Letter 21

April 22, 2011


Dear Mom,


I really wish this was a joyful letter but it isn't. Please sit as this may be tough for you to hear. As you know, the food here is quite a lot worse than awful. Until today, I've been able to attribute this to one thing or another and not attribute all the responsibility to the kitchen. Today, there were not enough trays for everyone to get served breakfast, so I went without. Lunch was horrible but I forced it down because of hunger. Supper was late, cold, spoiled, and had worms in it! On top of that, we weren't given bread because of it being a Jewish holiday. Fine, if you are a devout Jew, but I'm not.


I'm doing all I can to make it out of here without looking like a concentration-camp survivor, but I need your help. Please contact the Department of Corrections website and get in touch with the office of the regional supervisor for the area this prison is in. Please call them also and complain about the alleged food we get, and don't get but are supposed to get. The more phone calls or contacts they get, the quicker something will get done, so please do this for me. I've only gone this long with no food at Lake C.I. (Egypt). The menu here is only suggested, apparently. We often have to draw on our own meager resources to complete a meal, and some inmates, like my celly, don't have any resources. It is breaking me down fast, the way we are fed here. This treatment does not inspire peaceful coexistence. They wonder why I'm scowling.


Please do this for me. Thank you very much.


James

Letter 20

April 20, 2011


Dear Mom,


Happy Easter to you, too! I've got the Easter card you sent me posted prominently in the doorway. I think it is hilarious. The kind of funny humor I didn't need to think about at all; when I saw it I laughed immediately. Where did you get it? That type of humor transcends this time of year. I think it might be a salvageable holiday for me after all, although I wish I could see an egg coloring kit and eat some chocolate.


I want you to know I actually have a point to writing you this time. I'm now officially a student here. After many failed attempts, I finally met with some reasonable success. I have to start at the bottom level and work my way to the top, hopefully after I get my TABE scores figured out. I don't imagine they will hit me with anything challenging. I mean, I think I'm a fairly smart guy. I'm nervous; it has been awhile since I've been in a classroom. I guess I have reason to be nervous.


Jesus and I were in our cell this morning (where else?) and I'd just started getting the day put on straight when three guards came in looking for something with hand writing on it. I later found out that the reason for this was that some guy keeps writing notes to the Lt. and Captain without including his name. This prompted me to say something ridiculously foolish to one of the guards. I can't remember just what it was I said, but unfortunately my filter wasn't turned on before I shot my mouth off. These guards have the power to make my life unbearable if they choose. Fortunately, the guard I spoke to had bigger things to contend with than the mouse that roared.


It is Wednesday evening now, and not a shower night. It shows to go that I don't do all my letter writing on shower nights. Unfortunately, this has just about exhausted my repertoire. Please know that I'd much rather spend Easter with family than thugs and predators. At least I'm not back in"Egypt" (Lake C.I.) still. In any case, I'll close this now.


Much love and best wishes,
James

Letter 19

April 17, 2011


Dear Mom,


Hey, another idea occurred to me when I awoke this morning. If I found work doing something I enjoyed doing, it wouldn't be work by the popular definition would it? More of a hobby, or even an occupation during off days. I call this the Artistic Syndrome. I'd be interested in finding out what you think about it.


Writing, for the moment at least, seems to have lost whatever smallish reward I took from it. It is a real pain in my a** to be sharp while those around me are so dull. I'm beginning to understand the way Einstein felt most of his life, not that I compare to him intellectually. He didn't have any, or many, intellectual peers and was likely considered freakish by the world he lived in.


To flesh out my thought, if I was a best-selling author making a ton of money, it would seem like a good thing, right? But if the daily grind that it takes to produce a published page is taken into account, it looks somewhat less like an attractive life and more like drudgery.


As these words appear on the page balanced awkwardly on my knee, it occurs to me that people are often funny in an interesting way. I often wonder what observations an extraterrestrial would make about a given situation. What sort of ways might be evinced as relational for them to mark as evidence of the differing roles played in the different parts of our pompously superior world? Then, I realize my position/status and am drawn quickly away from such thinking, like a rubber band snapping. That type of thinking, while possibly a valid exercise to keep my mind supple, has a definite risk of taking me to a place I couldn't return from. I prefer the familiar same ol' same ol' world, even though for now it is rather confining.


It is now Tuesday the 19th of April and a larger obstacle to my peace of mind, as it turns out...wasn't real! I had a couple sections of the Chapter 33 (that was put out at the Federal level so even Uncle Rick has to abide by it) and they were overdue. I couldn't connect with the law library guys until today and then they came in and told me that they have no record of any parts of Chapter 33 being signed out to me. I gave the documents up anyway, as I'd much rather err on the side of caution.


Did I actually just write those words? I must be getting mellow to the point of being spineless. This provokes some thought I  will explore at a later time when I am feeling more mature.


I didn't go to the cage "outside" early this morning because the medications I take make me slow on the uptake and they are still in my system at 5:00 a.m. All I can do is spiritually go outside. Also, I needed to clear an issue with the law library. I see no good reason to be herded into a cage with people (hopefully) I don't even know, for three hours. Maybe it's just me, but I've got better things to do with my time. If it rains, nobody comes out to bring you back in because they don't want to get wet. It's a fiasco.


What concerns me more is that I've got two receipts printed up on April 13th. One says I've got $5.91 and the other has a possible balance of $65.13. Which do I believe? I'm disturbed by this as it is a relatively large discrepancy. I haven't seen that sort of bookkeeping since I smoked crack! I hope it resolves itself soon, but the fact remains there is no one I'm able to contact who will do it for me.


All good things come to an end, and I've had this laying around too long now so I guess I will send it on its way. Got some writing to do.


Much love and best regards,
James

Letter 18

Renelle's note: This is James' continuation of the story from "Letter 17," of his time with Ms. X, whom he refers to in this letter as "Joyce."

April 16, 2011

Renelle,

Please excuse the condition this arrives in. There were some grievous difficulties with the writing instrument. I don't get it--a  brand new pen is unusably dead before writing one word even! I suppose I do get it, but only from a standpoint of business.

So, you're interested in the parts of my history taking place immediately after X-mas while I was still with Joyce and her offspring? I'll "tell" you, but a bit later, as our canteen orders just rolled in.

That was very fast and painful! Here I refer to wild variance(s) in my account. Moving right smartly along (before furnishing the verbage unwritten previously), I'd thought there was a parrot or macaw in here (the dorm), as I'd often hear the alleged bird calling out; but it turned out to be another smurf fooling around.

I think you told about where I left off and had a mental hiccup, so: 

Before the New Year had gotten a fair start, I was up to my same old ways, always chasing, but never catching a high like I wanted. That was really I was about, by then.

