Showing posts with label confinement. Show all posts

August 21, 2011

Jason's book available on Amazon.com as an ebook!

B005HYDM0O for Kindle for $7.95.

It will soon be available online in print as well.

March 13, 2011

“I have to be punished for some mess I had nothing to do with, again.”

7:48 p.m.

Don’t want you to grow tired of me thanking you, but I must show my appreciation, although words don’t quite do it. Jeeze, I was-am thrilled with the dictionary and the thesaurus, but the other three books leave me speechless! You really are wonderful! It’s a shame that I’ve been asking my family about a dictionary for nearly four years, yet I complain once and you send me both, and excellent versions at that. All of the books are in mint condition, not a crack in the spines, not a bent page. No one has ever opened those books. Thank you!

It has been an eventful week. I finally heard from my mom, though it didn’t make me feel very good. ): I love me, that’s going to have to be enough.

I do feel much better. I didn’t actually get a real cry in, but it was a much needed wake-up call. After the fact, I realized that your love for me forced me to see the lack of love from others and that was just too ugly a revelation. No, I’m not blaming you or implying that you did something wrong. It’s just that since the day you walked into my life, you’ve not left my side. You set the bar pretty high, which is good, great! Still, it makes me makes me sick to my stomach that I can depend on you more than my family. Perhaps I used to be a horrible person and I just don’t remember. Or maybe they see me as a lost cause? Either way, I’ve worked so hard to make them proud, and succeeded in making myself proud, but failed them.

Your ability to believe in me…you encourage me to believe in myself, that’s priceless!

Yes, I have a pen that writes now. I was complaining to a friend (one of the very few) and he said that was unacceptable and gave me his pen on the spot. He is supportive of my writing so I share with him.

Actually, I wrote two blogs last night. I was writing one about how I wish I could always be happy, but that’s not humanly possible. Then, the “Eses” beat up one of their own. It was ugly and unfair, and it took me to a darker place. Taking your advice, I wrote. Sleep couldn’t hold those words at bay as they surged forward. Long time comin’.

It’s good to know that you’ll be a calm head when I freak out. After that letter was gone, I worried that you might think me crazy. What a relief to have someone understand and care, in a place where it’s so easy to feel forgotten, your kindness is unheard of.

Ironically, you are my best friend! This all feels so surreal. In relation to the drama in my life, this feels like a dream, actually stepping out into the world again…as words.

Right now we’re locked down. Yes, again! Always. I hate this bastard warden. Last night’s fight had something to do with Mexican Mafia and Houstone Tango Blast and some moron snitched, so we are locked down. I guess until they investigate. So I have to be punished for some mess I had nothing to do with, again.

These guys are like little kids. Only in here does a fight stand for something. People in the world don’t fist fight. Not where I’m from, they don’t. You disrespect someone, they shoot you. END. I keep telling these guys that they are going to get killed if they go out there thinking they can beat the world up. People don’t fight anymore, they kill. And if they don’t kill you, you’re going to jail.

The ebooks sound awesome! I’ve been wondering if this prehistoric state is going to ever let us have any sort of technology. Magazines are going out of business, books are obsolete. The future (for me) is exciting and frightening. You give me an incentive to crank out plenty of pages.

Your hugs are received and needed. Rest assured, I’m better, focusing on the positive. Let me close this one and spend some time with God. As always, I look forward to hearing from you!

Sincerely,

March 15, 2011

“Because of your belief in me, I believe in myself.”

9:11 p.m.

You are simply amazing! Do you mind if I just state every letter like that? That could be my everyday greeting. Or maybe “You’re awesome!” Either way, you are.

So, today they let us off of lockdown (again). Lockdown, lockdown, lockdown! (“Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!”) It sounds silly, but I just want to do my time. I mean, I don’t want to, but I have to, and it would make it so much simpler if they’d just leave me alone. This collective punishment is crap. Blend guys who want to do right and go home, with idiots who don’t care about themselves or anyone else, then punish everyone when the idiots mess up. That’s so stupid.

Then, the administration tried to make it a race issue, claiming that “a bunch of Black dudes” jumped on a Hispanic because he can’t handle his liquor. But one must expect the lines of reality to get twisted in a place of perversion. Guess their “investigation” gave them proof that the incident was resolved. I sure hope it is. I’m sick of doing other people’s time!

Mail time came along and washed away all the tension of my day. I got the BIG card with the beautiful pictures. I guess these particular pictures aren’t just my favorite ones. You definitely know how to spread joy.

I also got a letter from you today. Thank you for your concern and your everlasting kindness! I have my moments, but friends like you won’t allow me to stay down. Be glad I can’t email you. I’d “blong” your mail all day.

You know, I’ve always been told that I had a talent for writing, but I’ve never really believed in myself…until now. I feel free when I write, and I know in my heart that good will come of it. Hopefully your assessment is accurate and people will be hooked. The haters I’m used to, but positive feedback would be a welcome change. Your encouraging words give me even more confidence. Confidence is major. Because of your belief in me, I believe in myself.

