What others are saying about A Pirate Smiles
"This book makes you think, be thankful, and appreciate what you have. For one day it could all be gone in a blink of an eye."-Mind Scar Art
***
"Most of us fortunately will never be in Mark Crawford’s situation. I have never met Mark Crawford but after reading this book it would be a pleasure to do so. You can take much of what he writes into the world outside prison walls and use it in every day life. This book will allow you to see one human beings complete despair and happiness."-Officer Phoenix Police Department
***
The energy and message in this book has touched my soul. This is an all encompassing story Judith at A Peace of the Universe Scottsdale Arizona
*****
For more information on Mark Crawford
A PIRATE SMILES:
the misc. thoughts of a lifer convict
by Mark Crawford
Copyright 2012
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author
Appendix
Section one: A man less human
Section two: Thoughts on death
Section three: Letters unsent
Section four: He
Section five: Misc. thoughts
Note: you will notice that the dates in this ledger are not in order, this because, sometimes I will write a piece separately, then add it to this book at a later date.
Chapter 1
"A MAN LESS HUMAN"
"A MAN LESS HUMAN"
1-20-2000
I arrived at the U.S. Penitentiary in Florence Colorado in a group of about ten hard-looking men, shackled and chained hand and foot. We were led from the bus that had picked us up at the airport and into the prison, where we were led into a holding cell, unchained and given a meal. Very few words passed between us as no one knew the other and to be truthful, everyone including myself, was irritated and agitated at having been painfully handcuffed and shackled for the last twelve-hours.
After an undetermined period of time some unfriendly prison guards began to process us in, one at a time. This procedure consists of an unhappy lineup photograph, fingerprinting, filling out of information forms and receiving standard prison issue clothing, which consists of a tan uniform and slip-on blue tennis shoes akin to cheap boating shoes. When my turn came I was in-processed the same as those before me had been, but in addition to the normal processing procedure, I was led into a small office adjacent to where I had been photographed. In this office sat a middle-aged lady in a business suit who rose as I walked in. She introduced herself as an S.I.S. Officer and then told me that she had been informed by the Prison Administration Office that I had been a government official before my conviction. Next she told me that this was a U.S. Penitentiary and that it was very dangerous, she added that she was concerned about my safety there. She wanted to know how I felt about this danger, and then offered me the opportunity to be put into the Segregation Unit (like a Rat), protected from the prison population. I politely informed her that I did not need protection and that I could take care of myself; to which she quickly replied, "Well if that’s the way you feel then if I were you I wouldn’t tell anyone that I had been a Mayor," then added that if I ever needed to talk to her, all I had to do is approach her wherever I happened to see her.
At first, I thought that she was trying to enlist me as one of the yard informant snitches, but I later decided, by her actions, that she was sincerely concerned with my safety. In fact, the entire first week I was here I saw her everyday standing at a distance discreetly watching me, or leaning against the wall in the Chow Hall inconspicuously looking at me. I refused to acknowledge her or to even say "hello" to her or any of the guards for my first four or five months here, this, to keep anyone from getting the impression that I might be a snitch.
Now you the reader might think that it would be easy to identify "Rats" in a setting such as this; but you would be incorrect in your assumptions. For the prison rat is not the loner, the lame, nor the weak and defenseless, but is instead the convict who is involved in all of the covert activity happening on the yard. He or she is the tough acting convict with the tattoo’s and muscles, the last person you would suspect. "The Rat" is the one involved in any and all drug deals, and he’s the fella who always talks the biggest game. That is their job, be involved so that they can gather and pass information to the cops.
The prison system, like the Justice System cultivates these "snitch informants" as a way of maintaining control over the prison population. Their philosophy concerning this policy is to allow the snitch/informant to violate whatever legal or moral issues they deem as necessary, in order to obtain information valuable to law enforcement.
I know that on the surface, this method might seem palatable to John Q. Public who has come to accept this practice as normal procedure, but it is flawed in ways you cannot imagine until you have experienced it personally. For example: Prisoner J. Doe is told that he can violate the BOP ( Bureau of prisons ) Substance Abuse Policies (he can make wine, sell drugs etc.) as long as he/she provides valuable information concerning others doing the same thing, without BOP approval. So do as you please, all you have to do is provide information... and if it serves the right purpose, you might receive a sentence reduction, or other rewards for your work.
Now let us imagine for a second that J. Doe is of the nature to be self-serving, as is the case with ALL who are willing to benefit at the personal expense of another. Let’s also imagine that J. Doe is unable to provide adequate information to justify his/her status. Or let’s just pretend that his/her keepers simply want to turn up the pressure on our buddy J. Doe. This is how it works. He/she is called into the office and told something like this
"We know from other informants that someone is smuggling heroin into the yard. We want to know who and how."
To which J. Doe grudgingly answers, "I’ve been watching, but so far I have not been able to find out the who nor the how."
"Your so full of s*** J. Doe. We know full well that you know who and how. You have twenty-four hours to get us the information, or your free ride is over. In fact, if you don’t come through, we’ll let it leak to the yard that you’re a Rat… and you know what that means. Now get out of here."
