February 7, 2011
“They did random drug test, and you can imagine the fuss that caused, probably because half of the cell block is dirty.”
11:11 a.m.
Hola! How do ya do? Great, I hope! You know I think about you all the time, but I’ve been waiting for a quiet moment to write so that I convey the true peace and love that occupy my heart.
The last days have been hectic, but classic prison life. Thursday evening, they locked us down for the weather. It snowed enough for there to be a blanket of white outside for two days, coldThen this bald headed communist dictator of a warden (he’s not who anyone thought he was) decided to go ahead and lock us down for three weeks. Seems like we’re always on lockdown because we are. This sadist robbed us of the Super Bowl, sent people to a commissary that had run out of soups, which are a staple. It’s all messed up around this place.
Aha, but do not mourn for me my dear kind lady.
Encouragement is more precious than pity, plus, you encourage with the best of them.
Honestly, I’m fine. No really. I’m fine. I mean, do to my enterprises, I’ve got food, there’s nothing that I’m in desperate need of. See, I know something they don’t know. I’m free! Yes, of course, my physical is confined, but my spirit, my mind, my heart are free. So while I may have my moments, there’s always the lingering feeling at the periphery, like a revelation, and it’s that un-caged bird, soaring high above this madness.
Their attempts at oppression only raise me that much higher than them. If narcissism is their legacy, what is it compared to what I’m destined for? With that knowledge, or foresight, it’s that much simpler for me to suppress what will reside in me.
Are you smiling? I hope you’re smiling. Everyone was all defeated yesterday. I love football as much as the next man, but life goes on. I listened to it on the radio while I made some combination frittatas. Chicken breast, beef tips, rice, peppers, tortillas, sausage, a salsa I made of fresh onions, hot sauce, jalapenos and fresh cilantro with a pinch of lemon Koolaid. I grilled the meat, made a thin gravy, melted my cheese, browned my tortillas and enjoyed the taste of freedom.
And, I’m beginning to love clichés, because they are so appropriate. You know, “find the silver lining…” things are only as bad as you perceive.
Thank you for the Pro Bowl info. Can you believe I didn’t even watch the game? Yeah, too much ignorance in the dayroom for me.
In my reading (novels) I’ve come across some things of interest that you may be able to add upon. Trinidad? 1867 Denver? Apishapa Canyon, Arapahoe Indians? All of it was Greek to me and loosely connected to the stories, so not much info was given. I figure you could fill me in. Why? Curiosity. I’m one of those people who can be all snuggled in with a book and come across a word I don’t understand/
know, and although the context clues give an idea, I can’t read on without something definite. So, I’ll get up and go to the dictionary, then copy the definition so that I’ll know it the next time I come across it.
“It’s really important that my kids…not just my kids, many people, have a chance to see who I really am beyond this stigma and my mistakes .”
5:03 p.m.
Letter to the Husband
It hasn’t been 15 minutes since I received your letter and I’m excited, encouraged, gracious, overwhelmed and very optimistic! I know that your wife never prints her words that size, so I knew something was different. Then as I flew through the letter, soaring and growing giddy at the prospect and possibility of pursuing a dream, I had to stop and calm myself so I could write. How crazy would it be to get a letter from you encouraging me, offering your support, then I ramble and jump all over the place out of pure excitement?
My mind started darting off down several corridors. All of them with bright beautiful lights at the end, beckoning me forth. But unlike a near death experience, the lights are all leading me towards what’s to be sought in this life.
Of course, now that I’m focused with a single minded determination, all of my “peers”… er…um…fellow inmates are shouting like starving baboons. Ahh, but before I get carried away, allow me to respond to your words, then we’ll go from there.
Yes, I was shocked to hear from you. Not that I thought you incapable, I just grew accustomed to communicating through your wife.
Every year at Christmas, and several times at random, I think about how rude I was in response to that first Christmas card. Me and my demons. Anyhow, you guys were understanding enough to see beyond my defensiveness and here we are.