In the past there’s always been something or another holding me back. Lack of dictionary, lack of proper editing skills, lack of publisher, lack of someone to shop publishers, lack of typewriter (because I don’t have the supportive cast I now have), so typing it here was the only option. I even considered paying one of those women in the magazines who type for a fee, but someone told me that if they stole my writing, I couldn’t do jack about it. Of course, I trust you. And there is nothing holding me back. Why?

Because you’re sending me a whole tree! Goodness! The few times my family sent paper, it was like 10 pads. Again. I can’t thank you enough! Jeeze. Don’t even know where I’ll put that much paper but I’ll figure it out. Guess the best thing to do would be to crank it out, write like a man possessed. I hope you got a really good deal. I know you did it to help me, but I didn’t want you spending all that money on me.

I’m grateful beyond words. I just don’t want to be a burden. Anyhow, I’ll make it worth it. I’ll make you proud. And if it helps, the legal pads cost $1.50 a piece for 50 sheets. I know you got a better deal than that. I’ll express mail you when I get them.

All of the books were received. I got the excellent dictionary and thesaurus. (I have not looked up a word I didn’t find!) The novels I received were the two books about Africa by Wilbur Smith and Centennial by James Michener. I haven’t begun reading them yet. I’m saving them…if you understand that. Trust me, it won’t be long before they lock us down again. ):

Yes, I’m enjoying the back to back letters, too. Your theory is dead on, you brighten my day every time I hear from you. You are consistent, kind and genuine. There was a lady from California who wrote twice and other who writes every blue moon. You’ve been there, growing closer all the time, pushing me forward instead of holding me back.

I don’t mean to imply that I expect you guys to publish anything free of charge. I’m just saying that I have no money, all I have is my talent. Any level of success would great from my standpoint. It would be really great to show people that when they didn’t believe in me, someone did.

I do look forward to your husband’s blogs. There was something I wanted to ask him from the last one. I’ll have to go back and reread it so the question will come to mind.

Glad the weather there is nice. It’s been decent here, but too up and down. Chilly one day, then humid the next. Perfect “cold” weather. Good thing I rarely get sick.

Ahh, the rabbits seem to have gone to greener pastures, or perhaps, less garlic smelling pastures. I know the cayenne pepper works with cats. We had some that used to pee in my mom’s elephant ears and kaladiums? Paladiums? (Duh…dictionary) Caladiums. Anyhow, Momma would sprinkle cayenne and keep the cats away.

Me, I’d lure the rabbits in, pressure cook all the grainy toughness out of the meat and make a beautiful stew. Eat my grass, I eat your….tail.

The longer days give me more time to work out, but my body has not fully adjusted either. I’ve been sluggish for a few days. Gotta’ get in a good rep tomorrow. Maybe that’ll set me straight.

Well, I better hit the hay. Who knows what tomorrow holds. Could be anything around this camp.

I wrote a really deep and brutally honest blog last night but one of my few respected associates would be upset if I sent it off without letting him check it out. (He’s a fan) So I’ll send it later this week. Not that you have a shortage of them to work with. I go in spurts. Right now I’m in a good one.

Be looking for my hugs and I’ll be waiting for yours.

Big hugs and smiles,

Blog For Her

My Dear, my Love,

Lady, how do you do? Guess it’s painfully clever I’ve been thinking about you. Baby, it’s been too long, much too long, what a shame. I should not be on fire since you’re an old flame.

So appropriately named, Ebonie…my Ebonie Queen. Queen? Queen! Please! I’m down on my knees! Love, you surpass want, you Love, are a need. Cause I can’t continue as a me when my mind’s eye can we. She was what she was, but Love…love is just love, except when it’s LOVE.

Better than sex, even better than drugs, you set me on fire whenever we hug. Just a touch is enough to engulf me in bliss, consumed by your spell, entranced by your lips. And your kiss is like nectar from God’s favorite bloom. I’m closer to heaven when you’re in the room. Or my mind, or afar, in my heart you’re engraved. The love of a lifetime, decades past a phase.

I’m a slave, you’re my master. I’m captured in rapture. Love bound and set free by the sound of your laughter. Like woodwinds and strings on the wings of a cloud, face held high and warm in the rays of your smile.

Girl you reached thorugh my flesh, through my bones, to my soul, to the core! I need more! Boo I’m hooked, I’m addicted, a fiend! Just a fool for your love, Love, my Ebonie Queen.

April 9, 2011

Letters and A New Blog

October 20, 2009 11:37 p.m.

In here, you’ll lose your bearings if you let the pressure and corruption overcome you. You are a lifeline and a Godsend.

