Sunday has come...And will be going...

My posting has been erratic, and for that I apologize. I try to keep a benchmark of other bloggers who do so every day, but sometimes life comes around, I get busy, distracted, and I forget. A robot I am not. Thank you to all those who have enjoyed my jail art. I'll take some more pics tomorrow and post some more art on Tuesday as well as a double installment of 'Haiku Tuesday' to make up for last week.

The phone just rang and it was my sister from Maine. To say that the 2 of us do not see eye-to-eye is an understatement. There are 5 of us in our immediate family and she only speaks with one of us...My mother. This has a lot to do with the fact that my mother holds the purse strings. In the end I am very sad for my sister. She has denied herself and her daughter the unconditional love of an entire family, which includes an uncle (me), an aunt (my other sister), and a grandfather. Oh well, I'll keep a light on in the window in case she has a change of mind.

Back to reality...

AA is going very well. I took a formal 5th Step last week and truly do feel ready to rid myself of many of my character defects, flaws, or shortcomings--whatever you wish to call them. It is a real relief to feel this way. All of my resentments, envies, and jealousies have been holding me back for much of my life and it's time to be rid of them. So I'll meditate on Step 6 this week and take the 7th next week. This is in keeping with my sponsor's idea of "12 Steps in 12 Weeks". Ambitious, yes. But at the end I will be very near my 3rd Anniversary!

There are people dying of this disease out there. An AA friend died in a nearby town just this past week from liver cancer. He had been sober for a couple of years, but had struggled for 10 years at least with sobriety. He was diagnosed with a large tumor on his liver that had spread cancer throughout his body 1 month ago. The doctors gave him 2 months to live. He lasted just over 3 weeks. He was in a great deal of pain in the end, but denied the morphine from the hospice where he spent his last few days. It's moments like these that I regret not spending more time with Roman F. He was a jovial and dedicated member of our sober cadre, active in service and worldwide in his view of AA. He was an instrumental force behind the Bali AA groups and the SE Asia Yearly Roundup. He will be missed. Godspeed!

And still there are people coming in and out of the rooms. I ran into one such fellow the other day at a meeting. I knew him, and he had slipped. The results of his using were not surprising: his wife had left him taking the children, he was in line to lose his job, etc...When recounting his pain from the night before he began to cry. So I asked if he wanted help. The answer was yes. So I told him that I would pick him up that evening and take him to a meeting, which I did. On the way home to his house he was suddenly cured. Everything was OK and he would be fine. In fact, so fine that my suggestion of going to another meeting with me the next evening was met with the kind of hemming and hawing one hears from the fearful and arrogant. In the end he will do his program the way he wants to do it, with the past memory forgotten, and self-will running the show. I predict he will use again within the week.

I know what it took for me, and I remember the pain, the fear, and the loneliness. I never want to forget really wanting to die, and making those kinds of rational seeming plans. That is one thing that keeps me sober today. I am not fooling myself that I am cured. I will never be cured. I have a daily reprieve based on my spiritual condition. I am an alcoholic, but I am sober today.

When Roman F. Would share at meetings he would always say "My name is Roman, I'm an alcoholic, and by the grace of God and Alcoholics Anonymous I woke up again today free of the influence of mind-altering substances, and for that I am grateful."

That says it all, in my opinion. Good night Tommy, hope you feel the right pain, and goodnight Roman, now you are truly free.


Johnnyboy

A week has passed...

Oh, boy...Too many days have gone by since my last entry. Good news, I'm still here in Somwheresville and life is pretty OK. Here's some more jail art. I'll make up for the lack of haiku next week.


This piece is called 'Boats'.

See ya!


Johnnyboy

Everyday life and happenings inside...

This work is called "Dreaming and Sleeping". Once again, oil stick pens and collage as well. I like it alot.

Besides the different classes offered for education or the sobriety programs that met two or three times a week there was one resource that, in it's way, gave great comfort to the inmates. This was the commissary, or canteen. We could receive a canteen order twice a week, with a maximum order of $50 each time. The goods sold by the canteen were pretty basic but they gave us all the chance to have something in our drab existences. All of the basic toiletries were sold (except razors, they were handed out and kept track of by the guard on a needs basis), and there was an astonishing assortment of junk food. Everything from candy (no gum) to SlimJims and pretzels, chips, etc...You could buy envelopes, stamps, better sneakers (Reebok or Adidas), AA batteries, and little AM/FM radios with headphones in which to use the batteries. Best of all, to my mind, was that you could buy paper. The canteen sold white legal pads without any staples for about $1.00 a piece. I wrote my journal on these pads, and at last count have 36 of them. Each pad has 55 pages. I always had an extra pad to use for letters, so I wrote a fairly good amount. I think I averaged about 3 pages everyday of journaling. I also had one of the little radios. That saved my life, I think. I could pick up WAMC, the local public station, as well as a Oldies station that also broadcast the Yankees games while in season. My radio was a pipeline to reality, above and beyond the visits, newspapers, and magazines.

Here are some random journal entries from along the way. The parenthetical asides will be clarifying notes for you, the reader.