Really, you’d be surprised at how easy it is to survive in this madness. You say that you could never endure even one day of confinement, but my dear friend…what choice do you have? That’s what it all comes down to.
Forgive me if I insult you by thinking that we are alike, though I do. However, it seems to me that civilized educated people, people of integrity and decent moral standings are the ones that figure out how to make the system work in their favor. True, the ignorant and deprived thrive mainly because of the strength in numbers and the sense of community…also because never having anything/anyone that holds value makes it that much easier to continue without, and without expectations. Yet, the man who has had, who has, who will have, is eager to return that that cherished existence, and able to finesse their way along the fault lines. Comply, not conform, and never concede. My point, I would never wish it on you, but you are not a man who could be broken by even this environment.
It’s amazingly odd, perhaps unbelievable, but I cannot see my talent the way others can. Cooking, I know I can cook. Writing is different, though. It’s like I can see it and not see it, you know? My aunt tells me that I intimidate her because she’s a college graduate and a teacher, and wishes she could write like me.
The truth of it is, I see my talent through the eyes of others. A true artist, huh? I need the praise, in a sense, without it, I doubt myself. All in all, it comes from the heart. Passion is my gift and my curse. Do you follow?
Like, let’s say I prepare you and your wife a meal? Okay, you’ve got a wilted spinach salad with hot bacon chunks, seasoned crawfish tails, and a homemade French style dressing. Warm garlic bread. Steamed broccoli and baby carrots. Angel hair pasta in pesto sauce topped with sautéed butterfly shrimp, served with a chilled white wine. Despite the pleasure I’ll take in preparing the meal, your enjoyment is the ultimate reward.
Writing is the same way for me. It’s initially for me (therapeutic). Then the act of planting the seed, watering, pruning and loving the sprout, sapling, then tree… Sure, the apples taste good, so why not share? You enjoying the apples makes me love and appreciate the tree more.
Sure, we could dress it up and say that I just have a giving heart. Mmm…yeah. I do. Still, we all want to be loved and appreciated. Bottom line.
You produce/publish books. Now, they bring income, but is that enough? Could you stand for a customer to purchase a book from you, then contact you to tell you how awful the book was? Of course, not. You want people to not only do business with you, but to be satisfied and think highly of you.
Plus, I’ve got a lot to prove to the world/myself!
From a young age (prior to pre-K) I could read. It’s easy to love the art form of expression. As a result, I grew up with a love to read and write. In elementary, I did plays, poems, all sorts of presentations all through school, although I never really applied myself except for rapping.
Rap was always easy, the words were just there. Others pushed, urged. Again, I never really gave my all. So much has been taken for granted in this lifetime….now’s my chance to surge forward with no fear of failure, an uncanny sense of confidence and the freedom that comes with pursuing a passion.
You write in a very concise, reader friendly manner that allows the reader to go where you’ve gone, see what you see, walk in your footsteps. In a sense, your writing is, I think, responsible for re-awakening my desire. Thank you!
Man, I can totally relate to your accounts of growing up. (Not the South African part!) My English teachers always singled me out, were harder on me, less tolerant. As a child, you don’t realize why. My mom would grill me on my writing assignments. By the time I was eight, I’d learned that it was easier to just look a word up than to ask her what it meant.
She would refuse to tell, and instead send us to the dictionaries, thesaurus and encyclopedias. Then demand that the definition be written out and used in a sentence. Many days my brother and I would stalk by her, eyes out, mumbling complaints on our way to one of the bookshelves to look a word up. It’s funny now, it wasn’t then.