Now convict J. Doe has been put into a position where she/he must deliver information the problem however is; that J. Doe was being truthful about not having information; so what does our Rat do? He/she does what all Rats do when faced with reconciliations… they lie, they cheat or they "set" someone up in order to protect themselves and or their vices. It is a bad system, even attentive mothers teach their children not to be "tattle-tales" because to "tattle" or ‘Rat" or "snitch" or "inform" breeds deception and is an incentive to lie. Your mom knew it, and you know it so why do we tolerate it in our legal system?
After being processed the six of us, who did not opt for segregation housing, were led from the in-processing building out onto the yard and pointed toward our Housing Units (or cell blocks as the prisoners call them.) On this yard there are eight such blocks, each designed to hold at capacity one hundred and twenty or so men. In addition to these eight units of housing, there is what’s called "Special Housing" or the "The Hole" as it is more commonly referred, which I would guess holds another hundred or so men. The Special Housing Unit is divided into two categories, A.) A segregation unit for those who fear for their lives, i.e: sexual perverts, known informants, Court Room Rats. And, B.) A punishment section, for those who violate some prison policy or run afoul of one of the grays. I would myself spend time in this section of the hole at a later date, but that’s another story.
As I walked across the yard towards the block I had been assigned too, I looked North and to my pleasant surprise saw off in the distance, a beautiful section of the Rocky Mountains, to include Pikes Peak, standing in its purple majesty with brilliant white snow caps beaming in the bright sun, complete with a hazy mist snaking between it and the adjoining mountain tops. Sadness overcame my awe when I contemplated the imposition, this walled beast among that heavenly panorama, the beast and the beauty.
I thought about me as a person and I wondered how I would "fit in". I thought about the warning I had received and those ominous words "I wouldn’t tell anyone that you had been a Mayor!" In truth though, I was more than happy to face this challenge, because here at least, I could breathe fresh air, feel the warmth of the sun, and gaze upon those unbelievably gorgeous mountain tops. The four years it had taken me to pass through three Court Room Trials had put me under enormous mental stress and had exacted an irreversible toll on me physically, mentally and spiritually. Truth... I was tired. Tired of the outrage, tired of the uncertainty, tired of the sorrow; my internal fire had been quenched, my sense of hope had slipped from my fingers, my dignity and honor as a man had been taken. I no longer tried to hold onto my former life, the truth, nor caring, I only wanted it to end. They had won… I had been beaten.
As I walked into my block I noticed that it was triangular in design, two stories high, open in the middle with four T.V. rooms situated at one end. Down the sides of the triangle were the individual cells, thirty-two on the bottom tier and thirty-two on the upper tier, these done in southwest colors, mauve, tan and turquoise.
The cop on duty that day told me to "hang out" until he could assign me a cell to live in. As I did so, I noticed twenty or thirty men looking at me and talking amongst themselves. Some were sitting atop tables in the open common area, some were leaning on the upper tier handrails and still others were moving about, but all were focusing on the "Fish", the new guy. By now, I had become accustomed to this scrutiny for it is the same in all jails as the old cons try to determine what kind of person you the "New Guy" are. They try to determine if you’re dangerous, if you have done time before, are you a gang-member, if so which one, are you weak, homosexual, a child molester, the whole gambit of what you might be. I myself had exercised the same caution in the past... so I understood it, and found no offense in it. Nevertheless, when you experience it for the first time, it can be frightening.
What happens next is the Fish is assigned to a cell by the gray working that block. Each eight foot by twelve-foot cell holds two men, along with two lockers, one set of bunk beds, a toilet and sink. It is the responsibility of the established con in whose cell the Fish is assigned to evaluate the new con and determine his/her particulars. The points that are of most interest are: Is he/she a pervert, snitch, homosexual, Christian, Muslim or normal guy, etc. Once the old con makes the appropriate determination concerning the particulars of the new guy, things are set into motion. If the Fish is determined or even highly suspected of being a Rat or child molester they are severely punished. The homosexual, the religious or the gang-member are dealt with in a more civilized way; this by introducing them to those of their own persuasion, where they can then arrange to move to a cell with those of similar likes. Not a classical society, but a functional one I must say.
I was assigned cell number 208, which of course is on the second tier. As I opened the door to my newly assigned cell a man named Beckwith, already assigned to the cell, rolled over and threw his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of his bottom bunk and eyed me suspiciously. He looked at me and then at the bedroll hanging over my shoulder and concluded that I was not the grim reaper trying to creep up on him while lying down reading, but was instead his new cellie. He stood and introduced himself. I guessed that he was about six-foot three, and two hundred and twenty pounds of tattoos. Even though he wore his hair in the skinhead fashion of the younger generations, I estimated him to be around forty years of age, with the hard eyes of a man who had done a lot of time.
My new "cellie" pointed to an empty locker and the empty top bunk, letting me knows that they were mine. Then as I expected he began the "Fish" inquisition. "Where you from? How much time you got? Is this your first bit?" I answered his questions as I tried to arrange my few possessions inside my locker, feeling a little more comfortable as we continued our dialog. Then as if preordained by some cruel minion of divisiveness, my new cellie asks, "What did you do on the streets?" I hesitated for a few seconds as I considered weaving a safe tapestry story by proclaiming to have been a welder, which of course I had been, but after a few seconds of consideration, I rose from the front of my locker, and looked him in eyes and said, "You wont believe it... I was a Mayor!" There it was... the test.
