streams 5

tuesday 26 february 2013

Page One hundred twenty-three


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?…


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…



read…  twenty-ninth december  

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ashes and flames

Page One hundred twenty-two


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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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.


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


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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.


read…   Extemporaneana…   Being toward death

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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.


read…   Extemporaneana…   Being toward death

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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.


read…   Spite and malice…   All my stars

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streams four (suite in sixty-four)

saturday 31 december 2011, 11:00 a.m.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a week ago… only a week ago… forever ago… a moment ago… this very moment now? paying for candles in deerfield… out to the car… christmas eve sunny, bright…  back on the highway to turners, to a gale on a glen… no, no, no gales this time… zephyrs on a glen breathing moments from our years… one b.l.t., one egg over easy (what’s that called when it’s runny?), two slices of whole wheat toast… the bright yellow counters that no one (thank zeus) has yet changed…egg-yolk counters, and no one has changed them… olympus forfend…

I’ll go… go again in a few moments more… I’ll sit… sit on the same stool if I can get it… eat the b.l.t. again (no, not that one, not the christmas eve b.l.t., a new one, a gray one)… walk out into the rain and gloom and sour of new year’s eve… but first the stool, the stool with me on it, the one to my right empty… empty today and until who knows when… gales on the glen again today, but a week ago (a moment ago, an age ago), warm winds in yellow and red and green… and when we leave, the river… you take me to look for my friend… my friend is a goose, but this time you don’t mock…

3:00 p.m.

encaved in dark wood, ceiling to floor, we sit, no we sat, caved a second time within our booth… you and I twice encaved… you made no move to escape me this time… I called the bathroom the polar ice… 

you and I, in red shirts and black leggings… as if we’d planned it, but we haven’t planned to dress alike in decades… 

I look at photos on your phone of all that you hold dear, and I’m not there… you have the salad with steak tips, you have the wine… I take water and lobster the scamp (haven’t had lobster since old 98)… you eat cheese from the mushroom caps, whereas I eat it all… we eat, talk, drink, talk, pee in the polar ice with santa… the north pole sparks me… but you it ensnarls… you were once a north-pole girl… how can you look on your old white pole with such disdain… for me your disdain has been there always, but for the cold, no… you once were a snow-girl like me…

but there is no snow… the christmas is empty of snow

you shed tears, and I am disbelief… to see you shed tears in my space after such a space of years… you shed tears for what you hold dear… what you hold dear is in those photos on the phone, where I am not…

we talk of the camp long ago, and in that talk, the beast returns… the beast is hard, the beast begrudges… this beast that never leaves for good, leaves me feeling myself the likes of some dread disease… not the womb, the primal cave… nor the reader of tales and cooker of meals, but something deadly, greatly to be shunned… in that short and small unveiling of the beast, our deep-wood christmas caves fall in on me… I’m once again diminished to a mote in a brown, disdainful eye…

what else do we talk of…? why didn’t I make notes…?  what else do we talk of on a christmas eve that never came before or will again…? how could I let it go by without notes…? I, the compulsive noter of words, let it go by with a dearth of notes…

you pay (I am ever the pauper)… you pay, and we walk to the bookstore… you ask me questions of why the store is where it is and what happened to the old one… you have no memory of the fire… I tell you of the fire, tell you it happened while you were here, tell you you’ve been in the new store before… you have no memory… you seem not to believe… you came to believe my tweets with yoko, but the fire you have wiped from your files… do you believe…?

you buy me a plato-socrates book, but will let me buy you nothing… I’m shrunken again, a smaller mote… I want to buy you the tiny glass starfish you like, tiny and red… it costs almost nothing… why do you not let me… I am diminished again…

we drive on streets with colored lights and then go home… home… we go to a place where I live… we go to a closet where I live… I am of late beset by caves…

6:30 p.m.

you sit in the christmas chair after the gifts… how slowly, carefully you’d opened them… the past was always the rush, the rip… I’d watched you in the colored lights of twinkles and the white flame of candle, the fierce burn with the gentle light… low light of campfire in a cave, the walls close in the stingy space I drown in… I cannot give us space, but there is nothing harsh for light, nothing harsh for words…

I’m sad that the gifts for you are so few, but don’t say it… sad that the gifts are so few, remembering the untied ribbons, remembering how gently you held the glass with the silver snowflake, saying you would never burn a candle in such a glass… I take the pictures, but only when you’re gone understand they are too few… I took the pictures with my dinosaur of film, and only when the time was gone saw there were too few… and then, in a blow, in a blast of shrinking even smaller, remembered that you’d taken (with your phone, with your digits) not a single one of me

only an hour after the gifts, a scant hour more in the christmas chair, you go to bed… I shame because the bed isn’t one I give you… the bed is a couch downstairs in the room they call common (common to the poor, common to those kept in subsidized cells)… the bed is a serendipity… it’s nothing I provide…