11/14/03 8:35am
No (History) class today. Something must have happened to Gilligan (the Education director and teacher). Either that or the computer was fouled up. I'd believe both. I also would not trust Mazzeo (a notoriously lazy and simpleminded guard) with the task. He'd say "no class" just to keep someone from receiving goodtime.
Gulliano (an older inmate, in and out of jail for years) and Page (Mike Page, another inmate, in for molesting his daughter) almost came to blows. Both are high strung, but Gulliano is a real bum, derelict, scrounging, etc...In jail more than out. I think I'll nap until canteen arrives.
2:05PM
Gagliardi (a guard known for being a vindictive jerk) searched my cell about 30 minutes ago. Obviously, not being a criminal, I had nothing to hide, but he questioned me about my books (language, travel, etc...) and my traveling. All business, though. I guess the guards have to search 3 cells everyday. Today was my turn.


7/10/04 (only 2 months before I was released)
9:20PM I've finished "The Pearl" (short story by John Steinbeck). An allegory of wealth, greed, violence, and death. Kino's dreams, though good, went against the nature of his life. The dreams of avarice dreamt by the other peasants and the pearl traders were more greedy because they had sampled greed and luxury.
11:30PM Mom visits tomorrow. I'm very worried about her forgetfulness. She went to the store today and forgot the 3 things she went for. She did end up remembering them, but I can tell it upset her. Tomorrow will be the last time I see her until August 8th, after she has returned from Maine. I will worry about her driving those long distances by herself. I certainly won't breathe easy until she returns safely.
I must be wary of Pete and Lee (2 inmates who became my "friends", both whom were violently racist, homophobic, and just plain mean). They really are criminals and have no sense of right or wrong. Lee mentioned Somewheresville tonight and it made me very worried. It would make me frightened to see him in my neighborhood. I'd definitely call the cops. I guess that's all I can say about them. I'll pray to be relieved of my fear concerning those guys.


So there's a little taste of my journaling during my time in jail. There's tons more than that, and I'll make a concerted effort to find more epiphantic entries for next time. Much of the writing really is just day-to-day goings on and random thoughts in my noggin. But then again, that's what a journal is all about.

One more thing...I forgot the art teachers name...I had told you all that it was "Joyce", but it's not. I remember now. Her name is "Phyllis K." I know her last name, but I'll keep that to myself and to protect her anonymity. She was quite the teacher and I remember that when we had our last class together, less than a week before I left, we said our goodbyes, and she cupped my cheek in a real gesture of caring, a mother's touch. I am still very moved when I think about it. Thank you, Phyllis, wherever you are, for saving my life.




Inmate #1229

Tragedy and humility...

Today's artistic offering is a print of the bottom of my jail sneaker. The art teacher wanted us to do some homework that we could accomplish in the pod, i.e. without any pencils or crayons, pastels, or anything of the sort. She gave each of us a small rectangular piece of cardboard and sent us on our way. For my project I used a very thick mix of instant coffee, as thick as ink, and dabbed it on the bottom of my sneaker which fit perfectly within the cardboard. I "printed" my sneaker sole and let it dry. Then I brought the result into class and used oil paint sticks, some colored pens, and a scraping tool to finish the work. I call it "Size 11", which is my show size, of course.


The overwhelming feeling that I felt in jail was one of extreme apathy. To say that the majority of the inmates in jail (any jail) are down on their luck is an understatement. For them a period spent in jail (a bid) is a time to eat, sleep, get healthy (think free medical/dental), and stay out of the weather. The jails are most full during the colder, winter months with many of the inmates being street people who are rounded up every year for the crime of 'public intoxication'. The saddest thing in the world for me was understanding that going to jail was a viable alternative to living in the free world for these guys. They weren't even criminals. They were sick, mentally ill, homeless and jobless. They were, and are, invisible to most of society. They are the great unwashed. Some of them were even driven to levels of desperation by their plight to commit crimes. I often think of one fellow, Dean, who threw a brick through the window of a police cruiser so he would be arrested in late September and serve an 8 month sentence for destruction of city property. He was a local guy, everyone knew him, and he was not a threat. He was just another human being living in his own painful hell.

The drug dealers were another sad bunch. Many of them had become convinced that the gold chains, shiny cars, and sexy women shown on TV was the real thing, the end all and be all of life. The believed the hype, and the hype was this: If you want to be a gangster, then you want to be man. You live the gangster lifestyle and part of that lifestyle is doing time. These guys would be making $1000 a week selling crack, living high on the hog, for 6 months, maybe a year, and then they'd get busted and end up doing 18 months in county. For them, that was OK. That was the trade-off for the lifestyle.

These guys will never get clean and sober. Sobriety does not pay them the benefits they want. There is no 'bling-bling' in sobriety, but what there is is honesty. Getting honest is not part of the gangsta life. Being kind and truthful does not pay, nor does respecting all people as people and not pieces of meat.

