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.


 read…   Kaikenlainen    Don’t ask…..



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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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reading lists

Page Twenty-seven, website outline

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.

vonjunzt.livejournal.com                                miss_julia_s.livejournal.com
www.badconscience.wordpress.com           www.essorant.wordpress.com
http://www.triviatar.wordpress.com                                 www.ep5weblog.wordpress.com
brainstew.wordpress.com  (subtitles: impressions personafied, jaymie thorne…)
www.poetrypoliticsandpathos.wordpress.com         vinniekinsella.wordpress.com 
sanseverything.wordpress.com                                                  translatorsnotes.wordpress.com
jingleyanqiu.wordpress.com  (jingle has a sort of poetry group, if there are any poets out there who’d like to become part of that. I don’t know how it works, but I’m sure if you go there and ask jingle, she’ll tell you)
vibes01.wordpress.com (she walks her own path)
www.superfluousblog.wordpress.com  (philosophy, and more)
www.thedeevolutionofman.wordpress.com (political satire)
www.paulettepostmiller.com (one of the places with her paintings)


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

http://www.thewuc.com&#8230;  this and that from an australian chick

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


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

Margaret Atwood:    The Robber Bride, Cat’s Eye, The Blind Assassin
Kurt Vonnegut:   Timequake         Mira Bartok:  The Memory Palace
Chris Chester:    Providence of a Sparrow       Ian Brown:  The Boy in the Moon
Donna Williams:   Nobody Nowhere          Mary Karr:  The Liars’ Club
Libbrecht and Rasmussen: The Snowflake
John Elder Robison:   Look Me in the Eye
Martha Stout:   The Sociopath Next Door
M. Scot Peck:   The People of the Lie
Garrison Keillor:   Wobegon Boy
Rebecca Goldstein:   Properties of Light
a list of my own writing is here.

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

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Page Twenty-four, website outline

       “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.


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.


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


the pygmies keep dancing

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?                                                                                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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.


jump ahead again, to august 2012. manuscript found. pygmies has begun. read…    the pygmies

read…    Mugsy’s book…    Scealta liatha


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


 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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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


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.


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.


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)
                                       mishi  (asperger’s syndrome)
                                       mentalhell   (on blogspot)
                                       sehnen  (0n soulcast)
                                       small tales from rowley
two blogs of poetry only:
                                        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.


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.


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


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









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