Letters and a Blog

 

Jason's book PrisonLife InsideOUT - Letters from Prison has just been released.  It is available for preview and purchase by clicking HERE. 

 

May 10, 2010

“That night it was cold and I had to sleep 

without sheets or a blanket.”

9:59 p.m.

Sweet lady, you have been such a friend to me, so patient, so understanding! Really, I don’t know how to thank you.

Oh, where do I even begin? How are you? I hope you’re over that nagging cold. You sounded pretty miserable. Thanks again for keeping me in your thoughts. Your words and your husband’s photographs are my escape from this place more often than you know. 

As of late, my life has been far too eventful! Jeeze, it’s been awful. First there was my wall outlet catching fire one night about a month ago. Yup, I plugged my fan in and the blue flames started shooting from the socket. What made it ten times worse, I was trapped in the cell with no way to dodge the flames. I fought it with a wet towel which only seemed to infuriate the flames and shock the hell out of me. This went on for about three minutes, then a friend of mine told me to press against the far wall while he dashed the outlet from the cell bars with a cut of water. Dangerous! But, it stopped the flames (mostly). The completely melted receptacle spit and sputtered sparks all night, then I had no power for two days until they fixed it.

Things settled down for a few weeks, then at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, an officer came to my cell, cuffed me and took me to lockup. Talk about misery! I had no clue what I could have done, and worried more because I didn’t know. That night it was cold and I had to sleep without sheets or a blanket. Sleeping on that naked mat caused an allergic reaction which broke me out all over my body.

All of my clothes were thrown away, my cell sprayed down, my body bathed in some sort of lotion…quite an ordeal. I wanted to cry, and I’ve not cried in years. Even the officers cried (women) because they couldn’t understand why I was going through so much crap. Neither could I. One lady said that God was making me strong. Perhaps.

Later that day, I found out that I was being charged with extortion. What? I freaked out! That could get me more time! Turns out, my old celly got caught with a knife and to get the heat off himself, he made up a story that another Hispanic guy and myself had held him down and beat him up, AND that’s why he had the knife. Got your rubber boots on? It’s thick!

Well, fortunately, my character speaks volumes, and the case was overturned. Still, I stayed in lockup for a week without so much as a toothbrush. 

Coming out, I nearly got stabbed not even four hours later, just a bystander standing too close. The following Monday, I received my property only to find most of it missing, most importantly my fan and my food.

Now, these people are supposed to replace my stuff in the meantime, I’m hot and starving. My mom has been worried sick and upset that she may have to replace stuff that the prison is responsible for losing. They froze my account and put me in a cell with a militant….I feel like I’m falling to pieces. I just want to give up…but I know I can’t. Still…

Don’t think I’m ignoring you, I’m just going through it right now, okay? Hopefully my next letter will be joyous and full of answers to your questions. Right now, I’m in an unhealthy mind state. Gotta shake it off.

You get well and know how special a friend you are.

Thank you much,

May 27, 2010  6:22 p.m.

Hello, dear lady!  How are you?  Of course I sound more cheerful than I really am.  No, unfortunately things have not improved for me, if anything, they are worse.

So, while I was escaping into your most recent letter, a thought came to me, inspired by need and desperation, but an idea none the less.

And do forgive me for nearly ignoring all of the interesting activities that your letters tell of, but try to understand that under the current circumstances, my mind is in an alien state.  I want to be my old self with you, joyful and optimistic.  Oh, and I did get the images you printed.  Thank you very much.  (:

Of course I sound more cheerful

than I really am.

Okay, about this idea…I think you can help me get things set back straight.  You see, on the inside, I am just a number, powerless, at the whim of the prison staff and officers.  See how easily they wrong us, and have no one within to answer to?  Sure, there is a grievance office but they are allies with the state and back them up.  I filed a step one grievance about my fan and they responded with lies on top of lies, protecting their officers and leaving me without my fan, my hot pot, my $60 in commissary and $70 worth of photographs for a total of $170.  With my migraines and asthma, I’ll never make it through the summer, which is basically “murder,” hence proving my point.  They do it because they feel they can get away with it, and if it’s left up to those inside these walls, they can.  So, they are getting away with murder.  Maybe they don’t intend for me to die in this heat without my fan, but they don’t care enough to have it investigated.  All this time I’ve been waiting, no once came and spoke to me, checked on me or anything.

Even now, as I lay still writing you, I’m dripping sweat, trying to restrict my movements and conserve my energy.  I know what you’re thinking, “What, oh what are they doing down in Texas?”  Playing cowboys.