One of the first things a man learns in prison is that it is very dangerous to lie, because if your lie is found out, you are deemed untrustworthy, and if you cannot be trusted... well, you might be a Rat. I knew this not from my years in the County system, but instinctively like the wild animal who understands survival without instruction. My new cellie hesitated as if he was unsure of what he had heard, and then he eyed me as if he wasn’t sure I was being truthful. After a few seconds of silent tension, I sensed that his hard earned prison wisdom concluded that my admission had not come easy. It was as if he himself understood that I was aware of the possibility that some here at P.O. Box 7000, might enjoy acting out their frustration against the system by trying to punish the establishment… through me. This was after all a level six penitentiary, where the hard cases are sent. He then broke the tension with a hard smile and nodded, letting me know that he knew I was being straightforward.
After a short period of time the questions came to an end and normal conversation began to flow between us. My cellie told me he was from Orange County, California. I responded that I had a friend from O.C. a man I had met while in jail at Bakersfield. He of course as any man would, asked me the name of my friend from his hometown. I responded with the full knowledge that to do so could be either good or bad, depending on the past actions of my friend, but after all I knew him to be a stand-up guy. Upon hearing the name I dropped my cellie was obviously shocked. He hesitated and then replied, "I know big Mike, we grew up together, neighbors, did time together. If you’re a friend of big Mikes, then you’re a friend of mine." To solidify my story I fished a letter out of my locker that Mike had sent me after we were separated, and said here’s his address, if you’re interested," and that was that. I was deemed "ok". Prison truly is a small world, I can’t forget that.
In the prisoner mindset, if one is accepted by an established con as a cellie he/she becomes linked to that cellie by an unwritten code of ethics. The new con is afforded respect based somewhat on his/her own merit, but also on that of the old con who has accepted them as a cellie. As luck would have it, I would learn that my new cellie was the top dog in our block and well respected on the yard... a shot caller of the highest order.
My life had been made smooth by a couple of freak circumstances. I was in, the convict Mayor.
1-3-2001
The prisoner learns quickly that absolute anger can conquer and subdue absolute sorrow. This rage becomes our first-and best-line of defense, the fortification that protects and guards the outer perimeter of whatever remains of our sanity - the toe dragged mark in the sand that the others, all of the others, had better have wits enough not to step over! Rule #1: Become saturated with anger to the point of absolute and total absorption - then do what you must to keep the angry fires stoked, until the necessary adjustments to reality set in. The one bond between the guilty and innocent alike here at P.O.Box7000…ANGER!
2-20-02
In prison some men cry for women, others cry for drugs and some cry for God. Drugs, well they are plentiful, women not so plentiful and, as for God - well, I really cannot give you an honest answer, because the god we convicts have access too, seems to be less intoxicating than drugs and less available than women.
7-22-02
My sensitivity towards others is seeping from me as sure as my sanity. Prison has put a glove around my spirit, which has lessened my ability to feel things such as sympathy.
12-20-02
I once lost my way just as surely as I now lose my sanity.
The gateway of myself, of my pre-prison memories, is slipping away from me like a flower wilting before a late freeze. I seem powerless to slow it down.
Without my memory, how will I keep myself from stumbling and falling into nothingness along this pathway that I have been forced to walk? Damn this prison. Damn this destiny that I have embraced. Will someone please tell me why I needed to be in this position, of its benefit; of the need for this loneliness, this present sorrow?
Sometimes a man must lose all that he has before he can appreciate the value of it. I know this. Must I lose also my mind so that I might appreciate it?
1-12-03
The worst of men survive here; the best of us do not. The pull of immoral gravity is down, not up.
Prison is a place of dying, something infinitely unpalatable, the rotten-apple barrel of the world. Here, Mr. Darwin is put to the test. Here, the fittest do not survive, if fittest be measured in terms of honor, morality, compassion or the willingness to improve, for these are the first ones broken by the brutality of prison.
Conversely, out of violence came peace. Out of chaos was created order and virtue came forth from the placenta of degradation. Out of darkness came light. No one goes untested, but out of that testing, one becomes that which they truly are.
Night after night, I sat with the Holy Books, but in them, I found no conclusion to my inquisitive wanderings, only more questions. It was a long time before I gained comprehension concerning the words of Lao-Tzu, "Those who know don’t say and those who say don’t know."
10-10-03
I have begun to write, hoping that it would perhaps ease the long days of my seemingly endless confinement, perhaps even that my thinking on a writer’s level, might somehow earn me a measure of serenity that has so far eluded me in this place. In any case, there is little else for me to do here; I am a prisoner, a captive against my will, a caged animal in society’s misfortune 500. I suppose that what I’m saying is, that I have found my true self in writing, and as a hidden benefit or bonus unexpected, perhaps my writings will also serve a purpose to those who will unfortunately come after me, or to those voiceless, who cry out from the wilderness of a thousand prisons demanding they not be forgotten.
