grief, bitterness and rage

Page Thirteen, website outline

Yes, some of the unpleasant emotions no one wants to talk about, or hear about, or feel. Most people, when they feel such emotions as these, stuff them immediately down into the subconscious. There they create all kinds of ugliness, but since most people don’t pay any attention to what’s roiling around in their subconscious, and how ugly a lot of it is, they don’t care. But all this stuffing comes out in their behavior, whether they choose to accept that or not.

I do not stuff anymore. When I catch myself pushing something down, I do my best to drag it back up and look at it, so that it won’t make more mess in the subconscious, and so that I can live in my own truth. This is at times extremely difficult to do, and sometimes takes months. I do feel grief for the fourteen animals taken from me all at once. I do feel rage at all the individuals who got together and accomplished this abusive feat. I do feel bitterness regarding the amount of trauma others have visited on me in my life, and the damage it has done. I’m not going to pretend otherwise, or euphemize these feelings, or stuff them.



My friend recently sent me this poem on bitterness, and once I read it, I remembered I had read it way back in high school. If Stephen Crane were alive today and trying to get this poem published, I bet no one would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Bitterness is passé and politically incorrect and socially unacceptable (as are rage and grief as well).


                                                  In the desert

                                     I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

                                    Who, squatting upon the ground,

                                       Held his heart in his hands,

                                               And ate of it.

                                       I said, “Is it good, friend?”

                                 “It is bitter — bitter,” he answered,

                                               “But I like it

                                           Because it is bitter,

                                      And because it is my heart.”

                                                           ~~  s.crane

And so it is with me. I accept my bitter heart, my grief, my rage. I don’t try to eliminate or change these emotions, unpopular and castigated as they may be. They were created in me partly by the Asperger’s that so alienates me from neurotypical people, partly by my immune system that disabled me and kept me from working to get the money that would have kept us safe, and partly by the deliberately cruel actions of other people. And while I could not control being born with Asperger’s and with an abnormal immune system, those other people could have controlled their impulses to cruelty, if they had chosen to. They did not.


read…   Spite and malice…   Lifelines…      

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.




Page Twelve, website outline

The problem with justice in my existence, is that I can rarely ever have any, either legal or moral. I can never have justice against the mentally disturbed landlady who illegally evicted me, or against the Department of Mental Health that sat back and let my life be destroyed (thereby taking very good care of my mental health), or against the underhanded, undercover, illegal protection that Matthew Lacoy told me I was in. Many people have told me I can’t sue the feds, and I believe them. I could sue the DMH, if I had the money. I don’t. And they knew that when they sat back and let my life be obliterated.


When everything you define as your life is illegally and immorally destroyed by other people, you want some justice. You want some of these people to be held accountable for their reprehensible conduct. At least I do. Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d just walk away and say that’s the way it is. There certainly are many people who would react that way, who seem to possess no sense of outrage at being illegally and immorally bulldozed by others. Who seem to have no fire in them in any realm of life. But I’m not a fireless person. I had fires for my interests while I still had my life, and fires inside for my deeply loved animals, and fires for horrible things happening all over the world: love fires and activist fires. If I’d been physically healthy, and if I’d met similar people, I might well have become an out-front, practicing activist for some issue or other. So I’m not at all the sort of person to have vicious things done to me by other people and by huge agencies, and not want some justice. But in the true world of living below the poverty line, you don’t get justice. People will perhaps shout: legal aid! Not here, not in Massachusetts. Legal aid will only represent low-income people for certain issues and in certain circumstances. Anything that doesn’t fit into their narrow scope will not be touched by them with a ten-foot pole, because they would not be paid for the work.

Before 2007, there were other issues. To name just two: No justice against the mother who took a house away from me; no justice against a woman who had two of my birds in foster care and refused to give them back, even when her boss and a lawyer told her she must. And on and on it goes.