               

The plan is simple, outside influence.  Yup, that’s it.  I just want you to make some calls.  Not to this unit, not to this worthless warden, but to his employer.  I want you to call the director over all the prisons in the state, maybe a congressman, a senator. Someone in the governor’s office, maybe you or your husband knows some powerful or influential people that wouldn’t mind making a phone call.  I mean, it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, I was never at fault. I’m not looking for anybody to get fired; I just want my property back and for these people to leave me alone.

But outside help is the one thing that

these people fear and respect.

Honestly, I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved.  I’m trying to rally the troops.  My mom has not come to my rescue and I’m panicking.  But outside help is the one thing that these people fear and respect.  It’s not like they can do anything to you for fighting against injustice and criminal acts.  They are ordinary people outside these walls.  The only people they have control of are us.  I assure you, if the director of the Texas prison system calls this

warden and asks why people in another state are calling about an inmate who’s property has not beenreturned to him, the warden is going to make sure that my stuff gets replaced and that I get anything else I need, because he doesn’t want any more of these phone calls.  Especially about an inmate that has not been in any trouble.  Honestly, I’ve had one case in five years, back in September of 2007 and it was another instance when the officer was in the wrong, but they covered for him.  This is the corrupt world I live in.  I’m a dead man walking without people to fight for me on the outside.

               

It’s already apparent that you despise the way they treat me.  Here’s your chance to change that.  No pressure, but I sure could use the help.  (:  and, the sooner you can make a call or two, the sooner they’ll give my property back or replace it.  Because they know that the officer was in the wrong to let another inmate pack my stuff (that’s against policy), but they assume I don’t have a voice, so screw me.

               

Anyhow, however you can help, I’ll be grateful!  I just want to get back to the Jason you’ve come to know and care for, not this angry, bitter, frustrated time bomb.

               

Sorry about the return name on the letter.  I’m scared that they are holding my mail, so I’m taking precautions.  You still send yours to me though.  Umm, the contact info for the director should be available on line.  As a matter of fact, you can find out a lot on the website…a lot about me, too (just statistics) you know what counts about me.

               

Please keep in touch.  Hopefully my next letter to you will be one of thanks and joy.  Once can always be hopeful.  Thank you for the big hug!  They are always welcome. (:

Fondly,

Please keep in touch. 

Hopefully my next letter to you will

be one of thanks and joy.

Blog  

A Letter to Love

Some say that I have the gift of words, I’m not always sure.  For so long, I’ve been trying to find the words, the right words…and I’m still at a loss.  What do you say to an old friend, a lover, a soul mate who you’ve hurt time and time again.  How do you tell her that the love never died?

With age and maturity, I’m learning that the punishments we impose upon ourselves are often the worst ones, and self inflicted wounds never heal.  For my sins, for my crimes, I’ve asked forgiveness of my God, my family and myself, and moved forward.  Yes, I beat myself up, as if the conditions of my living aren’t torture enough.  But some things…some things won’t allow me to let go.

And I know…I know all too well that there are mistakes in this life that just cannot be made right.  Even still, in an effort of insanity, I refuse to throw in the towel; I’ll be standing until the final bell—win, lose or draw.  I didn’t fight for you then, but I’ll fight for you now until forever.

Love, you know who you are.  You are as much a part of me as the hands with which I write, the legs with which I stand, the heart that still races when I think of you.  For the life of me, I’ve tried to flush you from my system, tried to make you think that you didn’t have the power to destroy or rebuild me.  It’s all been a lie, Love, one that I can’t keep living.

You are the one.  Lord knows I want to be over you.  When people bring you up, I get defensive to keep from revealing how weak I am behind you.  Hope and prayer are my only allies in this battle.  This is a war which I wage every day of my existence, torturing myself with the “what ifs?” and the illusional “what will be?”  School work, reading, working out…nothing can keep you from my thoughts.  It seems as though you have conquered my mind as thoroughly as you’ve conquered my heart.  And yet, I continue to hope, knowing that hope is hopeless.

You were more than love, you were salvation.  You believed in me when I didn’t, and through all the drama I dragged you through, you never stopped believing in me.  My “thank yous” would only be insulting and insufficient in the stead of the debt I really owe, but what do I have beyond words?

For what it’s worth, if I could go back and do things differently…oh, but the mantra of a dreamer.  A dreamer indeed, you gracefully haunt my thoughts day and night where I need not close mine to see your twinkling eyes, your dazzling smile, the what was, and what I pray will be.  Despite my actions, I never stopped loving you and I’m deathly afraid that I never will.

