Two more letters and A Blog

July 19, 2009

“Hearing from you has become something that I really look forward to, a much needed highlight in this mundane existence.”

1:00 a.m.

Thank you so much for understanding my situation and the care and concern you show me week after week, without fail! You really spoil me.

Me, on the other hand….I must confess that I am a chronic procrastinator. I put things off till the last minute. Always have. Really there’s no excuse, except that I often get swept away in the abundance of happenings that take place in my head, and before you know it, I’m engaged in something else.

Hearing from you has become something that I really look forward to, a much needed highlight in this mundane existence. You don’t understand how meaningful your letters are to me. Never think that you bore me!  I love sharing the simple things in life. Believe me, this is only exciting on the outside looking in.  I’d gladly trade riots, homosexuals, gangs, fights and all the other drama for gardening and swim meets. And by you sharing not only written accounts, but photos as well, you allow me to live a life outside of this through you. If anything, I’m grateful.

Despite my ties to the streets and shady associations, I value the honest quality of life. My mom reared us to be intelligent and cultivated, assertive and diplomatic, righteous and passionate. My interests are far removed from the streets.

I love to fish (preferably fresh water).  I love nature period.  I’m into art, literature and poetry. My imagination is very vivid, kept me in trouble as a child. You’d be surprised at what will hold my mind captive.

Unfortunately, I’ve not left for rehab yet.  It should be any day now, but when I do, my address will change completely.

Happy belated birthday!  I love birthdays. People frown on me because I celebrate in here. These guys are too tough for that.

Jeeze, time is flying!  I’ve got to wrap this up and get it to you, but I’m not finished responding to your letters. Just want you to know that I did receive them and you are appreciated.

I’m sending you plenty of good wishes as well along with a huge smile! I’m thankful for you, PERIOD.

Fondly,

July 20, 2009

“It costs about $75 a month to live decent in here. That’s including food, hygiene, postage and writing materials.”

11:30 p.m.

Howdy! How are you?

Allow me to be honest? I’m in a pretty good mood right now, and that’s the best time to write to others, because they get clear, concise thoughts without the bitterness that this place breeds. So here I am, as I promised. Just took a bath and washed my hair (got my hair cut shorter) and I feel like a new man. My hair is wavy when cut short, but when long, it’s real curly and I start looking like a Dominican.

What a long day! I got a bunch accomplished, though. Most importantly, I got an opportunity to go to the commissary. We only go like every third week and it’s such a hassle. It costs about $75 a month to live decent in here. That’s including food, hygiene, postage and writing materials….

true, they feed us three times a day but the meals are trash.  I’ve never seen so many casseroles in my life!  Yuck!  And “great northern beans,” horrible.  I really only go to the chow hall for the vegetables because they sell no veggies in the commissary and about five meals out of the week are worth eating.

But then you get trapped in the chow hall for 30-45 minutes, sweating like a slave. Plus, the chow hall is about three quarters of a mile from where I live, naw, maybe half a mile, but it’s quite a hop. And it highly increases your chances of going to solitary or coming about some sort of trouble.

Yeah, so I do a lot of in cell cooking. Like tonight I made a spicy rice with butter, garlic, cayenne and dried bell peppers (salt to taste). Also some instant mashed potatoes (butter and herb flavor) and some buffalo wings. A friend of mine who works in the kitchen sent me five of those precooked chicken patties with the breading on them.  I cut them into good sized strips, marinated them in a sauce of butter, hot sauce and garlic, then breaded them in crushed potatoes chips and set them in a bag inside of my hot pot for a few hours, then poured the remaining sauce over them. You’d be amazed at some of the creations I come up with…imagination and a little know how….

I’ve not eaten yet because I wanted to write to you and my aunt first—before I eat and get drowsy. Had some nasty ice cream earlier (Blue Bell Banana Split). I meant to buy banana pudding flavor; that crap was awful! But it’s hot, so I downed it and a cold coke. Hey, I treat myself when I can afford it.

My mom is the only person who really sends me money and because of it, she hardly writes. But she understands that cooking makes me happy, so I buy materials to cook up all kinds of stuff. As a matter of fact, I’m going to share a recipe with you later, but first, allow me to tell you what’s been going on in here, since you say you’re interested.

It ain’t all peaches and cream in here, let me tell you that. This past Friday, a guy got caught by a guard performing oral sex on another guy, and that other guy was my celly a few weeks ago for five days. See, it’s not that that type of stuff doesn’t go on everyday in here, because it does, but people don’t get caught! Getting caught means that your family will receive a letter and a phone call informing them of your homosexuality. There is a “zero tolerance” policy, consensual or not. What really sucks, I know both of those guys and no one suspected anything like that to happen.