How are you sweet lady? I hope that all is well with you. I don’t hear from you as often as before, not that I blame you though; I’ve been sparse in my writing as well. It’s not from having a lack of things to say, I promise you that. There’s just been too much going on, then they run commissary so sporadically over here, I buy enough stamps to write all the people I need to write…then I’m stuck in limbo waiting for commissary to roll back around. Like now, it’s a long story though.

I did receive a letter from you last week. Believe me, I know you’re busy. I’m just spoiled, not ungrateful.

Whew! So much is always taking place here. This facility is completely out of control! Ferguson was strict, but at least there was some sort of structure, some fear of consequences to balance out the power struggle between good and evil. Here, it’s just a free for all. These guys smoke cigarettes in the TV room like it’s legal, they drink wine, run all over the place and no one ever says a word.

The other night, about 15 Crips jumped on this one kat and hit him with a broom stick, stabbed him three times….the block got locked down for 24 hours, a handful of inmates went to solitary confinement and that’s it. No, I did not want to be locked down for 30 days as punishment for something that I was no part of, but that punishment was so light, it was almost like saying, “Oh, it’s okay. He’s still alive.” Absolutely crazy!

And to make it worse, because I’m from Houston, other Houston dudes have passed it off like I’m a part of some crap called “H-town circle” when they know damn well I told them that I was “solo,” by myself, “one deep," so I had to get that straightened out. It’s just been crazy.

In the process of searching for a date for my wet floor fall, I ran across my medical records for my initial physical therapy session. Lo and behold, I read in my file where this therapist begins the notes on my visit by typing, “high risk sexual behavior observed.” ): (I tried to draw a shocked face, but I don’t want to make light of the situation.)

Now…I’m pissed, insulted, shocked and humiliated, but super super pissed. I go above and beyond to stay out of the way, speak respectfully to all the guards and staff, try to be as nice mannered as possible. How can this woman just dream some nonsense up like that, then pass it off as fact? Not only did not one sexual thought leer anywhere near my mind when I met this woman, it wasn’t even an afterthought. This lady looks like a pale Jackie Chan, with a light mustache. She’s so far of my sexual radar it’s awful.

So how it’s legal that she can do that, just type something and I’m stuck with it? I don’t have a sexual history in this place, period. No exposure cases, no masturbation cases, no establishing improper relationship, nothing; that’s not even in my character. Now the next person who reads my file will think I’m some kind of rapist. Our great justice system. A man with daughters—labeled and stuck with it.

What I’m going to do is wait until I complete my therapy, then make an issue of it so I don’t get kicked out before I’m healthy. But I’m going to make them amend that crap! I can’t even look at the woman without blazing hatred. Talk about something to pray on.

The P.T.A. is sweet though. She’s good looking, even though she’s 60. But none of us look at her like that. She’s the one that actually works with us. I’ve not seen one guy disrespect either of those women. And the P.T.A. is so sweet, how could you behave in any manner but your best?

She’s keeping me sore, but won’t allow me to overwork myself into pain or further injury. It’s pleasant enough. It keeps me tired though. I sleep like a baby.

There you go, an update on the horrors of prison life. Hopefully it helps you to see how important it is to me to have outside love and support. In here, you’ll lose your bearings if you let the pressure and corruption overcome you. You are a lifeline and a Godsend. Just so you know.

It’s so cold here, too. I freeze every single night, but this is life on the inside. Wish I had better content to offer. Hopefully my next letter will inspire smiles. Sorry, rainy days.

November 1, 2009

Hey Lady! How are you? Hope everything is good your way. It’s okay down here, cold! I’m okay though. In a pretty good mood tonight for no particular reason. Sleepy though.

Received the latest letter from you, beautiful pictures. As always, I can count on you to keep my mind free. Thanks. And thank you for responding to my letters. So many people write folks, but completely ignore the content of the letter they are replying to; that’s so rude! ): I mean, sometimes, like now, I’m too lazy to get out of bed and get your letter off the shelf, but you were on my mind, so here I am.

Therapy is going smooth. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about that crap on my medical records, and brought it up to Mrs. W (the sweet one). She told me not to sweat it, that they put that nonsense in everyone’s file, that she pays it no mind because she knows its garbage planted to prejudice staff against inmates. That’s still messed up, and I still feel violated.

You know, I try to tell these very confused kats in here that simplicity is happiness. I mean, the rims, jewelry, cars….all that’s fine and dandy, but you can’t take it with you, or cherish it like memories of good times. You’re very right, counting your blessings is important. Things can always be worse, even when it seems they can’t.

My heart goes out to you. I know that you deal with it (your illness), you are very capable and active, but that doesn’t mean that you deserve it. Seems that bad things always happen to the best people. It’s life, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

You are very brave to push on with a positive attitude. Again, you give me yet another something to admire about you.

Wow, sleep is upon me. Better rest up. I’ll write a better letter later. Sorry it’s so short.

Sincerely,

November 25, 2009

Hey! I’m sorry I have been so busy! ): After the holidays I’m going to sit down and write a long letter and respond to all your recent letters.