I won’t ask you to forgive me, or to befriend me, or to love me—for you don’t owe it and I don’t deserve it.  If I can ask you one question though, a question you asked me a lifetime ago…Do you still believe in destiny?  I do, how could I not?  You inspire belief in the impossible.

I still love you, now and always.

Letters and a Blog

Jason's book PrisonLife InsideOUT - Letters from Prison has just been released.  It is available for preview and purchase by clicking HERE.

March 9, 2010  12:03 midnight

      Now, I’m going to try to write neater, because my aunt says that my handwriting is impossible to read.  So….this is me trying.  I feel that it won’t last though.  Once my mind gets to flowing, I write much faster and that’s when it gets out of control.

      How are you?  How have you been?  I swear, sometimes I feel like such a crappy pen pal.  Please try to understand that I think about you all of the time.  Really.  I just go through so much on the daily, it’s nearly impossible to keep a positive mood, and I think it’s selfish to write the people you love while in an ugly mood.  Because moods are infections and contagious, especially with people you care about.  So, forgive my sporadic writing.  Believe it or not, my days are somewhat hectic (so busy), and by the time I get in the cell at night, collect my thought and relax, all I want to do is read a few pages from a book, pray (not always in that order) and sleep.  Then, what’s crazy, I only sleep for three or four hours, and back at it.

      But I’m here now.  My mind could be anywhere in the world, but it’s here with you.  (:  So much bulldoody has taken place in the past few weeks.  This is a truly evil place.  It seems that the devil has free reign in here and causes havoc at every chance.

In the past week we’ve been

locked down,  they’ve found four cell phones and three or four ounces of weed—just on my cell block.

      Try as I might to stay on the higher ground, there is always a downward force, a current trying to suck me under.  It’s going to be hard for me to adjust to telling you all about this place.  It is not the pouring out of my soul that bothers me, it’s acknowledging the ugly.  I feel like by putting it into words, I give it life, you know?

      Anyhow, in the past week we’ve been locked down, they’ve found four cell phones and three or four ounces of weed—just on my cell block.  Everyone is watching everyone else.  I try to stay out of the way, so as not to get caught up in the tidal wave and drown.

      One guy got run off, some knives have been found, and after the actual event, life continues as if it never happened.  Everyone turns a blind eye, not because it’s the right thing to do, but because minding other folks’ business will get you killed.

It is not the pouring out of my soul that bothers me, it’s acknowledging the ugly. 

Really, it drains me to talk of

such things sometimes.

      It has snowed a few times down here too.  Once on All Star Weekend, then again a few weeks later, and the snow stayed on the ground for three days!

      Folks down this way aren’t accustomed to dealing with ice and snow, so you can imagine what kind of chaos that was.  People didn’t show up for work, stuff was shut down.  Although the snow was pretty, I don’t want to see anymore this year.  I love the cold weather, but it hurts my knee now.

      Speaking of stupid people…my celly is one of the stupidest people that I’ve had the misfortune of living with.  Sure, he has the I.Q. of 78, but I assumed that it was due to his not being able to read, write or speak English very well.  Not the case.  He’s just stupid.  Point blank.  I feel sorry for his kids and his parents.  His folks have given him everything and he managed to destroy it all.  It frustrates me to watch people who simply don’t care about life, take down the people that care about them.  This dude lives every day like it’s his last, with no regard for others.  For me, it’s frustrating, because I strive so hard to do what’s good, to survive and cope while this dude just wakes up and does nothing to improve his situation now or in the future.

      In other news, my leg has been acting up.  I’ve not been scheduled for surgery yet, though.  The leg is strong, but there’s still something wrong, very wrong.  However, just the other day, I had to realize how far I’ve come from a year ago.  Rome was not built in one day.  I went from not being able to pedal a full rotation on the exercise bike in October to 5.7 miles and 321 calories burned on level 16 (random hills).  I felt like Lance Armstrong.  (:

Fondly,

P.S.  Okay, I remembered a few things (if you don’t mind).  This guy has nobody and he asked me to see if I could get him the mailing address for a friend. 

      Also, I need some images or photos if you can?   The images I need are crawfish, catfish, alligators and soft shell turtles.  Sounds crazy, but I’m having this dude draw something for me and I need pictures with details.

      Thank you so much!!!

 

April 11, 2010  11:16 p.m.

      How are you, lady?  As always, I apologize for the delay in my returning letter.  So much goes on in here that I often lose trace of reality and my imagination.  All the time, I think I’ve written people back, because I’m thinking about that person, and I compose the letters in my mind while doing other things.  My scrambled brain confuses my phantom letters with the real ones, still unwritten.

