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