Threnody

Page One hundred eleven

Tuesday 23 November 2010…       Tiresome Turners Fails

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Line by line,                                                                                                                     
the song of lamentation seeks its chords.
Word by word, a river slides to its waiting sea.
To the harp, sing the song?
To the theremin, sound the end?
To the wind, to the warp and weft,
to the grey-waiting sea?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Or to the former stars, now letting bloods of eons?

                               ………………………….

How large is emptiness?
How dark is black?
 
                                …………………………
 
Who will avenge the breath of truthful eyes?
Who will eat up the thieves of love?
Who will burn off  the poison and leave the snowflakes
free?

                               …………………………..

Let the stingy djin come back (say dreams, say screams),
come back with double-open hands this time,
to stand a lightning tree
with kindled justice in its hands (this time, this fiery dream),
on a scorching and relentless plain of sand.
                               ………………………….
Christmas roses fall from a hand, land on the current,
run far and further from hand, and eyes, and heart.
The Christmas roses are for you.
They are for us.
(to follow, to follow)
Silence rains on the heart’s picture-book,
rains in the spaces where the music lived,
on homely objects clutched out of debris.
Silence reigns; queen of the landscape of 
the clasp torn apart.
                              ………………………….
Let the stingy djin come back.

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(part of the book Being Toward Death)    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~   Share  ~~~~~  Fourth February

(dragon frame at www.gaelsong.com)

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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.

 

website ~~~~~~~~~   Share ~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

go bron go deo

Page Ninety-seven

words from a traditional folk song. in my own life, I had this hanging on the kitchen wall. haven’t had a kitchen since, over two and a half years. haven’t had a family since. nor my own life, as I knew it for over fifty years.

                                                                                                                                

 

website   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

beauty attends

Page Ninety-four 

                                                                                                                                               

                                             She is Dead

                                             She is dead, they said,

                       and they gathered up the things of her days.
                                        Life’s little spindle,
                                          her gentle ways,
                                   the hopes of her pleasing.
                                       Her little vigil hours,
                              the chest of her maiden dreams,
                                the flowers of a gladder faith,
                                   the lavender of old tears.

 

                                           Afterwards,
                                       in one old chest,
                               in the room she had slept in,
                                they  found the gentle joys
                                                       of her waiting years.

 

                                                                       ~~  opal whiteley

more opal  ~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~   Share ~~~~~~~

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Opal never got whatever it was she spent her waiting years waiting for. Neither did I. Nor will I. Some people just don’t, no matter how concerted are the efforts they make. There’s a great deal of randomness to living, and some people just get much more ugly randomness than others do.

                                                                      

 

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the scrapbook art I

Page Eighty-three

Wednesday 7 July 2010      Turners broiling

on kuuma

So… here to discuss yet another form of wandering I’m doing since the destruction of what was my life. Namely, the graphics on my website, of which this blog is a part. I’m wandering through photographs that I took in my own life, through little objects that I liked when I was myself, jewelry, and more. When I don’t have the actual things that were mine because they’re trapped in the storage unit or trapped in a woman’s barn and she doesn’t seem to want to give them back, I get things just like the ones that were my own. A great many things charmed me, and a great many interested me, back when I was still myself. So now I’m wandering through them all, trying now to construct a visual representation of who I was to the same degree that I spent two years blogging, creating a written representation.

Every single visual “scrapbook” paste-on represents some element from what was my own life. Nothing appears by random chance. Nothing appears that doesn’t have significance in the life I lived with animals and with my other interests for 55 years. Wandering through words this long time now, and memories. Wandering the streets of Turners in tears. Wandering through animals who have shared life with me. And wandering through pictures.

Art II    Art III

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~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

wednesday 13 january 2010

Page Forty-seven

Greenfield

Once, as my heart remembers
all the stars were fallen embers.
                                        ~~ roma ryan

I sang it for them, the song that begins this way, the song that isn’t one that I wrote… Sang it for them on Friday, Jan 8, when I went to visit one of my animal cemeteries. Left flowers for them there on top of the snow.

It was my first visit to that cemetery since 14 September 2007, when I buried the only male soulmate I have ever had, and he was a dog, not a man. My first visit to those graves since the day I buried Mugsy.

Update, Jan 2011: And now that cemetery has been taken from me too. The person on whose property it sits will no longer allow me anymore visits to leave flowers, plant plants, pull weeds. The human nastiness goes on, unrelenting.