11-2003
It was a cold morning in which I slavishly relished the thought of a brewed cup of coffee, as opposed to the instant norm. Upon my arrival at the Chow Hall this brisk Colorado morning, I am immediately pulled over by the gray working the entranceway metal detector. "You can’t bring that in here," he says, pointing at my cup.
I am somewhat taken aback by his words, after a moment of near disbelief I engage him with what I considered to be reasonable dialogue. I explained to him that for my entire three years here in this uncouth place, that not one cop before him had ever objected to a guy bringing his coffee cup into the morning chow line and procuring himself a freshly brewed hot cup of coffee to take with him. A most humane request.
After obstinately listening to my logic, he quoted the word regulations to me, concerning the bringing of a coffee cup into the Mess Hall and the removal of food from said same.
I explained to him that I understood his position, but that I felt he was being unreasonable. To which he replied that I was a convict, that I had lost my rights whenever I chose to commit a crime. Then added that if I had a problem with that, I could go to the hole for the next thirty days!
Sometimes, it’s not only what a person says that ticks you off, but how they say it, and that was the case on this particular gray morning. Now, I have never proffered the notion that I’m a tough guy or nothing like that, but let this be wisdom; Phan Ku!
Being angry to stupidity, I moved very close to that rookie cop at the metal detector, something they hate, where I proceeded to tell him that I most certainly thought that he was a big punk, hiding behind a big badge and that I had done a lot of Solitary Confinement time before arriving there, and that I preferred it. So for him to do whatever he had to do.
At those words a senior cop named Shortis, a decent cop, moved quickly over to me and asked what my problem was, which was rhetorical because he had been close by and listening to the entire exchange. I said nothing as I held the eyes of the other guard.
After a few seconds of silence, Shortis turns to the other gray and says, "The hole’s full." Then to me, "You can’t bring that cup in here today, so move on." I did, but inside I was boiling, at what or why I cannot at this writing say.
I returned to my cell where I threw my cup atop my bunk in an undignified manner. Moving to the sink I placed both hands atop it and leaned forward looking into the cold steel mirror bolted to the wall in front of me. I saw that vertical lines split my eyes, seemingly separating one side of my face from the other. Dark bags hung under them like decay upon a carcass. Tufts of curly hair protruded from my skull like an unkempt dope fiend. My anger, my inner rage was reflected in every detail. "Who are you?" I asked.
Without conscious thought I moved from my cell as if to escape that other me and stepped once more into the open air of the prison yard. As I moved across it I encountered a fierce north wind blowing dust-devils from one end of the yard to another. So thick was this wall of dust around me that I could not see through it to the farthest wall, which was maybe two- hundred meters away. I felt the wind propelled dirt wash over me, biting at my skin and then leaving part of itself on my person as it passed by me. I gritted my teeth and moved through it with marked determination.
The root cause of this dust storm was not the wind as you might suppose, but is instead the result of the fact that all grass, bushes, flowers and weeds have been systematically uprooted and removed from this compound by its governing administration. Genocide
I find it childish and unfortunate that the powers that be consider us so far removed from being human that we do not even deserve a blade of grass to look upon, to walk upon, to touch, to smell, to appreciate... to love. A subliminal message; a desolate landscape inspired by men who dream of thin bones, withered skin and consider themselves pious in the manner of the delusional Dante.
As the mornings aggravation reached its zenith compounded by the weather I cursed the cops, the system, the wind, life, and my poor choices in this life and maybe even God. It was there in that moment of unbridled frustration that I subconsciously put my hands into my pants pockets, where my left hand rested on a letter I carried there from one of my Sons; one of my most prized possessions. At this recognition of not only my son’s letter, but the memory of the words it contained, my thoughts and emotions froze and I began to snap myself back into some semblance of composure.
I continued to make my way across the barren terrain of this unholy theater of sorrows, my mind however, was now firmly on the memory of the words contained within my sons letter, which sidled itself next to my palm like a parachute to a falling man. That thin thread of a thing that binds a man to sanity, to a realization that there are things of greater importance than his immediate happiness.
At last I arrived at my destination where I sat atop an abandoned set of stairs overlooking the yard. I sat in silence as my normal state of balance returned, enjoying the surrounding windbreak, my hand still in my pocket and resting lightly on my treasure.
I began to contemplate and reason with myself on the morning’s event at the Chow Hall. I reasoned that my emotions were imperceptivity slipping from my control and that if I did not do something to regain the upper hand, that I would soon regret it. I vowed to monitor my emotions daily and to keep a log of them to help ascertain if there was a pattern of some sort to my emotional instabilities. I vowed to never take anything in or out of the Chow Hall, regardless of how innocent. I would not willingly put myself into a position to be humiliated by someone I considered less than myself. Eventually my thoughts moved as always to my family, my future, good and evil, the others around me, the system, etc. A chain of thoughts that eventually returned me to the letter in my pocket, I thanked God for it.
I don’t know how long I sat this way, because a thinker’s time cannot be measured that way, but I suppose it was for an hour or so. At any rate my thoughts at last returned themselves to that place upon the stairs where I became aware that the sun had risen and that the wind had ceased entirely. The weather here is unpredictable like that.