All of this made me sad. I also began to feel far superior to many of these guys. I thought of them as 'idiots' and 'scumbags' and 'worthless street trash'. This was a very bad thing for me to do, but thankfully I came to my senses. It was easy, really. One day I looked around at my surroundings and I realized that I was wearing the same clothes as they were, eating the same food, and damn if my cell wasn't exactly like all the rest. That was when I became humble and learned to love my fellow man. That has made all the difference.

Inmate #1229

Set up and framed...

Here is one of the paintings that I made in the jail art class. The class was run by this old hippy lady who went around to prisons and taught art. Her name is Joyce. This piece is called "Culture of Fear". It's kind of a self-portrait.

At one point during the first few weeks I was presented with a roommate. I was not happy about this but neither could I object. He was a young guy, around 19 or 20, and seemed as out of place among the other inmates as me. Perhaps that's why they stuck him with me. In any case he turned out to be pretty much an idiot, and I called him on his idiocy. One morning I came back from breakfast and found a note lying on my pillow. I wish that I had saved it, but it later became 'evidence'. It was from Chris (the roomie) and it essentially said "I know what you've been doing, and I want you to stop. If you don't I'll tell the CO." For the most part that was it. There were no specifics, only this vague accusation and a threat. So of course I asked him about it. He refused to tell me, responding that "If I didn't know what was going on, then fine, let's drop it." I had to get to the bottom of it. So I showed the note to a guard, a real jerk named Gagliardi, who then spoke to Chris. The next thing I know Chris is being moved out to another cell and I once again have a single. Next the pod is called to lock down and in. So I do that along with everyone else. Then suddenly my door opens and 4 (yes 4!) guards come in, handcuff me and shackle my ankles and take me down to solitary confinement.

3 hours go by when the Captain in charge of security comes in my cell (I'll tell you about solitary later) and asks if I have any idea why I am down here. I answer honestly "No". It turns out that the moron is accusing me of molesting him while he slept. It turns out that one night I woke up around 2AM to take a leak and had to move his arm out of my way to get of my bunk (he was on the top bunk and his arm had fallen over the side) and then walk the 3 feet to the toilet. I guess it woke him up and he thought I was trying to feel him up. So anyway, at that point I proclaim my innocence, and promptly tell the Captain that I want to speak to my lawyer before anything else happens and I want my phone call immediately! The phone call is granted and I am able to call home and tell my mother what was going on and to get my lawyer on the scene ASAP. Needless to say I wasn't all that brave. I was god damn scared of what was happening. Rumors in jail spread like wildfire and I was about to be branded a molester! It didn't make anything any better that I was being railroaded by the jail. So I spent the weekend in solitary.

On Monday my lawyer shows up and says that everything has been cleared up, and the jail is very apologetic. I go for a chat with the Captain. He says that they believed my story anyway and that I didn't have to get my lawyer involved (yeah, right!). At that point I was given my choice of pods, because I was through with D Pod. I chose F Pod, which was painted a sunny yellow color. The rumor followed me, however, and I was to have my own cell for the rest of the time that I was in jail. Not that living solo was tough, but I caught a fairly good amount of flak (all verbal) from some of the idiots while I was there. I never got into any fights, was never struck or attacked, and actually ended up having some minor friendships through my AA work while I was there. I guess it was a form of 12 Step work.

That was a very brief account of that incident. I prayed a lot over the weekend in solitary, if only to stay sane, and I was pretty terrified of the whole scenario. I could have been charged with another crime, another felony, and railroaded straight to the state prison in Cedar Junction. Thank God I had a family to call and a lawyer to take charge.



#1229

Days running together...

The culture of jail is one of banality, of a sameness and predictability. My clothing consisted of 3 sets of identical dark blue scrubs, with white boxers, white socks, a pair of flipflops for the shower and "lounging" around and a pair of low-top sneakers, a la Converse. The sneakers are actually made by a company in North Carolina owned by Bob Barker. Yes, you heard it right, Bob Barker, the one-and-only host of The Price Is Right. Apparently he makes a lot of money because of the corrections community and is a major supplier of clothing for much of the country's institutions. Now that is banal. The Price Is Right, C'mon down!

My days, without incident were scheduled to insure orderliness. We were locked down for the night at 9:30PM. At 7AM the electronic doors would unlock,CRACK!, snapping open in a procession from cell to cell. Breakfast was at 7:15. We were back in the pod by 7:45 at the latest. Most of the guys went back to bed and slept until lunch. Some of them sat down in front of 1 of the 2 large color TVs and vegged out. It is possible to do your time that way. Many people do, from what I've seen. Those are the same people that keep on coming back through the revolving door of the system. They never change themselves or grow. I don't think I watched more than 6 or 7 hours of TV in my entire 19 months. I made myself busy and began to read. I read as much as possible. There was a library cart with about 100 books that would be replenished every week or so, at the whims of the inmates. Most of the selection was crap; cheap detective writing and whatnot, but there were occasional nuggets (Waiting For Godot springs to mind) of history, literature, and biography. Where these books came from I don't know, but I hazard a guess that they were donated to the facility. I supplemented the cart with tons of books from the outside. The policy was that we could have books sent in from the outside as long as they were not hardbound and had been sent from the publisher or a bookstore. That was no problem for me. My father was fond of Amazon.com and my mother utilized The Oblong Books And Records in nearby Millerton, N.Y. Through this great gift I had a huge pipeline to and from the outside world. Magazines were allowed through the regular mail so I had my subscriptions to The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and the AA Grapevine transferred to the jail. Although my calls were somewhat limited, my family had the money to set up a calling card system for the telephones so that I could call them whenever I was able. I tried not to abuse this, however, and became a prolific letter writer. Much of my letter writing was full of self-hate, although some was full of hope. Such is the path to a clear conscience.

