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

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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.

zwarte maart

wednesday nine  march 2011…    turners liars

 

The second Wednesday in March… again. How can it be three years already? How can it be only three years?

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                                    nemo nobis pacem donavit 

 

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whither the geese?

Page Ninety-one

Monday 9 August 2010          Turners sneaks?

As long as I’ve known the place (25 years this month), Turners Falls has had Canadian geese.   
 Sidebar: don’t lift up your nose in
 snobbery and tell me they are called
 CANADA geese.  Maybe they are, and
 maybe not. In northeastern Mass where I
 grew up, they were called Canadian. And
 even if Canada should turn out to be the
 official ornithological term, I won’t use it.
 We do not say America Eagle, or Tasmania
 devil, noun beside noun, and there’s no
 logical reason we should do that with these
 geese.

This year, there have been more geese than ever. And for the first time in my experience, families of geese have been brave enough to swim along the shoreline and walk up onto land down at the point of the riverbank. Several sets of parents with several sets of goslings of varying ages.

That is, until July 24th, or perhaps a few days later. On July 24, I went to the canal and had some interaction with ten geese who were up on the land. For the next four days, until the 28th, I still saw and heard geese here and there as I did things around town. And then, about July 28, all sign of goose activity in the center of this town, which includes the canal and the widest section of the river, ceased. From the 28th of July until the 7th of August there was no sign of Canadian geese at all. I was looking for such signs, daily. Looking at the river, at the canal, in the sky over my head. Not one honk. Not one pair of wings moving. Not one black neck swimming on the water. Nothing.

And more unprecedented goings-on: 

1. On Saturday 31 July I went to the canal, and since I’d last been there three days earlier, the place had been mowed in draconian fashion. All blooming and pod-forming plants had been decimated. In fact, the mowing was still going on while I was there — on a Saturday. I’ve never before known the electric company (who own the canal) to pay people to be mowing on Saturdays. Nor have I ever known them to do the fall mowing any earlier than late September, which allows many of the plants the chance to go to seed. Why this premature mowing? Why was it still going on on a Saturday? Why no geese?

2. On the morning of either the 2nd or the 3rd of August, I went down to the point section of the river, and I couldn’t enter. The point was sealed off with bright blue plastic fencing anchored on white plastic poles. Never in all my years here have I found entrance to the point forbidden.  Late the same night, I went back to see if the fencing was still there, and it had been removed. Why was it put up in the first place? And why were there still no geese?

I didn’t see or hear any Canadian geese in this town from the 29th of July until the 7th of August. Finally on that day 15 of them flew over me at the river. And I saw the same 15 the next day, in the water. At least I’m presuming they’re the same ones, because I feel the new gooselessness here so keenly. Someone who is as observant of and familiar with the goose numbers as I am knows when something drastic has happened.

This is my theory:  there has been a major, devastating “flock reduction” that has taken place. Did the geese themselves decide to take off for greener pastures? I find that very hard to accept, since in all the years I’ve been mindful of the geese, they’ve never deserted this place in large numbers before. If the electric company or the state parks services or some other set of bureaucrats were behind it, they wouldn’t, of course, do it themselves. They would get some other set of bureaucrats to do the dirty work. Most likely Mass Wildlife and Fisheries, an outfit as unfond of animals as is the national Bureau of Land Management. I think some yuppies jogging and roller-skating away their so-called “RiverCulture” may have got their little selves frightened because there were geese coming onto the land (I actually witnessed this chicken-shit routine a couple of times), and they cried and wept, and then perhaps our geese were decimated.

Decimated how? Not shooting certainly, we would have heard that. Poison? Thus the very premature mowing and the blocking of the point? Capture and removal to another town where geese are in short supply?

I don’t know these answers and details, because if the electric company organized a goose-removal with Wildlife and Fisheries on the QT, they certainly ain’t ever going to admit it to Anne Nakis. No one in this nest of vipers will even tell me what became of my own animals, let alone the wild geese.

What happened to all our geese? What happened to all those wonderful goslings born this year, swimming by us with their families, eating our bread, and walking up on the banks? Are all those brand-new geese dead now?

I’ve told you before that this town is full of poisonous people. If I have neglected to say so before, then I will add that the ignorance in Turners and in the whole of Franklin county is so thick you can cut it with a knife.

What happened to all of our geese, who at evening dusk and morning dusk sound a kind of humming that is like a lullaby; who fly overhead in their many chevrons and honk and squonk their messages to each other; who are truly a piece of the river’s culture, whereas the roller skates and bicycles and baby strollers are not.

BackIn my own life, I used to sometimes sing the geese a song when I walked the river with my dogs. Even now, my own life destroyed, I did sing one verse of it late this July to the geese who came onto the canal bank and ate my bread:

                                     There are sounds to make you angry,
                                      there are sights to make you sing,
                                      but the bonniest sight of the morning
                                      is the snow goose on the wing.
                                      Her neck is long and slender,
                                      her road’s a simple line.
                                      And the rolling grey Atlantic
                                      has parted me and mine.

                                                     ~~  brian mcneil

What happened to our beautiful, plentiful, natural, graceful, peaceful Canadian geese?

Update:  On the 7th of October I went to the river in the afternoon, to see on the water no less than 400 geese. You can laugh at me all you like, but I cried. And stood there listening to them make their speech to each other and watching them bathe and flap their wings, and had my adventure of gratitiude for the reappearance of geese. We have our abundance of them again. I can never know a couple of things, unanswered questions that nag me (I hate unanswered questions of any kind): Are these 400 the same 400 we had before, or a new batch just arrived? If they’re new, what happened to the ones we had?