Right now it’s after midnight and I have to wake up early for therapy. I’m sleepy, too. Ben hard at work on cards for you and my mom. Hope you enjoy it! (: I’m no artist, but maybe it’ll be worth a smile. Thanks for simply being you!

Happy Holidays,

P.S. Get full and take plenty of pictures of all the great dishes.

December 18, 2009

Who would have thought a year ago,

we’d be pen pals still?

I’ve been missing in action for a good while, haven’t I? Well, my apologies. I’ve not been feeling good, sleeping more than is healthy. But whatever it is, I’m coming out of it.

I’ve enjoyed your reminders that you care. They have helped me on some nights that I was otherwise miserable.

Of course, I wish you plenty of holiday cheer. The letter is still coming. I foolishly don’t purchase enough postage to last so long. We’ve not gone to the commissary since the 23^rd of last month. The cell block is in a state of chaos. I’ve not sent out any mail in about three weeks, I know folks are probably worried. Hopefully we go Tuesday. Couldn’t stand to go through Christmas in this sad state.

You know I’ve got all kinds of good things planned. That’s what makes my holiday, in here cooking, listening to Christmas music, then eating something that is “exotic,” in comparison to the crap we eat, and the excitement and approval of those that I share with.

Anyways, a very Happy Holidays to you. Your friendship is a gift!

Who would have thought a year ago, we’d be pen pals still? Especially after my ugly first letter!

Blog Not Everybody

Is the guy with the teardrop tattoos and the bottle cap knuckles less gay than the guy with the fitted pants and eyeliner?

Regardless of what scientists say, homosexuality is not a disease. Homosexuality is not contagious, communicable or transmittable. If it was, every man in this place would be so ridiculously, completely, head over heels, snapping above the shoulder gay (straight men snap down, never above the shoulder). Surely I’m no expert. I can’t tell you what homosexuality is. As a man though, I can damn sure tell you what it’s not.

Homosexuality is not something that suddenly occurs overnight or after a certain amount of time. You don’t wake up one morning suddenly gay. There are dudes in here that have been here for twenty plus years who are not gay. They’re tormented, half crazy, but not gay. And then, there are guys in here who have been here twenty plus years and are very gay. There are guys that aren’t here twenty minutes and “discover” their homosexuality. There is no alarm clock ticking or level of pressure you reach where you just gotta’ have a man. No, it doesn’t work like that. Time is time, pressure is pressure. The longer I’m here, the more I want a woman.

Early 2000, I came home from boot camp. My long time girlfriend and I were lying in bed one morning when she asked me about anal sex. Rolling over, kind of puzzled, kind of excited, I took the bait. “Why? Wassup?” Smiling her beautiful smile, she responded, “I don’t know. I thought that’s what ya’ll liked in there.”

Now even though I knew she was playing, I went from zero to sixty in about 0.5 seconds, extremely pissed. Her smile became a mask of fear as she watched my anger transform me into a raving madman. I’ve never been abusive of women, or the kind of guy who gets his rocks off on beating women, but that morning the temptation was there. We are both fortunate that I loved her as much as I did. I mean, there are certain things that you just don’t play about.

However, while only a small percentage, I’d guess about 15%, of the men in the Texas prison system are gay (5% openly, 10% waiting in the wings), you would be astounded at the number of “straight” men who play the “come on” and “gay” games. I mean, imagine you run into a guy you’ve known all your life, or long enough to have seen him interested in females, a girlfriend, kids, and this guy, this certified street kat doing two life sentences from a home invasion turned double murder, a killer for real, grabs two huge hands full of another man’s butt…and squeezes! Jeeze…I swear, almost nothing surprises me anymore.

All day long you hear guys referring to each other casually as “bitches” and “hoes,” playfully, no retribution. It’s commonplace to see one man walk up behind another man and thrust his pelvis into the other man’s backside. Yes, it is sickening, something I can’t begin to understand, much like homosexuality, I see it and don’t see it. I just do me. And when I see these guys, the pretend guys and the real gays at visitation, kissing their kids, holding their wives’ hands, I shake my head and tell my momma how much I miss her.

Do I condone homosexuality? You know, to each his own. I don’t know or pretend to know why the earth spins, why the sky is so vast…I don’t have the secrets of the universe.

Raised in the church, I have my faith, my beliefs...know what the Bible says about Sodom and Gomorrah. In the end, we all have to atone, you know. There are a couple of homosexual guys on my cellblock that talk to me every day. I don’t slap them to the ground and berate them. They are human beings, too. They are no threat to me or my manhood. I don’t see what is sexy about a man and I’m not in the least bit curious. More women for me, huh?