Compared to the majority of the inmates, I was a very wealthy man. I had a visit every week form someone, I received tons of mail, and I was very active in the programs offered to me by the system. I took part in a writing course, an art course, all of the sobriety programs, and I had a job. All of these activities took off time from the end of my sentence. But as I said, these were the days without incident.

We spent a lot of time locked down, for one reason or the other. Usually because there was some kind of fight. Violence was a common occurrence in the pod. Card games would dissolve into chaos over a bad hand, inmates would turn Neanderthal over where they were going to sit and watch TV, telephones would be demanded and denied, the list goes on. The point to remember is that violence was the only coping mechanism that many of these guys knew about. Their whole lives had been lived around violence and fear, so that's how they lived in the present. I avoided them as much as possible. There were a few who were OK. They were a sad lot, though. Invariably they were in for drugs or alcohol, or the results thereof. But still, we could talk program, and all the things that we would do when we were released, and the places we'd go...These are the dreams of the jailed; to go and not stop going, to move like you cannot move within the walls of a jail.

The best philosophy was to do your own time, not someone else's. I saw too many guys waste energy and lose their shit over someone else and their crime. I tried to not rent space in my head, and sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't and this, I believe, was a result of resentment over the many advantages that I had compared to most. All the visits (including my weekly Tuesday morning visit from my therapist), the stacks of mail, the books, the phone calls, etc...All set me apart from the masses. Many inmates never received a visit, and the mail they picked up in the evening was all bad news. There was no hope for them outside the concrete walls. The best that they could hope for was a profitable summer selling crack and then a warm place to sleep in the winter. This last hope was typically jail, a viable alternative to freezing to death on the street. I'm sure I was the cause of many resentments, and I certainly had a few when I arrived. Over time they were washed away, though, because of the work I did on myself. I changed in jail. I will never be the same. There are ghosts that will always haunt me and I have made peace with them, clutching their cold hands like the friends they need to be.

Here are the haiku...


#8.
A shined steel mirror
throws a wavy reflection
on my waking face.

#11.
There are no sounds here
only noises late at night
that disturb my sleep.

#110.
Heavily wept tears,
thick and salty, hot with pain:
my awakening.



Inmate #1229

My new home...

As the 'slider' (a large steel door that slides open and closed) opened up into D Pod, I was greeted with a volley of shouts of "There he is!" and "he's the one!", all bullshit, really, and I was to learn that everyone was greeted that way, for the most part. Since I was new I was escorted into an enclosed area, separated from the rest of the pod by large Plexiglas windows. There were 4 cells in the enclosure. All the cells were the same, as were the pods, differentiated only by their pod color. As I said before, D-Pod was blue/gray. The diagram at the top is what they looked like.

I unpacked my meager belongings and stored them in the cubby under my steel bunk. No bedsprings here. This was a state-of-the-art jail, with no bars, only 3 inch thick steel doors with narrow windows leading into a 6'w x 10'l x 12'h room. At the opposite end of the room room the door was the window that gave me a view of the outside perimeter, surrounded by razor wire. The steel doors were controlled by an electronic/magnetic deadbolt. The Co's console had the release switch for all the doors. It was dark and gloomy, so I turned on the light. The long enclosed fluorescent flickered on quickly and illuminated me with the only type of light that I would see on a regular basis for the next 19 months. As I was reading through my paperwork and settling in, it suddenly hit me:

I was in jail. And not just overnight. I had learned my lesson, but no one was letting me out anytime soon.

There was a payphone in the enclosure and I hurried to make a call to home. I was not allowed to say goodbye to my family in court. The judge would not allow this to take place. So I made my first of hundreds of phone calls using the jail collect call system. The sound of my mother's voice crushed me as she answered. There was a pause while the system connected us, and there she was, as if she was right next door. I couldn't contain myself. I said, "Oh, Momma, I'm so sorry..." We both started crying, and she said that she was sorry, too. She asked about some of the formalities, making small talk, I think. Then we cried some more. She told me to be strong, that I'd make it through this, that she'd be there for me, that we would all be together again soon. I told her that I loved her, and that I'd call her again soon. Then we hung up.