Then, because the huge (!) TV was only on the other side of a thin piece of drywall from my bed, and the two daughters (11, 18) didn't require sleep, they purposely set about a power-play (I'm convinced) by play a video game loudly all the time, robbing me of what little sleep I used to get! 

After about a week of this, I resolved to leave, but had nowhere immediately lined up to go to. That decision being made, I walked into the kitchen and got some pre-dawn coffee started. I needed a fresher mind to think on the decision before bringing it to Joyce.

The spawn just couldn't leave it alone, though! When the older one said something to me in a vaguely threatening way, I unloaded, telling them both exactly how I felt about the way they were acting, and what I suspected their intentions were. When I finished my say, Joyce was awake (sort of) and I told her about my decision, whereupon both girls told her how I was evil, rotten, and downright through and through just bad.

I went for a walk to cool off and also to get rid of any evidence I might accidentally pull out of my pockets. I walked to the darkest part of the road, made sure nothing was going to incriminate me; then I noticed a cruiser in front of the apartment, so I returned to get some coffee. Before I'd gotten back, another car drove up, and I checked myself again in the night shadows. 

When I got to the door, an officer was holding it open and I heard some shrill voices from inside. I walked in, identified myself, and asked if the cops wanted some coffee, too. I was told by the officer there no, and maybe it was a bad idea for me to have inflamed the situation by making any more threats than I had already. 

At no time had I made anything remotely even like a threat. Obviously, someone hadn't been entirely forthcoming about what actually had occurred. Forging on undismayed, I asked the officer nearest me if they were going to believe all the histrionic garbage coming out of those two, or get a shot of the truth. I was then ushered outside and asked for my version.

Point blank, I told them my plans and how they weren't part of them. The officer was nodding his head thoughtfully, and said how if I didn't have a place lined up to go to while I looked for something more permanent, he knew about a place called the Family/Emergency Shelter he'd be able to get me into. Sounded good and I now had to move, so away I went.

That place was hell! You had to carry all your things around with you for the first two days (as it turned out to be a state-funded detox/psych ward/warehouse, that stayed at maximum capacity!). After that, a "room" was assigned loosely fitting the individual's needs. I still smoked like a broke stove, so I had a big issue with the no-smoking policy. I'll go gladly into some of the changes I made in order to get out of there (!) another time, as they aren't germaine to this part of it.

About two weeks passed me I'll never get back, while there. Didn't they know there were people I had to annoy, that I couldn't as I was being kept secluded from them? At any rate, I managed to get officially "spoken to" before I left right afterwards. That part was intentional; dammit, I wanted a cigarette!

In that condition (nicotine-deficient), I wandered place to place chasing more than catching. Two things (or three) came through that time with me. The first thing was myself. I felt like some kind of alien interloper, observing the meaningless customs these strange humans had. Second and third (I redoubled my vow) was a promise to myself never to go anyplace that had a "policy" about smoking cigarettes again! I've at this point now (not then) rendered the second and third parts null and void, and the first part is nowhere as important, I've been told.

There it was, in Panavision and Technicolor. Too bad I was seeing everything through one eye, dimly. Think I'll read awhile now. 

Now, the time reads Sunday of the clock on my arm; a couple of pieces of information don't seem to agree with each other. Yesterday (Saturday) I got the order I filled out from the store here, and the receipt from 4/13 indicates a positive balance of $5.91 in my account. I later got another receipt from 4/13 indicating I had $65.13 in my account.

My quandary, then, is at least two-fold. Which do I believe, not being able to send word of the question to anyone knowledgeable enough to answer the first part; now I know for sure the two documents read different amounts for the same day, so the answer lies in the times they were made vs. the policy of prison of only allowing up to a certain amount to be spent each week, with the rollover day being what it is. That's a fairly significant amount to vanish through error, and hopefully, it won't go against me.

I've got another--I guess issue is the word--about being here. The cast of characters is so vast, though, that it would do no good to point a finger a a group/person, and likely do a quantity of harm in doing so. Here, one has to request at least one item from the law library in order to get any of the items only they provide. Being as I use a good deal of a form they have, I asked for two parts of Chapter 33 with them. They were due to be returned on the 13th.

Meanwhile, a teacher was administering the TABE test to me on the 13th. The law library orderlies came into the wing. I told the guy I needed to step out for a second to turn them in, but was told by him(!) that they'd be back again and to keep my seat. They didn't return. So, I've got some overdue Chapter 33 setions, and none of the forms to explain what happened.

Hope I haven't put you into a coma with my whining. I don't know if anything happens when you're overdue, but I stand by this: a TABE test is important, but so is answering a question truthfully!

I badly and desperately need a life! Until I'm able to, I'll continue to be a psychoactive fish in a neon pond.

Your ?perplexicated friend,

James

Letter 17

Dear Renelle,

You are well, I hope. The chaotic confusion/lack of any discernable logic that apparently "runs" this place continues to manifest itself (in many transfers in the wake of the early A.M. raid), but my celly and I remain largely unaffected. During our visit you raised a question as to how much I recall of the time when I was living--a stretched definition--with the woman I'd met in/through A.A. I believe you'll find (hopefully) well, it's easier by far to just "put it out there."

I'd "graduated" a Salvation Army rehab. program, against everyones' expectations! It's so easy to get "asked" to leave and not return, even for a violation as minor as one's hair not being properly worn. I'd graduated and decided to extend my stay until things looked right for me to leave. I'd been working at the main residential building as a houseman/custodian/laundry man--6 days a week for 6 months. 

It was Saturday, a half-day for me, and a day when the floor washed their sheets. Without being asked to, I began putting all the beds in the room I slept in back to a picture of perfection. Someone interrupted, and I noticed they were serving lunch. A guy about 65-70 years old, very wise in a grandfatherly way, that I'd spoken with many times, came and hovered over me while I ate.

Regarding this guy, he'd been asked to work in a created position, with no authority. Reason being, he was elderly, didn't have any real job skills in demand, was easy-going, and didn't cause any problems.

I don't like being under any scrutiny when I eat. It's my time, I figure; I'll relax for a minute or so. I invite him to sit, ask him what's on his mind. He says, "Is that the way we make the beds here?" I'm leaving the next part(s) out, as it's a bit lengthy, but basically, because of the way he interacted with my mild response, I was forced out of there.

When that had taken place, I found myself with nowhere to turn for help (not having the ability to call Mom), dragging my bags down the sidewalk of a busy street toward a fast-food restaurant, as I was hungry and had more money than (good) sense. The A.A. club was only a small distance from where I rested, and I needed to get the plastic bags I had full of my clothes off the street so they wouldn't tear up more. I made it down to the club, and "stored" my things temporarily before anyone else arrived.