I lie on my loveseat (no bed for me either) wondering if you sleep… the first time I check on you I walk in, say something I’ve forgotten, see you’re comfortable… the second time I only peek through the glass: you’re safe…

sunday 1 january 2012, four a.m.

a week ago… a moment… an age… (time is relative… time warps… it bends)… did einstein know he was mapping memory, mapping heart and soul…?

at dark black morning under half a million stars, I left…  walked the alley that had once been ours, all of ours (yours too)… climbed turquoise stairs to the turquoise slide as once I’d done with the puppy whose life you’d saved… vertigo kept me from calling back that moment in full voice… vertigo stole my star-show first, and after that the clouds…

there I was walking, talking, tossing the flowers… there I was raging at the huge grey hulk that had stolen my christmas stars away… raging, cursing all randomness… cursing until, behind the block where we once lived, those clouds dropped down a paucity of christmas flakes… even for such stinginess I rejoiced: christmas day flakes… one, just one, landed on my cheek, stung that old, sweet sting of our snow (you were once a snow-girl, like me)…

I did those things out there at four a.m., the things I do on christmas and all year, but had you, just this once, to come home to… home… had you, just this once, near my cave to return to…

today, a week later (a week, a moment, a month…) there was the fog… fog that came last night to watch our year drop dead… this fog that likes it here and has stayed for new year’s first cry… today you are not on that couch when I come in from the dark… today I don’t return to you…

7:10 a.m.

who says there are no christmas miralces (you came, didn’t you?)… who says… we listen to the baroque, talk, watch darkness go to light… out of the blue, as we say, you stand, go to the window (I have only one… am beset by caves, by lack)… it’s snowing, you say… I look and see… it’s snowing (who says there are no miracles)… the flakes in the alley were just a taste… now it snows a flurry… snowflakes on christmas so rare here… I tell you this… so rare (and they have come when you have come)… I smile the biggest smile my face can make (and this is rare… I am autistic; this is rare)… yippee erupts from my throat, my mouth, without design, and this yippee is rare, it is real… I am thrilled for real, and have not been thrilled in years… who says there are no christmas miracles… not I, the atheist, because I’ve known them… I know them again this moment: you are here on christmas day, and snowflakes fall…

12:21 p.m.

a week ago… two minutes… a lifetime…? how long ago was it, exactly…? how much heart-time, soul-time, has passed since we went to that woods…? we went to that woods you’d never seen… went to that woods stolen from me nearly four years (a lifetime? a moment?)… went without my dogs, one of whom had once been yours… I hate him, you’d said (how often you hate me, and I you), and you’d left him behind… I’d kept him as to my custom: open arms and heart… loved him with my customed fervor till they stole him from my arms… walked that woods without those dogs for the first time since the theft, and you walked with me… how much shock I felt when you said you would go… to go where you knew I would feel so much pain, and you despise my pain…

you listened to every name of every spot and pool and tree that had been sacred (still sacred, still, though dogs are dead and gone)… you held in your rage… held it in almost complete (don’t worry: almost was good enough)… one hour in this sacred woods… an hour I’ve waited for these years… how totally unthinkable that it was you who gave that hour to me… who says there are no christmas miracles… not I, not the atheist…

4:10 p.m.

you come back from an outing on your own… you walk through the door, my keys go to the vanity… can’t remember now how it happens… how does it happen that we speak about my art, my photos, the music I once wrote… strain and strain the memory, for nothing… can’t remember how it started…

you come back… you give me fifty minutes of attention to my work… most of the work is old, from the nineties to four years ago… don’t do much new art now… you recognize the tree from in ’02 (I’d sent it to you on a bookmark, and forgotten)… you look at other little pieces on the walls… I take down the fairy photo, tell you how I did it, the mistakes I made, and yet it turned out as I’d wanted it… I go to the computer, show you a few things more… you pay attention, attention… is this interest real…? it feels so… for the first time in your life, it feels so…

