we’re all going to die

Page Eighty-two

Sunday 12 December 2010…  Turners twits

In 2005, I read the very popular book by Cathcart and Klein, Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar: understanding philosophy through jokes. And in this book Icame across a short summary of one of Martin Heidegger’s most famous ideas, and for my money, one of his most trenchant. Heidegger was an existentialist, and this is the idea in question:  We are all going to die, and since this is an immutable fact of every single person’s existence, then the best thing we can do with our time to live is to spend our days doing whatever it is that gives our time meaning and purpose. How simple, and how true. It isn’t about making  money or being some kind of hero or publishing thirty books, at least, not as such. It’s about doing what gives you meaning and a sense of purpose, and therefore fulfillment. For some that might be making piles of money or publishing piles of books, but each one of us has to find what it is for ourselves.

And when I thought on this idea, I realized it was what I had been doing, or trying my damnedest to do, all my life, without ever articulating it. The things that gave me this meaning and this purpose were these: animals, nature, books, art, music, and good relationships with a few humans, in descending order of importance. But the human part was always an ordeal, and while I never completely stopped trying to find those meaningful relationships with humans, by the time I was in my late thirties, I was putting more and more animals and nature and books and music and art into my days. The things from which I drew meaning without pain, and purpose without cruelty, and fulfillment without abandonment. All my life I’d been doing what I could to practice being toward death, the phrase that names Heidegger’s idea, without even realizing it.

I would have found meaning and purpose from love relationships with people if they hadn’t always been so fraught with things I simply cannot cope with. Maybe all human relationships are fraught with these things, and other people are strong enough to deal with them and I am not. That’s certainly possible. I have Asperger’s syndrome, which makes me greatly subject to bullying and also greatly unable to understand or condone many types of human behavior. From way back in the toddler days, I’ve found animals endlessly fascinating and humans endlessly disturbing. And as badly as I wanted it, and as hard as I strove for it, I never could get that sort of relationship with a person that I needed and wanted, and in whose context I could have practiced being toward death. More and more I plunged into more animals and more nature and more books, etc. Where I was enriched and comfortable and engaged and unharmed.

From 2004 to 2007, three women came into my life who over the course of two years saw to it that my animals, the absolute center of my world, were taken from me and eventually killed. They saw to it that I became a vagabond with no apartment of my own for two whole years.  Three vicious, unscrupulous, controlling and vindictive women. Humans. They completely changed my existence, completely changed many long-held beliefs I had had, and completely changed what the words Being Toward Death now mean for me. They mean nothing, now, that Heidegger intended. They now mean this: to go through each empty, bereft hour of breathing and having a heart beat, to suffer through it every day, until the heartbeat stops. To write about my animals on the internet, to write about what was done to us and by whom, as a tribute to them, and to the love we shared among us.  To breathe every day without them, without even the knowledge of where and when they died, without the reading and mostly without art and mostly without music and going into nature still, but now with a cloud over it all and a sharp point wedged in my heart. To move every minute with loathing for every human creature.

I did not have the money for the justice a lawyer and the court might have got me when these women practiced their viciousness. The person who cannot afford a chance at justice, who has had their way of life willfully decimated by others, is left with only one thing. At least I am left with only one thing: the justice of vengeance. I’m not in a position to bring about this vengeance myself, but I hope fervently and daily, in my new configuration of Being Toward Death, that the randomness of living, the thing we call luck, will bring about that vengeance one day or another. That what went around, will come around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(colorwheel watch at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

(this post is part of the book Being Toward Death)


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Page  Eighty

Tuesday 7 December 2010, Turners twisting

Once again, there’s no photo. I have so few photos with me in the ponystall. And even if I ever get back what’s in the storage, it’s only a part of what I once had. Many pictures and rolls of film that were mine have been thrown out by other people. Not to mention a host of other belongings.

Brucie was another grandchild of Maman (there were twelve of them, after all). Brother of Chloë and Spot and others. He had the familial smallness, and likewise the familial white hair with grey patches. Because he was, from birth, the stockiest of the six kittens, we started out calling him Big Bruiser, which was eventually shortened to Bruiser. But as he got older, three or months, becoming a young feline fellow, I felt that Bruiser was no longer appropriate, that he needed something with more dignity. Hence Brucie. But there was disagreement. When Bruce and Chloë were five and a half months old, my mother decided she wanted them, and off they went to live with her. But she liked Bruiser, and went on calling him that for a long time, maybe even until he died. Whereas I would always refer to him as Brucie on the phone with Mum, and when I’d go out there for a visit I would never, ever call him Bruiser.

If any cat at all in Maman’s family can be said to have had a bit of the bully in them, then it was Bruce. But this family was so thoroughly good-natured that their version of bully was very, very mild indeed. Though he wasn’t the first-born of the kittens, he was definitely the leader, the boss. A benevolent and kindly boss who was loved by his siblings, who never feared him. They simply deferred to him.

Another driver, another car, another dead cat. And the eternal debate over outside versus inside cats. In another post like this, I decined to set forth the arguments on either side, and to defend my reasons for opting, most of the time, for letting my cats go outdoors. And my mother had always let hers go out as well. Someday, when I’m further along putting my small books about the animals together, I will write about that debate, but not today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(part of the book All My Stars)


living on threads

 by: mishiPosted on: 02-18-2010 @ 01:19 pm(with this post, the copying of the original Mishi blog from Wrongplanet is FINI! Only new posts from today, being 6 dec 2010. the date above is the original wrongplanet publication date.)