I announced my needs at a Noon meeting, and again at the 4 p.m. meeting without response. Now, the "shady" part of my nature took over, telling me no one cared to help me; I'm going to lose all of my bags anyway--why not give them to someone--and so forth. I was in a store near the club buying cigarettes and noticed they sold drug paraphernalia, so I bought a pipe for myself. 

Already I'd made the decision about what to do with my money on a pre-conscious level. I had a bit of time until the next A.A. meeting started, so I made my way down a block or so from the club and bought $50 of crack. The watch I had was packed in the bags, so I didn't know what time it was, returned to the club (on the paranoid side), late for the meeting.

I came to the Chairperson I'll call Ms. X and asked her to call on me as I was going to repeat my needs. Again, I'll leave the next parts out for brevity's sake. After the meeting ended, she approached me with an offer of help I wasn't in a position to ignore. So I retrieved my bags and all, and went with her to her apartment as the club had had its last meeting for the day.

I was tired from toting my bags around. She asked if I had any issues with dogs. I answered no, depending on how they're cooked. I got moved in, on a "trial basis," but the apartment complex was a hotbed of drug activity. I got a couple of dealers lined up while I was still getting squared away with the situation. She let me use her phone to call my mom and let her know I was O.K., but would need rent money if I wanted to stay past the "trial."

Her apartment looked like no one bothered cleaning it at all, to me. Accordingly that turned out to be part of the "trial" period. The dog was a Rottweiler/Mastiff mix that outweighed me(!), but had an easy disposition--no problems there.

The next day, after a sleepless night, I went out to walk through the complex and figured out who/what/how/and why. The woman I now was living with didn't go out much because it wasn't a good idea to expose herself willingly to the type there; also for the compound reason of a preteen daughter that was born addicted to crack, and the fact that Ms. X only had one eye, though she lost hers through drinking and fighting.

I had over $200 left, enough to experience the "final frontier," and wasted no time getting some crack. Easy, it was directly down the stairs from her apartment. I'd go through all kinds of needless "fronting" in order to keep a steady supply up. As I continued to stay, I forged stronger friendships with a couple of drug dealers, so if one wasn't there for any reason, I wouldn't go without, thereby, at first, anyway, living two opposite lives. 

Pause here, for station-identification break.

Today is Wednesday and I don't have the letter Mom mailed yet. Our mail hasn't been dispersed for the day, but I've been looking with an ear to the ground for the two days previous, and don't know the reason it is delayed. 

On a more positive note, the notorious laundry facility didn't just lose my many requests for items I use daily, and I received most of what I asked for, which also got me out of pushing a mower over much of the property here. There's continuous confusion here, and we have no choice, essentially, but to do as we are told. I am at a loss to further define or explain this, as the policies apparently either are in a state of change, or are meaningless. Now, back to the regularly-scheduled program. Strike that last statement from the records.

You know that I really have nothing to do with the "time" here except thinking, constantly! I haven't received the needed information to proceed to the next step in getting the legality of my case questioned, so for now, all is as well as can be for me.

I've been considering a name/title for the collection I'm writing. See if it's something that fits. "Er--the continuing (mis)adventures of." Unfortunately, that's the extent to which I've applied my greatly-abused brain in that direction. This title has a great deal of subtextual meaning, both direct and implied. One of the more direct meanings is, simply, that I've been at different times "more than" others. I believe it cleverly plays on the words I write. 

All things considered, I'm "finer 'n frog hair." This must be taken into consideration; as of this moment, I don't have an ability to put anything in outgoing mail, due to a situation far beyond my control. There's no way I can demand an emergency letter/phone call, either, as I'm effectively shut down until next month from getting my one "free" letter for the month. So, unless/until I do receive mail tonight, all is ahead full stop. 

Now, I return you to the program already in progress.

Living two opposite lives had a noticeable effect on me, and I began to have certain "tells" about me. It's not difficult to plainly see when I've been smoking crack in the amounts I was--blistered lips, hair burnt off my hands, and the stress of being as paranoid as I was--was showing at all times. I needed to slow down, but the addiction called--and I danced.

Ms. X would have had to be absent not to see my struggle to keep my grip when I was around her. Added to the stress, her 16-17-year-old daughter moved back in to an already-overcrowded situation, bringing constant drama and even a good deal of resentment towards me with her. I could not continue on as I had. Some kind of break from the unimaginable, constant stress had to occur, and still, my addiction called the tune.

Finally, another chapter began. Ms. X had gone to pay the rent, but the owner of the apartments was in the office! As she paid, the resident manager told her she had to leave the following week because of illegally taking in boarders. No questions about this, God is represented by irony--strongly at times. The break I'd been after was granted by having to spend more (and almost exclusive to all parts of the opposite life I'd had) time with this woman, "beating the bushes" for a place to go to. 

We got a couple bits of good fortune: first, the resident manager looked in another direction while we maintained a residence there after time had run out (she didn't cause or take part in any disturbances); second, an apartment we could afford, not far away, became ours, i's dotted and t's crossed. 

James with Christmas Gifts He Sold

Christmas passed uneventfully, largely. However, as I'd received gifts and cash, I was off to run the old familiar course again. So, after selling gifts with no use, and together with the cash received, I called the "dope-man" to get a life-threatening amount of crack, yet told Ms. X I was on my way to a late A.A. meeting (Not!) and I needed to give others a ride (so she'd let me use her car), and it was ON!

I'd like to switch off for a moment, in order to jot down my redundancies. My first priority upon release will be to eat as much real food as possible. The kind of thing where "buffets tremble at my presence." When I've put on 5 lbs., I'll pause to attend to my second priority, which, if not already done, will be to see that I get to be a published author. I'm able to put my thoughts on paper now, having "time," and don't want to let this chance pass me by.

The "psychological warfare" campaign grows more intense hourly. "Confinement" is full--now guards are granted the authority to send inmates to "close management" if they feel they might represent a disturbance.

Letter 16

April 11, 2011

Dear Renelle,

My celly is caged outdoors, and I have escaped similar treatment by being "indisposed" when it occurred. This was fortuitous indeed and couldn't have worked out better to shelter my sensibilities if I'd planned for it to happen this way. I write it, as I've got my mind set and fixed to go through the balance of my imprisonment as comfortably as possible--and don't want to detract from it by being herded outside into the dark elements into a cage with a stranger. I may get it wrong, but on this recurring issue, I don't think so. 

At times, my celly is somewhat inscrutable. I don't know much about his preferences, and I suspect he doesn't know much more about them himself, having been locked in for so many years without even any way of contacting the parents he left in Cuba. He's had to get what he could for nearly 30 years (!!), with nothing to start or work with.