What kinds of thoughts would a lifetime of people getting away with illegal and immoral actions against you engender in you? In me this repeated and repeated lousy treatment has left me with convictions that I’m worthless in the eyes of other people: they can do any damned thing they please to me, without ever having to be held accountable or make amends. And the certain knowledge that because I’m poor, I’m powerless. I have hired lawyers from time to time, for a few hundred dollars, to do very short-term letter-writing and phone-calling. But to launch a suit against someone is beyond my means. Poor equals powerless to get justice, to defend oneself against vicious crap. Worthless, powerless, disposable.


read…    Braon…   Spite and malice

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therapy (and psych drugs)

Page Eleven, website outline


         “What we call ‘normal’ in psychology is really a 
           psychopathology of the average, so undramatic
           and so widely spread that we don’t even notice it

                                                    Abraham Maslow


                  “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a
                    profoundly sick society.”

                                                                             Jiddu Krishnamurti

I found these two insightful observations in another text, written by a person who is neither Maslow nor Krishnamurti. I fear from the context in which I found them that these quotes are being liberally used by new-agers of the airhead philosophy variety to proselytize for meditation and yoga and letting go of ego and becoming one with everything, which are fine ideas if you don’t go haywire with them and shoot out into the ozone. But most new-agers do shoot out into the ozone.

I, a committee of one, will turn these insightful observations to a completely different purpose. I use them here to condemn, fervently, this psychopathology of the average. To condemn, vehemently, the idea of becoming well adjusted to a very sick society. It is the succumbing to the conditioning that browbeats us to become part of this average, to become this so-called “well-adjusted” robot in the sick society, that is partly responsible for allowing the sickness of society and the lacklustre of the “average” to proliferate to their current malignant levels.

And now a hypothesis of my own (formed with evidence garnered from much personal experience):

       Many people who go into the psychology profession, at any level,
       do so because they are pretty well screwed up. They believe that
       taking this course of study will make them better, and then they
       can hang up a shingle and make OTHER people better. Fraid not.

Let me qualify that a bit and narrow my hypothesis down to therapists in Franklin County, Massachusetts. While I lived the first half of my life in eastern Mass, I did have some very good therapists. But moving to western Mass has been a descent into ignorance, in the therapy world and in many other ways too.

I stopped taking the antidepressant (celexa, if that’s how you spell it) midway through December 2010, having started it about seven months before. The longer I stayed on it, the more tired and listless I became. Lowering the dose was tried, but over time the same thing happened. I still take the anti-anxiety, but an attempt to raise the dose from a half milligram to a whole one brought on the same tired, listless result. There are a great many things my abnormal immune system doesn’t like, and I don’t think it likes these drugs.

… Now it’s April 2010, and I don’t take the anxiety pill anymore either. Though I’d like an anxiety pill to use as needed, to take when it really flares up, they won’t prescribe them that way anymore. At least not here in Franklin County, where people make their own rules about absolutely everything. No, they make you take these pills twice daily and have the junk in your system all the time. I don’t want it in my body all the time, and neither does my fierce immune system. The longer I stay on any one of these “psych” drugs, the more side effects I have. A doctor told me twenty-five years ago when I had side effects that I couldn’t take these types of drugs and should never take any again. But they keep coming out with new ones, and people periodically talk me into trying one, and it’s always the same: the longer I take it, the more depressed I get, the more tired and listless, headaches, and more. I don’t think it’s ever going to be a match, my body and the psychobabble boneheads’ drugs.


read…   Lifelines…    Mental hell

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education and intelligence

Page Ten, website outline

I have education and intelligence in relative abundance, and therefore, ipso facto, I was not supposed to fail. While other factors in my life and in my nature were definitely in the way of any doing well, these two things I had in my favor, and was supposed to make success out of them. I thought so, and the neurotypicals around me thought so too. It’s yet another thing that people find subtle and not-so-subtle ways to punish you for: you were one who wasn’t supposed to fail. And since you did fail, we will punish you, or at the very least devalue you.

