Trigger Warning!
This world is a fucked-up, traumatizing, and hateful place. I live in this world, and so my words, experiences, and thoughts are birthed from within it. Further, it should come to no surprise that this blog will detail many of these fucked-up things in graphic detail. Fortunately, resilience is what I do, and I try my hardest to ferment inspiration from the darkest parts of my life. It's time to confront, it's time to resist, and of course... it's time to win.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

"A Song Unowned" 7-31-44

I'm surrounded by concrete, steel, and relentless lighting. Actually, I am entrapped by these things. But even in this brutally cold and hostile environment, I can think of so many inexplicably beautiful memories.
Places, feelings, people. Memory is a world where tangible and intangible collide, where material and immaterial are express equally on the same flashing screen. During this internment, one memory keeps providing me security within myself while in such a despicably depressing, disgusting entrapment.
It is not a memory of the free world, one from the outside, but one born from within similar confines. My first time I was locked up for any meaningful amount of time, I was struggling to survive through a horrible depression and it was during those days that this memory was created.
I spent those days, reading my only inspiration from within, the black and white daily newspaper. Everyday I searched for stories and then the riots in France hit full swing. A real revolution, even if it was just momentarily, became the for the first time in my life, a feasible possibility.
But along with that burning inspiration came the heavy realization of my current confines of only a sympathetic spectator. I was locked up, incapable of escaping the walls burdening my emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical self. I was impaired and disconnected, trying to swallow the prepackaged guilt, blame, regrets, and shame inflicted upon me.
It was then and there while reading those words of inspiration, that it found me. I was sharing the stainless steel jail table with two dark skinned old-schoolers. It's easy to tell who the old schoolers are, because they carry the weight of each year they have served sinking down upon their backs and shoulders. But they always make sure to never let their heads be burdened by the weight. They have been here too long to know, that in this place, you always keep your head up.
So, they sat there talking, laughing, and playing chess. The concrete walls and floors were replaced by trees and grass. Exchanging the steel doors, locs, and bunks for squirrels, birds, and light posts, they soon found themselves surrounded by the landscape of a well-maintained downtown park, late summer. The mold and dust-filled air-conditioning ventilation along with the flicker from the fluorescent lighting transforms into warm sunshine piercing through the tree's canopy, while the first sign of autumn approaching comes from a cool breeze.
The loud shouting of men bouncing off the hardened walls of incarceration diffuse to the sounds of kids playing games and birds singing over the creaking of swing sets, with a mellow swoosh from the traffic in the distance. The large durable gray plastic garbage cans, well, they remain large durable gray plastic garbage cans, but they do become encased by an ornamental, metal frame-work and an assortment of bees and flies battling over the delicacies humans so easily define and discard as waste.
This was not my naive imagination wandering, but an actual transformation of experience refusing to be a just spectacle any longer. So, when they began their game of chess, I, too found myself integrated into the scenery. Into the moment.
We sat at one of those nice, heavy, stone tables. The ones with rounded seats and a chessboard engraved into the top of the table. They took turns making swift but casual moves, and each time one would finish a move, he would sing out a line or two. The other one would then move next also adding a couple more lines. I tried to pin down the song they were singing. Was it an old jazz tune? A newer soul song? Or, any even older tune born from times when slavery was as much a reality as these moments now.
Some time passed before I realized they were not reciting any old tune. The songs they were singing, were being created in that very moment. They were telling a story, a narrative. One in which they each took turns continuing the storytelling collectively, while all the while still competing in an extraordinarily thoughtful game of chess.
They sang the stories of their lives. They talked of old lost loves and childhood adventures, new found loves and current trials and tribulations. They talked of their grandchildren, describing problems and joys they may have to face or embrace. A melody of lifetimes.
Each one of them had won a couple of games, but I soon realized that it was beside the point, and I was the only one keeping tally of a pointless score. We spent the whole afternoon doing this. Being and becoming this. I gained some bravery and on occasion would add to their stories. They did not seem to mind my intrusion and through one of the song's storytelling they nicknamed me "Young Pup."
Eventually, it all started to rapidly fade away. The trees and insects, the grass and cool breeze, all started to disappear, as the unpleasant voice of a guard yelling, "Rack it up!", became more and more prevalent. Until, once again, we were in the horrible jail we began in.
Those old-schoolers shared an amazing thing with me that day. They showed me that we can take all of the horrible punishments forced on us by those abusing power, and turn it into something to benefit ourselves. Unbroken spirits can only partially begin to define those two old men. They had both spent the majority of their lives locked up, they ultimately refused to give up their own self-determination.
It was those stores they sang to each other. Those songs that held the timeless beat of their aging, pounding hearts. Those songs that did not bother distinguishing dreams from realities. Those songs resisted confinement of the towers and walls. Those songs are the songs that I continue on. Those songs have become mine, but they can be as much yours, as no one person can ever own them, really. Those songs refuse this current entrapment of concrete, steel, and relentless lighting. I refuse to be entrapped as well.