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~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

thursday 12 november 2009

Page Thirty-nine

Greenfield

Wandering. If anyone’s  interested in getting a sense of how much I’ve wandered (physically, emotionally, psychologically) over the 20 months since my whole world was taken from me, you’d need to do a little wandering of your own in my other journals. You can click here to page one of the website, where there are links to the other blogs.

And I’m still wandering, but in a much narrower way. I don’t move from town to town anymore, and I don’t pay much attention to the present moment anymore. I wander through the past, because it’s all that holds any magic for me, any of my former self.

With a bit of an exception: Shiloh-Chailin. She’s almost two weeks with me now, almost seven weeks old, and in that short time I have been very sick twice. She’s getting a trial by fire. All of my animals for many years had to learn about mommy and sickness. I am often sick, and it’s usually severe, because of the anomalous immune system I was born with. Well, they learned about mommy and sickness: dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, guinea pigs, they learned. They were instinctively patient and kind when I was sick, and almost always on their best behavior. So little Shiloh-Chailin is learning now too. I have to come into the present moment from time to time for her. It is wonderful having an animal again: living without any was too selfish, too meaningless, too joyless and loveless. But it’s terrible too: after 20 months being animal-less for the first time in my life, and in shock, and frozen, and devastated, she is melting all that frozenness and bringing back the sight and sound and feel of all my other animals, and the things we did together. And that pain, that huge pain over the 14 who were stolen, is coming over me in a flood.

~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

my friends

Page Sixteen

Wednesday 12 August 2009

I’m haunting in Turners Falls again this morning, though I failed to do it yesterday and wish that I had. Yesterday was the exact 17-month point of our last day together (Tues 11 March 08). At this time on that day (11 a.m.) we were living our very last hour in a home together, ever. The sheriff’s deputy came at noon. Thanks to the scheming of a complete lunatic, my 14 animals and I managed to have the rest of the day together, until 8:30 p.m., but how shabbily we had it: packed into a van. Fourteen animals and 3 humans, packed into a van for 8 hours. This was very definitely one of those darkly mixed blessings: we had those hours together that we wouldn’t have had without the lunatic, and I treasured every minute we could still have. But they were hours full of idiocy and discomfort too.

On the next morning, the 12th, 17 months ago today, my animals and I were separated forever on K Street in Turners Falls. One of my dogs had run away during feeding the night before (I had been forbidden to do this feeding myself; it was performed by the lunatic), and four of the cats had escaped their carriers and migrated to a second garage that was crammed with stuff, and they were hiding in it. My three birds were inside the house of a very unholy priest, and I wasn’t allowed to see them. My remaining dog was hauled off to the town kennel in Montague, and the other five cats were taken to the “shelter” in Greenfield, which is no longer there. It took an hour, from 8:30 to 9:30, to tear apart a family that had been together for years. All of the animals had been with me since they were very young. And during that one hour I endured yelling, lying, laughter and insults from a man who is now dead. He was acting, all of it. The yelling, the insults, all part of a stage play he was doing, but why? Why; because I was supposed to get my animals back. Over the next two months I got that message phrased indirectly from a number of people: I was going to get them back. What happened? No one will tell me. A tearing apart that happened on that day and was supposed to be temporary ended up being forever, and no one in Turners Falls (these “christian” people), will tell me why. No one at the DMH will tell me why.

17 months ago today we had to be taken apart forever. I love you:

Mishi    Brainse    Judah    Mandy   Shiloh                                                                                     

Chan    Chailin     Ziidjian   Aram    Abel

Chani    Tuuschi   Lizzie     Canajoharie

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~

 

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blogging

Page Six

Mon 29 June 2009     Greenfield

Blogging has been yet another form of wandering for me. During the very worst 15 months of my life, I have wandered in many ways, and this on-line journaling is one of them. Different blogs to emphasize different aspects of my story. Blogs written to simply emote, to dump the emotion onto the page so I could carry on with another alien day. And now trying to update all these blogs, to fill in details and explanations that I left out when I was just emoting so I could keep going, keep walking streets, keep hanging around for hours in places I didn’t want to be in.

I have wandered through poetry, my own and other people’s: through languages, through telling small things about my precious, stolen animals, through rage and derision and anxiety and too many unanswered questions. I’ve done nothing but wander in all these ways since the day I lost my own life on 12 March 2008. Wandering in hope for so long that I would get some of my animals back.

here to more about meanderings and aftermaths

~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

part of the book Kaikenlainen

 

 

going nowhere

Page Three

mon 22 june 2009       greenfield                                                          

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

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

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

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related post…   Emptiness  ~~~~~~~

a post on the new blog, Braonny. ~~

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