I spent nine and a half years in universities, which gives me shivers to contemplate now, now that it’s long over. As Kurt Vonnegut said more than once: How the hell did I do that? Truly, looking back, I don’t know, because the thought of spending most of every day on a campus now makes me start a headache.

So with education and native intelligence, you will surely make something of yourself, which, translated out of the land of euphemism, means: You will make your own money. You will buy your own home. You will not be dependent on family and on government agencies for help. You will not be a leech, a parasite. You will satisfy our clichés by pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and standing on  your own two feet. And if you don’t, you are worse than others who fail who lacked the blessings of high intelligence and good education, and we will disrespect you all the more.

And so it has been in the years since I went on disability in 1994. No one like me should be poor, should be getting government handouts, should be living in shabby apartments and driving ancient cars. You should be successful, at least financially. Many people have said these words straight out, and many others have adroitly implied them. You were not supposed to fail, and we look down on you for having done so.

How would these words and implications make you feel? Like so many other actions and words from my fellow humans, they have made me feel worthless. Because I could not turn my brains and talents and education into economic success and independence, I am a failed and valueless and highly disappointing creature. And don’t misinterpret, please: I do not define myself as worthless in my own eyes. It’s in the eyes of others that I am such a nothing. And it is both demeaning and debilitating to be thought of in this way.

If you commit the great indisgression of being a financial flop in our post-modern society, and if you further stomp on other people’s illusions (dare I say delusions) by being a flop in the presence of talent, education, and intelligence, then you are truly open to any old person’s scorn, or abuse, or garden variety insults, and so on. You have violated the delusional cliché that in amerika, anybody who wants to, anybody who tries, can have their own personal slice of the pie, and if you don’t have the pie, then you didn’t want it badly enough. You didn’t try hard enough. This happens to be enormous baloney. It’s amerikan propaganda at its most insipid. It’s a crock. It doesn’t work for everybody, doesn’t hold true for everybody, and it never has. Never, ever will.


read…    Lifelines…   Braonwandering

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Page Nine, website outline

                      “And you hate religion?”
      “It just seems juvenile, a child’s conception of reality.
       I’m always a little surprised when I find reasonably
       intelligent people who haven’t outgrown it.”
                   Rebecca Goldstein
                   The Mind-Body Problem

Yes, I’m an atheist, and have been for many years, and have no intention to change that.

I’m an atheist. When I say that to some people, they get this truly mean-spirited look on their faces. The same look I get from some people when I say “I have 14 animals,” or “I have 25 animals.” A look both irritated and appalled, as if I’d just said “I burn babies in my backyard.” Having a lot of animals and being an atheist, these are apparently completely reprehensible things: like burning babies in the backyard.

There are also people who like to say to you, “There are no atheists in the trenches.” This is an old saw that comes from wartime. When you are in the trenches and being fired upon, you cry out to god. Well, I’ve been in the trenches. The trenches of the psychological war that has been my life, and since I became an atheist at the age of 23, I have never once cried out for  a god when I was suffering so much that I didn’t think I could take another step. I have, however, cried out for human companionship and empathy, and have usually only received it in very parsimonious fashion, if I received it at all.

And there are the endless attempts by Christians to convert me. Christians both Catholic and Protestant cannot simply accept me as an atheist: they must try to bring me back to god. Since I was raised a Baptist, duly saved and born again and baptized by immersion, they see me as simply having wandered from god, from my true and legitimate state of christianity, and I only need to wander back. Back to the one place they see as right and good. The one place where they can see me as right and good. Why can’t they just leave me alone, leave me my own beliefs, and take me as an atheist. I don’t try to convert them to my way of belief. Why are christians so bloody arrogant that they take it as their right to nag me and plaque me over god.


read…  Mishibone Neverending solitaire

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Page Eight, website outline

Foreign languages were an enormous interest in my life from 4th grade (when they started us on French lessons) to age 55, when my own life was obliterated.  And in all those years between age 9 and age 55, I studied, both formally and informally, ten or more languages. When I tell this to people, they immediately want to know do I speak all those languages. No, I don’t. And that wasn’t my intent, except in the case of German, which I do speak. All of the others were studied mainly because I was a grammar nut. I liked to learn enough about a language to have a good idea of how its grammar functions, how its sound system works, and learn a certain amount of vocabulary. So that I could read a bit, learn songs in that language and understand them, things like that. Not so that I could take a plane to whatever country and start babbling away.