Vita Pro

Around 1995, during the same time cigarettes were banned in Texas prisons for health related reasons, also came the introduction of a suppliment and meat filler by the name of VitaPro. The Canadian based company who produced VitaPro suggested a 25%-75% filler to meat ratio, but in no time Texas was soon serving the delicacy in 90%-100% filler ratios. This of course is the same Texas Department of Corrections that has always prided themselves on raising tens of thousands heads of sheep, cattle and pig livestock.

Some inmates and staff became curious and decided to inquire about how the state could justify auctioning off their livestock at discount rates to instead purchase an expensive meat filler. Their "inquiries" were met with only a subtle reply of cricket orchestras serenading them from the surrounding fields.

It wasn't long after the introduction of VitaPro that inmates started to complain of major stomach pains and uncontrollable flatulence. "God damn! The whole unit done turned itself into a gas chamber on death row after all of them meals" explained an inmate who was incarcerated at the time. Never to see daylight again, all further inmates complaints were tossed in TDC's extensive skeleton closet. That is until the more valued TDC livestock began mysteriously dying off.

After an initial investigation, it had been determined that the prison kitchen slop being fed daily to the pigs was actually the murderous culprit. Upon further investigation, it became even more clear that VitaPro was killing the pigs by blowing up their intestines. The pigs, who up until this point in human history, had been known as an animal capable of devouring any and all types of food had to be safely taken off the VitaPro mixture. It never became questionable why the inmates still remained eating it multiple times a week.

The inmates skin began to boil, literally. And eventually after the compounding pressures of the inmate's increasingly serious health conditions and growing interest from outside advocacy groups, the state's courts finally led an inquiry in the prisons use of VitaPro. They came to find out that not only had most of the prison units overserved massive amounts of VitaPro, but that also one of the Canadian company's paid consultants was none other than the current TDC director, Andy Collins. So the state owned inmates and livestock were not the only things blowing up, with a $1,000 a day corporate consultants fee. Director Collins bank account also was on the verge of exploding.

VitaPro eventually stopped being served in prisons state-wide, yet its legacy still remains as large as the gigantic TDC owned warehouses that have remained stocked to the brim with buckets upon buckets of VitaPro. With a shelf life that gives Twinkies a run for their money, the pig exploding VitaPro may one day sneek its way back into the perpetually nutrient dwindling meals of Texas corrections, some inmates believe it already has.

Written from Nueces County Jail

(Transcribed by Charity)

Thursday, August 13, 2009

When the ants stop marching one by one...

It's summertime in the Lone Star State and the Rasberry Crazy ants are at it again. This time, they have turned their attacks on the Texas domesticated honey bee populations. For years they have been terrorizing the Tejas urban, suburban, and now rural landscape. These tiny ants seem largely resistant to all but the most toxic of pesticides allowing them to spread like wildfire.