What’s confusing is how the guys who are “man enough” to be open about their homosexuality are scorned, treated as less than men, called “hoes,” punks” and “faggots” while the “studs,” the dudes so called “on the fence,” O.G’s and all, are treated with the utmost respect. The blind leading the blind. Is the guy with the teardrop tattoos and the bottle cap knuckles less gay than the guy with the fitted pants and eyeliner? Because this guy is the “man” in the relationship, it’s cool? Come on. First base, short stop, second base, outfielder, batter….pitching or catching, it’s all baseball. Some people love the game. I don’t play nor am I a fan.

Society has indeed embraced homosexuality as a culture. At some point you have to accept it and roll on. Homosexuality is here, it is what it is. Most of the time it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t affect me….sometimes it does.

One afternoon in the spring of 2003, my long time homeboy, Chris and I stood on his front porch, grilling some steaks, drinking beer, “chillin’. A school bus pulled up on the street below his second story apartment. Two little black girls stepped off the bus and the bus departed. These two children, dressed in khaki pants and clean white polo shirts waited until the bus got a good distance down the street, then wrapped their little arms around each other’s waists. Nothing to be misunderstood about it, this was not the embrace of friends; this was the embrace of lovers. The smaller girl leaned her braided head on the bigger girl’s shoulder and they strolled down the street.

I watched them for a long time before I turned to meet Chris’ eyes. In his eyes was the same sadness and disbelief that I felt. “No?” He gasped. I’m not sure if it was a question or a plea, but I understood. Shaking my head in response, worried about my three year old step-daughter at home, I drained the remainder of my 24 oz. can. Those little girls couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, tops! They hadn’t lived enough to know what sexuality was, and it broke my heart.

Nothing is taboo anymore. Guys in here are always bragging about their bisexual wives, and there are always a handful of guys eager to hear all of the juicy details. Me? Eh…not so much. Yeah, yeah, yeah…double standards…I get it. Here’s the thing though, I’m not attracted to men at all. I’m very very attracted to women. So it would be a lie if I said that the sight, thought, idea of two women kissing, etc. doesn’t arouse me, but that’s where it stops. Arousal. Primal, lustful, animal instinct. It’s not something I’d want in a relationship. Call me old fashioned, but I’m of the Adam and Eve cult, not Adam and Eve…and Patrice. Or John! Nooo, that opens too many doors. The woman I vow to spend the remainder of my life with should be loyal to me and only me. If she has needs outside of us, we shouldn’t be together. And how do you explain that to the kids? “Oh that’s just your Aunt Naomi.” Stop it.

A woman from a former relationship, a woman I loved very deeply, went out with a family friend. While she was gone, I stayed home with the kids, fed and bathed them, smoked some, drank some, then sat on the couch and watched The Lion King with my son. Right there on the couch is where I passed out.

Hours later, I was awakened by my shorts being pulled off. Buzzed, eyes straining to focus in the dark, I could see “my woman” tugging anxiously at my shorts. With my assistance, she got my shorts off and was all over me. I didn’t even ask.

Weeks later, we lay in the bed after making love. This was usually when we aired dirty laundry and confided in one another. She told me that our family friend (a female) had come on to her that night at the club, touched her breast and kissed her. For the slightest instant I was aroused, but alarms were sounding in my head.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered with a hint of irritation. But I already had my answer. She’d been so turned on by that, that she came home and ravished me. I lost respect for her that night. See it how you choose, but if another man, friend, family, Moses, tries to come on to me; he’s getting the kiss of death. Diane Sawyer won’t have to come interview me in jail to know how I felt about it.

Ahhh…but this is the world we live in. The world we love. I’m not the judge, jury or executioner. I’m just a man doing my time, searching my soul, praying I know the answers before I get too old.

“Jay Straight, like Indian hair.”

Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter

April 4, 2011

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.

March 27, 2011

June 28 & July 5, 2009 and my second Blog.

June 28, 2009 Late

Please forgive me. I know I have been a horrible pen pal. For what it’s worth, that is not my intention.

No excuses, things have been so hard on me these past few months, I mean, really my life has been miserable! And I’m that type of person that doesn’t like to burden those special to me with negativity of this place. And happy thoughts have been touch and go. Fleeting to say the least. I only request that you bear with me a bit longer? In a few weeks, I’m going to another unit to begin rehab on my knee. Things should be multitudes better there.

Rest assured that your letters, cards and photographs bring me joy, even through the darkness I’ve been all but consumed by. J The pictures are great. I love the wildlife, especially the rhinos. Oh and how I envy you and your “wascally wabbits.” How I long for life’s simple moments.

It’s easy to admire your compassion and kindness towards others. You seem to be “Mother Earth,” providing for all of the children one way or another. How refreshing to see you, your husband and family, so warm and close. You provide me with fond inspiration and hope that my trials will soon come to pass.

I just returned from Galveston again. That’s wearing me down. Won’t even tell you how awful a trip it was!