I dare a further step… open a page of music… show you that I try to make use of the costly software… it’s hard for me, but I try… another shock, my lunge again when you ask to hear the song… you ask to hear the song… I hear the words, see your face as you say them… but can’t believe…

the computer plays the song… you ask for another… the computer and I obey… I can’t believe… a week ago this moment (a day ago, a year ago?), I hear and can’t believe… the songs are ages old… I wrote them outside your bedroom door, the notes outside your bedroom door, the words… you didn’t care… no spark of interest that was real, no pique of curiosity… you didn’t care… yet now you ask for the notes… I can’t believe… am beset by shocks…

a little after five we go away… off again to santaland on griswold (the first time I hadn’t brought the camera)… I take eleven shots, eleven minutes (how many do you take?)… only later, when you’re gone, do I shock again to think we took no photos of each other… no pictures of each other with the christmasland… no pictures of each other

if allowed, I will defend myself (a defense too weak?)… will say that in your stay I took five shots of you (though not at santaland)… and you took none of me… you did a plastic gnome, a pink sunrise, who knows what else… but never me… the face not seen ten years… you did the plastic gnome, but never me…

(and just on the side, just as an echo of family you had… of family I once thought you loved… just on the side: your grandmother’s eighty-two today… there in that place where you live, there far and gone from me now, and from snow, do you remember…? remember her…? know it’s her birthday…?  if you know that, that’s something… but I know you don’t know eighty-two… you don’t even know how old I am… can’t keep it straight how old we are, any of us… we matter so little, family you had… family I once thought you loved…) 

a week ago today (it’s just a week… a week is only seven days)… a week ago today you took me to my woods (a shock), you asked about my art (another shock)… gifts not from the bankcard, but from you… gifts that shocked, overwhelmed with their largesse… and yet today, a new year’s day, you will not call me back… it’s only a week ago… you don’t call me back…

from santaland we go to jake’s… (for you, for you, since you have done for me)… for your sake I enter a bar on christmas… (to say it even now I cringe) for you I am in a bar on christmas… I who hate bars, I who hate drink, who loathe the stink, the drivel, the culture of drink… I who hold christmas sacred (though an atheist, a godless one), sit in a bar on christmas day… and no, it isn’t any bar… I go into the bar next door, most hated bar on earth… most hated bar whose drunks torment me with their noise at tables out of doors in summer, spring and fall… I the non-drinker, the atheist christmas-holder, sit in the most hated bar on christmas, drink tomato juice, hold my revulsion at bay… I do this ugly thing for you, since you have done for me some things that make you cringe… I put this stain on christmas day because you’ve done for me…

9:20 p.m.

you return from the room they call common… the man on the couch plans to stay all night… the man is there, and you won’t take the loveseat to sleep while he is there… can’t blame you, but I have no bed… can’t blame you, but my floor is hard… I want you to sleep soft, but there is none… the floor of this cell becomes your bed (now we are both beset by caves)… I lay the comforter doubled on the floor (there is little comfort between you and floor), you stretch out with your red pillow special for your bad-disk neck, your pricey velour blanket (this blanket is huge… velour is thick… how much did you pay?… I don’t begrudge you… am only curious) spread over you, head-top to toe… you sleep three feet away from me… sleep three feet away for the first time in twenty years… you are three feet away in the christmas night, a candle aflame… the twinkle lights lit… you are three feet away in my low-lit cave… I can’t believe… 

monday 2 january 2012, 3:30 a.m.

I can’t find sleep again… doesn’t matter… can sleep when you’re gone… have slept so little since you came… doesn’t matter… awake in the black morning, candle aflame… twinkle lights lit… you are three feet away… can’t believe…

can’t turn on the radio for pete and the classics… five a.m. will come, morning edition, can’t turn it on… might disturb you… you’re only three feet away (still can’t believe)… want to walk the dark morning like yesterday, can’t… you’re there on the floor but you’re leaving… have to stare at you on that floor, step over you in this cell when I need to pee…

you said, on christmas eve day, you’d stay till tuesday morning… later you said monday night… later still, monday afternoon… the first christmas in thirteen years is amputated to sixty-four hours… you’re leaving when you rise from that floor… I ignore the dark morning’s calls to me, and the river’s… I stay and watch you on my floor…

and then your head rises at seven… you stand up your length… the end begins… brushing hair, taking blanket and suitcase to car, back in my door to fetch another load… while I, holding my begging inside (please stay till tomorrow, please, please… after ten faceless years, please give me more day)… my begging would only bring the harsh words, the demeaning face… I hold my begging inside and pack up the food… corned beef and cabbage, cheesecake, cherry pie, maple syrup… I pack up the bag of food with a content façade, but the begging encaved inside me is already crying tears…