It has recently been observed that these small ants will aggressively cannabilize other types of ants, even one's multiple times their own size. Recent reports describe them attacking and consuming entire colonies of fire ants, and ant previously defined as one of Texas' most dangerous insects. Breaking from the outdated forms of classical warfare, such as the method of marching in regimented lines, the Rasberry's have become known as the first ants to embrace guerilla warfare tactics. Their Human enemies have not yet been able to make sense of their new, more effective tactics, instead humans one handedly rationalize the recent attacks as crazy, unorganized, and erradic, but with the other hand pressure the state to label them, a top "pest" priority, which would be the insect equivalent of topping the F.B.I's Domestic Terrorist Threat list, just like the Elf, Alf, and other so called "Ecoterrorists" that currently claim the #1 spot on the F.B.I.'s List, these ants appear dedicated to destroying industrial civilization's most important infrastructures.

Last year, in the greater Houston area alone, they were responsible for millions of dollars in damage to the public works system. On a few occasions, with surprise attacks, they would swarm out of the tall grass thickets and into large electrical sub-station boxes. Within a matter of minutes they would successfully overload entire neighborhoods' electrical framework, leaving behind thousands powerless and important components non-repairable. The Rasberry's become most active during the sizzling August and September months and with every business and household blasting their air conditioning units at full throttle, there becomes no better time to cause blackouts in Texas.

Along with attacks on the larger electrical grid, they also make attacks on tertiary targets, such as smaller government and corporate computers also rendering them beyond repair. Other targets include automobiles, heavy farming and construction machinery, sewage pumps, and anything that may contain an expensive, delicate or intricate electrical system. These electrical systems seem to be their favored picks, and why not, in most machines and equipment, these components tend to be the most crucial, costly and fragile parts. Guerilla warfare states that when any resistance group is taking on much larger enemy targets, and in this case millions of times larger, that it becomes strategically fundamental to find a fulcrum, or leverage point, and the Rasberry crazy ants have done just that.

The relentless Texas drought, that is currently decreasing all industrial and agricultural production (in as much as the two can or should ever be separated), only seems to be aiding the intensity of the Rasberry forces. The most recent statistics verify that they now have an established presence in 11 Texas counties and are still growing rapidly. It is with this recent expansion, that they seem to have found their next leverage point, the domesticated honeybee.

Within the last few years, domesticated honeybee populations have become the most crucial link in sustaining Texas' farm and food production. Even taking in consideration the recent crisis of an extreme shortage in irrigatable water and annual rainfall, pollination is still the basis for maintaining any successfull harvest.

Texas, throughout its history has destroyed millions of acreage considered wilderness, rapidly converting it, to make room for the big businesses of cotton, corn, cattle, feed, and oil. Now, with the exception of a few designated wilderness areas, the much more manageable Texas farm and ranch lands stretch out in all directions, well beyond the seeable horizons. All of this has led to a population crash and almost extinction of the wild bee populations, leaving their domesticated cousins busily buzzing around attempting to pick up the tragic slack. The ageless homage of, "Everything's bigger in Texas!" although cliche, rings so very loud and true when describing bee farms across the state. In some of the world's largest bee farms, the busiest little Texas workers can be found laboring non-stop, around the clock. Just in Texas state production, honey, considered a secondary product of the busy bee industry, can be measured in the billions of pounds.

In the spirit of capitalist industry, Texas bee farms, or more honestly, Texas bee factory farms have become more in search of profits, then even the Texas-sized, evangelical, mega-church prophets. Having found cost cutting methods of cramming so many bees into each square inch, the bee farmers have comparatively made the otherwise disgusting KFC factory farm, chicken per square foot ratio, look like suburban sprowl. The all so densely populated bee hives began to look like a diaramic of the most overcrowded urban slum. Farpassing Bangkok, New Delhi, and Mexico City, these prefabricated uniform dwellings, tower to incredible heights and are so closely packed together that the bees sometimes have to squeeze by surrounding tenements to get their own housing unit.

