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

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streams 5

tuesday 26 february 2013

Page One hundred twenty-three

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I’m sick of you, putz-self… sick to death of your stupid star-eyes. you’ve been a bleeding fool forever…

you’re right, reality-girl… but don’t you get some of the blame? what took you so stinking long to get big enough? why did it take so many ugly scenes, so many knife-wounds in our gut, for you to scream at me?…

why did it have to come to screaming?… I gave you quiet talks for years, and there were plenty of days when I raised the volume some. … why do you need screaming?

because I’m bigger than you… the stars in my eyes shine loud… shine with stupid belief in possibilities, with sorry belief in people’s lies and shams… because I couldn’t black out all those stars… some of them, some, sometimes… but not all, never all…

now it’s time to blacken up, smarten up, tar out your silly stars… isn’t this enough now?… isn’t it enough now that asshole drank and asshole gambled and asshole lost the family house and asshole woke up dead?… dead in the bed for days, tissue breaking down, dead for days?…

no, no don’t say it. not in my family…  not in our family, another ugly newsflash… it’ll be in the paper, I suppose. asshole so-and-so found dead in bed in a state of … autopsy being performed… no, no, not in my family… wasn’t billy’s murder enough, splashed all over the papers from salem to boston, on the boston TV news… wasn’t that enough newsprint sordid stink in my family… and learning about the mafia man, dear departed grampa… wasn’t that all enough stink?…

embarrasses those star-eyes, eh?…

you know better… you’re as much me as I am… miniscule embarrassment… gargantuan heartbreak… my family doesn’t have sordid headlines… my family has sunday rides and cukes in the garden and dad playing the mandolin… my family has natural deaths in old age…

shut up!… in all the years since you supposedly became an adult, why did you ever, for five minutes, keep believing that this family is anything but a pack of deceiving, denial-ridden jackals, always out for blood, the other guy’s?… always out for yours, star-eyes…  why have you kept believing that any good you found in them could rise up and prevail?… did goodness ever prevail in any one of them?…

no…

say that louder, star-eyes…

no. no no no no no!

now you’re talking. now you’re waking up… a pack of denial-ridden, self-involved jackals, out for blood… worshippers at the altars of the lowest, most ugly things inside them… goodness was never going to rise to the stinking surface and stay there, and win the psychic battle… not ever… those stupid goodness-stars in your stupid eyes would not see…

my stupid eyes see now… any stars for humans are fading fast…

and how do you feel…?

like dying…  like killing, but that one is already dead in the bed…

out with the rest of it now… I’m the reality girl… I’m big enough now, and I’m yelling…  out with the rest of it..

I feel I wasted the energy of my heart and soul and body, any energy I spent on any one of them over decades… like I was swindled by them, and by my soft heart and starry eyes… like I’m the biggest putz who ever breathed… like dying…

well maybe we should… we can’t go on bleeding forever from all of their knife-blows… it’s no life, it’s not living… it’s stinking sempiternal suffering… let’s just pull the plug, finally…

we’ve tried that before, more than once… we can’t… whatever it takes to pull it off, to euthanize oneself and stop the bleeding, we don’t have it… we are failures at that too…

so we’re stuck… stuck till we wake up dead in the bed like that other one…

stuck… yes, stuck…

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read…  twenty-ninth december  

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2013 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.

how many scars

monday 12 march 2012

a real apartment after four years of confinement. not an unmitigated relief, as I said tuesday.

after four years, I’m slowly retrieving the belongings that were mine, that were ours. it’s a huge relief to have one’s own things back again. at the same time, every object — from the tiniest pewter fairy to the largest bookshelf or the bed or the loveseat — is imbued with the loss of those who used to share these things with me. emanating absence, emanating rage at those humans who brought this all about, breathing loneliness and empty places.