Any paper written at home had to be checked. Mom was then a travel agent at Stone and Webster Engineering. She had pens and hi-lighters of all colors. Our papers got butchered, bled through with red, suggested in blue, hi-lighted in pink and yellow. You can imagine me snatching my (final copy!) from the table in front of her, furious at the corrections ruining my paper, causing me to stay up another hour rewriting. No exaggerating, some mornings I’d only get to bed at 4:00 a.m., hands hurt and ink smeared, but proud of my paper. Her mantra, “Shouldn’t have waited until the last minute, son. Now, get it right!”
Fortunately, my papers took enough abuse at home and needed no more from the teacher. If and when a teacher did mark one of my paper, it made me furious. Most of my problem was spelling and hand writing, as it still is. But the positive comments made it all worthwhile and I often had to read my papers in front of the class.
High school in this country is pitiful. It’s like a holding facility. Not much is learned beyond middle school. Athletes are passed, cheating is rampant and the teachers are so underpaid that they don’t care. Then you get to college and know nothing. Believe it or not, many of these guys in here have graduated from high school and can’t put a decent paragraph together. My generation is dominated by slang and text.
The blogs are awesome! Really. Do you get “hits?” It seems that many people would take interest. Do you make an outline or just kind of go with the flow? I’m very curious. In the novels I’ve written, I’ve not done an outline, but somehow keep it together.
Ha! That’s so true, what you said about how “stars” can write any random garbage and become a best seller. It’s really important that my kids…not just my kids, many people, have a chance to see who I really am beyond this stigma and my mistakes. I agree with you and assure you, it’s not about the money or notoriety. If that stuff comes, great, but first it’s about the therapy. Most stuff I write ends up on a shelf, unread, forgotten.
I had no idea your wife kept all my letters. Wow! I try to keep all of hers and for a while I did. But these slave drivers only allow us to have a certain amount of property. (Fire hazard nonsense. How do you start a serious fire in a place constructed totally of stone and iron?) Anyhow, that bundle had grown very large before they made me purge it. I keep all cards and pictures and especially letters that are inspiring. My “keepers” do not understand or care about sentimental value.
Web log, huh? Makes sense. Because it definitely didn’t before that. It all sounds very fascinating. My mom used to design or build HTMLs, but I never really paid attention. I assume, the account would be like setting up a Yahoo or Hotmail account? Happy belated birthday! Sounds like the web book was the perfect gift.
I really don’t know what to say…thank you! I didn’t imagine that it would play out like this, with the support and encouragement. You seem as eager as me, which is great! This is all so very new and exciting!
Honestly, I really have to give it all a great deal of thought. It’s important that I do my best. As of now, I have some family email addresses and I’ll get more. The family is supportive to an extent. They all claim to be busy and wish I was online. How about that?
We aren’t going to tip our hat, though. I’ll simply gather email addresses. It’ll feel good to shock them into paying attention. I’m so grateful to you guys! This is more of a blessing than you realize. Really, there are not nearly enough ways for me to thank you. All I was expecting was info and suggestions. This blows my mind!
Answering some of your questions:
I do not object to using the content of my letters. Hopefully I’ve been very honest, I know I’ve been sincere. And if I didn’t tell all of something, it was possibly about two years ago, before there was the bond and trust. Beyond that, you’ve gotten me for me.
The running, jogging, working out help me in every way imaginable. As you say, it’s a great stress reliever. I did too much too soon. I’m fine now though. Running is something I look forward to in the world, waking at 4:30 a.m. and running the sun up!
Not surprised that you also love To Kill a Mockingbird. A Painted House will be something fresh in comparison to Grisham’s other works. Did A Boy’s Life take you back to a familiar time and place?
My aunt tried to make me read about Mandela when I was younger. I simply didn’t read the books because she suggested them. In retrospect though, I think I will try to get a copy of those books. You are right, what he did is something extremely worth aspiring to. I have not read much non-fiction lately, trying to escape my “now” through mysteries, dragons and other mystical creatures. Lately, well very recently, the quest for knowledge has been a flame within me. Glad to have a credible reference list.
