thursday 6 feb 2014


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.



read…   Scealta liatha…     Shadowpoems…

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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.


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





if he was any slower he’d be going backwards

if he had a brain he’d be dangerous

a la casa linga (sic)



licky locks

the great one

the piazza

god love ‘im


ha-past eight

clam up

go top shelf

that frosts my cookies

(more in future)


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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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a new November

Page Thirty-seven

Mon 2 Nov 2009, Greenfield

PETER    pumpkin-eater, hopping the trail

                    Sunday 1 Nov 1998

LAXA      mother, sprite, wee one; I’m sorry

                    Sunday 2 Nov 2003

2.  Friday 6 November 2009

 CHEWBACCA    snake-catcher, snow valentine

                     Friday 4 November 2005

  MELINDA    feisty, romantic, long time

                    Friday 5 November 2004

3. Monday 9 November 2009

SPOTTY      always content, gentle man

                     Wednesday 9 November 1994

4. Wednesday 18 November 2009

MUGSY arrives   Tuesday 17 November 1998

ROBIN        I’m just a kid again… (I’m sorry)

                     Sunday 19 November 1994

5. Tuesday 24 November 2009

CHLOE       How could I have known

                   25 November 2004