I walked to the CO's desk and asked for a pen. He handed me the pens used by inmates; a rubbery thing made up of a short ballpoint inkstem and a flexible type of grip. I went back to my cell-I had no cellmate-sat down at my bolted-to-the-wall steel desk, took out the only paper I had, which was a copy of the rules and regulations, found a blank spot, and began to write. Nothing survives of the first 4 days of this ordeal. Where the writing went, I do not know. Maybe I didn't write anything at all. My first entry begin on January 12, 2003:

"5 days in-physical assault is a possibility. The powers that be say that they are here to protect us from ourselves as well as other stuff. I've already had one offer from the protection rackets. $30 in an (canteen) account and he'll protect me. Very illegal-for me as well. I was non-committal about acceptance."

Looking back I can see how I was assessing my survival situation, the way a shipwrecked sailor may assess his own predicament. He would make sure he wasn't hurt, tally his meager possessions, and set about building shelter, maybe make a fire if he could. With that first sentence I was able to stake a claim on my own existence. If I had paid the protection money, there would have been no end to the swindling. Once that door is opened my life would be over. By not accepting the offer, I showed that I was not easily swayed by the scary rumblings of the natives. This offer would come around a couple more times and I would rebuff it every time. My small holdings at that time were few, but important. I had my wits, my intelligence, and, thank God, my sobriety. I came in to jail with a program. AA would be my light in the darkest of days yet to come. My sobriety gave me power, and an edge, over others. I was focused on today, just today, and getting through it. My first lesson had been learned: I only had to worry about today.

That night I cried myself to sleep.


#1229

Intake...

So I am writing about my time in jail...


On the van ride over to the jail I was astounded at the casualness that some of the fellow riders were showing towards their future incarceration. Phrases like "Fantasy Island" were used and conversations about the chow hall menu ran around the back of the van. I stayed silent, and no one spoke to me. These guys were used to this kind of life, and as I would learn, it was an integral part of the world in which they lived. It was becoming apparent that jail was a step up in the world and a definite improvement over a cold and wet January on the streets. They would be fed, receive free medical treatment, sleep well, have clean clothes, cable TV, etc...No hassles. It was obvious that I came from a different, more privaledged, world. In my world no one starved or was forced to live outside or ever went without. This was a step in the wrong direction, I thought. But in the grand scheme of things I was able to remain fully accountable for my actions and served my time well. But I'm jumping ahead...

The van arrived at the jail and we unloaded into a holding area, with 2 large glassed in cells and a large desk with several Sheriff's Deputies (COs [Correctional Officers]) at the ready. I was led to the desk and my paperwork was handed over to the CO in charge. It turned out that "2 years" meant "2 years, non-mandatory" which meant that if I worked hard and kept my nose clean, I could be out in 18 months. This was a ray of hope, however dim, suddenly lightening my bleak future. I was brought into a large tile and stainless steel bathroom and ordered to strip. My street clothes were bundled up and placed in a plastic bag, which was labeled. I then signed for the bag and its contents. Still naked, I was made to squat and cough. They looked in my mouth, ears, nose, ass, and between my toes. I suppose there are myriad ways to smuggle contraband. I was then handed a collapsible plastic bin with my new clothes (size large) and all of my bedding. I dressed in the un comfortable and cold clothing, all dark blue, with the letters "BCHC" stenciled on the back of the shirt. The style was essentially hospital scrubs. No pockets or belt loops. I didn't have sneakers yet so I was given a cheap pair of rubber flipflops which I put on over my socks. Afterwards I was fingerprinted and my eyes were scanned for the optical scan, which is much more precise than a fingerprint. I had a basic medical history taken by a guard, some blood drawn to check for hepatitis, gonnorhea, and other diseases (but not HIV, that they charged for) and then handed my final paperwork. My ID tag was given to me. It was a small rectangular yellow plastic card, like a credit card, with my name, DOB, and inmate number. I was #1229. I was no longer Johnnyboy, or John, or anything else. I had left that identity wadded up with my suit in a clear plastic bag.

I was led to one of the large holding cells and told that if I wanted something to eat, dinner would be around soon. I was suddenly ravenous., so I said OK to that. When it finally arrived, the food was in an amber colored plastic tray with a lid. Inside were 4 compartments. In one was a small pile of overcooked broccoli. In another was a small pile of soggy egg noodles. There was a plastic cup of coffee (decaf), a half-pint of milk, and the piece de la resistance, the entree, baked cod. When I opened the lid of the tray, I almost swooned. The combination of odors from the broccoli and the fish almost killed me, but my mouth watered anyway, and I ate with a need I have yet to experience again. I was truly in a basic survival mode, and needed to eat.

With dinner finished the door opened and I was escorted down a well lit, extremely clean hallway towards what would be my home for the next month, D Pod. D Pod is where the newcomers were taken for final processing until they were able to be sent to one of 3 'population' pods, either E, F, or H. Fate would send me to one of those pods, not my own doing. The large metal door slid open and I was in D Pod, which was painted gray-blue. There were about 40 other guys there, watching TV, playing cards, whatever. I was led to a special cell, where all the recent inmates are taken. It was in direct line of vision with the CO's desk. It was the suicide watch cell. This was just a precaution. I wasn't unique in that fact. Soon I would lose all belief in being unique, or different, or special. I would become Inmate # 1229.