The workerbee's daily conditions become comparable to those of Indonesian sweatshops and Latin American coffee and banana plantations. The factory farms become a place where living, flying, and loafing all become serious occupational hazards and the amount of dead workers surmount to numbers so despairing, that not even the cruelest C.I.A. funded dictator of S.O.A. trained death squad would fantasize about them. Like any good factory, or for that matter, any form of property including mines, forests, stocks, women and children, the only valuable measure is it's output. Desperate and miserable in their own living conditions, domesicated bees reveal an easy breaking point for industrial agriculture, it becomes no wonder the Rasberry crazy ants would pick them as their next target.

With only a slight advantage in group numbers, the ants are incredibly disadvantaged against the bees in weight, size, and mobility, but this doesn't stop them. Camouflaged under the raise of a friendly neighborhood ant, just passing by, quite a few Rasberry's are able to infiltrate their way into the megatropolis to surveying the enemies' infrastructure. Once enough ants are inside the massive complex, they signal for the rest to come out from hiding. In a spectacle far more spectacular than the Trojan Horse debackle, their friendly demeanor suddenly converts into a savage flood, as the rage of the wilderness is unleashed upon the prefabricated environment.

The bees fight back but because of domestication and selective genetic breeding for relative passivity, they don't stand a chance. The previously fortified honeycombs, now, are no more together than, if by chance, the U.S. Federal Reserve awoke one morning to find itself 4,000 miles away in the center of a fallujan neighborhood, or better yet, if it awoke to find itself a couple hundred miles away in the middle of West Baltimore's ghetto. Just like the ground corporate bail out of 2008, but on opposite day, each ant makes off with such a large amount of honey, that it comparatively makes a citi-group executive's bonus seem like monopoly money. So by the time the capitalist owner's find the battle scene, their hives are as ravaged as a collapsing ransacked Rome, after a final visit from the German tribe of Vandals. Tens of thousands of hives can now be counted in the hundreds. One factory farm attacked, in a week turns to five, in a month turns into forty, in a year one can only dream.

Interestingly enough, Rasberry crazy ants are not named after their favorite variety of vine-grown fruit, but instead, ironically, they are named after, no in honor of, one of their most enduring and hated enemies, Tom Rasberry. Good ol' Tom Rasberry is one of the leaders in this modern day, fear-mongering, McArthist, insecticidal witch hunt. Tom, a lowly exterminator by trade, now finds himself as the lead expert on the aggressive little ants. This has landed him employment as a part of a special force unit, a combined federal and state funded project, or more clearly seen as the bug's world equivalent to a post 911 government agency, his group no longer has the time to actively battle the ants, the only reason the group was established in the first place. Instead they spend their time traveling from Academic universities, to city and state agencies of all shapes and sizes, and even the occasional local neighborhood watch program (I wouldn't dare make this up), spreading unfounded and fear-filled propaganda in attempts to receive support, more specifically, additional funding. The primary interest to any bureacracy is the continuation of itself and Tom does this beautifully as he describes the ants invasion with a dreadfully slumbering tone, demanding his audiences to take the most immediate of actions, before the ants are able to spread anymore and ultimately cause unimaginable amounts of destruction to the state and possible the nation.

So it seems that a moral line the size of biblical proportions, okay maybe just Texas size, is currently being drawn in the sand. Soon, we will be forced to ask ourselves, "What side am I on?" Am I on the side of state and corporate interests, dillusionally demanding the complete eradication of this species before they destroy our most altruistic foundations, the American pillars of freedom, democracy, and profit? Or instead, am I on the side of the oppressed, the side of coming insurrection, the underdog, or in this case the under-ant? The united liberation front of Crazed Rasberry Armed Ant Forces vs. Industrial Civilization - honey craving, six legged guerilla sabatour extraordinairs or cancer causing, heart-stopping, bug dropping, radioactive insecticidal spray, 6 billion little David'd against one monolithic Goliath, but you know what they say about giants, The bigger they come the harder they fall.

