Total Pageviews

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Letter 66

July 8-11, 2011

Dear Renelle,

Dear Phantom Muse,
Please don't sue for custody
for I've changed,
somehow and hopefully
when you're able to see
what a difference could truly
be made by me--you'll return and agree.

Needs a lot of changes, I know, but there are only a limited # of activities I'm able to pursue in the gloomy and cramped cell I have to be in for now. I'm starting to lose my sense of humor, and even repeat myself at times.

With all these crazy policies we have to bear, there's a marked increase in the unexpressed rage at being unable to do anything about it but wear it like an ill-fitting pair of shoes. 

Before all this got started about three months back, I'd evicted the last demon of vengeance from myself. Now I don't know if it's come back again, though. I'm able to follow directions, even when I know for a hard fact a better way to get results from the socially-challenged. 

I don't like being treated the same way as everyone else. I'm not everyone else. I'm me, and will likely be me for good and bad until I breathe my last on this wretched mudball we've managed to really make worse. If the last sentence comes off bitter, you may just want to throw it out, as I've yet to begin pumping the venom!

[Saturday, July 9] 

This morning (Saturday) is one of the days during the week we're able to lay-in, hang out, or whatever--right? Apparently that too is a bygone era. All were awakened at what I mistakenly thought was the usual time, so I got myself upright on my bunk and my watch read 45 minutes earlier than would have been. On inquiring the reason for this, I was told, "The Col. wants it this way."

Everything got turned inside-out this week by an odd combination of facts: not enough workers to cover all the bases, which I understand fully. Now, though, it starts a-stinkin' jes a mite. There was an attempted uprising in the wing next to ours, requiring the assistance of what few actually had shown up here, so we suffered locked-in all three days for something we had no control of. Wait, though, it gets better. 

As if that isn't enough confining limitations, the one half-decent guard working that shift (8-4) already put in notice he'll quit for the reason the Col. wants another Guantanamo Bay here, and he refuses to be part of it. So, the policies continue to be more needlessly restrictive. There no longer is any warning when it's going to start being slung willy-nilly (an odd phrase) around up in here.

You'll have to excuse me. My brain just collapsed under the weight of the gratuitous idiocy in this locality, rendering me paralyzed/inactive by the overwhelming desire to "reach out and touch," but who? 

I'll give you a play-by-play: First, the library clerk/orderlies dropped off a National Geographic Magazine I've looked at some ten times, claiming that was all they had, "read it or don't, it's up to you"-type fast-talk. 

Then, I got my very slim canteen order. This makes the second week I only received 1/2 of what I ordered. I blame the warehouse manager for not keeping adequate items on hand, slimy piece of garbage.

Before that happened, my celly J. and I need time away from each other, as familiarity breeds contempt with me, and he's not that different. We've been looking at each other since we were marched back from the showers Tuesday, and this being Saturday, it was getting a bit rough to be around him in a very high-pressure situation. 

According to the latest policy, those going outside (into a cage) for recreation have to be strip-searched inside a shower before and after.
I was just barely awake and I heard something about this prison being run like Gitmo Bay. When I woke up more, enough to fall out of my rack, anyway, I was hit by a rapid burst of Spanglish [rnl's note: his celly J. speaks "Spanglish"]--which I couldn't understand, detailing (I think) what he'd do if he was forced to be inspected like a side of beef. That was my awakening (though nothing like the movie).

It's really been just one damned thing after another, for at least a week here. There has been one area of relative relief, though. With all the needlessly foolish stuff going on here, I haven't had a chance to even know it the T.V. gets the "Springer-vision Moronathon" any longer.

At this moment, it's raining hard and threatening harder outside, and I'm glad I'm inside, though I'm doing the "stormbringer" dance. Rain is good, as long as I don't have to be in it while I'm asleep!

[Sunday, July 10]

Now another day has passed into past without any reportable offense taking place with either of us, though I suspect it was a far easier feat for him than me. Yesterday (Saturday) was the final day we were able to wash away our collective funk. It only followed that they were short at least one guy for that shift. Right. So the Sgt. had to step in and cover, but being unfamiliar with the schedule, he nearly was persuaded by several of the worst cons here into letting a group (which seems to almost get catered to) out to watch the Moronathon, which had been out twice the previous shift.

Better sense prevailed (on checking the schedule), and he let our group out, but set even more strict limits to what he would/would not do, and what we could/could not do.
The policies in place as of yesterday (7/9/11) will ultimately (hopefully) lead to their own undoing, as they're so ridiculous I can't imagine them being permanent. Again, though, I think it's wiser to make the best out of rotten circumstance that to draw even more attention to myself.

[Monday, July 11]

Now it's Monday, with all the realities the day entails.I'd better get fully alert if I'm going to go outside to the recreation yard today.

Your cognitively-damaged friend,
James

The Moronathon is fully operative.




No comments:

Post a Comment