The map at the top is a rough sketch. All the pods were laid out the same, so one map suits them all. So until tomorrow...

Inmate #1229

Been a long time...

I apologize for the lack of entries. I've been busy and distracted, but life is going well for us here in Somewheresville. It stopped raining briefly this morning around 11AM and the sun came out. The fall colors were suddenly on fire and ultra-vibrant. An hour later the clouds moved back in and it started to rain...again. It has been raining now for 10 days. Enough is enough. Sweetie Pie is going crazy to be outside and I let her get out whenever she can manage it, but most days she has stood on the stoop and looked out at the weather. She'll then look up at me and give a pitiful, aching, cry of "Why don't you do something about this?" Ah, well, I am not a god, so I have to put up with the rain too.

I've been wanting to write about my time in jail for a few days now. Perhaps that's why I've been avoiding writing. I need to start processing some of that experience and move away from the trauma and pain that it has caused me and my family. In a way, my haiku are a start. I did write them during my time behind bars, so sharing them is a beginning. But there is so much more to say. I kept a journal, which totaled about 1800 pages, and if I took my time and sifted through the entries, I could probably glean about 120 pages of really good stuff. The rest is just self-centered crap. I'll do that later. For now I'll start at the beginning...


When the gavel fell and I was sentenced to "2 years in the County House of Corrections" my mind went numb. I barely saw my mother slump in pain at my father's side. I was immediately shackled at the wrists and ankles and taken from the courtroom, downstairs into a waiting room, where my pockets were searched. Before that happened I was able to hand my father my wallet, watch, belt, and tie. At the time I was wearing a 2-piece green suit that I had purchased a couple of years before for my sister's wedding. When they searched my pockets, they found the dried remains of a single rose, the boutonniere I had worn on that day. The guard crumpled it up to make sure I wasn't smuggling any drugs and then asked me what it was. I explained and he looked at me like I was crazy. He tried to pronounce "boutonniere", but fumbled the word, giving me a sudden insight as to where I was headed. I was loaded into a Sheriff's armored van with 3 other prisoners. It was raining and the afternoon sky was growing dark. As we drove through the small city to the jail, all I could see were the headlights of the cars behind us. At one point the van hit a bump and my glasses fell off my face. I was helpless, handcuffed, and almost blind in the dim light. I saw my glasses beginning to slide towards a space in the door. I was able through great dexterity and twisting of my arms to hook a finger around an earpiece and slide them back to where I could pick them up and put them back on. I never took them for granted again. It was then that I realized that what I was seeing out the back window of the van was the last I would see of the outside world for a long time. My mind turned on pure survival mode and I suddenly had no thoughts other than to save my own skin. I would make it through this dark time, somehow.

As the van pulled up to the chain link fence with its curly rings of concertina wire I sensed that this was to be the greatest challenge I had ever faced. Little did I know, that in the end, I would never want to change a single aspect of the experience. I was going to jail. It would not be like television or the movies. It would be completely different from any reality I had ever known. It would prove to be terrifying in its barrenness and mind-numbing in its boredom. But that, dear readers, will have to wait until tomorrow...



Inmate #1229

Damn, I missed haiku Tuesday, but wait...

It's only 11PM, so Tuesday isn't over yet. I can still post the haiku and a pic of my newest model build. So without further ado...

#200.
It's going to rain:
storm clouds, darkening, pregnant,
labor high above.

#204.
Reaching skyward, high
above, grasping through the clouds,
cool, wet, on hot hands.

#232.
Wrinkled velvet skin,
smiling eyes and loving face:
my aging mother.

So, not much else to report. Tomorrow my sister comes down from Boston to visit for the night. I'm hoping to take her to my Wednesday night meeting across the border. These days I usually have a class on Wednesday night, but I'm off tomorrow. It will be good to see those folks after a few weeks.

So the model is of an Albatros C-III, a two-seater used by the Central Powers during WW1 and for many years after the war by other nations in assorted capacities. Sturdy, reliable, pretty quick for its size (88mph) and flew pretty easily. "Albatros" was the name of the company that built them, a company that still builds military aircraft today. This particular craft was made of a laminated pine fuselage, which I tried to capture with the paint job. I think I did OK.



Johnnyboy

Rain gone, weekend gone, back to work!

With the deluge over and my lazy airplane-building weekend at a close, I have decided to get back on the grindstone tomorrow. I have plenty to do that I have been avoiding.

1. I need to write a short piece about Step 3 for my sponsor, due Tuesday.

2.I should start reading more philosophy, due on the 24th of the month.

3. I am still waiting for a book to arrive, and when it does I can start my CW2/RW homework...
but I can begin that work by trying to find a suitable subject for a paper. It has to be a controversial, hot-button, issue. I am staying away from all the really current news, like the Supreme Court, New Orleans, and whatnot. I figure that the 5 women in my class will have that covered.

