Letter 61

July 3, 2011

Dear Renelle,

It's Sunday, 7/3 now, and seemingly full ahead stop for the smurf population here. I have a letter detailing much of my internal-external insignificant minutia (possibly needlessly), which awaits the resumption of the mail. Many apologies if my words seem vague. It is early in the day yet for me to gain my usual masterful style of prose. That window won't open for another five hours, at least.

The wheels of justice continue alternately squeezing and stretching us to unheard of limits. By us, I mean all the smurfs in the prisons. By which, I refer to the showers last night. Now, it would only be logical, to my reasoning at least, that as we are kept locked in a cramped cell with someone we may or may not get along with, that the "Second Team" on duty would want to make things we do as easy as possible, right?

No, not, negative, and furthermore, denied. Why? State-secret, comrade. I look forward now (there's been a mass transfer away from here recently) to coming out of the cell into the only other part of the building we call the dayroom, during the too-brief times we're permitted to bathe, relax(!), watch T.V. (hated), etc. Now, or more correctly, last night, they've instituted yet another strictly-enforced policy. We only have a (very) brief time to be trimmed up, and to shower, dry, relax, and get back to our concrete caves. We are searched thoroughly before and after, and watched the entire time we're out of the cell(s), an understandable precaution--only if we had regular access to weapons and were the type disposed with a violent temperament. None of that (fortunately) exists here now, though. The only thing being accomplished by these measures is a growing resentment of authority, which is exactly counter to what would inspire cooperation.

I'm only hoping this presents my views in a pretense of calm not felt. My psyche is taking some major abuse here lately. Next will be some type of thought police. I'm beginning to forget what it was like to just walk and think, for its own sake.

Miss having a life the same way. Being a prisoner has only really added a single inescapable discipline to whatever makes up me. That is, that especially when
it could even be less preferable than a tonsillectomy with no anesthesia, there no choice but compliance. Not strictly true, maybe, but the only choice not involving immediate pain and loss for quiet a while, and whatever it was comes back anyway. Sorry I'm so negative. I need a vacation from this vacation!

If I'd been granted a more permanent protective custody status on an earlier request for it sometime last year when I began running into this gang of problems and adversities, I likely wouldn't have had to suffer a fourth of the abuses I have. There is a quality of learning well-disguised by affliction, though, for me, permanent disfiguration and life-threatening illness aside, pain is a universal motivator. Even fear of pain is usually enough to get me into compliance.

As anyone will freely volunteer, though, these places were never intended to be reliant on a system of honor, especially those having direct and recent experience in one. There's a song by Don Henley (late of Eagles fame) called "Heart of the Matter" that was released a good decade ago as a solo effort, that contains very provocative lyrics. When I run into that song playing anywhere now, though, the line in it where he claims he's "learning to live without you now" means something totally different to me. I think of the "you" in the song as a way of life I led for so long. Makes sense to me, anyway. I'm closing in on the window where I'm clear-headed for about three hours; and now must ready myself for our lunch.

Horrible, though brief, like taking some medications. I've certainly done enough of that during my time(s) in this body! I've been thinking about what I'd do when I'm released from prison. What I've come up with likely won't surprise anyone who knows me. I'd like to visit an "all you care to eat" buffet, and close it down because I'll eat shocking amounts of food.

There was a restaurant next to the M.S.Mall called "Headhunters" for awhile. They didn't offer a buffet, but it was a nice place to visit while at the mall for lunch or whatever. They had a meal--I forget what it was called now--that came with the bargain that if it could be eaten by one person at one sitting, that person's and everyone else's meals at the table were free. They're not open for business anymore, since I found out the terms of the deal. I've never met a pizza I didn't completely destroy, either. I don't believe I would've made a very good royal food-tester, though, as one of my traits is being fairly indiscriminate when I'm hungry. Plus, for some reason, I'm rarely sick.


Don't know how often you get to go to a theater, but there's a movie that stands out from the others Bruce Willis has been in called Unbreakable, I think. In this movie, it begins with him being the lone survivor of a train-wreck that pretty well mashed everyone to paste. He isn't even bruised. As it unfolds, both the viewer and the title character learn some very interesting stuff. He's never been hurt (cut or broken bone), doesn't feel "bad" any physically measurable way, and has never been sick a day in his life! The only time he's vulnerable to anything is when he's in the shower or caught in the rain. 


Now, it takes a different spin and switches to being about another man, played by Samuel Jackson. This one is confined to a wheelchair as even the smallest effort represents peril to him. He's always breaking this or that bone, getting sick and what have you, except when he's in a bath or in a rainstorm. The movie jumps from Bruce's life of freedoms to Sam's life of continuously growing fears he'll be injured and killed in the course of an ordinary (for him) day. I forget how the movie ends exactly, but believe Bruce is injured while saving his friend Sam from a fire.

I describe the pertinent points so that it would follow better when I claim that, when I came into the prison system I was more like an unbreakable guy. Now though, having been afflicted in isolation for a time and terrorized by guards for the joy they received from it, I'm more broken in more ways than I realize. None of the isolation/terrorized happened at S_, but it's the kind of accumulation of injuries impossible to bounce back from, considering my age and other handicaps. It speaks to my ability to stay off the radar that I've even survived this long.

A sense of humor has been essential to me at times. There have been times while during the previous stint in hell, I had a choice of either laughing at myself, or becoming even more enraged at my predicament. I don't even like myself when I'm in that state.

I've completely given up my former right to be right, which goes a long way toward avoiding needless mental mish-mash. It's finally sinking in, I can't win or be right in here. As close to being able to explain mental mish-mash as I can, is that it's similar to being another of my euphemisms: a mental splinter, specifically, the more a splinter is dug at. The smaller and still-painful splinters have to be taken out.

Ah, the window is open!

I may have given myself some kind of gastric hemorrhage with the way I've got to eat the kitchen output lately. There are 14 cells on the level we're on. We're the #9 cell--so they get an officer to start at one end going down to give us the trays. As soon as he makes it to the end, they start picking them up. I can generally represent myself fairly in an eating contest, but that's over the top! Surely this perpetuates a convict/criminal mentality, somehow. 

At any event, I've been darted and begin to look for a hole in my eyelid. Window shutting rapidly now--must abandon efforts at lettering.

There is an unsubstantiated rumor making the rounds that to further cut operational costs, the laundry is going to only wash our whites one day a week. That is all well and good, if you don't care what others think about walking around with an aura of filth. Difficult enough as it is, since they no longer replace them except if you happen to be very fortunate. I'm down to one to wear, and a spare "T" and a boxer. Socks I've got plenty of, as I seldom wear any. If one is lucky enough to get an actual full-size towel, they'd be wise to guard it constantly, as it's pretty well theirs for the duration of the stay.

For some inexplicable reason, I'm feeling less oppressed and generally happier about things now. I'm sure this is a passing feeling, though. I'm not trying to self-prescribe my meds (Lord knows I've done that enough!), but I keep coming back to the REmeron making me feel really awful and unmotivated compared to the way I was without it. I see no purpose to continue taking it. Doing so adds nothng to my outgoing, positive and gregarious attitude/nature. Of course, do I actually possess that spirit of outgoing friendliness, or has it been chemically manufactured in me? One may not ever know truly the answer to such a question, possibly.

Anyway, hope your 4th was more enjoyable than mine (I feel like I've got a fair chance of that, considering. . . .). It's my understanding that I need to physically grab the order forms out of these ugly idiots' hands, somehow. That truly will be a magic trick to do from the inside of a cell! Ya think?


Your ambulatorily-challenged friend, 
James