wandering around the blogs

Page Twenty-eight, website outline

                                                                                           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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remorse

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

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the future

Page Twenty-two, the website outline

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

 

 

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turners falls, in massachusetts

Page Twenty-one, website outline

                        “Human beings are a lot meaner and stupider
                                     than they think they are.”
                                           ~~~   Kurt Vonnegut
                                                     Timequake (I think)
 
 
                       Bite the hand before it feeds you;
                       feeds you poison, feeds you shame.
                       Bite the hand before it beats you,
                       beats you to a bloodless name.
                                                                       

 

Two days ago I was talking to a woman who said this, just about verbatim: I came here three years ago when I fled my ex-husband, and my life has done nothing but go downhill since I’ve been here. I’m doing everything I can to get out.

And I did that too. For years. After I’d been in this town about the same amount of time that she has, I wanted out. And I tried for years to get out. Finally, in 1997, I escaped back to my original town in eastern Mass, and found utter mental chaos going on in my family home. So again I tried with diligence to find another place to live, but one out there. To stay in eastern Mass and never cross route 128 again. But it didn’t work. After thirteen months, my daughter found me a place in Turners Falls that I could afford and would accept my animals, so that after only a brief escape, I was back. Back with a very heavy heart in many ways.

In 1992, when I’d been here for seven years, I had the idea that I’d write a book about this place with the title Poison and Snowflake Trees. I even began work on this book, but that particular word processor disk is one of the many, many objects that other people have deprived me of since 1998. For me that title completely grips the painful dichotomy that has always been life in Turners for me: the undeniable, mesmerizing beauty of the nature; and the equally undeniable, tenacious ignorance and meanness of the people. Poison for the humans, snowflake trees for the nature.  All these years later, I’m starting that book again, structuring it as a collection of vignettes that are the blog posts I’ve been writing about Turners for close to three years now, together with new writing.

This year’s crop (2010)              

                                                                         

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And now it’s April 26, and the snowflake trees have sprouted to six inches high along the canal. The cherry trees (the center of Turners is full of them) and the lilacs are blooming. The ducks want people to feed them. There’s a black squirrel living near the library. The Turners spring I know so well is in its happy throes. 

I walk in places where my animals and I used to live, where we used to walk, where we were so happy in each other’s company and so fascinated with every molecule of nature around us. I walk,cry and remember. And if the nature that we loved together for nearly twenty-two years is still here, still all around me as I walk and cry, well so is the poison. It emanates from every human body that I pass; it is in the words from their mouths; it is in their behavior.

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The flowers on this page: I can just hear the wheels turning:  There’s no such thing as snowflake trees. This broad’s really nuts. No, as far as I know, there is no such thing as snowflake trees. The common name for this plant is meadow rue, but when I found them I didn’t know this. It would be two or three years before I would find out the plant’s actual name, and in the meantime  — with my Asperger’s penchant for naming people and things in ways that fit them better than their real names — I called them snowflake trees. I’ve been naming things my own names for years.

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The snowflake trees and butterfly flowers (also known as milkweed) are blooming now; now being June 16. Nothing of the snowflake flower’s grace and nothing of the sweetness of the not-much-to-look-at milkweed flower can stem the human toxicity here. I’ve always wished that it could. That the sweetness of lilac scent and laurel scent, milkweed and rose could somehow alter the wormy psyches of these people. That the soft mist rising from canal and river could wash the nastiness out of them. But such has never happened, and I don’t suppose it ever will.

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Something I sometimes do these days: squiggling a mouse around a table to use the Windows Paint. I see this one as an abstract rendition of the anxiety,anger and dislike I feel among the people of this town.

                                                                Junktown 2010

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read…  Braonwandering…    Don’t ask

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the timekeeper

Page Nineteen, website outline

The timekeeper holds to the corner of his cave, breathing dust. Dust is the floor of this hole of his, dust is the blanket of his rocks, dust whispers and floats in every exhalation of his mouth. His metronome of old bones rests beside him, never resting. Tap, tap, tap, tap without cease….

…This cave is long, and I wonder do I go forward. I thirst already in this haven of dust. The tap, tap, tap makes me need the outside, the tapless air of the space around this cave. I am compelled by him to come closer, and can’t know why. Closer to the tapping and his dusted brown cloak, closer to his hooded head which shows me no face, closer to the barrenness he breathes. Turn. Turn around and make for the space outside the dust. But I do not turn. I stand still…

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(Friday 12 February 1999, and Friday 12 February 2010)

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…What does this give me to know, this stillstanding? Neither forward to meet the metronome and the faceless cloak, nor backward to breathe in open air…

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This bit of prose is something I started in 1997, intending it eventually to become a short story. I worked on it off and on over two years. It’s not here in its entirety, because its entirety is imprisoned in a storage unit, and I had to do this from memory. The reason it’s put here on the website is one that I choose at the moment to keep to myself. There are other prose pieces of a similar nature called Streams on the Braonwandering blog.

