I never had any intention to be writing on the internet. 2008 changed all that. Very drastic events in my life drove me to this public form of writing, and to public hopes that I could find someone to help me and my animals. I’d heard so much about everything that could be found and accomplished on the internet. The internet had been portrayed to me as a powerful place where even the poor could find help.

But it didn’t work that way for me. I didn’t find what I was looking for. And yet I kept on doggedly writing. Writing as a way to fill up the empty hours where my life used to be. Writing to keep from screaming. Writing to dump somewhere each day all the anger, sadness, and resentment that had been created by the year 2008. The hours and days are still empty. My life as I knew it for fifty-five years is still gone, and will stay gone. The grief, anger and emptiness still need to find a vehicle for expression, and writing is still that vehicle.

So I’m shaping a lot of this writing into small books, largely in the vignette. The vignettes are either newly written or taken straight out of blogs. I like the vignette style of autobiography, both as reader and as writer.  Two of the books, Lifelines and Mugsy’s Book, are written in the usual linear narrative. This page provides the links to these books-in-progress, as well as to the poetry blogs. Page One provides links to all books and blogs.

When I was a kid, we used to sing the Ten Little Indians song. Ten little written Indians, typed onto virtual pages in virtual colors by an actual human being with some Sioux blood on her mother’s side.  A little part-Indian driven to this phantom form of writing by the destruction of a life.

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1.     spite and malice    the details of  the landlady, the mafia-chick, the illegal eviction and destruction of the animals; the protection matthew told me about, and matthew himself.

     i.  ~  ii. ~ iii.  ~  iiii.  ~ 1.  ~  2.  ~  3.  ~  4.  ~  5.  ~  6.  ~  7.  ~  8.  ~  9.  ~  10.  ~  11.  ~  12.  ~  13.  ~  14.  ~  15.  ~  16.  ~  17.  ~  18.  ~  19.  ~  20.   ~

2.   all my stars   the animals of my life from 1953 — 2006

 ~~~~~~~~~~~   www.allmystars.wordpress.com    ~~~~~   40.  ~~  41.  ~~  42.  ~~  43.  ~~ 45.  ~x~  47.  ~~  48.  ~~  49.

3.   stolen stars      the fourteen animals stolen in 2008

        www.stolenstars.wordpress.com   —   (2.  ~  3.   ~  3b. ~  4.  ~  5.  ~  6.  ~  7.  ~  8.  ~  9.  ~  10.  ~  11.  ~  12.)

4.   being toward death    who I was before the destruction of my life in 2008, and who I am since then

      i.  ~   ii. ~  iii.  ~  1.  ~  2.  ~  3.  ~  4.  ~  5.  ~  6.  ~  7.  ~  8.

5.   lifelines    history from childhood on

                        www.braonny.wordpress.com

6.    mugsy’s book   mugsy the dog with issues

                              mugsysbook

7.   don’t ask    satire vignettes on a range of subjects

                      www.sehnen2.wordpress.com

8.   poison and snowflake trees    about turners falls, in massachusetts

                 www.turnersfalls.wordpress.com     

9.   neverending solitaire   my own experience with asperger’s syndrome

            www.autisism.wordpress.com   (deliberately misspelled)

10.  kaikenlainen    a stew made of blog posts that I like

               www.kaikenlainen.wordpress.com

{*}     The ongoing micro-saga of bill   ~~~~    wandering after bill

{*}      Strictly poetry  ~~~~  scealta liatha  ~~~~  shadowpoems

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 (blank books at www.gaelsong.com)

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Page Thirty, website outline

A blog I had on another website for a while in 2008 and 2009. I was living outdoors at the time that I wrote a lot of it, but eventually abandoned it. never did too much with it. I’m moving what I did write in the Judahblog here to WordPress.

I used this blog as a place to take a break, to stop telling the story of what had been done to my life by other people in as much chronological order as I could manage. I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to write;  I didn’t have a plan. I just sat at the keyboard thinking: what do I feel like writing?, and then I waited to see what would result. The results very often surprised me, because things came out that I hadn’t realized were down there in the subconscious niggling at me.

the link.

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 read…   Kaikenlainen…    Don’t ask…..

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wandering among some of those whose work has influenced me, and taught me

eliot                                                                        goethe                                                     jung

                        maslow                                                                   whiteley 

 krishnamurti                                                                    vonnegut                                                             patchen

                                     goldstein                                            heidegger                     

                     poe

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Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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                                                                                           to a pig

        to bill                  to a poem

                   to opals                                        to romance

to casting souls                                                                                                                  

to a blackworld

to the brightest stars                                      to blue Mishi                                www.braonwandering.wordpress.com

                                     to a ruby                                 to treasures

                                                                                                         to a child

 to a green moon

(these resin fairies are marketed by www.toscano.com.  I don’t get any kickbacks from these people; it’s simply that theirs was one of the catalogs in which I used to daydream back in my own life. I’d circle all the things I’d like to buy if I could ever get myself and my animals to a place of peace and relative safety. I did buy my lapharp from their catalog, but that was as far as I got before disaster landed. I’ll be using a great many of those daydream items in the graphics on this website, because those items and those dreams were one more mosaic piece of the life I shared with my animals.)

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As time allows, I look for interesting blogs to read.  In general I’m disappointed in internet writing, but there are, happily, exceptions. Nobody’s paying me to put them on this list, so there’s no need to be cynical. I don’t even know these people, with one exception. I do know Paulette Post Miller.

www.ariane5.wordpress.com… a fellow misanthrope! read about stupid people, it’s cathartic

http://www.thewuc.com…  this and that from an australian chick

www.tirissa.com…  a fantasy novel for young people, written and illustrated by willow.

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 for the voracious reader…  books I’ve mentioned in my website, and in twitter tweets.