Almost anyone else would likely be either catatonic or at the very least at an animal level of degeneration, after so long--but for some reason, he's actually a very decent, pleasant guy. That's the part I can't get my head around--why he acts the way he does (it's not an act unless it's a very good one). I'd be wrecked, destroyed, eaten alive with bitterness at the way I'd been treated, and enraged permanently at the seeming unfairness of it.

Am I completely off-kilter by making the comparison this way? Please let me know what your thoughts are on this. 

Regarding thoughts, one has been bouncing around in my head, generating a nearly audible sound. I'll do my best to write it as I think it. My celly isn't going to be moved anytime soon, and came to the same realization himself recently. Since I don't have that much more time until my release, and if I were again placed with the group at large (or medium), the same type of thing would likely happen as before. I don't want to chance getting so angered I snap and hurt others, getting an outside charge for myself at the same time. I'm willing to just tell the guy that comes around from State Classification what's going on and ask if I can't do another 6 months here. Do you think that's a workable idea, or a soft product of mushy thinking?

While I'm exploring some of my thoughts with you, I wonder if you can keep to yourself the next subject I'll broach. I'll consider your silence as an assent. My mom has always been "there" for me, no matter where I was or what shape I was in, so it grates on me badly that I'm powerless to do something to show her how much I've changed from the guy running around using drugs like I was. I'm almost sure I'm going to be kept away next month for her Birthday, Anniversary, and Mother's Day when I want so badly to be able to be and do--showing her the changes I've undergone. It feels to me about like I think knowing your arms were going to be amputated long before they were--and no matter what reasons were thought of to avoid it, they had to be taken. I know it's a fairly grisly way to think of it, but I'm not a pro. Point is, I want to do something for both of them, but can't.

I've already picked apart the thought until there's not an angle I can look at from I haven't already examined 10,000 times in detail already. It's a very rotten and unloveable bit of a jagged pill stuck in the throat not-dissolving kind of thing to realize for certain that no way, shape, or how can I do something to show how I feel/think now. Oh well--guess it could be worse; I might still be at ___! I often take situations for granted like that.

At any rate, it's Saturday, but we smurfs can't relax yet. Due to outside conditions prevailing (likely greed), we hardly ever are taken outside during the regular week; so brown brings the blue out over the weekend (in order to collect the bonus for it). For other reasons, the smurfs also have T.V. time and library scheduled today--if the officer is kept happy about all things, that is.

Also, among the activities for today--the Canteen items ordered 4/5 are being brought in. It really galls me that these sub-human types get giant sacks of food, and I get only 1 "pen." I have trouble grasping that some illiterate silverback mouth-breather gets to eat pretty much how he wants to, while I go hungry. Never mind that next week I'll get almost all I want (except a gate-pass) and could borrow against that now if I chose (but I'd chew off my legs first, because it's something a guy in my position doesn't do here). It's as unacceptable as working in a place completely out of financial reach to shop in--it's just not right.

The terrible noise from these partly-open cells is so awful I can barely hear all the voices in my head clearly now. Guess it goes with the territory, though. I received the receipt for money in my account (from my mom) on Friday (yesterday), but the orders were filled earlier in the week, so I lost out this time. Now most of the challenged ones are eating and quieter. I can now understand better the why of Hitler's Concentration Camp methodology--'nuff said.

All the chaos resulting from the distinctly non-disciplinarian way this place is run makes it tough to get into Oliver Twist from the aim of rewriting it in a more easily-understood style. Something I'm now convinced of, is that the way Dickens describes the settings and the "voice" he uses are what makes it as great as it is. I also am able to draw a comparison between Twist and a younger version of me, if it was made by a blind moron with no education and proud of it, too(!). 

In looking over this letter, I find the struggles I've written of in it to cover the gamut of my emotional spectrum. I say "my" as it's not the same in many instances, for I'm a bit emotionally retarded in comparison to everyone. 

There is one item I found looking through an 8-year-old National Geographic magazine from the library here that may prove vitally important if it's still in business. Exactly what it is is a possible publisher for all the various stuff I've written. I'll write and see if the organization is still viable, but if they are, I don't have all my writings here to send to them. Guess it's as good a way to wrap this up as anything else, giving the contact information for them. It's Vantage Press. 

Maybe they're still around. I'd appreciate it if my mom and you could contact them to find out any specifics for me. That's what's up in the here and now.

Your overstressed friend,

James

Letter 15

April 18, 2011

Dear Renelle,

I nearly made it--to the 24-hour mark since I've written you. Don't know (and I don't really care to know) the "why" involved as to my current state of mind--though it likely has to do with not having adequate stimulation and no one to talk to. I've had some thoughts bounce off my head that bear mentioning though. The more prominently-recurring one lately takes the form of questions rather than statements. I'll put words to them further on, as first I'd like to "say" how good it was to have the visit come off so well! I didn't eat until Sunday morning, I was so stuffed! (Renelle's note: our visit with James was on Thursday!)

The interchange with my celly has changed for the good, too. As these words are coming out of my pen, he's asking me how to spell certain words in English.

The smurfs are entered into a slack time during the change of the 8-4 to the 4-12 shifts. It's a time of deceptive calm, though quieter. I have no idea what my neighbors are up to/into--and don't care to know, either. It's a response similar to one of closing my eye to keep from seeing something. Mentally, I know that doesn't make it disappear, but I've avoided witnessing it by not seeing it. Make any sense? 

Otherwise, time continues to drag by at a pace that makes the Continental Drift seem speedy. I guess it's likely that a number of factors combine to make it that way for me. 

First, I think about time, more so in a sense of missing opportunities, but still it doesn't get my release date closer! Second, I've got very little to stimulate my mind here, and have to conserve what I do have so it will last, which brings up #3: not having anyone to talk to, really. I've been alone and had better conversation with myself. I always know how truthful I am and if I'm serious or not. 

A psychiatrist told me many years ago it's perfectly natural to talk to yourself--all healthy people do--and what better way to think in a linear way than to answer yourself. But, he said, make an appointment with me if you interrupt yourself!

I'm pacing myself (judiciously using various items interesting to me to make them last as long as possible to generate other ways of passing time), in all my ways, which I'd rather be easy instead of the fierce and telling struggle they usually are. 

I started taking a TABE test last week, which is good, if for no other reason than that I'm assured that I am in the educational system in here. The test administering guy gave out some "tips"; said if we took the opposite arm behind our head to grasp our ear lobe, it would refocus our unconscious mentality to be more "right-minded." I've on got two brain cells left; one is lost and the other is looking for it.