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read…    Lifelines…    Lucked out

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


a website, a scrapbook, an unamerikan story

 Page One, website outline

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turners falls, massachusetts

thursday 21 january 2010

why is my story unamerikan? the first answer is that  amerikans like to have stories about people who triumphed, despite having the deck stacked against them. the deck has been stacked against me since childhood in several very significant ways, and I have not triumphed. one of the things my story is is a story of failure, and amerikans don’t want that kind. everything must be horatio alger and bambi: the obligatory happy endings. nothing gets us amerikans down. we just keep truckin’ till that ole sun starts shinin’ again. to heck with all  that. didn’t I fall for that nonsense, and other nonsense like it, long enough? there are several other reasons as well that the true events of my life since 2006 are unamerikan , but I leave that to you. if you read enough pages, if you have a mind that can reason things out, then you’ll discover this other unamerikanism.

and the word story? there are stories that are fiction, and stories that are true. mine are true, with the exception of the single novel I’m putting on this website. you might choose to decide that some events I relate are not true, and that’s no doubt rooted in your own psychological longings for denial. but the set of your particular mind does not make a liar or a fantasist out of me. I’ve never in my life made up stories, except in the days when I was writing fiction. and I don’t imagine things. at times I misinterpret things, as everyone does, but I’ve never imagined events or people or space aliens or whatever. and if you find I misinterpret the words and actions of others more frequently than most people do, then the reason may lie in my autism, in asperger’s syndrome, and my great difficulty in grasping the indirect, tricky ways of other people’s minds.

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donna williams, an autistic woman who has written several books on living with autism, has these words about her view of the world as a child:

               the world seemed to be impatient, annoying, callous and unrelenting.

that’s how I also felt about the world as a child, and that is how I still feel.iIn fact, these feelings are stronger with every passing year. this quote is from her first book, Nobody Nowhere, and nobody nowhere is, vis á vis other people, what I’ve pretty much always been. I was someone to animals: someone lovable, someone of value (even if I am odd), someone they were always happy to see come into a room. it hasn’t been that way with human beings at all.

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and now March 2011, slightly more than a year since I started knitting all of my blogs together into a website. now things have changed yet again. I’ve changed my mind again about how I want to organize all this material. what can I tell you…. my life was destroyed, and that has changed me drastically, and for good. I’ve remained an internet writer much longer than I ever thought I would. I’ve remained this odd beast, an internet writer, whether I really want to be one or not. and I don’t, really. but I have no life — it was stolen. I have no animal family — they were hidden and killed. writing and organizing and doing images is a small anesthetic to the pain I live in daily. below is the most recent re-structuring.

the blogs that form the website:

 

                                       braonthree.wordpress.com  (you are here)
                                       braon
                                       braonwandering
                                       judah
                                       mishi  (asperger’s syndrome)
                                       sehnen
                                       mentalhell   (on blogspot)
                                       sehnen  (0n soulcast)
                                       small tales from rowley
 
two blogs of poetry only:
 
                                        shadowpoems
                                        scealta liatha   (fear not, poems are in english)
 
 
the books; ten little indians which may be turning into eleven:
 
 
                                        mugsy’s book  (a certain dog)
                                        lifelines       (autobio)
                                        don’t ask    (satire)
                                        spite and malice 
                                        all my stars   (animals)
                                        stolen stars   (stolen animals)
                                        neverending solitaire   (asperger’s)
                                        poison and snowflake trees  (turners falls)
                                        being toward death
                                        kaikenlainen    (a brother has died)
                                        lucked out     (a father dead a long time)
 
the eighteen-year-old novel:    the pygmies keep dancing
                               other novels:     dunvegan spell
                                                             she says
 
 
 
  
 
click here to new posts.
 

I belong to, and write in, a number of groups at experienceproject.com, under the name sehnen. follow on twitter: @ziidjian or @annegrace2.

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It’s going to take me approximately thirty-five years to write all the new pages that need doing for these books, and to move all of the existing pages from where they are now to their own new space. these projects are in part a way of living in the daily grief and loneliness and rage. and they are also, and this is the most important thing, a tribute to all the animals of my life, most especially the fourteen who were stolen, hidden, lied about, and killed.

I write bluntly and truthfully; sardonically and bitterly. the events since 2006 and the people who caused them are despicable to me. emotions are raw. I do not forgive these people, nor do I have any desires in that direction. if you seek positivity and airy new-age platitudes and happy endings — in other words, if you’re looking for the amerikan story —  then my website and my books are probably not where you should be. but if you love animals deeply; and if you believe that cruelty is not a fairy tale, but a true feature of some people’s personalities; and if you have any compassion for people whose lives have been laid waste by whatever forces, then maybe you can be a reader here. I appreciate sane, respectful comments. anyone is free to disagree with me on anything at all, in a civil and respectful way.

internet people seem to be hurry people. and information-hungry. and news-mad. none of that happens here, or will. this is slow here, this is about one person and many animals, none of whom are famous or important in the big, fast world. this is true life, true animals, true people, poems, pictures, satire, books. this is emotional. I haven’t yet found anything else like it on the internet, and I wish I could, because I would read it every day.

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The Scrapbook  Art I  ~~  Art II  ~~  Art III

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2010-2013 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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