Prior to the eviction two years ago, I had it in mind that before I was dead or senile I’d like to learn something about Finnish and the Greenlandic languages. I didn’t move fast enough on this, and the eviction happened, and with it the end of most of my interest in anything at all. While I was living outdoors for two months in 2008, I did get a Finnish book from the library and took what was my first look ever at that language and how it works. The verb system was terrifying. I must be getting more chicken in terms of grammar as I get older because I’ve certainly met cantankerous verb systems before (the Irish one is a good example), but that Finnish one made me say: well my life as I knew it is over anyway, and my interests have pretty much been beaten out of me, so I don’t ever have to make myself look at this verb system again. And so far I haven’t.

So there’s a hodge-podge of languages sprinkled about in my blogs. I don’t know anything about translating with a computer, whether one needs to know what the language is before translating, or what. And it doesn’t matter to me. The languages are there on the page for me, because of their significance to the life that’s gone. Because sometimes I want a phrase, when I read it, to sound and to look a certain way.

I have indeed acquired several books in recent months for languages that I only just started to learn years ago (Dutch, Danish, Norwegian), and thought I might now go further. No use. It’s as doomed as reading is, as doomed as listening to music, as ripped into thin shreds that blow around in the wind as so many other parts of me are since three women let loose their fierce mental illnesses on me and my poor animals.                                                                                                           


If you’re a bit of a language-nut too:

French 1.  ~~    Flemish/Dutch 1.  ~~    Latin 1.

German 1., 2.   ~~   Greek  ~~  Irish 1.   Irish 2.  ~~  Welsh

Or you can go to an English post that has little wanderings in some other tongues, right here.


read…  Being toward death…   Sehnen

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

poetry, and other arts

Page Seven, website outline

what I consider to have been my own life, my real life, ended on 12 march 2008. this page is a sort of sampler of things I was intensely interested in during the first fifty-five years before that happened, things that are now nearly completely gone from my days, as the result of trauma.  an archive of a lost way of life, lost pieces of myself. for myself primarily, because who else cares about  the person I was before the assault of some aggressive, disturbed and unprincipled people.


writing poetry began at age nine, and reading it even earlier than that. I continued to write poetry all my life, but have written (as of 2010) only one poem since the summer of 2008 (One New Try). during the summer of 2008, the first summer after my life as I knew it was destroyed, I wrote a collection titled Naked in Cold Space, in the very new and raw pain of what had been done to me and my animals. a few links to some of those poems are still here, waiting to be moved into shadowpoems.

#23 ~~   #24 ~~  #25

#26  ~~  #27  ~~   #28 ~~   #29
Naked in Cold Space has never been re-done, which is what you’re supposed to do with your first draft of a poem: re-do it until you consider it to be as perfect as you can make it. but that will never happen with these poems. I put them onto the internet in 2008 just as I had written them in the health food store and bart’s cafe and cafe koko and wherever else. I wrote them by hand in a little notebook, and then fled greenfield in august of 2008 before all the poems had been copied into my blogs. when I have an apartment, I hope to get that little notebook back from a woman’s barn. then the rest of the poems can be added, and added just as they were written in 2008. the naggy, ex-poet part of me knows I could make them technically, artistically better if I re-worked them. but the mother in me, the broken mother’s heart that wrote those poems by hand when the stealing of my family was a very recent event, wants to leave them in their original state. the broken mother’s heart wins out.
poems and lyrics before November of 2010 are at  shadowpoems. newer poetry is at  scealta liatha.