~~~~~~~~  (book photo at www.toscano.com)  ~~~~~~~

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Dec 15 (2008)  ~~  Dec 15

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Dec 8  ~~  Dec 22   ~~  Dec 24  ~~  Dec 24  ~~  Dec 30  ~~  Dec 30  ~~  Dec 30

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Dec 1  (2010) ~~  Dec 1  ~~  Dec 1  ~~   Dec 2  ~~  Mugsy  ~~  Dec 4  ~~  Dec 4  ~~  Dec 5  ~~  Dec 6  ~~  Dec 6  ~~  Dec 7  ~~  Dec 7  ~~  Dec 8  ~~  Dec 8  ~~  Dec 9  ~~  Dec 9  ~~  Dec 10  ~~  Dec 12  ~~  Dec 14  ~~  Dec 15 ~~  Dec 15  ~~  Dec 16  ~~  Dec 16 ~~  Dec 16  ~~  Dec 17  ~~  Dec 19  ~~  Dec 21  ~~  Dec 21  ~~  Dec 22  ~~  Dec 26  ~~  Dec 27  ~  Dec 28 is at www.nemo-mentalhell.blogspot.com  ~~  Dec 28  ~~  Dec 31 ~~}

Page Twenty-five, website outline

Like the relating of things Matthew told me about my life, and things he did, remorse is a very touchy subject with people. And like so many other things, it has trickled down from the psychobabble boneheads to the general population that remorse = guilt = bad. You are not supposed to feel remorse, because remorse is just a squeak  away from guilt, and guilt is something we don’t feel anymore. We don’t let anyone guilt-trip us anymore.

In my own alternately wired, autistic mind I see remorse as something we feel when we truly believe we haven’t behaved according to our own definition of right and wrong, whatever that happens to be. We are acknowledging to ourselves that we haven’t held to our own code. If we acknowledge it to ourselves, and another person has been involved in this breaking of our own code, then it follows that, however difficult, we need to acknowledge it to that other person too.

And this is my premise for concluding that Turners Falls denizens either have no moral code whatsoever, or they have codes so skewed that I myself could never call these notions moral codes at all. Back in the fall of 2009, one Turners Fallsite told me she was sorry she hadn’t come to get me out of the little park when I was living there in 2008. I almost cried. One person from a whole townful of people apologized for leaving me in that park. I was moved.

Well, I needn’t have bothered being moved. Over the course of the ensuing month, this person turned out to be yet another Turners Falls wingnut, drama queen, actress, phony. I can’t take anything she said seriously. So my one apology from a person in this burg has been erased back down to zero. There have been no others, and I don’t expect there ever will be. All I get is more shunning, more gossiping done about me, more subtle forms of bullying and harassment. Moral code has never seemed to be a concept in this town, not since I came here in 1985.

And the whole nobody’s-gonna-guilt-trip-me thing seems to be very widespread in our culture now. People do not apologize much anymore over anything. There seems to be a tremendous reluctance among amerikans to admit to any kind of wrongdoing at all, as if admitting such a thing would be a complete annihilation of their adolescent, ridiculously fragile egos.