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adrift

Page Sixty-eight

Wednesday 21 April 2010       Turners Tumbling

Friday is Shakespeare’s birthday. Don’t want to forget it…

A year ago tomorrow I was released from a form of imprisonment that I’m sure wasn’t legal, and it certainly wasn’t moral…

Ordered a new audiobook from the library by Margaret Atwood (I can no longer read books in print — can’t open a book anymore without my family). Love, love, love the title: Moral Disorder…  As a town, as a sampling of one human society, Turners Falls could be the poster child for the category of moral disorder…

On the 24th, it will be the silver anniversary of my moving to the hell-hole of western Massachusetts… twenty-five bloody years…   I was only 32 when I came to this pit, and my kid was only 5…  I still believed there could be a good future…

                                                                      

Eleven years ago this week I was moving myself and my animals from one address in Turners Falls to another… straight into the clutches of an alcoholic, lying, sneaking, underhanded, landlord…  though of course at the time of moving I didn’t know exactly how warped he was…  I’d learn that later, at great emotional cost… I still see him from time to time, and his brain-dead daughter (years of killing the grey cells with alchohol) is “working” in one of the stores. She has a job that seems to have been specially created just for her: she wipes things. I’ve never known the position of wiper to exist in this store before… who’s she boffing? … If you’re an alchoholic in this town, especially one of long-standing, there’s nothing they won’t do for you. I close my eyes when I encounter her, and her father, and make a silent wish for them to suffer…

(face at www.toscano.com)

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once more unto the breach

Page Sixty-six

Monday 5 April 2010         Turners Falls hard

Well, last Wednesday, on the last day of March, I moved back to Turners Falls to live in a square footage of space that I wouldn’t even inflict on a dog. Shiloh-Chailin came with me, of course, and now Turners Falls is her town too. This is not wholly a good thing.

And this move was at nearly exactly the same time as another move my animals and I made in 2004, on Saturday April 3. We had a Saturday April 3 this year too, as you may  have noticed.   That other move in 2004 was supposed to be our last. Millers Falls Road was supposed to be our final and permanent home, or so I was told by the deeply mentally mangled landlady, whom I did not know at the time was possessed of so little sanity and so little truth. I believed her. So I moved into that place on that Saturday six years ago full of relief and gratitude and hope for the future. No more moving. A landlady who loved animals and wanted to have a friendship with me.  She wanted cooking lessons. She said we’d have the holidays together, since neither of us had relationships with our human families. She said she’d take  me to see my father’s grave, which I’ve still never seen. She said that now that I could stay in one place, maybe I could start making cards and things like that with my drawings and photographs. Maybe I could do the re-write on my novel.

And it was all bullshit. She started showing me exactly how much bullshit it was only six days after we moved in. Then her true colors started shining away, and they were ugly, I can tell you. And only got uglier the longer we were there. May the ocean’s dogs devour her. May the wind blow always straight into her pock-marked face. May (for once) what went around come right back around to her.

more on this   Two.  Three.

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(part of the book Spite and Malice)

(snakes at www.gaelsong.com)

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

 

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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nobody, nowhere

Page Five

sat 27 june 2009     greenfield

Nobody Nowhere is the title of a book by Donna Williams, a book about autism. someone recommended it to me this morning, and I’ve asked the library to get it for me. (here to my asperger’s blog)

nobody is precisely who I feel like without my animals; a bigger nobody than I’ve ever been before. on my blogspot blog, I use the name “nemo,'” which means no one in latin. after fifty-five years of having and taking care of animals, having it all torn away left me, in my own heart and mind, as nobody. and I’m going nowhere, because there’s nowhere I want to go without them.                                                             

Martin Heidegger talks about being toward death, and it’s something I’ve been doing for years, without ever knowing about Heidegger. we are all going to die, and so we are all living in the shadow of death. what the existentialists say (esp. Heidegger), is that we must choose what has meaning for us and live that meaning in this shadow of death. that’s what I was doing all my life with animals. that’s where I found my greatest sense of meaning and purpose. and neurotypicals took it all away. they did so because they couldn’t find it in themselves to let me just be the odd creature that I am with asperger’s and depression and anxiety and PTSD. couldn’t just leave me alone and let me be odd. they had to attack. they had to destroy the oddball world of my own that kept me going.

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read…    Don’t ask…   Mental hell…  

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

 

wandering

Page One

wed 17 june 2009     turners frills

                                Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
                                This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
                                Beauties and feeling, such as would have been
                                Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
                                Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,
                                Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
                                On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
                                Wander…..

those words issued from Samuel Coleridge, a very long time ago.

the last thing I need is a new blog. I ask myself why I’m doing this, and all I can think of is that I need a fresh start on the internet. my other blogs have dominant themes, but they all touch on the criminal business and the things a man told me and whether I was in this cursed protection, and if so, how long and how much. he will never give me these answers: I’ve tried. and they all touch on the unconscionable actions of other people too: a landlady, some cops, a gaggle of social workers both lazy and low in intelligence, and more.

I’m calling this new blog wandering because that’s what it will most likely be: wandering over thoughts, memories, emotions, events, in no nice, neat chronological order. more or less how one person experiences the worst trauma of her life and the shocking news about her life that came right afterwards. how one person deals with the brokenness left behind. and because wandering is all I really do now, both literally and figuratively. my way of life was taken, and now I just wander.

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read…   Braon…    Stolen stars

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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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