What I still don't understand is why it's easier to be open with some people than others. Ethical questions aside, moral implications make no difference; how is it possible that I am able to more easily open myself up (with all it entails) to a total stranger, than it is for me to be upfront totally with a blood relative? I'm not so dense as to be nearing critical-mass, so I have thought about it a bit, but I have no explanation to satisfy myself with.

Aw hell, our toilet just started dumping water (hopefully) onto the floor, and the guards are still 15 minutes from being seen. Emergency-action, blow the ballast tanks--surface now!

Your unmicrocephalic friend,

James

Letter 14

April 15, 2011

Dear Renelle,

First off, I received a letter from you last night (after I'd been drugged) that seems quite well thought through, not that the ones formerly weren't. Also, it seems you found an application for one of my mindless analogies--it's perfect. You didn't reveal (hopefully) how you came by it, while at the same time, saying what you mean and feel by it. 

Maybe once, many moons ago, I had a high I.Q., but I've made so many easily avoided mistakes that now I wonder. Also, the plain fact of my being here in prison seems an argument for a simpler creature's ways. You may have erroneous biased results coloring the data used to calculate my scores, as well.

As for my analogy (riding a bicycle = a way of life), I feel it could likely have been better if I'd spent more time thinking it out--one of those that materializes onto the pages in front of me that looks like it fits, so I didn't bother tweeking it.

I just had a thought that, in keeping with the theory the book Blink evinces in the introduction, makes a sort of circular logic chain. I feel that it's important to the learning process (or something close to it), to retain the ability to be as easily astounded as I often am, being as I am here (and don't have the luxury of suitable materials to work with, as I cannot find them here).

My celly just amazed me by shooting a stream of water out of our sink across the cell to my bunk. This was done by fitting the flexible shaft from the "pens" we smurfs get, into the outlet of water at the sink. I would never have thought of doing something like that--shows to go ya.

The smurfs are going to eat a fabulous "lunch." I'll look at it--then decide. Having picked a paltry and miniscule amount off of the tray, I couldn't live with myself if I'd obeyed my natural appetite and choked down the entire thing, so I let my most grateful celly eat two of them.

We smurfs just got back into our cells after the (enforced) day-room time. For me, it was 3 hours of skull-splitting boredom, laced with moments reminding me things are breaking down all over. I think it takes a special person to come out of this experience with anything like their mind intact. I also am very lucky--in the sense I've got a Teflon-coated brain that nothing adheres to.

Seriously, though, I feel I've go an artist's soul, and am blessed also in that I'm learning to express myself reasonably. Being this way does have drawbacks, as I can explain to you.

By the unique way I arrived in prison (at large--and by that I mean the guidelines that only applied to me), I was face to face each moment afterwards with a choice of either picking a large amount of cash up, or getting a "hands-on" experience not meant to correct me. It didn't take many of the latter to cause me to realize that they weren't as fun as they appeared. Please understand the choice is metaphysical. There is no actual cash in here. My point was, that whatever value someone has as an individual is out and out forgotten here. It's more a predator-prey relationship, though even that doesn't quite do it justice.

I just now realized that this won't be mailed until Monday, 4/18, which may get to be more important as I evolve more. I, too, feel much as you do--about the world in general. And regarding organized religion(s), I'm in no particular order. Religion generally is the finite mind's obviously badly-flawed attempt at conceiving the infinite; it just cannot be, therefore, all religion is bad religion. But what do I know? I'm only an inmate.

I feel there's a definite link between having the truth presented in a method that is up to the person to recognize as truth, and truth being rammed wholesale down the throat without heed to the facts of personal "fit." I can't quite put a finger on it, though. It's pretty certain there's something more to that. I often begin to write and lose track of whatever I'd begun, in mid-sentence!

Here's a bit of good news you might enjoy. Mr. attitude (property officer) just brought 3 books: 2 Dan Millman and the Thomas Perry I've wanted so badly called Sleeping Dogs. My creative bone just got broken, I feel like--because here I'm all ready to launch into telling you how humble I am, how deserving of praise--and this has thrown me an unexpected straight right.

The only time(s) we smurfs get djinyooenakslnul meat (that was part of an animal) is when we get the sausage they have decided to feed us instead of throwing it out. This is one of those times you need to see this. My descriptive abilities are a distant echo of what it's like actually witnessing firsthand. 

These guys are really just feral savages, when it comes down to it. Reminds me of a dozen confirmed crack smokers, arguing over a $50 rock. There may have been casualties; it's too soon to know for sure. It occurs to me that, it's as if I'm an alien visitor to this troubled world, and being as I'm (relatively) non-violent, imagine much less strenuous ways of getting stuff done. What do I , an inmate know really, though?

All of this noise is giving me a headache, though I feel it's more correctly noted that my reaction to being in all the noise and haste is to get a tension headache. Whichever way, it is still a pain I'd be happy without. Mainly, I feel it comes from the unnatural amount of time we spend inside of what amounts to an echo chamber. My poor, abused gray-matter! A simple and easy application of "non aspirin" (seriously, says so on the package), and I'm feeling much less murderous. 

Back to the letter you wrote--while I share the pessimistic views, I temper them (likely as I've had really bad experiences with taking a firm stand), and refer to myself as a realist. 

Now, my best vision for our country's future is fairly easy to answer: when it's seen for the pretense it really is, I'd like to be somewhere comfortable and say "I knew that while I was in prison!" 

My thoughts, well--I'd rather not take a friend there right now. They'll become evident in my daily struggles, anyhow. Don't store up tension, give yourself breaks, and enjoy yourself, you deserve it!

Your agreeable friend,

James

Letter 13

Today Was A Good Day

By James Scott
(Note by Mom: This was written prior to James' incarceration)

Today was a good day. I no longer have bad days, as the last one ended with a bullet passing through my brain. Now, I experience two types of days; good and great. My definition of a good day is when nothing happens to test me and my sober date doesn’t change. The definition of a great day is when everything in the world rubs me wrong and my sober date doesn’t change. Another way of saying the same is that I have good days and learning days.

Due to my checkered past, I’m not wired right. I don’t care about that, but I do believe I’ve stayed unchanged personally for far too long. It is only by way of prolonged, strenuous effort that I can make any real difference at all.

Here goes…

I am finding myself again, after going through what amounts to be a life spent moving in the wrong direction. To pity me would be insulting, but I get ahead of myself. My “thinker” doesn’t work the way I’d like it to most of the time.

Picking out an individual event in my past is often difficult, always time consuming, and perhaps even painful to know. Suffice it to say, life has had my complete, unflagging attention at times. As distasteful as life is, it is always preferable to the alternative. This may be the theme of my tale of maniacal woe which is flowing onto the paper at this moment.