This is just another short one, but I beg you to understand hot and unpleasant it is down here, even in the middle of the night, I’m sticky with perspiration and drained of energy. Just know that you are on my mind every day and your good wishes are most appreciated!

Warmly,

July 5, 2009

Hello! How are ya? I really do hope that all is well with you! I never can quite find the proper words to express my gratitude for your role in my life. I mean, in here, it is so easy to feel all alone, be devoured by the darkness and forgo all hope. You have no idea how your kindness and unselfish ability to share your joy helps to keep my spirits high.

Wow! You and your husband have made me a part of your very very active and interesting lives. One day, I too hope to live to the fullest as well, to be comfortable, in a healthy relationship and able to travel. I admire what ya’ll have, deeply.

I must be honest; my life has been pretty much off axis since my injury. It’s been one drama after another. And all of the back and forth to the hospital has taken its toll. The last time I went, when I came back, they housed me on a cell block for inmates who can’t think for themselves, guys who are G-4’s while I’m a G-2, guys that are Line 3’s while I’m a S-3. I know that makes no sense to you, but trust me, I didn’t belong down there. G-2 is a custody level; “G-2” is minimal custody. “G-3” is for guys with over 50 years, “G-4” is medium custody, “G-5” is closed custody. The line class thing is more complicated. You enter the system a “Line-1” and work your way up. As a “Line-1” you aren’t allowed contact visits or certain jobs. From a “Line-1” you go up to a “S-4” which is a state approved trustee. Every six months you go with no cases, your line class advances until you get to a “S-2” which means you are eligible for outside jobs unsupervised and all contact visits. Any major cases you receive can knock your class and status down, then it takes you a year trouble-free to move back up. Pretty boring stuff, but it gives you some idea of just how much I didn’t belong on a medium custody cellblock, especially not on crutches. All types of nonsense goes on down there….from riots, fights with officers, fires…you name it.

My family has been kinda off and on, too. Like my mom, she doesn’t write very often, so I worry about her. But no matter how much I try to explain that, it doesn’t get through to her. My ex-wife is still acting stupid with me about my kids, so I’ve not seen them.

I’m going to send you a few pictures. Unfortunately, I’ll need them back because I don’t have copies, but you are welcome to make copies. (I hate asking for the pictures back, it seems so tacky!

If you’re wondering why I have so much time and energy to write, there’s an interesting explanation. This kid got into a fight the other night on the recreation yard. The next day his eye looked like he’d been hit with a sledge hammer. His friends were able to keep him hidden in his cell yesterday, but today he popped out like he didn’t look like he’d lost a bar fight and the officers noticed. So my cell block is on “lockdown” for 24 hours while the “incident is investigated” which basically means “less work for the officers…free day!”

So I’ve rested, allowing my mind to wander, cleaned up and done some reading. Now I’ve written you. Well, I better wrap this up and settle in for the night. I’ve got a Patricia Cornwell book to get into. As always, I thank you for your friendship and your kindness. You have no idea the impact you have on me. Hope you enjoy the pictures!

Like family,

BLOG # 2

Smiles

It’s 1:20 a.m. It’s cold. I’ve been writing letters for hours….I’m tired and I’m lonely. The penitentiary consoles no man. The consolation and rehabilitation is done within.

My writing hand aches, though not as much as my heart, so I write on.

Am I sad? No. I’m beyond the sadness. Actually, I’m quite content considering my circumstances. Incarcerated, yet that is life, for now. Not all of me is here though, and my soul tickles my flesh to a smile.

I just got off of my good knee, saying my prayers, most of which were the usual, then many thanks for plenty of blessings. These last few nights though, I’ve made an amendment to my prayers. Towards the closure of that brief but sincere monologue, I’ve begun to ask God to touch my children’s hearts, just for a moment, and let them know that they are loved.

In my mind, I can see them smile slightly in their sleep in response to that touch. Sweet, pure and so innocent. It doesn’t matter where their little minds think the love comes from, just as long as they feel it.

And with those smiles floating above the stratosphere of my thoughts, tranquilizing the pain laden tumultuous clouds, I’m able to enjoy a period of peace. I can crawl under my shabby blanket already warm, comforted by the slightest silken caress of my spirit, reminding me of the joy that was and preparing me for the joy that will be.

They’re still smiling.

March 19, 2011

Two more letters - April & May, 2009 - and my first BLOG

April 26, 2009

I’m sure you think I’ve forgotten you? Never! The past few weeks have been “one thing or another.” Yeah, there was the lock down when I couldn’t buy stamps. Then I bought stamps, but the commissary lady stole them, like I’ve got money to throw away. It’s been rough, to say the least. But I have received your letters. Thank you for including me in your life and your thoughts.

How are you? Hopefully you’re better than I am. I am exhausted. I spent all of last week shackled and traveling on pissy buses. Very unpleasant. Tell me why it takes two days to get to another city, from where I am, like two hours away? It took two days to get there, two days to get back, all for the doctor to look at my knee, frown and say, “Dude, your knee is jacked up! You need major surgery.” She couldn’t operate because there was too much swelling. So I have to go back in a few weeks.