I don’t know if objects have the same weight for most people that they have for me. they do for some few at least, I know, but perhaps not for most. it has very little to do with  how much the object cost, and much, much more to do with its history and the history of those of us living beings who shared those belongings, for whom they were part of the fabric of daily life.

the things slowly return to me. the fourteen living animals, never. murdered and gone. but the things, as they come, bring back stories of the life that was my own, and the stolen family that was my own, and the self I was and the way I lived before the most severe trauma of all my decades on this planet. the things carry the history, carry memories, carry richness and remembrance and rage. breathe love and loss.

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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.

windows

friday 29 july 2011

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beyond myself somewhere, I wait for my arrival.
                        ~~~ octavio paz
 

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read…   Scealta liatha…     Shadowpoems…

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

 

another christmas carol

Page One hundred twelve
monday 6 dec 2010…   turners tightfists                                                                               

 

It’s very early; not yet 5:30 a.m. I’m listening to one of the Public Radio shows that my animals and I listened to for years. It goes on for two hours: I won’t be able to stand it that long without them. I never can.

This is the wandering blog, the one I’ve singled out for that concept.  And yet wandering, of the body and of the heart and of the memory, is there in every blog I’ve made since April of 2008. Haunting – ghostish, wraithy – came up new this year in this blog.  Haunting is what I very often do, and haunted is what I mostly am. The ghost of Christmases past, and only the past, because that is the only temporal place where my own life now lives. Where fourteen stolen, executed friends now wait for me, who waited for me for years and more years, every time I went out the door. No words describe better who I am since the day I saw them for the last time than ghost, wanderer, haunted.

Today is the sixth day that I’ll wander these streets in search of our Christmases in this poisonous town. Twenty-two of them. I’ll listen to journal cassettes of a very few of those Decembers. I’ll try to feel us. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not. This is the only deep and real thing now when Solstice and Yule appear on the calendar again: to feel us. Gifts are bought and wrapped for two human beings, only two. Gifts are bought for the guinea pig princess. A few decorations exist, but no tree. No more trees. No more the daily playing of the season’s music, which for us was a daffy, elcectic stew of baroque and renaissance and folk and classical and all the old standards. Silent Night in how many languages? Oíche chiúin.

Will I ever fry bacon again? So far I can’t. In 1999 I started a new yearly tradition of bacon on Christmas morning. Bacon for me and for cats and for dogs. We lived at 59 L Street then, Nookie’s insane asylum for drunks and druggies, he himself having been a member of that sterling club. Will I ever listen on the 24th and 25th to The Nine Lessons and Carols, sung by boys in England? So far I haven’t. Those nine stolen, lethally injected cats will never bat ornaments off the tree again and roll them under the furniture. Those three stolen birds will never chirp at the top of their little voices to their own particular favorites in our Yuletide musical canon. The stolen dogs, those two who remained, one half of what had been my pack, will never drool over the bacon and beef and lamb and turkey and pork again, or have their Christmas walks with me again, or lie down beside me for the Christmas day nap. So I wander around past the places we once lived and the places we once walked and wait to feel us, a ghost and an exile who can never step into those yards again, walk through those doors and take a look at those rooms we shared again. Barred, and barren, and a baleful little wraith.

Oíche chiúin. Yes, the nights are silent. Christmas Eve and Christmas night and Solstice, and all the nights of the year. There is an ocean of silence, a jabbing abyss of absent sounds that were part of my nights for fifty-five years: snoring dogs and breathing cats and nocturnal trips to the food dishes or the water bowls. A bird suddenly waking up and speaking in the dark. And breath, breath, breath: beside me, above me, around me: my friends, my children, breathing and sleeping in innocent peace. There is a huge chasm, a great ghostly vacuum. There is, having been brought about by the viciousness of unholy christian human beings, an endless string of lonely and grieving and murderous silent nights.

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read…    Being toward death…    Stolen stars

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


embers

Page Ninety-eight

Wednesday 8 September 2010                 

Turners degrades

They’re here again, the embers. September, November, December. I burn.  ~~  A fellow burner from long ago wanders into mind. One whose colors seem to reach from the canvas to touch us:

                                        And when no hope was left inside
                                        on that starry, starry night,
                                        you took your life, as lovers often do.
                                        But I could have told you, Vincent,
                                        this world was never met for one
                                        as beautiful as you.