18 Feb 2010…..   Turners Fails —- This may well be the last post I ever write here on Wrongplanet. Though maybe I’ll come here very rarely and write something. Most of all the online writing I’ve been doing for nearly two years is being moved to WordPress. You can make a blog-based website there, and that’s what I’ve been working at since Jan 21. It’s a big job. Two years’ worth of writing that has to be moved around and knitted together with a seemingly endless gang of links.And that’s my existence; that’s all there is for meaning and purpose in my days now. One little guinea pig and one huge website. It isn’t nearly enough. For 55 years I had families of animals. More than one animal and more than one kind. And the more fool I that I didn’t realize the full extent of the meaning and purpose taking care of them gave to my life until it was all stolen by unprincipled, bulllying, neurotypical human beings.  One guinea pig isn’t a family, and that’s not her fault. And a website full of writng about what was done to us, and by whom, and all the ways in which this human cruelty has changed and broken me… well, it may be a good thing, I don’t really know. But as a meaning and a purpose to living, it’s flimsy in the extreme when you compare it to a lifetime of loving and caring for and being loved by a family of breathing creatures, of full and generous spirits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


the printed page


Saturday 16 January 2010…     Greenfield  by: mishi

Posted on: 01-16-2010 @ 09:57 am



I’m re-reading Donna Williams’ Nobody Nowhere. There was so much in that book that was true for me too, both as a child and as an adult. I need to review that information. ….. And now much later the update that I wasn’t able to redad her book through a     second time. By January of this year, reading books without animals around me became impossible. I’m only able to listen to audiobooks, and only certain ones. If Donna’s book were available that way, I would certainly listen. I found a great deal of myself — my reactions and perceptions — in that book.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(clip art photo)

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thursday 7 january 2010 by: mishi

Posted on: 01-07-2010 @ 12:20 pm



Turners Falls…   Thanks, Peter and Amarok, for answering. I don’t know how to do personal messages on most websites that I use, because I truly am a tecno-failure. So I do this instead; a public thank you on the blog.~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


and now 2010

wednesday 6 january 2010…..

by: mishi…. Posted on: 01-06-2010 @ 12:42 pm….


Have to admit I’m really annoyed today with my WrongPlanet blogging experience. I expected something different, and better, than what I get blogging among non-autistics. Maybe that was yet another stupid expectation, like expecting NT’s to apologize when they’ve been rotten.

I started this journal in 2008, and now it’s 2010. I sometimes ask questions: I have a lot of trouble smiling; do any of you have that? And most often I get zilch for response. And I’ve asked before: isn’t there anybody over 40 on this website? No response. And lots of other questions too. I thought we were here at least partly to learn about our Asperger’s, to support each other.


Comment By: amarok: …Greetings, I am over 40 and also educated. I signed up here some time ago but have been so busy that I haven’t really explored. Your post was kind of at the top of the list in the blog section. Take care, Amarok 

Comment By: peterd:…  Yes, way past 40 and educated past the point of no return. But you knew that…


(g.veronese mask at www.toscano.com)

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

Share   ~~~~~~~~~ website  ~~~~~~~~~~~

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good riddance 2009

Wednesday 30 December 2009…. 

 by: mishi                                                      

Posted on: 12-30-2009

(originally on wrongplanet.net)


turners fails

So the end of another year… the first full year without my own life and my animals and a home of my own. In 2008 I had all those things for a whole two and a half months.

The end of another year of not fitting, of finding most of what neurotypicals say either silly or totally lacking in any logical thought. Another year of being told by every Tom, Dick and Mary — whether they know me or not — to SMILE. The end of another year of oddness, of finding solid ground to stand on only in what little is left of my own world. I’ve had nearly 57 years like that. This is just the end of one more.                                                                             


read…    Braon…    Sehnen

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

Changed utterly

Page Seventy-three

Saturday 12 December 2009

 by: mishi Posted on: 12-12-2009 @ 10:22 am…………..  Greenfield

 Questions for the solstice:

If I know a song of my cats and me wandering the canal, does the canal know a song of us?

If I know a song of my dogs and me on the riverbank and in a certain woods, do the woods and the river know a song of us?

If I know a song of a romance with the moon, a romance that went on and on with me and with cats and with dogs, does the moon now sing more sadly, now my love has been withdrawn?

If the sun in its standing still at the solstice hour in any way remembers how I honored such times, will it notice at all that my honor is put away under a shroud?

I got this question from Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen), from Out of Africa: If I know a song of Africa, does Africa know a song of me?

Of course the answer to all of these questions, Karen’s and mine, is almost certainly: No.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

don’t tell me what to do

friday 13 november 2009by: mishiPosted on: 11-13-2009 @ 12:35 pm

 copied from wrongplanet december 2010

friday the 13th. I’ve already had the worst “luck” that could possibly have landed in my sphere, and it didn’t come on a friday the 13th.

this morning the woman from whom I rent a bedroom asked me if I’d noticed, when I went to put out some recycling, whether the town had come and taken away her bags of leaves. “no, I didn’t notice. I was off in my own world.” says she: I know. you gotta stop doing that. I did not belt her, but I wanted to. I do not have to stop going to my own world, especially not so I can pay attention to what’s happening to someone else’s bloody leaves. or for anything involving any human being. what have humans ever been to me but unrelenting anxiety?~~~~~~~~~~~~ website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.



Anne the Aspergian


by: mishi

Posted on: 11-07-2009 @ 09:40 am



Saturday 7 Nov 2009, Greenfield  ~~~~~~~  To take hold of it, this Asperger’s, and not fight it anymore, in the certain ways that I did try to fight it and fit in. Never again try to fit, never again try to please, and fail to please. Never again psychologically venture out of my own world into theirs. This is what I strive for now, in the aftermath of the psychotic mafia chick and the criminal landlady and the loss of my family, and everything else that has been brought about by neurotypicals over the last two years.My grandfather (said Matthew), mafia man, murdered by his thug colleagues years before I was born. Would I have pleased him in any small way, if he had known me? Doubt it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

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