I may have gotten about 15 total hours of sleep last week. My body is on “shutdown.” So forgive me for this short letter? I’ll owe you a long one and those pictures (have to dig them out) but I wanted to let you know how I was so that you don’t worry. You treat me like family, it’s only right that I respect and love you as a son respects and loves his mother. Can’t have Momma worried.

Isn’t it a shame that it took those people a month to get me to the hospital, and my leg is still messed up? This great state and its billion dollar prison industry. There is no justice—just us. And they don’t care what happens to us as long as the Big Wigs get paid.

Oh, I had to send the address labels back to you. Sorry. Thank you though. They wouldn’t let me keep them. These people are so stupid. They police the insignificant things while guys run around here with knives, weed and meth. Noooo, don’t fingerprint them when you find them, just stop the stickers coming through the mail. Crazy.

Anyhow, Mom, let me rest my poor body and expect a real letter by the end of the week. I’ve not forgotten you. You and your husband are constantly in my thoughts and always in my heart. Smile. J

Sincerely,

May 24, 2009 early morning

Here it is 4 a.m. and I’m writing you because you’ve been on my mind, plus my body decided to grant me a moment free of the torturous plain I’ve been living in.

Where are my manners? How are you? I did receive a few letters from you, but my mail is like two weeks behind because I’ve been traveling, and it takes time for the mail to catch up.

Yes, I finally had the surgery (left patellar tendon reconstruction). I was supposed to have the “scope” but the doctor said that my leg was too messed up. Honestly, I almost wish I hadn’t had that surgery. Never in my life have I felt so helpless, and the pain is beyond words!

At the hospital, I was ordered two Tylenol #3’s every four hours, for 30 days. These hateful people at this facility have cut that to one pill three times a day, because they say I can sell the pills. Well, maybe I could, if I wasn’t in excruciating pain! J There’s nothing any of these guys could give me that’s worth that medicine to me. And the meds don’t give me complete relief, but I’m learning to find contentment with shades of comfort instead of seeking the big picture.

Despite all my complaints and suffering, I’m becoming stronger, more patient and more thoughtful of others. People, for the most part, have been compassionate and understanding. That has surprised me. Still, some folks will always be jerks. That does not surprise me. Overall though, folks have been helpful and kind. Everyone seems to be genuinely concerned for my well being. They frown when they see me hopping on these crutches, sweating, wincing at the pain. Their faces tell me what they’re thinking. Women say it aloud, “Oh Baby! What did you do?” The attention is a gift and a curse. For three years in this facility, virtually no one knew who I was. Now, in 90 days, everyone knows me. That’s not my choice status.

Please forgive me for my transitions? My intentions are to be a better pen pal than I have been. It’s just been one thing after another. I was gone ten days when I left for surgery!

7:00 p.m. Wow! I adjusted myself to get more comfortable and passed out. It was 9 a.m. when I woke. That’s crazy, but that is my life right now.

Thank you so much for being constant and not wavering! Really, continuous love is hard to come by in here, yet you treat me like I was one of your own children. You are always positive and your letters always bring a smile to my face. Even before I read them, on seeing the return address alone, I know that you’ve “tucked in some good wishes” for me inside. J You are amazing and I’m thankful for your role in my life.

Right now I’ve got on a knee immobilizer and a splint that goes from my hip to my ankle. Talk about uncomfortable. I can’t even shower. It’s bird baths for me. Then I’ve been blessed with a very sweet cellmate. I know, “sweet” is not a word you’d commonly use among guys….straight guys in prison, but this guy is the exception. He changes my sock, brings me food, changes my sheets, goes out of his way to make sure that I’m comfortable. He’s protective too, seeing as how I’m not really in much of a position to defend myself. J

Basically, it’s a physical and emotional rollercoaster. Gotta learn to take the good with the bad and use it all to become a better person. Isn’t that what it’s all about anyway?

It’s all humbling and empowering at the same time. Realizing that you aren’t as strong as you thought, realizing that you’re stronger than you ever imagined all at once. Maybe that’s confusing for some, but for me it’s a tragic yet beautiful revelation. Maturity sought by overcoming strife.

Well, allow me to hope that you are as happy to hear from me as I am to hear from you. I will be in touch. For the present, there may be delays, but you will always have a letter coming sooner or later. I’m sure that you by now trust my good motives and patiently await the following actions. :)

From my heart,

P.S. No, these people won’t allow you to send postage either. They sell them to us at the commissary, charge us for them, then don’t give us the stamps and call us liars when we complain. Yeah, I know.

Blog #1 Happy

Believe it or not, I’m happy. No, I’m not overjoyed, not ecstatic or delirious with glee, and I’m not depressed, withdrawn or suicidal. I’m merely happy. I’m happy and it disturbs people because I guess maybe they feel I shouldn’t be.