Update:  I wrote this post early in 2010, before I had moved back to Turners on April 1. Now it’s 2011. I’m back here for nine months, and still not one single Turners troll who left me living in that park in 2008 has expressed one syllable of remorse. Not one of the trolls who was part of disappearing my animals has said a single I’m sorry, nor has any one of them told me where and when my various animals were given the lethal injection. One of them did, however, show up on one of my blog posts in October 2010, using a phony name, to criticize me for criticizing the denizens of Turners Falls. They cannot spit out a single word of remorse, but they can despise me for my hurt, my anger, and my bitterness towards them.

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read…   Poison and snowflake trees…     Braon…

Share  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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       “Lbh ner gur fjveyvat gvzr V gubhtug V’q ybfg.

        Lbh ner gur yvtug bs zl avtugf.                                  

        Lbh ner gur erfg bs zl qnlf.”

Fb fnvq n zna gb zr bapr. N zna jvgu uvf urnq hc uvf fbzrguvat be bgure.

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Nxonfu II  and III

I reiterate yet again, ad nauseam, that I’m not delusional or psychotic in any way, shape or form. I’m not seeing weirdly spelled sentences appear on the wall of my dwelling unit (I refuse to call this space I wouldn’t give a dog to live in an ‘apartment.’). This is an actual code that was invented by an actual human being long before I was born. I learned it in a book, and so could you, if you wanted to. You can use this code with any language that has an even number of characters in its alphabet. I’ve used it here with English.

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V pnaabg tnva n pnaqyr,

zhpu yrff n pnaqyr guebat,                                        

urer va guvf yvtugyrff,

synzryrff pnirea,                            read…    Scealta liatha…

va juvpu v jnaqre,                                          Shadowpoems…

creuncf orybat.

                                 —- anxvf

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Page Twenty-three, website outline                                                   

The Pygmies Keep Dancing is the name of the only chance I ever had at some success — success as neurotypical human society defines it; success as those who believe that you are nothing if you don’t earn money define it (but not as I define it). It’s the name of a novel I wrote in 1994 and 95, when I was 41 and 42 years old. It’s a largely silly book, and was intended to be so. Midlife crisis? Sit down and write a silly book? I don’t know.   

I do know, though, that those who knew me took it for granted that if anne nakis ever wrote a novel, it would be serious and literary and probably too la-di-da for anyone I knew to want to read. That’s what I myself thought. So it surprised me as much as it did anyone else that when finally I sat down to write a novel, it turned out to be a silly one.

About six months into it, I sent the first five chapters out to some agents, and heard back from two of them (one in New York, one in Toronto) that they’d like to see the book when it was finished. I was as baffled as I was delighted: What do they want with this silly book?                                                                                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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There were those who thought the book was funny, including a brother of mine and a friend. And judging by the way the Toronto editor went on for a paragraph about the experience he had marketing humor, I guess he thought it was funny too. I didn’t quite know what to make of all this funny. I myself regarded the book as primarily an allegory on the human subconscious, set in a very fanciful future, and only secondarily somewhat humorous. But I kept my mouth shut. If others saw it as first and foremost a funny book, and had interest in reading it only because of what they saw as humor, then I wasn’t going to debate it. The humor I used I saw as sardonic at times, tongue firmly in cheek at others. Serious humor, to use an oxymoron, but I kept keeping my mouth shut.

I rushed to get the thing finished, knowing that rushing was probably not a good idea, but I couldn’t stop myself. Excitement was only part of it. The other part was a lifetime of experience watching neurotypicals change their minds from week to week, if not from day to day. I had always found people so inconstant that, although both agents had told me to take my time and send the manuscript along when it was finished, I didn’t believe them. I feared that if I took too long, and then sent the book off, I’d get a letter back saying: Who the hell are you? I never asked to see your book. I had started it in mid-May of 1994, and mailed it out on 3 May 1995. I was forty-two years old.

May 3 had been chosen as mailing day at least a month in advance, so that I would have a deadline to work for and thus keep myself on task. But the damnable randomness of living decided to rear its ugly head on that particular day, and three hours before I was planning to be in the post office putting my first novel into the mail, one of my cats was killed by a human driving a car. The sudden death, the sadness, nearly kept me from doing the mailing. I honestly don’t know exactly how or why I went on with it, considering how devastated I was. To this day I don’t understand how I could go through with it. Except for the time I was xeroxing the last few chapters, and then doing the mailing in the P.O., the rest of that day and night were spent in a blur of sadness.