Lord of the Rings is one of those books (series) that one can never read too many times. I loved it! The movie was great too. Unfortunately, I’ve never come upon the early Harry Potter books. I read five and six though and enjoyed them thoroughly. Last year I got caught up in reading the Sword of Truth series (Legend of the Seeker). The first five…three books were great! The main characters never get a break though, and that irritated me. I get emotionally invested in some characters. I refused to read 12 books where the people I’m pulling for never get a moment of happiness. Dean Koontz rules!
You have my word. My words are on the way. Give me a few days to sort everything out in the kaleidoscope that is my mind right now. And again, thank you! Whatever info/help/suggestions as far as formats or anything are welcome and requested.
Sincerest gratitude,
Blog - To Have Loved…
There’s a song (R&B) in heavy rotation right now, in which the man sings, “Sometimes I cry, Baby….” Basically, it’s a song about lost love that still lives. The artist has moved on, his old love has moved on, they’re both happy, but not quite. Personally, I like the song, probably because I can relate.
A guy who lives upstairs from me and a few cells over, was playing the song on his homemade/prison-made speaker. I’d put my book down, closed my eyes, and was singing along with perhaps too much emotion and a chest full of nostalgia, when my soulful reminiscence was derailed by the prescribed enmity of prison.
“Man, cut that bullshit off!” shouted my neighbor, one of the many teeming, slithering and boisterous minions of the loathsomeness. “Real men don’t cry! I ain’t never cried behind no bitch ass piece of pussy! Cry when I die!”
Downward, down, down spiraling wildly in a frantic tailspin, I dropped from the clouds high in my mind where memories of her soar. Down, down through the brittle earth and right back into the bowels of hell. Prison just won’t relinquish its hold on me, letting me know, constantly reminding me that no matter how far above my mind and heart go, I am, for the interim confined to this…place…this trap.
Immediately, I was upset and saddened. Upset because, once again, negativity had thoroughly disturbed my groove, invaded my sacred memories of her, of us, with something so foul and unworthy. Saddened, because this man, this gargoyle of hatred either is ashamed of being a man with feelings, or (Lord forbid) he has never been in love.
Ouch! If the latter, how horrible for any person to go through life, to have had children, witnessed…
experienced beauty, lived and never loved…never lived.
To have been in love is to have been hurt. After the day there is night. Sunshine follows rain. These things go hand in hand. If I could have the love without risk of pain, great, yet unrealistic. But love is so powerful, so consuming, all encompassing, captivating and blissful that we throw caution to the wind and embrace the turmoil that may accompany or follow, for just a moment in Eden. Perhaps the exception, I am delighted by the peacefulness of the night, refreshed by the cool cleansing of the rain, just as I enjoy their counterparts. Do I also enjoy the pain of love lost and gone astray? No. However, I accept it as part of the deal. Does one not love their gorgeous and kind spouse because they may snore when exhausted? Ah, so you get my point.
This too, is the point being made in the song I spoke of earlier. Love is not guaranteed to keep two people physically united forever. But the true, deep ever-reaching love of soulmates, regardless of the outcome of the relationship, ties us to those people for eternity, spiritually.
Yeah, I’ve loved, been in love since then, since her, married even, and though it (each relationship) was good in its own way, it was never that cherished connection of souls that she and I shared. So yes, sometimes I cry, not tangible tears, but weeping of the heart. That’s not an issue of “man” or “real men,” it’s an issue of life.
If money is the root of all evil, then love is the fruit beared by the graceful, heaven bound tree at the opposite end of the garden. The seeds can be deathly bitter, but if you’re careful to avoid the seeds, the flesh of this fruit (when ripe) is as sweet and exquisite as anything you’ll ever taste. Maybe, you too will cry? If so, I pray that they are tears of joy. Regardless, when you find the fruit of love in season, enjoy it, savor it, share it with someone dear to you and let the seeds fall to the soil to sprout when it rains. And it will rain.
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