https://braonwandering.wordpress.com/2014/02/06/1917/

https://braonwandering.wordpress.com/2014/02/06/1917/.

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alleyways

thursday 6 feb 2014

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in greenfield today, bizarrely enough. I haven’t come to the greenfield library to use a computer for nearly three years. the computers are now new, however, as they are in the turners library. not the same ones I used three years ago.

today’s wandering is what… something my subconscious mind — that devil extraordinaire that we all have — demanded of me early this morning, and I don’t even know why. but I followed it, figuring that there must be reasons my conscious mind hasn’t access to. reasons that might be good ones, though at the moment I can’t see how.

this plan of my subconscious perhaps began with the death of my guinea pig in december. maybe it was fortified by a phone conversation with my cousin on 26 january, and another with my aunt two days later.

the guinea pig came to me five months before my homelessness ended (and I consider that I was still technically homeless at that time). my aunt and my cousin, along with any other human family member I might care to name, steadfastly ignored my homelessness. no one who was blood kin of mine ever in those two  homeless years came here to toxic franklin county to fetch me home to eastern mass and ensure that I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t devoid of family who cared about me in the most damaging and ugliest days of my life. not a single bloody one of them.

so something in me demanded this morning that I do a bit of re-living of my homeless days. why? I can’t answer for the ridiculous workings of that underhanded part of the mind. I only know that I complied, and that sitting at a computer in the greenfield library was a very large feature of those days.

I ended up homeless largely due to the machinations of a female whose initials are j.b., but she had a few other females to assist her: l.b., f.r., and probably others I don’t even know about, and never will. the fact that at the same time I was in a situation that no innocent, non-criminal person ever expects to be in was also the work j.b., along with her mother, her mother’s husband, and whoever his business associates in connecticut happen to be. this was a situation I wrote a great deal about online in the homeless times of 2008-2010. most people who read those things thought of me as delusional, I’m sure. a lot of people in real life thought of me that way too, though there have always been those who believe me, minority though they may be. my current therapist is in that minority. she has known delusional people (as have I), and maintains, as I always have, that I don’t have the affect of a delusional. nor do my “stories” follow the pattern of delusionals. nor do I make any effort, as delusionals do, to protect myself against my “imaginary” adversaries. when she said that, I happened to be spraying some air freshener (therapist comes to my home), and I said to her: That’s fbi repellant. she looked worried for a second, then saw that I was smirking, making a joke. I further said:  But if there were such a thing as repellant for feds, you can damned well bet I’d buy it.

one of the things my fed pal deliberately confused me about in 2008 was my grandfather. only a few weeks after he told me that these connecticut folks j.b.’s mother is married to wanted to find me in a really big way, he told me that my own grandfather, dead ten years before I was born, was an organized crime man. telling me this so soon after telling me the other led me to believe there could be some connection between the people in connecticut and the people my grandfather worked for in the 1920’s, 30’s, and 40’s. today I see that as very unlikely. my grampa’s pals and the pals of j.b.’s mother are probably two different sets of people entirely. the first group probably doesn’t even exist anymore. no, my trouble was because j.b. was dealing drugs for these connecticut folks, held back drugs and/or money that she was supposed to give them, and told them I had it. we did, after all, live in the same house. and she did, after all, deal the drugs right in front of me, in broadest daylight. the saddle bags of snowmobiles, the mailbox, flower pots, and so on.

much later, in 2010, I was in contact with my nephew, who was surprised to learn that I knew certain unpretty things about my grandfather. he himself knew some of them too, but he had gone to greece and done a lot of research to find out what he knew. I, on the other hand, had done nothing but sit in the apartment of an undercover fed and listen to him tell me things about a grandfather I never knew. in any case, my nephew’s information was so in concert with the things matthew had said to me that I could no longer try to deny what my grandfather was.

this does indeed go back to one of my starting points, namely, the one about a very recent conversation with my aunt (daughter of said grandfather), with whom I’d not talked since summer 1998. she brought up her father, not me. first it was a familiar family story: we tried to find out where he’s buried. I told her he wasn’t buried at all, and I should have gone on to specify that if he was buried, it wasn’t in any cemetery. but I was nervous and didn’t think as fast as I should have. and then she told me another story, one I don’t remember ever having heard before. namely, that as a child she’d been injured by a car or bus or something hitting her. there had been a large legal settlement. grandfather, with an amerikan wife and five amerikan children, had taken this money to 1. buy a half-interest in a restaurant in camden new jersey. 2. take a trip to greece. this was in the 1930’s or 40’s. none of that money was ever given to the family grampa had produced in the u.s., because he already had a family in greece before he ever came here. and “business associates” as well. sounds like a mafia grampa to me.