I’d wanted to go with the Toronto agency, since it was the Canadian branch of a very big amerikan agency, and I figured that richer and bigger and possible distribution in Great Britain was better. But, like so many things, it came down to money. Big agent charged a hefty fee (for me) to read the manuscript, and the smaller agency in New York charged nothing. New York it was. In June I got an answer: the manuscript needed to be edited, after which she would read it again. A good argument against rushing. She gave me the name of an editor, I talked to him, didn’t like him one wee bit, and his fee was ridiculous. A few months later I found another editor on Cape Cod who would do it for half the New York guy’s price, and my mother gave me the money. Randomness struck again: some emergency or other happened, maybe with the car, and the editor money got spent. After all of this, I was completely depressed and discouraged concerning the book. By the end of 1995, the manuscript was planted on a shelf and never looked at again.

Jump ahead two years, to the fall of 1997. My depression over the book has begun to lift, and I find myself interested in it again. I am living back with my parents in a miasma of mental illness and psychological abuse, for both me and my father, that I never imagined would be waiting for me when I arrived. I decide to edit the book myself, and see this project as one way I can attempt to stay grounded in something solid amidst psychological chaos all around me. The book and the animals are my compasses.

But even that went south. My mother became so jealous of any time I spent writing, and any time I spent gardening, or being with my animals and her animals, that she would just ratchet up the bullying. I gave up, telling myself that when my situation got better, I’d go back to the book.

My situation never did get better, but only worse with every passing year. My mother’s changing a certain legal document and taking from me my future rights to the family home thrust me back out into the rental market with a lot of animals, and no more rent subsidy. Every year the finances were harder, the physical illnesses got worse, as did depression, anxiety and PTSD. Each landlord was more mentally unbalanced than the one before, with only one exception. From 1999 to 2003 there were many animal deaths, as happens when you have a large family, as well as the deaths of my father, his brother, my nephew and my housemate. All the fiction I had ever got started on — the finished novel, other unfinished ones, short stories and plays, got packed into a big plastic bin, never to be looked at again. That very bin is moldering now in a storage unit for over three years, and if I ever see it again, will I even open it? I don’t know. Since the stealing of my animals, the killing of them, the tossing me onto the streets in my fifties, I have only been able to write truth: journals, memoir, and much less poetry than I ever wrote before.

The only inner force that tries to compel me to promise to get at the novel again is one that comes strictly from the heart. I consider the novel to belong to the animals who watched me write it, just as much as it belongs to me. One cat in particular sat or lay beside the word processor nearly every time I sat down to work on the book, as if she were supervising the work. She died five months into the writing, and ever after that the time spent at the word processor was poorer, emptier. In honor of this cat, and of all the others who shared my life while I wrote, I’d like to go back to the novel someday. But it doesn’t look good at the moment.

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read…    Mugsy’s book…    Scealta liatha…

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My immediate future was shown to me yesterday afternoon (3/22/10), and I’ve been crying almost constantly ever since. What I was told would be an efficiency apartment turned out to be much worse than that — I’m claustrophobic, and a real efficiency would have been hard enough to be in for more than a year. But this thing the social service/housing system has for me doesn’t even rise to the level of an efficiency. I took my friend in to see it and she said, loudly and with real shock in her voice, This is it? This is like being in jail.

And a couple of hours after I saw this little box that I’m supposed to try to exist like a human being in, I had a full-blown panic about moving back to Turners Falls for the fourth time. This panic has been building for a couple of weeks, and yesterday it burst into full strength: I’ve lived among these despised people three times now, can I really do this again? My heart yearns all the time to the nature in this town that I shared with my animals, to the memories of me with them, and them with me. But can I withstand living among these ignorant, tight-fisted, inbred, phony-christian, anti-intellectual, anti-anne nakis individuals again? And the answer is that I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen.

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So now I am moved back to the toxic little burg on the river. Today, the 31st of March 2010. Two years and three weeks after the eviction. Thanks to the indifference (and underhandedness) of the Department of Mental Health, and the indifference of Matthew and all he represents, I was two years and three weeks without a rental unit.

Future Past                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Future Present  

read…   Being toward death…   Braonwandering…

 Share ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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