sometimes I quote other people’s poetry, if you care to see any of that:

yeats 1. ~~   Frost 1. ~~ Frost 2. ~~   Grace Paley ~~  Kenneth Patchen 
Louise Bogan 1. ~~  Bogan 2.
Opal Whiteley ~~  Anonymous 1. ~~  McLean
between 1994 and 1997, I went on a big songwriting binge. lyrics to some of them are here now:  here for lyrics to Brave Hearts.  ~~   Dying Ribbons ~~  L’Abandonnée ~~  Serenade ~~  Winter

I had other interests, too, during my own life. Music, art, animals (which I can’t emphasize enough), literature, philosophy. Most of that is repugnant to me now, too painful. Most of it I can no longer approach, since the destruction of life as I knew it nearly two years ago. But in the early months of my blogging, I still touched on these subjects, because, though my animals and I were separated, I believed strongly that the DMH would find us an apartment and reunite some of us (and in fact I’ve been told by someone in a position to know that there was a plan to do so). Later, after Matthew told me that I was being protected by himself and his fellow feds, I believed that they would locate me somewhere (as they do with most protected people) and give back some of my family. I told Matthew in no uncertain terms that I wanted his “people” to give me this home and protect me in a humane way. He never once said that relocating for protection was not going to happen for me. So I did many months of waiting, and believing, before I gave up on this home and gave up on all of my animals as lost. Since that time, since that giving up, that realization of total loss, I cannot pursue most of the interests that had exhilarated me for decades.



This was another serious interest I had, from about 1992 to 2008.

I took this fairy in 2007, set it up as a still-life. I used a pewter figurine and some chunks of amethyst and quartz crystals placed on the top of the lower window frame. Then I waited for the cloud to move into position behind the fairy.


 An ice storm in 1995.


An oak tree from 2004


Sunset Moon, 2007.


A bog in the woods where I walked my dogs before the eviction. Mishi loved to lie down and wallow in bogs, and this was his favorite in that woods. In the spring the bottom of it was mud as black as night. The blacker the mud was, the better he liked it.


More storms, this one in 1996.


Another sunset, from just a few days before the sheriff’s deputy came to put us out in March of 2008. I deliberately shot it through a window screen because sometimes I like that somewhat blurry, somewhat grainy look.


It’s obvious I don’t use a digital camera — can’t afford it. To certain eyes it will also be obvious that I don’t even use a manual camera (the usual vehicle for art photography, journalism, etc.). Same reason: can’t afford it. But beyond the reason of finances, I have another ground for using an automatic, affordable camera and affordable film for my art photos: I resent the elitism inherent in the notion that beautiful, artistic pictures can’t be taken with an ordinary automatic camera. Yes, they lack certain features that a manual or a digital shot will have, but does that make them less valid as art? In other genres of visual art, anything goes. And no one form is more valid as art than another. So why this snottiness in photography? On a certain level, I’m glad that my finances have always forced me to use an automatic camera, because I’ve been forced at the same time to do what I can to rebel against the photography status quo, however unapplauded that rebellion may be.




Once I was done with universities for good, I kept telling myself I was going to do some self-study of philosophy. Years went by before I actually started to do this, and unfortunately I hadn’t been doing it long when everything I knew as my life was taken from me. I’ve even bought some more books on the subject in recent months, but as I’m usually incapable of reading a book anymore, there they sit.

While I still had my animals and an apartment and my own life, I decided to dive in at the deep end and read Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. I even considered trying to get a copy in German, but in the end didn’t. I’d heard many times how abstruse and difficult Kant is, so I settled on English. Well, there were many times when it didn’t seem at all like English I was reading, but it was. Once in a while I would grasp a paragraph. I used the whole six weeks the library allowed me to get through a few chapters. It was arduous in the extreme. Later I heard various philosophy professors on the radio saying that they didn’t understand all of Kant, and that in fact nobody did, and nobody ever had. That made me feel a little better, because I’m by no means an intellectual lightweight, but that Kant was agony. Well, apparently he’s agony for everyone.