Breathing deeply I released a long sigh, sending with it what little was left of this mornings unwarranted anger. Suddenly the queerest thing happened, I heard a bird chirping - somewhere near me. How could this be? I asked. Am I hearing things? When I realized that I wasn’t I sat and listened to the music of that littlest of creatures. I came to the realization that never before in my life had I just sat and did nothing other than enjoy the harmony and rhythmic song of a bird. I was consumed by its tranquility and overwhelmed by its loveliness.
Then, as if by divine intervention, a small sparrow of a bird flew from the prison building/wall at my back and passed not ten feet above my head. It cut a sharp maneuver as if to look into my eyes and wink, then it flew back behind me and across the wall not to be seen again.
I thought on this event as profoundly as any has ever thought on a matter. Suddenly I stood, and in defiance of my ill fate, of my slipping emotional sanity, of my digressing morality, of my incarceration, of the opinions of the other cons, of the cops watching me from the gun towers, of God. I stood unabashedly and lifted my arms to the sky, threw back my head and roared a convict challenge to whomever, giving voice to my newly surfaced defiance. "Is this how it ends?" I screamed. Then with a defiant shout I answered myself, "No, it isn’t!" then in a calmer voice speckled with self-control, I softly repeated, "No, it isn’t."
I lowered my arms and looked around me at the other cons in earshot; they looked away from me as if what I had done was the most normal of things for a man to do.
12-05-03
This penitentiary here in Colorado is a very dangerous place, I have learned through hard knocks that only three things matter in prison, they are: What you think. What you say. What you do. This is so because, what you think leads to what you say, and what you say, is, what you WILL HAVE to do.
2-4-04
When I was a young man I never knew that life could hold so much sorrow but prison has opened my eyes to the reality of mental, spiritual and physical pain; in waves it flings itself against my will. My heart bleeds for these my convict brothers, yet I am powerless to help them. I can barely help myself.
I try to think good things of these men, but I cannot always do it. When this is so, I think of their mothers - that, sometimes helps.
Mothers - they are the strongest link in the chain that binds us all together.
2-14-04
I know it to be true that a person’s station in life is directly connected to their highest and noblest of aspirations, to a single mindedness in pure and honorable thinking. This is not some repetitious bloat about God, nor God’s spawn religion. I am only conveying to you, what prison has taught me concerning ones being productive or nonproductive in the field of one’s own moral exercises.
As fixedly as the stars can only become evident once darkness visible has come, so too will ones highest or lowest intent (that persons true self) be revealed to them amidst the darkness of personal misfortune. Only when a man is deprived of all comfort will he become reflective in matters of purpose. It is to this very reason that misfortune occurs, to bare the true character of a person to himself or herself, just as it is the purpose of darkness to reveal the awe and wonder of the faraway stars to the dreamers, or, nocturnal nightmares to the base mindset.
Without the weapons of Dignity, Fortitude and Character, one cannot perceive the myriad of opportunities held within the darkness of misfortune. I do not believe in the perversions of indiscipline, for without the physique of personal fortitude and noble aspirations, one cannot bear the weight of adversity over such a period as required to reach the absolute darkness of circumstances necessary to bring about one’s brightest transformation. Without the shield of a steadfast character, you will certainly fall victim beneath the sword of misfortunes hostilities, I see it daily. Here, in prison, this truth about human nature is revealed to me, in crystal-like form.
I see men arrive here presenting one image, and leave here representing another; they arrive afraid, remorseful, even religious and leave deviates, gangsters, haters, dope- fiends, hucksters, predators... prison has afforded them the opportunity to become that which they secretly desired. Here one does not have to pretend at civility; here it is acceptable to be an eater of flesh.
However, I see some, few though they are who seem to find a measure of morality while here; values regurgitated from some lost and forgotten part of themselves. Something brought forth, possibly by repulsion at the systems sham rehabilitation proposition, coupled with the degenerate lunacy of the savagery man will commit themselves to when no accountability is left to them. These brave loners become the honorable men that they, for some reason, did not become without the aid of misfortunes rabid bite. In this present prison horror these men have found themselves alone; they are most certainly not cops, nor can they align themselves with the mindless anarchy of prison fare. To them this is a dangerous place to be, for the cops see them as no better than a child molester, and the convicts see them as different, distinct and for that reason suspect. Therefore, here, alone as they are, they must learn to combine morality with cruelty, and be committed to their newfound self even to death or murder. Such an evil thing, such a bastard existence, such an atrocious reality, but prison does not acquit virgins from its nuptial bed. These reborn warrior monks stand alone in their willingness to defend that which they believe to be upright in a society where such ideals do not exist.
I suppose that it is a terse form of restitution for a life unappreciated on the outside, one of tonsured indifference. I am one of these men. Chuck B. is the only other I have encountered.
It is this strength of personal character found deep within, which gives a man the legs to endure until the light of purpose can shine forth from within the darkness of said adversity. So when you find yourself, as I have, within the maws of some unbearable monster of illegitimate occasion, you must not curse it as an enemy intent upon your demise, as the unfocused do. Instead, you must sit quietly and still your emotions, your fears, silence your thoughts and contemplate to your most profound level how you have arrived at your present place in life. Then ask yourself, what is there to be learned from its fleshing. Once you understand how and why you came to this place, (this present point of most sorrow) you can see your own part in its birth. Only with this acknowledgement are you able to master it by carefully and skillfully tailoring yourself a coat from its shaggy, surly, tanned hide. However, before any of this can come about, before any transformation can occur, before any fruit is produced, you must stand in all nakedness atop the ice of basic values, most especially Honesty. Without it, you will not find the golden chalice. Until that time, Poet, you are here.
