Observations

Writing takes goddamn forever without a computer. If inmates had access to computers, laptops, or even just word processors of their own, the world would be flooded with inmate literature. It might not be worth reading in most instances, but I think the inmates would be better off for the experience.

My self imposed quota of "one-large-blog-entry-per-month" takes so much damn work! How did the greats of old do it? By the time I've written three words my thoughts have raced to the end of the paragraph and I forget what I was trying to say. I then must retrace my previous sentences and attempt to weave the tapestry anew.

I am far less subtle with a pencil than I am with a word processor and it drives me somewhat nuts. What takes half an hour to type and fly-edit takes a week to do by hand. These few paragraphs are a perfect example. Would you believe it has taken me an hour to write this? An hour! And to think that business and government used to be conducted this way.

Who am I kidding, much of business and government is still run at this snail's pathetic, whimpering pace of a crawl.

I digress. I'm experiencing a bit of writer's block and I was hoping that this small rant would help to dispel it.

How have you all been?

1. I am working on my prison album.
2. I am happier than I've been in a long time and that sort of weirds me out; it makes me wonder about the line between healthy contentedness and institutionalization -- which isn't to say I think I've become institutionalized, but I suspect I could be given enough time.
3. My cellmate is super depressed because his family has completely abandoned him -- so he spends half the day sleeping and the other half watching television. I'd complain, but as that's the biggest problem in my life I've actually got it pretty good.
4. The situation in Japan is very sad. I've always had an inexplicable fondness for the Japanese. I wonder if, had I been allowed to learn Japanese after high school, would I be dead today? Have I already lived that life? Did I want to try something more difficult this time around?
5. It seems to me that Libya differs from Iraq in more than a few ways. But I don't know. I only have CNN and Jon Stewart for news sources. I wonder how I would feel if I were in the marines today rather than in 2003. I can't wrap my head around all the nuances. I'm a Pacifist because you can't know it all, and if you did you probably wouldn't feel much like fighting anyway.
6. There was one more thing but I forgot it already.

That was two hours by pencil. if this were a larger entry I would have typed it with my typewriter for a second draft (hey look, that's exactly what I did), then re-written and expanded for a third. I'd repeat that process once more, expanding and reading for flow. Usually I'll find the paragraph order unbearable and I'll try assigning different number orders until it sounds right. Then I have to re-write it again.

But it might be the Prozac that's making it harder too. I'm not ready to go back to pre-Prozac existence. Even just the memory of how I used to feel is too heavy to think about for very long. I'm still unsure as to whether it fixes a problem or just a natural reaction to a cultural disease.

-B

P.S. The writer's block is fixed.

Thought

My first lunch at Bent County [Correctional Facility in Las Animas] I sat next to a guy serving 12 years for standing in someone's backyard. Trespassing, I think it's called. Short, wiry fellow. Fantastic artist. Waste of your tax dollars. But you don't care. His first words to me were, "I hear you set your old lady's house on fire."

I would have to get used to this, I thought. I had never heard the worst horror of my life more succinctly portrayed. No embellishments, no buts, no reasons; just the unmitigated horror. "Yeah," was about all I could say.

Then he said something sort of funny. He said, "I can respect that." The silence that followed made it even [more surreal].

Prisoners are some of the least judgmental people in the world. That's the appeal of the bad boy that I never used to understand. I get it now. It doesn't mean we can't be pricks sometimes, but I'll be less likely to judge a lady by her past going forward.

52 Reasons to Buy My Music - #4

I've got friends in low places, too.

52 Reasons to Buy My Music - #3

I've got friends in high places.

52 Reasons to Buy My Music - #2

An inmate here told me about how he made 30k in six months during the 90s selling drugs to other prisoners. He figured I should have no problem selling music to you guys.

Two Creatives

Sometime last year I sat down for breakfast at an empty table. Although I usually sit with friends or with my cellmate. I tend to be impatient when it comes to meals. I often end up near the front of the chow-line, having sped ahead of everyone, and will sit at the first empty table I find. Usually my friends catch up to me. Sometimes they don't.

When they don't it's anyone's bet as to who will end up sitting next to me. There are over a dozen pods in my facility and each pod houses just over a hundred inmates (which is actually pretty small for a prison). I've sat next to and across from all kinds of people; murderers, thieves, druggies, the rich, the poor, and of course, the occasional sex offender. Many inmates become extremely anxious sitting next to people they don't know. I used to feel the same anxiety, but nervousness just seems to draw attention, and it's actually something of a waste of an emotional state. I haven't found a real benefit to it yet.

What the inmates worry about is being perceived as hanging with the wrong crowd, though said crowd's composition will vary depending on which inmate you ask. Personally, I stopped giving a shit. The only people I tend to avoid are the white-power types. I suppose I'm trying to live up to the personal expectation that I live in a post-racial society. I feel a bit at odds with myself because I'm trying to expand my compassion to include those who are easily vilified, including skinheads. I play most situations by ear. The result is that I have friends all over and zero problems.

On this particular morning an incredibly ugly man sat down at an empty seat across from me. I'm trying not to understate; he was really, truly, the ugliest, most hideous, most trollish creature I had ever laid eyes on. I had to consciously avert my eyes to keep from staring; he was that unfortunate. I had never seen him before. He elicited a strong aversion in me. I couldn't even bring myself to say hello at first.

And then he started eating. I had no idea teeth could grow so crookedly. Climbing at awkward angles, as if to escape his ragged, voracious maw, they revealed shades of black and brown seldom seen with the lights on. Truly despicable. I almost lost my appetite. Almost.

But I also became somewhat disgusted with myself. I knew in the instant it took to gather all of this information that the man before me had been thoroughly dehumanized all of his life. He was born for prison. No one talks to such a being unless forced to. This man had never known true friendship, love, kindness, favors, or sacrifice. They are just empty words to him. It never mattered what his crime was, he was doomed the instant his father's crooked sperm mingled with his mother's haggard ovum.

So I forced myself to say hello. I thought that if his mind might have somehow survived his life intact, I might have been able to redeem humanity somewhat by offering him a small kindness, even friendship. But his mind was gone. He was as ugly and useless on the inside as he was on the outside, which isn't to say he was completely useless, just mostly so. The rest of us have some pretense of a claim to humanity; this man's existence dispelled all such lies. His very presence taught a lesson that went miles over his own gnarled head and stunted spine.

What can be done for such cases? Society didn't even have the decency to chew before swallowing him.

It was too much for me. I would have had to spend years bringing that man to some semblance of dignity. But supposed he already felt dignified. What then? Would I have been the creature then?

We did trade small talk at least. He was a very depressed, bitter man, and he hid his sadness behind a thick veil of anger. I never saw him again. That's not very plausible in an environment like mine. Could this have been one of those situations where the protagonist was actually sitting at the table by himself all along?

Probably not. But I don't care much about objectivity anymore. I sort of tried.

52 Reasons to Buy My Music - #1

Once, while singing Karma Police at a karaoke bar, I made a young lady swoon. I had never made someone swoon before, and was elated with myself. She bought me a drink or two; we chatted. She was a successful fashion boutique owner from LoDo in her early thirties. She was adorable. We went on a date later that week. She probably realized I was a little crazy or something. Most of my dates end with the girl never calling me or answering my phone calls again. The moral of this story seems to be that music is all I have to offer the human intellect.