I’m very taken with a good deal of Socrates’ thought, and I’m equally taken with Heidegger’s idea of being toward death. It’s what I was doing all my life, only I didn’t know it was a bona fide philosophy until I read about Heidegger’s giving this idea this name. I had death hanging over my head for a long time, at least according to my doctors, and it started when I was only 2 or 3 years old. That must have been when I made an amorphous, toddler’s decision to try to spend the time I had doing things that had meaning and purpose for me. And the greatest sense of meaning and purpose and being toward my inevitable death was always, for me, living with and taking care of my families of animals.

From 1994 to about 2005, I read a great deal of what Cathcart and Klein (in their book Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar) call “airhead” philosophy. In different words, new age philosophy. In the end I became forced to agree with C and K to about 80%: I’ve decided that about 80% of new-age philosophy is airhead philosophy indeed, but I do still find about 20% of it valid to me. I have cherry-picked from the new age, taking for myself the bits that have meaning for me and throwing away the rest. Sam Harris would castigate me for this, as he’s very negative on the subject of cherry-picking (I’ve cherry-picked from him too), but I don’t share his antipathy. I think we spend our whole lives cherry-picking, in many different areas of living. Selecting from a certain batch or set or book or whatever, that which has appeal for us as individuals, and leaving the rest on the ground, so to speak. One of the things our brains are designed to do is to make selections, and this we do; and while I abhor a lot of the selections that a lot of people make, the basic tendency of the brain to select isn’t the problem. I probably have the opposite antipathy to Sam Harris’: I’m very much against swallowing anything whole: whether it’s a philosophy or a dogma or a manifesto or a constitution, whatever. I find the idea of swallowing anything like that whole repugnant, and I’m extremely bored by, agitated by, and wary of people who do that kind of swallowing.

read…  Being toward death



Another interest that began in childhood. But I always had a rather fickle reaction to my desire to draw: I’d do it for a few months and then leave it alone for years. The last time I started again after a long hiatus was in 2002, and stayed with it with more regularity until the eviction in 2008.


This is the last drawing I ever did on a computer, from October 2008 when I was living outside in Turners Falls. I hadn’t done more than four other computer drawings before this one, and the others are locked in my storage unit, perhaps never to be seen again. The computer art can be fun to do, in its sterile techno way, but for me, it would never have replaced getting messy with inks, paints and such-like.


Another abstract manifestation of anxiety, drawn with a mouse.








Agoraphobia 2010



While listening to music went on without interruption until I was 55, my own actual hands-on work with music (writing it, playing it, singing) was another thing with which I was always pretty fickle.

Ah, well, my singing career. I say that sardonically, the way I say many things. I say it sardonically, while at the same time wishing that singing could have been something other than a self-jeering footnote in my life. But that just wasn’t going to ever happen.


The point, for me, in writing about and showing a little about the interests I had in addition to animals is to underscore how very much has been lost as the result of the behavior of a group of individuals in 2007 and 2008. To emphasize how much soul-damage and heart-damage it’s possible for cruelty and/or indifference and/or incompetence to inflict.


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federal “protection”

Page Six, website outline

This is the subject that causes the greatest trouble, the greatest insult to my integrity and my sanity, the labelling of me as “delusional,” which I am not now, nor have ever been.

Being in federal “protection” was never, prior to 2008, something I ever thought about, and it has never at any time been something I lied about, or something I imagined.  It has been, since about July 10 of 2008, something I was told about, out of the mouth of a real-live individual calling himself Matthew Lacoy, and I have believed him. For reasons that are convincing enough to me, to both my intellect and my ability to pick up the seriousness in Matthew when he told me these things, I believed him two years ago, and I believe him now. If someday someone with any credibility, someone in a position to know, convinces me that Matthew Lacoy lied, then I will cease believing him. Such a person has not yet presented themselves.