skinny fifty minutes from the floor-rising to sitting in the car beside you (last time)… riding to the store beside you (last time)… watching you make coffee at the front while I shop… watching the back of you make coffee for yourself (last coffee from this town)… the pleading for more time, for one day more after all the years (one decade or three? time is relative… it bends, it warps… the time on the clock is far out of synch with the time of the heart)…

how does it happen that so very soon, in a nanosecond, I think, we are parked again at the curb where I live… my shopping sits under a cherry tree, my camera in my hands… you lean against the car, I take the last shot on the roll (my dinosaur of film… I happen to love)… we make the hug again, same as we did on arrival… in sixty-four hours it has grown no tighter… still weak, still tentative and tenuous… still not a real hug… there’s a spit of snowflakes falling to say good-bye… you point them out to me, knowing I love them… (you were once a snow-girl, like me)… you drive away and I watch, the begging now roiling inside me… because of the little hill, your car vanishes fast, and now there’s not even a watching left for me…

I check the time (my asperger’s must always know the time)… you drive away at eight-sixteen… arrived at four-oh-seven, left at eight-sixteen…

one week later… no, it may in fact be a month… heart-time has a measure of its own… one week later, says the calendar… you won’t answer my call… one week later I am, suddenly (as suddenly as it has changed all the years of your life) no longer wanted, no longer deserve respect, or even courtesy…

suddenly a different thing has arisen from the floor of your brutal (for me) inner world, and I am (again) shunned… so it has always been… how, exactly, did your inner world shatter into pieces that won’t unite again…? you’re gone again… on top of that I’m shunned again… the ancient blows continue…

but… BUT.. you came… to the last second, I waited for the back-out… but you came… gave me more yule gifts than ever before… the ones that cost money, the ones that cost heart… that walk in my woods is the shiningest, and that, of course, you came… I’m shunned again, at least for a while…

I find some long hairs, your hairs, around the cell (beset by caves) and tape them to the bathroom wall… a physical part of you left behind unconsciously… a physical part I can touch… a part I can’t put in the wastebasket… these hairs on the wall: the desperate calling of blood to blood…

yes, for me, for who I am and how I’m made, the call to blood is desperate… the lack of blood is a cave of incompleteness, involuntary amputation, constant, unslakable thirst…


we flow, you and I… you loathe that flow, mostly; you dam and scorn it… but we flow, as all blood flows, and you cannot evaporate it, however you try… we flow, you and I… amid the grinding and scraping and letting of blood, we flow…

so tell me, someday before I die:  is the stream of me that flows in you despised beyond mercy…? is it as tiny, leached of value, as you seem to wish it…? will the stream of me that flows in you grow wider, grow even somewhat loved, when I am gone for good…? beset by caves, beset by shocks, in love with snow, I ask you only from a silent distance the words I won’t dare speak… don’t speak for fear of wrath, of cruel response: does the stream of me that flows in you have value? will you let it grow wider, stop damming it, when I am in the ground, the last cave, the one I never leave?


read…  twenty-ninth december  (companion piece)

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going darker

Page Four

thurs 25 june 2009       turners falls

yesterday some belongings were returned to me  —  belongings from my own life, which ended on march 11 of 2008. belongings that are dear because they are from my own lost life, but there was pain to hold them in my hands again and know that the loved ones I shared those things with are gone for good.       

I keep saying: it’s only one person’s story. but it’s a story of cruelty and devastation, and it will have ramifications for as long as I live. I have known other people in my life with such sheer devastation stories, and they have done very poorly, have been damaged forever. some people are more sensitive than others, more breakable, and amerikans don’t seem to want to know this. then again, amerikans don’t seem to want to know aynthing that makes them feel the least bit uncomfortable.

read…    a Sehnen post.

read…    The pygmies keep dancing


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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.


related post…   Emptiness  ~~~~~~~

a post on the new blog, Braonny. ~~

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where to go to find someone

Page Two

fri 20 june 2009     greenfield

where to wander to today… when you’re lost, when you’re so lost that almost nothing is real to you in any meaningful way. when nothing much at all has any real substance to it that affects you in a positive way, how can you explain that to other people? how can you take them with you to that place of the soul so that they can understand? do they want to understand? my own experience is that mostly they don’t, not even the so-called therapists.

the human soul, the human psyche are complex and not so easy to categorize as the mental health profession would have us believe. how do I describe to you how lost I am? how do I get you to feel that feeling, if only for a moment, so that you can know how bleak it is? I don’t know how.

the psyche… so well guarded for me by the lazy, undereducated, box-brained buffoons of the Department of Mental Health in greenfield.


related posts…      Emptiness  ~~  Nowhere

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