streams 5

tuesday 26 february 2013

Page One hundred twenty-three

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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?…

no…

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…

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read…  twenty-ninth december  

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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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another christmas carol

Page One hundred twelve
monday 6 dec 2010…   turners tightfists                                                                               

 

It’s very early; not yet 5:30 a.m. I’m listening to one of the Public Radio shows that my animals and I listened to for years. It goes on for two hours: I won’t be able to stand it that long without them. I never can.

This is the wandering blog, the one I’ve singled out for that concept.  And yet wandering, of the body and of the heart and of the memory, is there in every blog I’ve made since April of 2008. Haunting – ghostish, wraithy – came up new this year in this blog.  Haunting is what I very often do, and haunted is what I mostly am. The ghost of Christmases past, and only the past, because that is the only temporal place where my own life now lives. Where fourteen stolen, executed friends now wait for me, who waited for me for years and more years, every time I went out the door. No words describe better who I am since the day I saw them for the last time than ghost, wanderer, haunted.

Today is the sixth day that I’ll wander these streets in search of our Christmases in this poisonous town. Twenty-two of them. I’ll listen to journal cassettes of a very few of those Decembers. I’ll try to feel us. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not. This is the only deep and real thing now when Solstice and Yule appear on the calendar again: to feel us. Gifts are bought and wrapped for two human beings, only two. Gifts are bought for the guinea pig princess. A few decorations exist, but no tree. No more trees. No more the daily playing of the season’s music, which for us was a daffy, elcectic stew of baroque and renaissance and folk and classical and all the old standards. Silent Night in how many languages? Oíche chiúin.

Will I ever fry bacon again? So far I can’t. In 1999 I started a new yearly tradition of bacon on Christmas morning. Bacon for me and for cats and for dogs. We lived at 59 L Street then, Nookie’s insane asylum for drunks and druggies, he himself having been a member of that sterling club. Will I ever listen on the 24th and 25th to The Nine Lessons and Carols, sung by boys in England? So far I haven’t. Those nine stolen, lethally injected cats will never bat ornaments off the tree again and roll them under the furniture. Those three stolen birds will never chirp at the top of their little voices to their own particular favorites in our Yuletide musical canon. The stolen dogs, those two who remained, one half of what had been my pack, will never drool over the bacon and beef and lamb and turkey and pork again, or have their Christmas walks with me again, or lie down beside me for the Christmas day nap. So I wander around past the places we once lived and the places we once walked and wait to feel us, a ghost and an exile who can never step into those yards again, walk through those doors and take a look at those rooms we shared again. Barred, and barren, and a baleful little wraith.

Oíche chiúin. Yes, the nights are silent. Christmas Eve and Christmas night and Solstice, and all the nights of the year. There is an ocean of silence, a jabbing abyss of absent sounds that were part of my nights for fifty-five years: snoring dogs and breathing cats and nocturnal trips to the food dishes or the water bowls. A bird suddenly waking up and speaking in the dark. And breath, breath, breath: beside me, above me, around me: my friends, my children, breathing and sleeping in innocent peace. There is a huge chasm, a great ghostly vacuum. There is, having been brought about by the viciousness of unholy christian human beings, an endless string of lonely and grieving and murderous silent nights.

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read…    Being toward death…    Stolen stars

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.


f/r-a~g^m=e<n/t*s n^o/w (like me)

Page Eighty-seven

Tuesday 3 August 2010          Turners shards

                                      I and my muse,
                             we walk hand in hand
                           through this wasteland
                         of old, strangled dreams.
                                She brings the food,
                                        I bring the fire.
                 We look up to watch the eagle
                                      as she screams.
                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~

 

                                                                          That life that you were
                                       goes sailing,
                                                                         
                   sailing on breezes
                   and stars.
                         That death you died
                         is still alive,
                                                             and my whirlwinds all spin
                                                                          where you are.
                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~

 

     This night keens a song
of where sisters have gone
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                                                        The gods of this garden
                                           have all spread their grey wings
                                                                             and gone
                                                                        ~~~~~~~~~

 

                                                   Make the tea,
                                          while the willow beside us
                                                   is weeping —
                                              You have loved here
                                            more than is your way.
                                                  Make the tea,
                                         while the sorrows inside us
                                                 are steeping —
                                                       You have lost here
                                               more than the willow can say. 

                                                                    (sbe znggurt)

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These are pieces of poems and/or song lyrics that I wrote while still in my own life. I no longer have the written copies of them in my possession, and the brain has retained only these pieces of each one.

To the Poetry Page   (and photos, and other matters)

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And now September, and other fragments of things whose hard copy is lost, float around in the brain.

Light the candles again 
when the night presses in,                           
light the candles for peace, for relief.              
There are no words to say                            
at the death of the day                                
that cannot be said best                              
by this light.                               
Bring light here.                          
Bring here the flame.                  
                                          See the sun paint the floor
                                          the same way that it did
                                          when you stood in that spot                              
                                          for the sun.
                                                   I miss you.
                                                   I miss you here.
                                         And the tree in the back
                                         drops its leaves to the grass,
                                         one by one,
                                         to amuse only you.
                                                          I love you.
                                                          I love you still.
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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2009-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

 

wading

Page Forty-two

Tuesday 8 December 2009…  Turners Falls hauntingly

Body and soul as if wading through mud, the deep, heavy mud of the second November and Thanksgiving without my own life and my family. And now the second December, and Solstice and Yule. I don’t want to move from my bed in the mud. I have to wrench myself, force myself out of it, as if out of quicksand.                    

Dear, sorrowful memories of 2007, our last holiday season together. Ugly memories too: of eviction, of the Department of Mental Health doing nothing at all to keep some of us together, of unrelenting harassment by the mafia-connected psycho-tenant, and finally harassing her back. She gave me the opportunity, and I took it. But the time and energy spent returning her harassment took time and energy away from being present with my animals, just before I lost them.

Not only a ghost who both haunts and is haunted, but a flimsy ghost moving through mercilessly thick mud. Wandering, wading; always tired, always beaten down.

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the fall

Page Twenty-nine

Friday 11 September 2009…   Greenfield

It always happens… after I go to Turners Falls for a couple of days, walking among my memories and the places where my life that was my life took place, I fall. I start falling before I even get on the bus back to Greenfield, knowing it will be nearly a week before I can go back. Fall into deeper emptiness, deeper loneliness, deeper fear of existing day after day in a life that’s not my own. Deeper anger. Withdrawing more and more into my Aspergers self.

That’s where I am again today, knowing I can’t return to Turners until Wednesday. Knowing I have to find whatever ways I can to murder away every minute until then. Knowing from my therapist that I was supposed to get my animals back, that there had been a plan that was kept from me. Knowing that it fell through, but not knowing why. And this week finally an admission that I will probably not ever really get over this, this stealing of my whole family in one day. Thank you, sir. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. He’s a good therapist, but he has that unwillingness that they all have in mental health professions to accept that some people don’t and won’t get “well.”

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(jewelry at www.gaelsong.com)