Happy is what I am though. Other inmates, some with less time than me, some with more time than me, ask “How much time to you have?” or “You ‘bout to go home?” or “Ready for the world, huh?” or many similar questions. I do not relish telling them the truth.

The time doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it bothers them. I respond stone faced, voice devoid of any emotion, “40 years.” Their reaction is always the same. They move closer, staring at me with huge bugged out eyes as if I’m some fascinating creature beyond the limits of imagination, voices drop to an intimate, conspiratorial tone, as if willing me to cease with the shenanigans and tell the truth. “Four years?” They inquire, too enthusiastically, like nodding “yes” and smiling they can make me give the answer they seek.

It’s the same routine, and me being the stand up guy that I am, I never stray from the script. Still without emotion, betraying only the slightest impatience, I make the dreaded correction. “No, forty.”

If the sun and stars were hung on the angles and eaves of peoples’ face, I would be witness to the countless fallings of the sky. What really sucks is that it hurts me to hurt them. I become the loathed executioner betraying the hopeful human heart, delivering a merciless blow, slashing out the throat of an innocent bystander. Seconds tick by in silence while the nimble fingers of reality perfectly repair the damage done to their voice box, their good as new throat flexing as they attempt to swallow disappointment.

Still, I expertly mask my feelings, angry for being forced to even briefly injure a total stranger. Not angry at their obvious plummet from Mt. Hope, but angry at myself for being here to pull them to their peak, then shove them off, angry that I’ve failed myself and countless others….add one more.

Relentless as a stubborn old fisherman down to this last worm, they press the release on the reel and cast way out between the stumps, where bass have been splashing all morning. “It’s non-agg, right?” Here my anger abates, draining from me like rain down a storm gutter. What does it say about me that people who barely know me want me to be free? It’s a credit to something, because I’ve encountered several people within these walls whom I pray are never freed.

With a warm smile worthy of comforting a pouting child, I confirm their fears. “It’s aggravated.” Despite my efforts, their faces always make that split second transformation from expectant to empathetic on the brink of pitying. Some, I reassure with promises of time cuts and appeals, others try to reassure me, not realizing that I’ve accepted it for what it is, dreamed every dream of release and envisioned every doomful other possibility.

Not all of them have the courage to continue, but those who do, sober up, look past my eyes, through my vision, searching my soul. I’ve never asked what they find, but the following words are guaranteed. “Man….you don’t act like you’ve got 40 years.”

That statement I never respond to, at least not verbally. What’s the point? Is there a prototypical behavior or M.S.R.P. (Municipal Suggested Reduction of Principles) for people with absurd amounts of time? Would it be more fitting if I fought every day, repeatedly slammed my face into a wall and wailed like a wild banshee? Would any of that make my time more acceptable to others? Perhaps, but it’s not logical. I’m very much like I was in the free world, the changes in me are for the better but in essence. I’m still Jason. I’m still my momma’s baby.

Yes, I’m still a Momma’s boy and a dreamer to boot. Of course, my dreams are no longer the lavish, flamboyant dreams of an adolescent like too many of my “peers.” My dreams now are simple, reality based, corny even. While other guys promise themselves mansions, millions, Mayhachs and immoral Malaysians maidens, I subtly shake my head and hope that I don’t see them when they come back.

Mentality and lifestyle are like hand and glove. I wanted a Benz and a Range Rover….by any means…which means exactly what it means. Now my dream car is a Toyota Camry or a Honda Accord. That’s funny to some, probably just as funny as incarceration. Ha! I’m cracking up….not.

No my new fantasies are very attainable, and for me, that much more appealing. So yeah, as cheesy as it sounds, that cottage with the white picket fence and dog look real damn good when you live in the alternative.

I’ve lived the “Dope Boy” life, both sides, and none of it impresses me anymore. What does impress me is how much my babies have grown since I’ve been gone. Being away from them saddens me and strengthens my resolve. Their smiles outweigh my grief. Using that scale as judge, I push on.

True dreamers know to always look for the silver lining. All the storms endured in my time, I’m impervious to rainfall, immune to cold, impregnable to high winds. My head is high, eyes fixed on the heavens, vigilant in my wait for the bruised pregnant clouds to give birth to just a glimpse of sunshine. I’m never disappointed.

Although I have not held either of my children in over two years, it is not because I do not love them. I love them fiercely, with every particle of my being, to the marrow. And they are healthy. Lord forbid, they could be in a cancer ward, or laid up in a trauma center somewhere, helpless. Though I can’t be there for them now, God have mercy on anyone who tries to stand in the way of me being there in the future.

There is a future, and so I’m happy. I’m happy because there is hope.

The past is in the past. Past sins and crimes are already committed and cannot be undone. But today I have a choice, an option, a perspective….potential. Peace within, and therefore, I’m happy.