Keeping it real entails not misinforming people about any part of my experience. I don’t have a flawless resume`, having been able to get a government check all of my “adult” life, and also having been either incarcerated or institutionalized for some of it. I put quotation marks around the word adult because, due to the experiences I’ve been through, I don’t feel I have ever matured at a rate that would be equivalent to my age. I ask myself if I am handicapped. I cannot tell, or sense, that I am handicapped. At least not in the ways that I feel are important. I believe feelings are important. There was a time not long ago when all I felt, thought, and mostly what I said didn’t mean a thing to anyone. This most often led to events that left me unsatisfied.

Born on the day before Halloween, 1965, you would expect me to have at least some tangible accomplishments. Not! The greatest thing I have accomplished, in my own warped estimation, is pure survival. Often, it was survival at an animal level. Many and drastic are the changes I’ve put myself through. Not a day goes by that I don’t have at least one thought in mind about the vast, empty gulf of perception between myself and everyone else. This includes even the family members closest to me. …..I seem to have lost whatever point I was trying to make. Oh well, it was probably fantasy.

Like others who have their varied reasons to create, destroy, or otherwise use their time, I have my reasons as well. The overriding desire to move forward, while being close to the chief reason I am writing this, is in reality only a small factor. The main reason I am writing this is two-fold: First, I am putting pen to paper because if I didn’t do this there would be no change in anything except my sober date. Secondly, I need to write because my aim is to have these words serve as a kind of warning to others. This brings me to what I know to be the most important information I can convey: There is a way out for me and it is to trust in Jesus.

Most of the time, I am rendered senseless by what I see people do. For instance, what pastimes or hobbies others choose during their idle time. I know the danger of holding another to my own standards and therefore I reveal only what I must when I must to get what I want or need. To say this in another way, I only open up when I believe it is necessary. I am still not saying what I mean. I believe the greatest gift I have is an open mind. Conversely, the greatest hazard is a closed mind. Not sure if this covers what I mean either but it is close enough.

As I touched on before, I am a spiritual person. I know it took His direct, personal intervention for me to be here now. This is uncharted territory for me to walk into so blindly, but as I am fond of saying, “if nothing changes, my sober-date will.” I would be inexcusably remiss if I didn’t mention I know God/Jesus is not only a growing part of my life (and the only reason I’m sucking sober breath) but also He is faithful even when I am not. This is what has brought me to this point and is also what I most want to say. I read many books and one particular passage comes strongly to my mind: I asked God for all things, that I might enjoy life…God gave me life, that I might enjoy all things. ‘Nuff said.

Wow! That was…real different. I know I am not qualified to make this sort of pronouncement, but that has never been a deterrent before so why should it now? Sorry if this is a little off beat for you. My head only works with me on an accidental basis. Hopefully, it will keep working for me as there is much more to this picture.

Filling in the gaps is always difficult for me. If I am fortunate enough to be able to recall the past truthfully, I’ve got the task of putting it down in a way that everyone can understand. 

To talk about a different part of who I am, I feel that will power and dedication are not the issues. I was once told that I can walk away from something as easily as anyone else. The issue for me is to know when to walk away. Something like the Law of Diminishing Returns is at work, or so I am told. It occurs to me that most people dig their graves with their tongues. Or, put another way, people don’t engage their brain while operating their mouth. This is a pretty universal shortcoming and I am no exception to the rule.

I grow weary of this…the thrill is gone.

Letter 12

February, 2009
(Note by Mom: James wrote this prior to his incarceration)

The Dilemma

Now, I’ll outline my dilemma. I now have a check for $4,000 in my hands. The check is not mine, but it has been a long time since anything like this has happened. My dilemma is whether or not I should cash it. There will certainly be questions about my sudden wealth, and I don’t know how I will be able to recover from my addiction if I cash the check. Sleeping soundly on this is out of the question for now. It seems like every time I start exploring positive aspects and trying to do the right thing, something happens to make me doubt myself. I will most likely destroy the check, although it would certainly ease my way in this world if I didn’t destroy it. Who could I trust to guide me? Definitely not me!

What a big deal I’ve been making over nothing. Making small things into overwhelming things is one of my skills, however. I’m hoping it will pass, like everything else I’ve been through.

As it turns out, the check had already been cashed long ago.

James

Letter 11

Still Standing

February 3, 2009.

Dear Mom,

I’m a bit over-heated now from battling with parasites who don’t know how to give anything but a hard time. They have correctly guessed that I have more in my pocket than lint. Not having a job or any business to speak of, I must still abide by a policy and I have an itinerary that is unforgiving: I still need to eat, in other words.

I’m taxed as to what to do with the money you’ve blessed me with. I may not be able to say everything I want to say in this letter, but worse things have happened to me. I will probably call you later today, thereby making this letter moot.

I also want to let you know I received the package you sent with the much-appreciated clothing, etc. and I want to thank you for all of your effort and for your love.

This is just a basic, quick thank-you note to let you know things are moving in the right direction for me.

Much love, thoughts and prayers,

James

Post Script: I have had the opportunity to do a little writing and would like for you to read it. If you are able to decipher the hieroglyphics, you might find it interesting.

As I write this, whatever it is, on a rainy night in a seedy part of coastal Florida, I face a dilemma of a moral, and quite likely a legal nature, as well. This story has lain festering in me for too long.

I had a reasonable, though brief, childhood. I was at such a young age when my mom and dad divorced that I wasn’t impacted by him too much. I became introverted. I mentioned my childhood was brief because, due to circumstances or chance or whatever, I was introduced to drugs when I was seven or eight years old. I’m in my 40’s now.

I mention this time in my life because my early introduction to drugs led to a time when, at 16 years old, I was wildness personified. It is hard for me to divulge the truth, and I have not spoken to anyone about this, but the truth of the matter is that being introverted caused me to be unable to communicate effectively with anyone. My drug use/abuse continued to escalate until I was altered permanently by being on the edge of overdosing so much. I had everything I wanted, but nothing I needed, which turned me into a brilliant idiot. My mind churned, unable to focus on anything for any length of time. One day, I found a gun which belonged to my dad’s friend and I shot myself in the head. The gun was an old World War II Lugar, 9 millimeter, and I was alone in my house.

That event didn’t end my life, however. What happened next is hard to describe. I don’t recall much of what took place driving me to suicide, and I only remember odd parts of what happened afterwards. Please forgive any errors.

For a fact, my body was done. To my knowledge, I was deeply comatose, although stable, for at least a calendar year. During that time, important changes were taking place within me.

I’m unusual in that nobody could explain my return to life. Nobody, regardless of education or intelligence, was able to explain why I’m here. This leaves me with only one explanation…divine intervention. The reason I’m not writing more on this is because it is so incredible. I was there, and I have trouble believing it at times. The bottom line is I have been to hell. I knew what happened and I knew I was cut off from ever having any little bit of happiness, love, or serenity forever.