But if your mind is so closed that you can’t conceive of an innocent person stumbling into an organized crime hornet’s nest and ending up in an extremely vicious form of federal protection, then your mind is no doubt going to remain closed. I find that most people would rather hurl armchair diagnoses on the subject of what Matthew told me, than even allow a little space in their minds for the possibility that what Matthew said had happened to me could happen to anyone. So if you feel compelled to label me as something, then all you have any legitimate grounds to call me is gullible, or even stupid, for believing the things Matthew said and did. But you have no right to call me a liar, or to call me a delusional. There is no justifiable basis for such insults to my integrity and to the kind of mind I have.                                                                                            

This kind of situation, this undercover, cloak-and-dagger crap that I’ve had to endure, is by no means glamorous. Certainly I’ve known people in my life who will lie about absolutely anything in order to be on stage, to get attention. To minds like that, a situation like the one Matthew said I had might appear exciting and highly rewarding in the attention-getting department (if such a mind could get someone to believe them). But I am not one of those types and never have been. I’m not a center-stage seeker, nor a seeker after the bizarre and the titillating. My observations of the things Matthew and his colleagues did, and the things they said, and the way I was apparently (Matthew never denied it) used by them, did not give me feelings of being special in any positive way, or of undergoing something exciting. On the contrary, the words and actions of Matthew and his ilk left me with a deep loathing for this country, and for all law enforcement. That is what remains: a disgust for the US government and for any kind of cop anywhere.


read…    Spite and malice…   Sehnen


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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

stolen animals, fourteen

Page Five, website outline

Some people reading this page in the past have made the erroneous and mean-spirited assumption that these animals were taken from me because I abused them in some way, or because I didn’t take care of them.  That’s doesn’t happen to be true. They were taken because I was illegally evicted, couldn’t afford a lawyer, had no place to go with the animals, and the indolent dull-wits at the DMH didn’t bother to find us such a place. 


                                 Like the dew on the mountain,
                                 Like the foam on the river,
                                 Like the bubble on the fountain,
                                 Thou art gone, and forever. 
                                          ~~~ walter scot  


Tuuschi is the one up on the perch. He and Tammi, his sister and mate for life, were bothborn crippled in October of 1994. And yet they were as happy and loving and resourceful as all the lovebirds in their family. here to read more about Tuuschi, and here to read his poem. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


After the death of Tammi, Tuuschi the lovebird bonded beautifully with Canajoharie  the parakeet, and vice versa. They became great friends, but couldn’t share a cage because lovebirds love to bite the feet of other species of birds.


Manchmal wünschte ich, meine Zeit wäre wie Eis,

dann hätt’ ich so viel Zeit gewonnen.

Doch während ich darüber nachdenk’ ist ganz leis’

ein Stück von unsrer Zeit zeronnen. 

~~  reinhard mey 

Lizzie was born in 1988, and lived with someone else until I got her at age 3 in 1991. She was funny, and feisty, and very much set in her ways as she got older. Like all parrots, she could give you a bite once in a while if you transgressed her rules.


Brainse's name is pronounced Bransha. She was 8 and a half when taken.

Brainse’s the one sitting up gazing out the window, looking for things to bark at. The dogs lying with her are her father (Mishi) and her sister (Braon). Braon died several hours after this photo was taken, euthanized, as the euphemism would have it, on the operating table because of a raging, bleeding cancer on her pancreas. Mishi was also one of the 14 taken from me on 12 March 2008. (here to Brainse’s poem).