Written from the Nueces County Jail

(Transcribed by Charity)

Dear Heavenly Father AKA self righteous Patriarch scum-bag,

Sometimes I find myself upset that the days are going by so fast, I'm probably the only person in jail thinking like that. I'm also sad that I've heard witness and been a part of so much experience in here that I can't remember it all. My memory problems actually are another very sad story, remind me to tell you about them sometime. But one absolutely never ever depressing thing is having such Amazing Incredible Loveable Adorable Cuddable Huggable bad asses for friends! WTF, having friends send the most inspiring words from thousands of miles away, having friends come from thousands of miles away, just to talk to me through some horrible cage, so so so so amazing! They want me to feel defeated by denying me so many things, even those that are "legally mine" and I get frustrated and angry but never defeated. I can't, not with the support I have. The sky was so beautiful and clear today. Nevermind the ugly parking lots, buildings, bars, and two windows keeping me from it. Little sparrow-like birds come visit me, It's so cute, we stare at each other forever. Today one had a scorpion in its mouth. It spat it out on my window seal. I guess it could have been a spider, all I know is it made me hungry. My thought process went like this - "Ohh man, that's a bird eating a scorpion almost its same size, gross, cool, gross again, guts, oh mann, I'm hungry, I mean hungry, I hope my vegan friends wouldn't get upset seeing this - man I love non-vegan food, I bet that makes some people mad at me, well, it doesn't make non-human people mad at me and that's a good thing, I wonder if this bird is sharing, I wonder if it has babies, man I'm hungry, I could eat some babies." - and then it flew away... That was just 3-5 seconds of my day... Now you can see why my letters are non-linear - my thoughts are everywhere right now - I'm talking to my cell - we are making jokes about Global Warming and how it's melting our Jolly Ranchers and that if everyone's Jolly Ranchers were melting then people would take ecological destruction seriously - Yes... damn there's no need for these elipses, let me try again. Yes! to making inmates Anti-civ, actually Prison made them Anti-civ, I just gave them a book to put what they've always felt, in words, on pages, so they can for the first time (or at least in a long time) feel sane in their anger and frustration... One time I sat for like 16 weeks in an anger management class - I've never been so angry. So they closed the Hatto facility! It was a private prison they called a "family detention facility" but it was of course a horrible internment camp for immigrants or as they say in the German language "concentration camp." Okay, that's not German, but you can see my point. Some families got out for good, others on like a probation type thing and unfortunately a few just got relocated. But knowing that some amazing people this week got released from even worse situations than I find myself in, makes breathing a little bit easier, makes seeing birds even better, makes the sky seem so much closer, makes it to where if I close my eyes, even if only momentarily, I can feel a breeze, I mean really feel the breeze... and all of it brings me a much needed relief... I love ya'll as much as I hate cops and that's a lot! I mean (insert Anarchy-A symbol) lot!!!

Jayson Tx, the artist formerly known as #10126758

Written from the Nueces County Jail

(Transcribed by Charity)

Letters from Nueces County Jail

Dear Derrick Jensen,
Salmon, Salmon, Salmon, Dams, Dams, Dams, Abuse, hate, culture, Abuse, hate, insane, Salmon, Salmon, newt. Salmon, me, redwoods, indian, redwoods, salmon. Civilization makes me sad... 800 pages later, Salmon, Dams, Salmon, chrones, chrones, chrones, dams, dams, dams, bring it down, dams.

Dear Daniel Quinn,
Boring, wrong, right, me, me, me, bad, evil, bad, me, me, me, I understand, no, please explain, me, me, me, Ishmael, b, me, me, wrong, right, listen, listen, listen, now that I'm rich civilization ain't so bad, me, me, me, socratic method, me, ishmael, b, me.