Sunday was a day straight out of hell. A guy that lives on my cell block, or “lived,” got life flighted out of here. Yeah, this new officer (a real asshole!) was picking on people in the hallway going to lunch. (I’m not free from these morons, even on crutches.) The guy said something smart to me and a few others, I didn’t bite on it. Another guy did and was sent back without eating, which is against the rules, but we have no rights.

So we informed a LT about the officer’s behavior. He brushed us off. On the way back, he started picking at an inmate who was crying because he’d been called to the desk and told that his sister was dead. They exchanged words and before you know it, three officers were elbowing, choking and kicking this guy. The dude never threw a punch. They beat him so bad that a bone came out of his leg. Blood was everywhere! Talk about excessive use of force. The man is diabetic and had to be flown out of here. Rumor is he died, I hope not. His family was pulling up to visit when the helicopter was leaving. Crazy, huh?

Four officers and several inmates wrote statements against the officers involved. There is a big investigation. There will be a lawsuit. Talk about “trouble.” What’s worse, the officers included were high fiving each other when it was done with. I hope they get fired and then some! Bastards.

Another guard got beat up in the chow hall because he tried to snatch a guy’s tray out of his hands. Two inmates got sprayed in separate incidents. That pepper spray had me sneezing and crying and the medium custody blocks I was complaining about….all three of them went on 30 day lockdown.

This morning, officers found a pound of weed on the trustee camp (outside workers) and 20 people failed urine tests. It’s been hectic. It seems wrong for me to be in such a good mood but why shouldn’t I be? I’m out of the way, trying to do what’s right.

Okay, it’s getting late and the mail goes down the hall at about 2 a.m. Still have to write another letter.

About my time….I hate telling people because they push away from me like I’m already dead. I have a 40 year sentence. Sorry, I know it hurts you too. The good news is, I can possibly go home in six more years if things work out. Please don’t cry or anything, just stay in my life?

My kids are 9, 7 and 5. More about them in the next letter—promise.

Okay, I’m going to give you one of my top secrets, G-14 classified recipes. On one condition, well two really. One is you have to try it. Two, if you get rich off them, cut me in as a partner. (Top secret recipe not included here.)  I make those in here. They are gone before I make them. I make them every day. The profit is nice. We’ll discuss it more after you’ve made your first batch.

Well, I’d better get on to my aunt’s letter. Look forward to hearing from you.

Joyfully,

Blog - Poetic Justice

Born.

Tore out of the womb into a room full of strangers….and a world full of dangers.  Opened my eyes, fought to survive and surprise!  So this is life?

Not bad.  Not bad at all.  I’m ready to run and play and have a ball!  Be a kid, then grow big, standing proud, strong and tall.  What about my childhood?  Pretty good.  As good as can be expected, sometimes hectic, but never rejected.  Spoiled, loved and reared through the laughter and tears, looking back on those years….and I asked to be here.

Here.

Here is definitely not there.  Here is where fear is palpable; you can smell it in the air, comingled with bitter breath, death, abandoned hopes, soap and powder to mask cigarette smoke, and musk.  In this world, men aren’t men, they’re just bones, hate and husk.  Shells of former donors, brothers, sons, guys who loved life less than guns, half hearted lovers to sweethearts long gone and married.  The What Was.  The buried, the deprived, the vapor of dreams, ignoring the screams and clawing at seams.

Here it seems to teem hostility, undaunted anguish, pure unfiltered misery.  Each breath, defeat by the lungful….springs sprung, hung, pulled….ruled by oppression.  Depression’s like a drug, lulling your hope, suppressing joy, dimming your scope, leaving you crazed, drowsy, dazed just enough to cope.

That man is Satan and that man is Christ.  And neither man gives a damn about life.  So I stand separate, yet submerged.  Diversing my soul becomes a pastime, ducking slugs from Formica thugs with intentions to blast mine.  Landmines litter this landscape, exploding with murder, malice and rape.  The wounded fester, whining, fencing off the killing blow, thinking back on Momma’s words, “Boy, be good.  You reap what you sow.”

I witness the throes of death with detached fascination, contemplating my own demise, visions far too vivid in the eyes of my mind.  Livid at each image, I push away from the table, refusing to consume that which lives to consume me.  And all I have to sooth me is the love from above and beyond.

Beyond.

Beyond these walls, here ends and there begins, so I focus on family and friends.  My sins committed and atoned for.  I mourn for the old me, the me with bloody lashes on his soul, a mouthful of gold, and more anger than one man should hold.

I scold the new me, mold the new me into something boring, foreign to the What Was.  I journey on, touring, searching, imploring, testing my wings until I am soaring.  Soaring above the here, flapping feverishly, foolish and free….here among them who aren’t men.  But that’s them and I’m me…and I’m free.