In any case, I had what I can only say was a deep, cleansing spiritual experience. I emerged from the coma, although I totally blocked out anything prior to that time.

Back to my spiritual experience. I’m in hell, grieving constantly because I know how badly I’ve screwed up. This is where things get freakish. I suddenly appear to be standing in a place where all I can see when I look around is an open field of knee-high grass with the exception of one large tree off in the distance. The word symbology usually means an idea represented by another idea, but otherwise unconnected. This word is important in understanding my history because of its biblical meaning. I don’t think most people will be able to understand the symbolism here, but I hope to be able to explain it in an acceptable way.

On some level beyond my comprehension, I become led by a combination of feeling bored and being curious. Nothing was happening where I was so I began to try to will something to happen to break the monotony. I decided to try to get another point of view from the only tree I could see. I went to the tree and started climbing it. Now I was led more by curiosity than boredom. I noticed a bird’s nest about half way up the tree and became consumed by a desire to know what was in it. I laboriously pulled myself up to where I could see into the nest and then I saw there was a baby bird alone in the nest.

When I looked at the helpless chick, flopping to and fro in the nest, I became what I saw. I felt odd when this happened but was relieved that something was going on.

Flying was impossible because I had no feathers yet and I couldn’t recall ever seeing any other living creature. Eventually I fell out of the nest, which should have resulted in certain death. I knew that if I didn’t die when I hit the ground I would surely starve or become a meal for some predator.

A hand that I now believe to be the hand of God appeared to catch me just before impact. I had never felt fear, only boredom and curiosity. Now, I was flooded with a sense of being loved…and at that point I began to come out of the coma.

Letter 10

02/03/11
"Egypt" C.I.

Dear Mom,

How are you and Ray?  Good, hopefully. As I write this, our trays of (so called) food are in front of the building where they will remain until somebody with a bit of sense in their head figures out that in order to eat, the cart must first enter the building. So, I've got some time to jot down a couple of lines about what is going on around me.

Off the top, I asked Renelle in a letter to ask you to put $35 in my account. Please. What I've figured out is that the guys whose job it is to see that our needs are met are the problem. These guys are "runarounds" (inmates).

After a cup of urine was thrown in my face by one of them, I said some things about the black race...and I meant every word of it. I had gone into confinement willingly, unlike most inmates, and I thought nothing of giving up my identification badge to the Sgt. An I.D. is the only way you can order items from the canteen.

What happened was, I would properly filled out the order form, give it to an inmate to put it in with the other order forms, but somewhere in that process mine would get "lost." They would then have access to all the money in my account. So, the undeserving were getting fat off me...and I couldn't do a thing to stop it.

Now a whole new group of inmates are here and the problem has solved itself as the one doing most of the shady deals got caught with his "hand in the cookie jar." He is being sent to a Close Management prison and is not pleased with it at all. Oh, well.

Now you know the mystery of the vanishing funds, explained as best I can. Now someone has "flooded" the cells, so while they are busy with that for the next 45 minutes, I'll continue to write. I'm telling you, Mom, I sincerely hope that I don't have to put up with these delays after I get moved to a different prison. Of course, it has only been 20 minutes so far.

The "big-boned" officer passing out the trays just handed me one with about 5,000 calories worth of food on it. It wasn't worth the wait, but at least it was something. I'm sorry to say but that is about all that gets my attention here at all.

Let me see, you already know about my latest celly, but I'll recap what I've mentioned earlier for you. He is 23 years old, and I feel separated from him by more than our ages. I feel like I'm doing well to still want to cross the gap between us. He's not a bad guy, just almost as different as me. I've been doing a lot of thinking about changing my ways, lately. No longer the Mouse that Roared, I'm mellowing now.

I still react immediately like I'm 20 years younger. It has probably been "hard-wired" into me but is fading since I've been here. Whether that's because I've experienced what the reaction to my reaction is or by conscious choice remains unanswered. Now, all is quiet so I guess I had better strike the iron before I drop it on my foot.

It is now later in the evening on a shower night (Wednesday). Hopefully, I've eaten the last meal I'll eat here. They will have breakfast tomorrow but I will be too nervous to enjoy it as I hope to be told by the officer, when they pass out the medications in the morning, that I'm moving on.

My celly is starting to grieve for his own so I ought to give a listen for awhile. This is my final, last, only stamp left...I'd hoped to hang on to it until I'd gotten closer to moving, but that is a definite indication of mental instability, so,

Love you and miss you very much,
James

p.s., when you write to me, let me know how the "celebration of life" went. Send pictures, please.

Letter 9

4/14/11
Reverb'd

This page was able to pass for now...until it was marked on by me. I have a complex simple existence here that I will likely maintain until time has adequately been served. I see I've already given you a too-quick shake and you need me to explain my terms better. What I mean by a complex simple existence is this: Complex because it is the way I roll. Simple as there is very little activity required of me. I'm in a close management prison. Existence...I mentioned there is almost no activity for me here so I am not fully or even partly alive here.

Want to know more about what it's like here: First, last and in between there is nothing about being here that is soft or easy. The trick to getting out wiser than you came in is to mold the personality into being as non-offensive as possible and develop boundaries. Under no conditions is it a good thing to let a boundary slide while you are in here. After leaving, I don't know. I haven't left yet.

 There are quite a few here who have no date that tells them when they will leave, so a lot of them are here on another pretext, guided by the great and powerful self! They must be watched and not trusted, for if they sense a weakness they will surely exploit it. In that state, with nothing to lose, they almost never get to see a female, and aren't bashful when it comes to trying to lure a victim into their hands. Then, there are the guys that act like women...about which I could write an entire library about without scratching the surface.

I will spare the conjecturing rhetoric, as that is what it amounts to in the end, and I'll just go on about what I know or at least can guess at. Out of all the people and posers I've talked with, I'm the only one to have been through what I have and still have any sense left. Ah, I see you've lost me again. I've got to learn not to make sudden twists of logic or make giant leaps without any supporting information, like I just did.

What I'm driving at is how I've been impacted by my history. People tell me I'm not so rare, but then when they hear my story they change their minds. I've led a life of high adventure. High adventure with low-lifes. Drug abuse began early in my life. Before life treated me as a chew-toy, I actually had some sense. I recall as if it were yesterday, not 35 years ago.

On the last day of school I decided to walk home early from the public pool. This was the start of the finish for me. The retelling of this story has the appeal of a long chewed piece of gum. Telling it one more time would be too much for my sensibilities, so I will do my best to cover the after effects of the day while leaving the day itself a mystery.