I, who have endured personal solitude to the extreme in prison, admit that I find some personal comfort in this place. Here, there is no past, nor is there a future, there is only today and it is like those that came before it, and will be like those, which come after it. Once a convict learns to set aside the false dignity of physical ostracism and begins to focus on the true dignity of character maturation the walls of the mind evaporate, allowing said convict to achieve a mental state seldom sought after among the libertine folk. Here, in prison, because of daily testing, one fully develops, either to extreme negativity or to extreme positivism, but none, not one, remains unchanged. It is sink or fly, there is no middle ground here where a man can go happily unaffected, that is the beauty of prison, you will be forced to move one way or the other.
I have been a believer in God and a believer in nothing, but, I will unequivocally state that I recognize that there is something spiritual here that I do not believe exists outside these walls, and I am unable to ignore its presence.
Though the mirror-me is wasting visibly away, inwardly I am peacefully alive and prosperous. I am peacefully aware of the journey. However, there can be little pleasure in a journey, which takes you further away from those you love.
I am befuddled by the ironies of my life.
My work has taken me inside of the cesspool of humanity. I have seen corners of hatred that I did not even know existed. I had not been aware of the depth to which some men will willingly fall in order to fulfill a debased fantasy. These conditions here in prison make a man easy prey for the diseased and rotted minds of the ten percent here who are predators in the truest sense.
I am sleepless yet alert to all that is going on around me. Therefore, this numbed mind has become my guardian against reality. The filth, the stench of violence has attached itself to my morality like a carrion bird, pecking away at the softest spots of my inner body. There are no simple folk here. I can say nothing to the authorities, I’m not a rat, and anyway, they already know and do nothing - no they don’t, that’s how they justify increasing their budget, by creating tension, then cleaning up the blood while pointing out that we are animals. I contend that there is a hell of a lot of good men here, that they outnumber the real animals nine to one,
At what point does a man realize that even if he himself has been abused, that does not give him a license to be an animal? At what point does a man realize that it is not society’s fault that he has failed, that he is angry, that he is perverted?
6-6-04
It seems that as a reader of my own soul, I recognize that there is some hidden flaw attached to me. Something that I am compelled to uncover. A wraith or spirit which must be confronted, summoned to appear and made to answer the accusations that I have made against it. I believe that only then can this flaw in the fabric of my life be altered, destroyed…before it destroys me.
Silence. Contemplation.
Could it be that this very flaw of mine is somehow creating the best in me? Could it be that this bend in me is improving me like the masterpiece created by the frail hands of autistic pain?
Silence, contemplation, anger!
Why should my destiny end this way? What part of my education can only be provided by prison? Why must my life be different from the average Joe with his job, mortgage, and normal workingman’s existence? Why is it that my life seems to feed upon the arcane, to drink the unpleasant waters of some surreptitious source to which I am unable to be on familiar terms with?
Why is it that I must confront this frightful thing, this life altering event, this unforgettable thing, which I have obviously forgotten?
Was I destined to be here, at this exact moment? Did I choose this? And if so, why would I choose a destiny so full of sorrow, so punishing, a destiny that would so drastically affect those who love me? Am I such a vile beast that I would choose a fate that would cause my family a multitude of tears and an endless amount of sorrow? If so, then what is it that I am supposed to learn from this horrid existence? Who or what am I?
On what Planet of The Apes am I?
Since my fall I have learned to write, to paint and to think at the deeper levels. My instincts have been sharpened and my mind expanded to infinite possibilities. I have learned to see the nature of humanity for the truth of it. My family has found a measure of happiness and learned to survive by their own skills instead of mine. These are the note worthy outcomes of this prison experience. All good things. The down side I suppose is that I do not know where this event is leading me; it could be the uncertainty of madness or possibly an early death.
Contemplation
I suppose that those are good things as well.
Upon further reflection I am able to see the sweet smile of possibilities concerning me, the new me. I can at last see the gentle promising caresses of those possibilities in the futures of my loved ones, in my writings, in my art, in my pursuit of mind and of knowledge concerning the movement of thought. However I cannot as of this writing see what the final verdict will be concerning this experience as a whole.
Life Sentence, hum... "Life" means, existence. "Sentence" means, either a length of time, or a word structure.
"Sententious" means, pompously moralizing… damn it man!!! Went one word to far!
7-22-04
Behind bars, one’s memories become blurred and the free world becomes only what the television says it is. I have lost so many memories here and I am consumed with the fear that I may not recover them. I fear that the people in those faded memories have disappeared, forever.
I can also feel myself sliding downward in a moral decline that I seem powerless to halt and I am gathering momentum towards what can only be a wreck of dire proportions. I do not know understand this.
