tues 30 sept 08

 

have a google-fest: google anne nakis. google anne nakis of massachusetts. google anne nakis and the FBI. email --- annaisling@yahoo.com.

 

the moment i die, i reclaim myself...

 

mafiosi:   are you paying ATTENTION? don't fall prey to the propaganda the FBI, DEA and ATF put out about me: that i'm deaf, dumb, blind, stupid and delusional. they have had my IQ tested. they know exactly how UNSTUPID i am.

 

the moment i die, i reclaim myself. i missed mugsy's death-date yesterday, but many others are coming in october. so many of my dear ones  have died in october.

 

so back to guy in love #1 and guy in love #2, all this neurotypical love i'm dying in. #2 actually fell in love FIRST, or so he said, 12 years ago. and now, during my wormhood, when he's employed as one of my protectors, he says so again. until now, i've never known him to work much. he doesn't seem to LIKE to work much. cuts into his drinking and goofing off time. he's working now, now that i have a contract on my life, more than i have ever seen him do. guy #2 is just the opposite. works ALL the time, never stops. either one of these types - the goof-off or the workaholic - is enough to make ANY woman jump up and down and shout for joy, wouldn't you say? the guy who won't earn money or the guy who's never around. howEVER does a woman choose?

       So these neurotypicals drop their love at my feet like cats bringing me dead mice, and neurotypical love has, for me, even  less charm and appeal than the gift of dead mice from my cats. these two men who love me and protect me from a bullet sit back while everything I love is taken away, while i'm deprived of my right to informed consent (and many other rights too), while i am left to sleep outside sick and 55 years old, while i cry for hours, while i cut up my arms in sheer rage at the FBI, while i, an autistic recluse, am forced to be around people constantly (and those people are mostly agents and detectives), and so on and so on ad nauseum. this is their idea of love. this love is of less comfort to me, less value, less tenderness, less meaning, than any dead mouse ever brought to me by any cat. these men drop the grey, lifeless, puny figures of their love at my feet, and expect me to jump for joy. there's no joy in that kind of "love". i simply have to get up and bury it.

 

the moment i die, i reclaim myself away from the mafia, away from the federal law kids, and away from grey, puny love.

 

this poem is apropos of nothing at all that i've said today, but i love this poem a great deal, and only have a piece of it here. judy collins wrote beautiful music to it with beautiful piano, and sang it, of course, beautifully. i'm only putting it here because it's so lovely, and almost nothing i have to say in these logs of what the FBI has done to me is lovely.

 

                                Though I am old with wandering

                                Through  hollow lands and hilly lands,

                                 I will find out where she has gone,

                                And kiss her lips and take her hands;

                                And walk among long dappled grass,

                                And pluck till time and times are done

                                The silver apples of the moon,

                                The golden apples of the sun.

                                            w.b.yeats

 

the moment i die, i reclaim myself...

 

the moment i die, i am anne again, i am their mommy again, i belong to myself again.

 

from yeats we have the hollow LANDS, from t.s. eliot the hollow MEN. i am dwelling in and among both of these for nearly seven months.