One of the most apparent and immediate effects was a false sense of well being and acceptance by those I spent time with. Not really my peers. The next greatest impact my fully aware decision entailed was a widespread shift in the crowd I was hanging with at school to new, dangerous friends with interesting stories about their pasts. As I associated with this new crowd I lost all respect for authority. I was reborn into a Missouri mindset. At first these new developments were like cleaning out your closet and finding a forgotten favorite pair of jeans that still fit. Easy to live with and easy to like. I had an endless free supply, being the local lab-rat for the drugs.

Some things only seem good at the time and then they end, sooner or later. At 12 years old, I went to Bangkok to be straightened out by my dad. I made the trip alone. Bear in mind that I'd had an all-out assault on my sensibilities recently. Mom allowed an Indian woman to stay at our house and I found it nearly impossible to adjust to her presence. My arrival in Bangkok was more ordinary than many of the events leading up to this change in location. When there is upheaval in my life, I exhibit a flat emotional response which I think I inherited from my dad. I had been having great surges of emotion but kept it all inside. My conversations with my dad were while I was in this condition.

I felt stupid because I didn't understand the language and couldn't even understand the news on T.V. I withdrew like a snail into its shell. I connected with a guy who was going to med school at a nearby university and spoke some English. He was studying the effect of different medications on people and...I guess you know where I stayed while in Bangkok.

I came back stateside in a backdoor kind of way. It was good that I left when I did as I think enough of my actions were confirmed to my dad's ever suspicious mind that a confrontation was only a short time off. It had been set in motion weeks earlier because I was badly in need of a rest. Partied out, I call it.

My mom was getting remarried to a man I had no use for. I didn't want to hang around for a showdown in which I'd be a loser no matter what. After much finagling I was back in the states. I set about trying to establish enmity between my mom and her husband, any way possible. I did crazy things to generate some dislike. With apologies to my mom now, as this explains a lot of my behavior then and now. At every instance, I was stymied...which, truthfully, pissed me off all the more.

I had a disease that all have had, only with me the symptoms were over magnified to an absurd point. The dis-ease, as I like to describe it, was just being a young teen, with my unique views on my surroundings. This was compounded by the fact I experimented with drug use on a continuous basis. I also never learned to share, which caused me ginormous problems and took me further into the way already set in motion...by me.

Letter 8

4/14/11
Dear Mom,

I really enjoyed visiting with you and Renelle today. I don't feel I'll need to eat for a couple of days now, I jammed in so many groceries compared to what I usually get.

My celly is all ready to get a letter from Augustus. I told him it is not for sure, but I get the idea I'm only talking to myself. I think it's great you're so willing to help with every part of my "time of trial."

On the other side of things, part of what I wasn't able to get across to you during the visit (per regulations I guess) was about the analogy I've made between singers and writers practicing/experimenting to find their best "voice." Maybe parallell would be the more correct term. Anyhow, so far what works best is first person retrospective style, with the narrative being "it could onlly happen to me" refinement. I don't actually know if that is best for all my writing, but so far it works and it's not good to argue with results, even though I don't have any yet.

I included some of my latest efforts for you to proof. Let me know what you think of it when you write back to me. I'm interested and I value your input about things. It is still a bit messy.

From the sad-but-true files: I know this is a place where the worst type of incorrigible, deviant multiple offenders are held, but that knowledge does nothing to replace my white laundry bag. No one knows where it could be, so I have to get another one. The thing is, I need to have one to turn in so I can get a new one. I don't know how to solve this problem.

Another comparison occurred to me just now. Between the voice I've used in talking and the one I use most often in writing compared to the biblical St. Paul. In no way do I mean to suggest I have attained the renown greatness of Paul, only that, by his own admission, he is different when in letters than he is in person. This tells me I need to polish up on my oratory skills so as to keep up with my writing.

Oh, in case I didn't actually send his name to you already, my celly's name is: _____________
I hope it works out that he has someone reliable to write to. He definitely has a tale to tell! Apparently, for about a decade after the last escape attempt they move him to a different prison every 30 days. So I listen when he talks. He's sort of an E.F. Hutton in that regard.

Well, I guess it's time for my Porky Pig impression: Th-th-th-, that's all folks! I'll write you again soon, Mom.

Much love and all my best,
James

Letter 7

Dear Renelle,

I’m so excited about getting to see you and my Mom tomorrow, I can hardly contain myself! It’s only as trying being here as is expected. At least nothing uncommon lately. Hopefully, the two of you have an uneventful drive up here—it just wouldn’t do for me to be the more alert of us while we visit, now would it?

The ways they try me here continue to grow as fast as I can list them! As it turned out (for me), quitting smoking when I did was a really good decision; they’re taking all tobacco out of prisons in ___. Don’t know what this will lead to or how successful it will be, as I found out only last night; and I wonder too at the constitutionality of the restriction, as no one will be able to have tobacco products while on the grounds of prison. Seems a little far-fetched to me, but what do I know?

I’m letting events coalesce in my mind right now, as I’m writing an unauthorized biographical account of my life so far. I realize the apparent mistake—unauthorized, but it would take many pages before I’d be able to make an explanation that would even come close to being O.K. with me, and I’ve made the choice not to, as it would take me too long. Think I’m getting a knack for titles? I call this version “Reverb’d.” What do you think?

Well, “lunch” just rolled in, so I’d better practice eating! At least I’ve got my wits still. Hopefully, the kitchen made a mistake and put some salt on/in with the “food.” Hey, it’s my fantasy—work with me.

There, now it wasn’t so awful bad as I made it out to be (I’m lying through what’s left of my teeth!). Keeps me alive for the visit, at any rate.

My main difficulty in writing now (aside from practical considerations), is maintaining continuity of content of what has already been written by me. I’m still at a stage where I’m trying different literary voices and searching for the one that works best for the Muse (all-powerful) I worship now. I find that putting aside what I’m writing for a moment (no longer, or I lose it) works often for me.It has limited success at times, though—as now.

I was drawn into a conversation with my celly, and that happens so seldom that I was that much easier side-tracked.

At any pace, it’s now about 15 hours from the visit and I need to put an end to this so it can be started on its way to you. Thousands of little tiny details are constantly going through my head, I don’t think I can sleep until afterwards. Anyway, ‘nuff out of me.

Your friend,

James

Additionally—my celly’s mystery-shrouded conversation, mostly, was about the facts—he’s a 51-year-old Cuban in prison for a crime he committed almost 3 decades ago! Since he doesn’t speak a lot of English, he’d like to know if he could be “put out there” on Facebook or Twitter, maybe. His name is ___, and he’d really appreciate it if he got advertised on a page as seeking a Hispanic pen pal. I really have to go now. Stop talking—please. . . .