I have mostly been gentle with my family members in my writings over the last six years. if you’ve done any reading of such pages and think I am not gentle, that is because you  have no clue as to what they are really like. I’ve been gentle because I didn’t want people to think I was just dumping on my family and saw nothing good about them. such is absolutely not the case. it’s precisely because I needed them and wanted them so much for decades, and because I did indeed see as much good in them as bad, that I have been gentle. but not anymore.

from this day forward the gloves are off. the nastiness these people have practiced on me the last couple of years seems to be the final straw. whatever is good in them, whatever qualities I clung to over the years as those that would be the salvation of us as a family, these people are a pack of jackals, the lot of them. the dead ones, the living ones, the whole sick clan. especially to me, the asperger’s oddball. though they didn’t know I have asperger’s until six years ago, they have the usual neurotypical antennae for differentness, and because of my perceived oddness they have bullied me, cheated me, abandoned me and treated me in a way that no other black sheep in the clan has ever been treated… and yes, there have been other black sheep before me.

I take the gloves off now because all I have left of what I once believed to be a human family is a trail of lost objects, people and memories, and my gargantuan, impotent rage.

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read…   Scealta liatha…     Shadowpoems…

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2014 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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pete seeger

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wandering again through the energies of the dead… and through music, and integrity…

the second thing I heard on public radio this morning when I turned it on at 5:00 a.m. was that pete seeger died last night. so I now spend the day listening to WAMC in albany, as they are remembering him all day long. he was a great friend and benefactor to the station.

when I was a teenager with undiagnosed asperger’s syndrome in the 60’s and 70’s of the previous century, my world was rather small. much smaller than those of my friends and acquaintances. I listened mostly to pop music on the radio. I don’t know that I’d ever even heard pete seeger’s name when he was so popular with the anti-viet nam movement. I certainly heard some of his songs, but since they were performed by other people, it would be many years before I would know that he’d recorded them first. I became aware of performers mostly only through other people. one friend gave me a judy collins album, another friend one by tom rush. and so I was introduced to various folk performers only when some friend gave me an album. no one ever gave me a pete seeger. it was the same for bob dylan. I knew almost nothing about him during the time of his most press-worthy fame, because no one gave me one of his albums.

when I became a public radio listener, I was nearly fifty years old, and suddenly there were folk music shows on the radio. on public radio folk music had never vanished from many stations, had been played steadily through the decades. only then, only when my fiftieth birthday was breathing down my neck, did I begin learning about so many people who’d been in the vanguard of both folk music and social protest when I was in high school and college, when I should have been listening to them every day.

it’s only in middle age, only since 1999, that I have learned a great deal about pete seeger, bob dylan, joan baez, judy collins, and many others. learned to appreciate their musical work to a far greater degree, and their social justice positions as well.

peter seeger gave his entire long life to family, creativity, social fairness and responsibility. he was dragged before mccarthy’s commie-haters. he organized, with others, the building of the sloop clearwater and the cleaning up of the hudson river. and on and on. you don’t need me to tell you about him. you can find his story in many places on the internet. you can find his story on four or five CD’s at WAMC radio, for a donation of $100 (800-323-9262). and no, I don’t work for the station.

I’m listening. to his voice. singing and speaking. he was an exceptional person. exceptional on the positive side of the scale. we have so many on this planet who are exceptional to the negative, that when a pete seeger dies, or a ghandi, or a cleveland amory, or any one of scores of others, we all lose. it’s a deficit for the world. we need to hope each time that one such person dies, one or two or three others will rise up in their places, to carry on in our world being exceptional in creativity, in humanity, in dedication to decency, in integrity and incorruptibility. where is the little child, or children, today, who will grow up to fill some of the empty spaces pete seeger left when he died last night.

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read…   Spite and malice…   All my stars

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2014 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

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.