      Blah, blah, blah….it’s always something in this Godforsaken place.  How I maintain is obvious, but it still amazes me that one can remain hopeful in a place full of broken and ruined dreams.

      There is so much to respond to, don’t think I’ll make it through it all, but I’ll try.

You asked how I cook.

      You asked how I cook.  Well, it’s one thing when you work in the kitchen, but in your cell, you really can’t cook.  You just manipulate food.  I have a hotpot that boils, so I can put beef tips, butter, seasoning, peppers and a little water to simmer until it makes a gravy, then pour hot water in a pouch of rice, let it cook and you have seasoned beef with rice and gravy.  They sell a good variety of food in the commissary.  Instant potatoes, chicken breast meat, chicken and rice, summer sausage, tuna, mackerel, chili, spam, ground beef pouches, V-8, candy, juices, seasonings, all kinds of chips, cheese, hot sauce, peppers, tortillas, ranch, hasenero spread…

      Hey, you know what?  I need another small favor.  You did a great job with the images you sent.  Any you see like that or

cartoons, I’d love to have them. I know ink is expensive, so please don’t go out of the way.  Also, there are some scenes from the movie “The Princess and the Frog,” where an alligator is playing jazz or something.  If you can get any images of any of the animals playing instruments or dancing?

      Even though I know you don’t mind doing stuff for me, I’m so prideful, I hate asking.  Thank you none the less.  (:

      So much stuff has been going on here, I’ve not been much of the cheerful, high spirited Jason that you know, another reason I’ve put off writing.  My old celly and I were bumping heads, and that’s never cool, but especially when your celly has a big Rambo knife in the cell.  I was stressed and frustrated and….this stupid pen is skipping…goodness!   My nerves can’t take this! 

      Okay, I have to buy a pen off someone tomorrow and answer all of your questions.  But I’m going to get this letter out.  You know how special you are to me.  Just please continue to be patient with me?  Take care!

Fondly,

P.S.  Oh yeah, I’m in a different cell block now.  You don’t have to print new labels though, just scratch out the old and write the new next to it.  I hate all the trouble you go through, but I adore you for it!  (:

Blog

The Human Gun

What’s a gun’s purpose?  Guns do just one fatal service, they hit and crumble you up until you’re worthless.  Each gun is made perfect and modified to murder/protect, at your discretion, aim at the chest, face or the neck.  Guns are man-made tools used when life is undone, yet I’m wondering if I’m not a gun?

          I never asked to be a weapon,

so I don’t understand

Seventy-six inches of bone, carbon and tissues, born with issues, mis-loved, mis-handled, rubbed the wrong way and mis-used.  Abused within my sternum/my trigger, I pop at the slightest insult, like elderly knuckles with arthritis.  My verbal assault is hot lead spinning at high velocity.  Gross emotional wounds I inflict, my atrocities, my paranoia make me empty rounds in all those close to me.  I’m so confused, man or object, which am I supposed to be?

I don’t need clips.  I unload when I’m hurt or pissed.  Murky thoughts can seldom stop the anti-mirth that I spit.  A blast from a nine millimeter cannot be undone, that and steel are the differences between me and a gun.

         

The differences are few, the similarities are great, both can tear a man to shreds, both are inspired by hate.

         

I walk around with one in the chamber, no safety, cocked back, look at me the wrong way, I go crazy.  Innocent bystanders get shot all the time, because the bullets leave my mouth before thought hits my mind.  With smoke drifting from my barrel/my spine, I know  I’m guilty.  The courts parade me, read my priors to the jurors to show that I’m filthy.

         

Imagine myself invisible, but my own slugs shoot me to the company of murderous thugs.  Misbehave and become a slave to cell blocks and graves, chasing flashing lights, gold and ice, Air Maxers and Jay’s (tennis shoes).

In a daze, I give my chamber a spin, it’s Russian Roulette, apply pressure on the trigger, hear a “clack” then a “click.”  No hollow tips for breakfast this morning, I yawn a shell casing, still hot.   Sulfurous in my throat, bitter, hell tasting.

         

Sometimes I’m nickel plated, other times gun metal grey, right now,  I’m coal black, glistening in the light of day!

         

My power is tempting, but please approach me passively.  Try to be aggressive and you might end up a casualty.  Tragedy surrounds me, I become the casket too, angry at my father.  Look what he put Momma’s bastard through.

         

I was molded by the hands of God, not the hands of man.  I never asked to be a weapon, so I don’t understand. Why they carved me a new number, then they sat me on the shelf.  An attempt to save mankind from me or me from myself?  The human gun….

My verbal assault is hot lead

spinning at high velocity.