7-25-04
Why does prison feel so natural to me, so instinctual? I will admit that sometimes I fight out of pride, but sometimes a fury just flows over me felling all remorse; from whence it comes I do not know. Sometimes my motives are noble, as they should be, sometimes however; my motives are an expression of a meanness I did not know I possessed. Have I at last succumbed to hopelessness? I fear that I have become that which I detest. I fear that I have become comfortable in this dung heap, a pig happily routing in the muck for sustenance. Is it possible that my true nature is one of degradation? Is it possible that I have always been this way, a trickster who tricked himself? I suppose that none of it really matters because prison is my keeper, and I do my keepers bidding.
10-3-04 Mata’s birthday
This Mr. Crawford is the challenge. Can you dig peace from within this mountain of unrest? Can you remain intelligent when those around you have succumbed to ignorance? Can you create freedom in your mind when that which you see in the mirror is held captive?
Can you? Espero que se!
12-20-04
My life, when studied, would seem to indicate that I have been a slave to appetite, this I can now see plainly. Is this what my destiny has been trying to reveal to me. Have I given up on trying to raise these men up and instead been drug downward and into a thinking of immoral countenance? These four walls, have I accepted them as my reality, as my final outcome? My final plight? Am I doomed?
1-13-05
As a convict with many years behind bars, I have learned to be calm in the face of adversity. I have learned to laugh in the face of my coming antiquity and even to take pride in my government-issue clothing, for I am a prisoner, and a man among men. I choose when and to what extent I reveal myself to you. Me, not my oppressor. He is powerless concerning me. I choose to live and I choose when I will die. HE thinks that I am his to control, but it is not so - I am my own person, in control of my own mind, and by extension this pen. Therefore, only you have the power to destroy me - only you can silence these words, these thoughts, only you and no other.
I have analyzed this convict me, as well as those around me and I have exacted a personal price in my truthfulness concerning us. With these prisoner eyes I have seen us, me most especially, for the truth of what we are. I have learned through painful experience to control my own passive-aggressive nature by learning the value of walking the middle road of emotions. Yes, it took a few knocks on the head to accomplish it, but, it is done and I the better for it.
I have looked into the mirror of my own soul and have seen reflected there the flaws in my own character and am in the process of whatever personal evolution is available to the Siriusly bent, convict experienced person. I do this as best I know how.
What I now believe because of this experience, is that it was the whip of suffering as wielded by the hands of prison upon my shirtless back, which brought me to my proverbial knees, oh so many years past. Through this experience, I was completely and utterly broken. At that point, of lowest personal existence, that point of absolute disgust with myself and the life I had manifest, I began to search out the meaning of my life, my purpose on this planet. It was there, deep in the bowels of sorrows own intestines that I profoundly understood that my previous path had been one crowded with friends, family, success and gross apathy. A life lived too comfortable to demand contemplation. It is here in this place of forced sorrow, that I malo man, through chained affliction, have found and begun to walk the pathway of solitude, the road of Self-Realization... be warned those of you who endeavor to follow; it is the Lonely Way, it can be no other. Self is self others are not. Perdurabo,
To become the prisoner/man that I am today, I had to open my mind to the influx of my true nature, my true character unclouded by the influence of others. This I had to do before I could gain a clear understanding of the matrixical false reality of this present existence. I had to wear these handcuffs to progress. I had to experience failure on this level before I was able to contemplate the origins of my image. Without this experience, I could not have understood the evolution of myself or how my actions had affected others, both positive and negative. I then learned that through personal discipline and the devout, honest study of suffering as a tool of progression, that I could gain an element of illumination in not only my life, but by extension of our species. Once gained, I surmised that with this knowledge came a control over my own personal nature as never before, allowing me a controlled, planned input into my future evolutionary development. With this newfound insight, I can now say that when a person intimately knows the purpose behind suffering, they are better able to accept its harsh and uncomfortable accompaniments. For only when one can understand why their knees are bloody can they then make an intelligent decision concerning healing them and avoiding the need to re-experience said suffering as an educational tool.
To know this about ourselves as prisoners, as people, helps us to understand that others must also come to this same realization, they must accept the fact that suffering, in whichever form it is manifest, is designed for progress. If you think this is a hard concept to grasp, how about this: To be WORTHY of great enlightenment, one must be WORTHY of great suffering.
My life when factored out by the numbers can only sum up to be one of trial, therefore, the only way in which I know how to survive it is to find the meaning in it. I suppose that that’s what all these other guys are doing as well, looking for purpose, looking for whatever it is that they are to learn from their own convict life, from this violence, this hatred, this oppression. I suppose that I too must be counted in their ranks, to me it’s only logical, I mean, there seems to be a purpose to everything in this universe, so I must assume that this includes me and those others in chains around me as well.
I don’t think that very many other prisoners would agree with me, but, it is my belief that this, these prison walls and its many faceted hellish experiences, is purposeful. It is this understanding of purpose, this knowing that life and prison are to be seen as a life-school, as opposed to the prevailing thought that life is a playground, which gives me the strength to endure it. Perdurabo
Therefore, it is that this mindset has become the present platform upon which my thoughts now find voice.
Convicts here, convicts there. Here a convict there a convict, convict, convict, everywhere a convict. A sad parody is this, which we must sing our children.