Some of the cats taking their nap. All taken from me, hidden in various places, and presumed euthanized. Back corner of bed: 


(7 and a half when taken) and 


(14 when taken). Front of bed: Chani’s two brothers 


(orange) and 

Abel     (tan)

here to Aram’s poem, or Abel’s

Judah and her son, Chan

Judah was 13 and a half, and Chan had recently turned 12 when they were both taken from me. Shiloh was first cousin to Chan, and also, of course, to Judah’s other two children, Chailin and Ziidjian. Judah’s the Siamese, and the black and white one gazing sadly out the window is Chan. I say sadly because it was hard for my cats at our last address on Millers Falls Road in Turners Falls. It’s a very busy street and I was too afraid of them being hit to let them out. Some of my cats had always gone outside when they wanted to, but Chan was one who’d pretty much always been an inside cat. And yet he would sometimes look out the window sadly like that.  ~~(Judah  ~~  Chan, and  his poem).



                    Manchmal wünschte ich, meine Liebe wär’ ein Haus,
                                  mit Giebeln die zum Himmel ragen.
                   Mal’ ich (euch) meine Liebe schon vergebens aus,
                                 will ich sie (euch) wenigstens sagen.
                                       ~~   reinhard mey  (with license)

 Shiloh, who was 15 and a half when she was taken, and two weeks later killed by the so-called animal “shelter.”   (here to see another shot of Chan; here to Shiloh’s Poem).

Here’s my male dog, Mishi, eating his supper. He was 10 and a half when they took him. He wasn’t adoptible, presumably, because of his age and his epilepsy, so I’m assuming that whoever fostered him did so only briefly and then had him killed. But I’ve not been able to find out for sure because the people who know won’t talk. Two years have passed, and they still won’t tell me any truth. Mishi was Brainse’s father.  ~~  This black cat is Ziidjian, when he was 11 months old, with our rabbit family (the albino rabbit, Frosty, was the father of all those babies). Ziidjian, along with his brother Chan and his cousin Shiloh, were killed at the local animal “shelter” on Monday 24 March 2008, just two weeks after our eviction. Of my 14 stolen animals, these are the only 3 for whom I know when and where and how they died  (here to read Ziidjian’s poem). Next week will come the two-year anniversary of what was done to us. I’d wanted to have at least one photo, even if the shots weren’t great, of each of the 14 on this website by that time. But most of my pictures are either in a storage unit or the barn of a friend, and I can’t get at them right now. So I’m one animal short for the anniversary: Chailin, the sister of Chan and Ziidjian, cousin of Shiloh, and daughter of Judah. She looked a lot like Chan, with less white on her face. And she was huge — the largest female cat I’ve ever had. Sorry, Chaili-beri. 
Chani, Abel and Aram… were siblings. Once they were past their kittenhood, they would rarely lie all three together anymore. They’d make some kind of a pair, and the odd one out would either lie down somewhere alone or with another cat who wasn’t a blood relative. And below, at long last, Chailin. It’s a picture in which you can’t even see her face, but it’s the only one in my possession at the moment. Now you’re here with your family, Chaili. 

read…   Stolen stars…     Sehnen



                                                                                                                          tá mé cailte gan thú

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 Page Four, website outline

As far back as I can remember (age three), there have been animals. At that time my parents had two or three dogs, some chickens, two cats and a parakeet.         

So, for all my days I lived with multiple animals. I consider my first continuous animal family to be the one I had in eastern Mass, from birth to age 32. And then at 32, I came to western Mass and started a second continuous animal family, from age 32 to age 55. It was the 14 remaining members of that second  family that were taken from me on 12 March 2008, as the result of the illegal eviction, and the complete failure of service from the Department of Mental Health and their contract agency, Community Support Services.


There’s a new animal now, since 31 October 2009, and for a person who had families of animals all her life, one animal is not enough. Not by a long way. I need to receive more love than that, and to give more love than that. But the fact that she’s not enough and never can be isn’t the new guinea pig’s fault. (read a little about her here).


read…   Ten little indians…   All my stars…   Mugsy’s book


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