when I’m with my friend d.

misfits, oddballs have to find niches in this world in order to survive. one niche for my soul was always animals. but you need an actual place to be too, to live in as your niche. both a physical place and at least one human-being-niche to love you. unless you can buy your own house, which I couldn’t, or have family to take you in, which I didn’t, or marry that soulmate, which I never found, a misfit runs the risk of being as destroyed by the bigotries of mainstream people as I and many others have been.

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related post…   Emptiness  ~~~~~~~

a post on the new blog, Braonny. ~~

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved

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