I can look around me and see first hand the inhumanity of humanity. I see the bars, the walls, and the prisoner on prisoner violence. I live the hatred; I feel the scorn of the hacks. I have sipped the mead of cruel thoughts, and I despise this convict mentality, which believes it acceptable to be without moral values. I love my brothers, but hate their lack of honor. I carry this upon my back like a cross, on my forehead like the mark of unforgiveness.
Who am I to cry foul? Did I not look the other way as plans were being made to rob a child of its father? Was I not dry-eyed upon hearing of the deed? Did I not put my own safety above the justice that was due? Did I not refuse to give information on the man who helped convict me? What bastard honor I have! So how can I complain? With what face can I now preach morality when my own life has been so obviously devoid of it? Hypocrite I
The conditions in prison have improved, yet, are still inhumane. If not by the outrageous amounts of time given to law breakers, then by the convicts themselves, who seem to have no moral foundation upon which to improve themselves, nor any sympathetic emotions towards others, which I believe would demonstrate remorse, and thereby show the ability to contemplate and improve a so far failed existence. In spite of these most apparent obstacles, despite the constant mental stress of separation from all loved ones, despite the daily struggle to stay alive which demands that the convict become ever more the primate. In the final analyses, I am witness to the fact that the sort of person a prisoner eventually becomes results from an inner decision and not based wholly upon prison circumstances. Therefore, it is my be1ief that under any circumstances, even under the extreme anilisim of prison, man still possesses the ability to decide for himself what shall become of him mentally and spiritually.
In looking at this as if from somewhere above and far from it, I can see that my fellow prisoners, even those with a sloped forehead mindset, can break away from this present ape mentality if they so choose. As a result of my own thought evolution, I can at least believe that a horizon is near, and that we as prisoners, as human beings in spite of it all, can be awakened to the knowledge, the realization, that even the unforgiven have a responsibility to the human race. That even the convict stripped of all dignity, in spite of his or her grim circumstances has a larger purpose, a contribution to make, and is responsible to life, for their part in its development. I believe it possible to teach convicts that each event in their lives has been for a purpose. That prison and its pains, its solitude, its burden, is nothing more than an education, and that this present suffering, when analyzed is an opportunity for them to either rise towards better virtues, to become a man beyond the man norm, or the catalyst which reveals the animal they at heart are.
1-12-06
I am close to losing it. I find myself angry more often than not. I see the majority of those around me as undisciplined fools. I am trying to find the good in them, but I despise ignorance, slothfulness and indifference. The convicts of today epitomize this mindset. They have been allowed to run rampant as youngsters on the streets, and now as men, they do not want to correct it. Most men in prison do not want to change, to improve themselves.
I hate ignorance in myself. I loath it in others.
1-12-06
I am restless and have been for a couple of days now. I am impatient, irritable and cannot seem to still my thoughts with any length of success. When I go to the chow-hall or to the paint room, I seem to go about my business as if in a trance. When (like now) that I return to normal consciousness, my thoughts, though lucid, seem sluggish, like a dreamer who shakes off his dream only to open his reluctant eyes to a different reality. As I write this (by forced discipline), I am like a drunkard trying to recall where he left his keys.
I am having trouble remembering events from the previous day and when they do come, they seem like alien actions perpetrated by someone else, like a remembered dream not a remembered event.
Prison Economic System
In any society there must be some form of a monetary or barter system; prison is no exception.
Inside of the Federal Prison System jobs for its convicts are provided so that if a convict is so inclined they can work for and receive a small paycheck, which they can use to buy the necessities of prison fare. I know what you are thinking, why would we need to buy things when the Government provides for all our needs under the blanket of its Socialist Prison System, and to a certain extent you would be correct. Inside of these walls the convicts are provided free of cost, toothpaste, soap, razors, shave cream, boots, clothing and food. We are also provided a few amenities such as paper, envelopes and a few stamps per month is provided to those convicts who can prove they have no money from either working or from their families.
Sounds wonderful, that we are provided with these free amenities, but what we receive is the lowest quality of products that our Government can buy from third world countries; yea, the stuff we get is from China, India, Indonesia, Sri Lanka and places like that. So your tax dollars and your jobs are being sent overseas to support their economies; think about that the next time you decide to hate a union guy! Yea this stuff is terrible; the toothpaste will clean your teeth (I think) but it leaves your breath smelling like wolf- butt. The soap is of such a poor quality that it dries out your skin so badly that it is unbearable; the razors are so cheap that at least fifty percent of them cannot be used for more than one shave (we get three a week). The food well lets just say that we receive food which cannot be sold to the public. For instance I had a one serving container of Smuckers Jelly given to me for breakfast this morning, sounds great right! Truth of the matter is that it was so old, that when I tried to pry it out of the container and apply it to my bread, it came out in a block resembling rubber. So on paper you are being told that we are living high on the hog in here, hell we’re eaten Smuckers Jelly, what your not being told is that the money your elected officials are budgeting for food and such is being misappropriated on meats that are rotten, milk that is spoiled, breads that are moldy and that the products that we receive are all outdated, or so near to expiration, that they are pulled off of the shelves of the local stores.