Instead I am going to write about depleted uranium munitions. If you don't know, these are armor piercing shells that, instead of being made out of the more expensive tungsten, are made out of depleted uranium, a waste by-product of nuclear power facilities. It is incredibly heavy and burns at over 600* F. Works great. Kills great. Contaminates even better. Personally I think the whole thing is vile, but I am going to take a stance, in the paper, that is pro-DU. I have my work cut out for me. A quick 15 minute Google turned up lots and lots of anti-DU reports, many from reputable sources, but damn few in support. Those that did support the stuff sited the same rationale I just used. Cheap, effective, tastes great, less filling.

I'll keep you in the loop...


Johnnyboy

Rain, rain, and more rain...

Weather.com is predicting rain for the next 6 days in my little town. Tomorrow and tomorrow night at 100%, the next few days ranging from 60% to 30%. We were in the middle of a drought, with the ponds down by measurable feet. Now the spillways are barely keeping up. Thankfully I live on a hill, so there is no danger of flooding, but still...

Sweetie Pie is going crazy. She wants to go out the worst way and thinks that if one door is rainy, the other must be clear skies. She has become so used to pooping outside that using the box is a nuisance, but thankfully she doesn't consider the weather our fault and uses the litter properly.

My schoolwork has increased but I have 2 weeks to do my homework. In that light I am taking the weekend off and building model airplanes. I'm finishing one tomorrow. If I can get some good light I'll take a pic and post it here. Pretty cool little airplane, actually...

I thought I had something really important to relay to the world...hmmm...oh yeah...

"Dark Shadows" is booorrring. I'm not going to watch it anymore. Campy, cult fave, weird 60's TV, who cares. I've cancelled my list at NetFlix. I've reserved a bunch of 1940's adventure serials instead (Terry and the Pirates, Ace Drummond) and the British series "The Prisoner", which will be more fun. I started watching "Dark Shadows", but the thought of having to sit through 20 discs with 10 or 12 30 minute episodes on each one was too much for me. By the end of that series I, too, would be the undead.

That was the important news. Now I'm going to make sure Sweetie has visited her litter box.


Johnnyboy

Bed rest? never...

My little scheme of going to bed really early and sleeping like a log backfired. I lay down at 9:30 and immediately knew that it wasn't going to happen. So I lay there for a while, about 2 hours in fact, until I finally rolled out of bed and went into my office and worked on a new model for a spell. Then I surfed around websites that are sure to cascade me with nasty spam (Thank you, Norton!) until I thought, "well, it's 12:30, now I can sleep..."

Nope

I finally fell asleep at 6am after having a cup of decaf with mom at around 5:30 and crawling back to my room. It felt horrible, like those bad mornings after doing too much white powders and hearing the birds chirping and you're still wide awake and somewhat delirious. It really felt kind of druggy. Then I decided to look at the label on the CVS brand Tussin, non-alcoholic cough syrup.

"May cause sleeplessness" Now they tell me!

Now my cold is gone so I can pitch the cough syrup. I'll have to postpone some of my plans today (gym, homework) because I still don't feel 100%, but I know I'll sleep tonight, dammit!

I managed to get some chores done, though. I cleaned off the porch in time for winter, cleaned out the birdfeeders, and washed and dried a big load of laundry. Now I'm yawning and feeling like a nap may be order...


Johnnyboy

Thursday, late edition...

I am a sick man. It all started with a nasty little head cold, sinuses, etc...you know the type. Now it has turned into a feverish little number that makes me a trifle wiggy and spacey. I cough when I lay down, which is truly great for sleeping ;-( but the cough syrup that I bought has at least cleared up my sinuses so I can breathe. It's a non-alcoholic mixture, so I don't expect much in the way of results. I'll just drink plenty of fluids and get some bed rest.

Maybe this is my Higher Power telling me to slow down. Depending how I feel, I may skip the gym tomorrow and go on Saturday if I feel better.

It's only 9:30 and I'm thinking about going to bed already. I must be sick. Have a great evening everyone, bon chance, etc...


Johnnyboy

Missed Wednesday

Sorry that I missed Wednesday. There seemed to be a kind of tech problem at Blogger or whatever. No biggie.

More importantly I spoke to my mentor yesterday and he gave me a 'B' on my paper, which is pretty good considering I haven't written a paper for college in 20 years. He said the grade was to "inspire me" to better things. My CW2/Research Writing class met last night and I have shitloads of homework. I need to read 150 pages of philosophy for next Wednesday, and write a lot of new stuff for CW2/RW due the 19th. Plus, in 3 weeks I'll be working on 2 research papers-1 for philosophy and the other for CW1/RW. My sick little mind is already thinking of ways to combine the 2 papers somehow and do half the work. I think I'll skip that old tape and actually do the work this time. Yikes, no wonder dropped out the first time around. At the age of 18 I was taking 16 credits, living in Colorado, and hanging out with girls for really the first time. School? It was the farthest thing from my mind.

Count this entry as a late Wednesday/ Early Thursday offering. I'll write more tomorrow..




Johnnyboy

A quiet Tuesday...

The farmer who lives down the road came today and mowed our fields. I also made a short list of fall things-to-do, like clean the bird feeders and hang the storm doors. I finally made it to the hair cutters and had my hair cut. I took a nap. A pretty uneventful day all around. With the flurry of finishing my first college essay in 20 years out of the way, there didn't seem to be as much to do today. So I guess today was a maintenance day.