 

                                                    ~~  don mclean

So grossly undervalued while he lived, Vincent’s paintings are now counted among the world’s greatest treasures. Yet another diabolical example of:

           “… the uncanny grotesqueness of the irrational world of chance.”

                                                    ~~  carl jung

Peter Barriman, great singer and writer of contemporary folk songs, has put Jung’s statement in very different terms, but meaning the exact same thing:

                            Fate is king, and fate’s a putz.

 

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only with fingertips

Page Seventy-eight

wednesday 2 June 2010               turning in moral disorder

As I’ve said before, poetry, for 55 years as much a part of my life as my hair, is now extremely difficult for me to go near, either to write it or to read it. But there’s a poem that’s been repeating itself in my mind for a while now, begging for acknowledgement, the way things stored in the mind will do. I memorized it in about 1970, from the back of a Monkees album (maybe it was Headquarters), and haven’t seen it in print since. I regret that I’ve forgotten who the poet is. It’s possible it’s Leonard Cohen, but I don’t want to swear to that. This poem that came out of all that was the sixties is not, in my opinion, obsolete or irrelevant today. What it was saying to people then still needs to be said. In fact, it’s my personal observation that people are even less conscious and aware now than they were then.

                               Blue is blue                                                      
                               and must be that,
          but yellow is none the worse for it.
          Hearing only with ears,
          seeing only with eyes,
             feeling only with fingertips.
                                           And this and that slips away,
             never having been known by those to whom
     it would not have mattered anyway.

                                                                        ~~  carlisle wheeling

So, wandering. Memory wanders through all the years up to 2008. Since then, I haven’t been living my own life as myself. And so often surprized by the presumed-forgotten things that wander round the brain cells, from passive memory to active, from yesterday to today.

Last night I had news from my new research assistant, Bx3. She works only when she feels like it and receives no pay — ideal for both of us, as I myself hate doing research. She found out the name of the poet, which I’ve supplied, and which is reportedly an alias for Michael Nesmith. She also learned that the album where this poem was featured was The Birds, The Bees, and the Monkees.

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 read…    Scealta liatha…   Shadowpoems

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gale on a glen

Page Seventy-four

Friday 14 May 2010                   Turners and turpitude

A couple of weeks ago I ate in one of the local restaurants, one in which I have eaten many, many times in earlier years of the Turners Falls crucible. I ate alone, of course, but I sat in a place where my daughter and I often sat in those years.

Many things are not the same as they were in those other years. Daughter doesn’t live here anymore. Restaurant has a new owner, new prices, somewhat different menu. I no longer have  my own life, and my animals.

But as I sat there, remembering back to when I ate in that restaurant with my parents, with my daughter, with various friends, and alone — all back in the days of my own life — there was the usual pain in the chest, the usual tears, the usual wish that I could die right where I sat. I didn’t. And this never ceases to baffle me: how can a human heart and soul be permeated with such an enormous volume of pain and rage and despair without causing the body to just cease? Don’t understand it. The cells ought to just collapse. But they didn’t, and I continued being alive.

                                                                      

So I got up to go to the register and pay, and suddenly something else came over my heart. A gale of cold, icy anger. At myself. If  I had never moved to this horrible place in 1985, then my daughter and my father and my mother would never, ever have sat in this restaurant. They would  never even have heard of it. It was my doing that my kid and I came here. We were the reason my parents ever got into their car and drove to this cesspool.  All my fault, that my family members ever walked the streets of this poisonous town.

As an outsider from the east, I couldn’t have known what the people here were like before I moved here: I realize that. Nonetheless, I feel tremendous self-reproach that it was I who caused Turners Falls to ever be a factor in my human family’s life, and in the lives of my animals.

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bealtaine

Page Seventy-two

Saturday the first of May, 2010

The third Bealtaine without you… how can that be.  Deora ar mo chroí go deo.

Shiloh-Chailín:  Hab’ ‘nen schönen ersten Maitag.

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

 

 

 

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