Letter 3

2/14/2011

Dear Renelle,

      At (long!) last, I’m writing you from a real prison! Not one made-up to just look similar. Being here (as opposed to being at the last place) so far is superior in every way. Now, I’m free to write as much/little as I want, with the only limiting factor(s) being availability of pens and paper. Before launching into my hot, poisonous scourging “expose” of what I’m calling Egypt—let me inform you how the transfer occurred:

      Yesterday (Friday, 2/11), I eagerly waited for the 8-4 shift to end, at 10 minutes of 4 the despicably foul Sgt. Ford called me to the door to tell me I’d be an “emergency transfer, get shackled up and out before count.” I’d no clue to what was happening, but at the slim hope of leaving—I quickly leapt out. True, there were another two guys getting out of Dodge—one of them my celly now. So we get on the van (3+ drivers, partner, escort). Then, I ask about the destination. Then I think to ask about the property I couldn’t have in confinement, only to be told the property room was closed, but whatever you had in property will follow when someone goes back next week.” Makes no difference to me, I’m so happy to be shed of that place—it’s like it’s my birthday all month long.

      Now that I’m well on the way to getting put right with this prison, I’m free to give out the grisly details about that other place. It’s wrong of me to dwell on negatives—but that’s all there is, so I don’t feel (as) badly. Of course, I didn’t witness that many wrongs comparatively—but I did come to an understanding of how confinement is run (so badly!). In confinement, a human will lose weight; how much weight is determined by the variables—such as duration of confinement, how well you get along with others, etc. Others that play a part in the weight loss are the general health and metabolism of the afflicted. Though far from a comprehensive picture, it does act as a starting point. It’s nearly impossible to get any medical/psychiatric care while there, as the sgt. In charge won’t let anyone go to the buildings where this attention takes place on the 8-4 shift. It’s cold in the winter (the vent blows cold air!), and hot in the summer (the vent blows hot air!).

(Sunday)

      Makes me feel better not waking to a thug looking back at me—crazed—thinking (if it can even be that they think) of all the wild things they want with me. There are the same types here, though they’re kept separate. Also feels good to be a “survivor” of that hellish place, and to be appreciated for a character trait. When there’s nothing to do, I sleep (the best way I’ve found for time to pass). About time, suddenly—I find less of it available than I’d thought I had; I could be finishing up with prisons as early as late in 2012. If.

      With regards to “if,” did you mention to my mom I need funds? I’m sure she explained how many problems happened at the other prison (with me having no money, borrowing at a high interest rate, then having only enough to pay the interest), and if not—I just did. What I’d like to do is to get a copy of the Dickens book “Oliver Twist”—and update it so it won’t have the hard to understand language/usage the original has, so it will be more widely read by today’s average readers. May take me awhile, but what else am I going to do?

      I almost miss the quiet desperation existence, almost—but NOT!!! Well, I’m at the end of another letter, this on not with the emergent and desperate tone of my prior ones, though. I’ll include some of my onion tales from time to time, I’m just so glad I’m not still there—you don’t know. Anyway, I’d better close-out this letter so the mundane blessing of eating can occur.

Your friend,
James