My gym routine is working out (no pun intended) and I am beginning to see results. The small amount of muscle mass that I have accumulated is already firming up my soft bits and I'm sleeping better. The endorphin output is making my head more calm as well.

I'm cooking dinner for mom and me tonight. We're having broiled Tilapia, Delicata squash, and mashed cauliflower. Then I'm off to a Big Book study group for a spell. So, it's all good, as the Kids of Today are wont to say.

Here are the haiku...

#19.
The morning mist hides
turkeys, pheasants, a young doe,
quietly at peace.

#49.
The dark gray slate heats:
the sunlight bathes and caresses
the small sleeping snake.

#80.
Crisp crunch, juice bursting,
tasting honey laden boughs:
the fall's new apple.



Johnnyboy

Homework update...

I have finished my CW1 (College Writing 1) homework and I think I've finished my philosophy paper. I say 'think' because tomorrow I may want to scrap the whole thing. I ended up gutting a whole section this morning because it just didn't live up to the assignment. I had explained Aristotle's POV but I had used my own language and my own metaphors instead of the actual facts as the book lays them out. So I scrapped it and rewrote the section. I am much more pleased with this round, having brought up issues and proved them using verifiable quotes. The grammar and spelling is spot on (thank you, Spellcheck) and after reading it, I must say it made sense. Now for the test...

Mom is going to read it tomorrow. She has a great eye for editing and a superior head for abstract thought. I'll let her take it for a spin and see what she thinks. I also ended the work in a way that lets the reader understand that these 2 guys didn't exist in a vacuum. They were influenced by those before them, which I state at the beginning, and in turn, influenced those that came after. I really hope it's good enough. I think that it shows that I have done the reading and understand the concepts that the author(s) put forth. If it passes the first test, I'll email it tomorrow afternoon and have it in early...

If I chewed my nails they'd be raw.

So I start watching 'Dark Shadows' on Tuesday. There are about 17 4-disc collections, so it will take me far longer to watch all of them than it took to watch the the X-Files. I figure I'll be going well into 2006 with this round. For some reason it just seems better to use NetFlix for this kind of viewing. There really isn't much out there that I want to watch, although I did watch D.E.B.S. the other night and found it a charming, funny, send-up of the typical spy vs. spy movie with a positive and healthy lesbian love theme. There was no gratuitous male oriented lesbo-porno garbage, and as it was directed by a lesbian, ended with our happy couple riding off into the sunset together. One funny scene, and there were many, was when the former boyfriend of the girl who finds out she's gay says that it's OK, because "that lesbian thing is really hot" and the girl gives him this look that says "wow, what a creep!" Very cool flick.
Oh yeah, then there's "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle"---very funny, again. So I guess there are some good movies out there after all...


Whodda thunk it?


Johnnyboy

No more X-Files...

Well, it's done. I have successfully watched all 9 seasons of The X-Files, including the movie, in about 3 months. I really loved the shows. I felt the development of even some of the minor characters was well done, and the show played especially well on the back story elements. Everyone was really fleshed out by past histories and old connections. Of course, the final show was left extremely open-ended, with Mulder and Scully safe (we hope) in each other's arms in a motel in Roswell, NM. Yes, the alien invasion begin on December 22nd, 2012 (also the end of the Mayan calendar, which they alluded to in the episode), which gives them enough time to film another movie for those in withdrawal. Strange, though, I have a feeling that the new movie won't be out for a while, perhaps a little over 7 years, coming to a Christmas movieplex near you, on, yes, you guessed it, December 22nd, 2012.

I really hope not. I'd rather it be next summer.

My philosophy paper is panning out. I really hope it's well received. I have no real idea what I'm doing sometimes. I mean, I know the facts, and I've read the text over and over, but I am really worried about how the paper will be received. Anyway, I have yet to write the closing paragraph and set out on revision. It's not due until Wednesday, so If I really need to, I can rewrite a bunch. I've finished my College Writing I homework, so it's just me, Plato, and Aristotle.

In the realm of new stuff to watch, I have some bad news. I recently rented the new movie version of "A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". I have read the books (all of them) many times, and own a copy of the original BBC TV show. I love all of Adams' writings and include him on my list of Really Smart Guys Who Aren't Around Anymore. I have only one thing to say about the new movie...

It really sucks. Big time. suckysuckysucky. Don't waste your money to see a wonderfully witty and erudite piece of written comedy turned into a big pile of crap. I advise anyone, wait until it comes on TV and watch it for free. Then turn it off. The only people who will like this movie are the people who have never read the books or even know anything about Adams. They are all genetic descendents of the Golgifrinchams. They'll say it was 'cute', and 'I didn't like the robot, he was depressed', or 'The effects were cool.' Arrgh! If Douglas Adams is conscious of what's going on, he is having a hard time not throwing up.


42

P.S. I'm going to start watching 'Dark Shadows' on Tuesday.