Dear John Zerzan,
Uni-bomber, friend, uni-bomber, language bad, symbols, philosophy, civilization is poopy, philosophy, time, time, break windows, time, philosophy, I like big words, everything bad, nothing, future, time, more big words.

Dear EarthFirst!,
Disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer, trees, ropes, disclaimer, disclaimer, back in the day, disclaimer, explicit, disclaimer, security culture, disclaimer, disclaimer.

Dear Elf/Alf,
Evidence, fingerprints, look at me, evidence, college, super glue, snitch, snitch, snitch, evidence, terrorist, evidence, snitch, lies, snitch, SUV's, evidence, snitch, communique, evidence, college, terrorist, terrorist, terrorist.

P.S. I still Love You!

Dear Everthing Non-Human,

What do you mean Sorry is not good enough... I mean at least I tried, right? Or almost tried.

If I was post-mod,ern, I would call this subversive performance art, but I was just bored.

Dear Mom and Dad,

(written from Nueces County Jail)

There are very few things more beautiful in life then short stumpy men, singing tejano naked in the shower no more than 10 feet from you. Summer camp's been awesome! I don't ever want to leave. I've learned so much during arts and crafts. We made a tattoo gun out of a fan motor and toothbrush, and ran it on an electrical charge via headphone wire from the nearest fire alarm. We melted down checker pieces for red and black ink. I learned how to make oil pastels by crushing colored pencil lead and mixing it with the oil from my very own hair. In survival school, we learn to create fire from a staple, pencil and toilet paper. We also learned how to talk to other campers through the actual toilets and air vents, it's so much easier than the can and string method. In cooking class we made a feast, it's called a cell block spread! 20 chile lime Ramen noodles, mix with 10 packages of mayonnaise, 5 bags of fire hot corn chips, 6 bags of jalapeno pretzels, 6 bags of cajun style pork rhyndes, 2 single serve packages of spam, 8 2-ounce squeeze packages of nacho cheese, and 3 packages of chili with beans. Mix together in a mop bucket or tupperware bin, add hot water and sit on it to seal. Wait 10 minutes and serve with saltine crackers. For best results crush all ingredients before mixing. The foot-stomp concrete floor method works best! Doing laundry just like the pilgrims did. Using the toilet as a tub or basin, we mix 2 parts soap to 1 part toothpaste for fresh smelling clothes. We don't have a clothesline so we use spoons to hold the drying clothes. After laundry we use the same toilet to make Hooch - it's a juice beverage made from baking yeast, kool aid, and whatever fruit we can get our hands on. I can't wait to try it, it makes all the other campers laugh and go crazy. Some of the campers save and dry banana and orange peels, then they "keester" it to take it to other campers, that's where you hold it in between your left and right buttcheeks. Then they smoke it, but I think they are using Bible papes to roll it and I don't like that at all. Today, there was pieces of bologna inside my jello, how weird is that? Well I love you both but I hope I never leave here! But I guess if I do, I can just come back next year!

Your son,
Tommy Thompson #10126758

(Transcribed by Charity)

Saturday, August 8, 2009

A fugitive's run in, with a two-way mirror

As I find myself spending an undetermined amount of time in the Douglas County Jail, the unemployment rate is still rising, although it's been in the double digits for a couple decades now. So it is no surprise that, in The Timber Capitol of the World, I sit in jail surrounded by unemployed loggers. They are legally known as harsh characters; criminals, wife beaters, drug users, car thiefs, and angry vagrants.

But I know them individually as Joker, Hater, Conspiracy, David and Jose. Collectively, they are the nicest, most welcoming group of locals I have yet to meet.

The surrounding forests they once worked with chainsaws and cables are now littered with invasive species and disgusting industrious machinery. Unemployed, they now find themselves scrubbing cell floors, baking corn bread, and playing cards behind steel doors, concrete walls, and two way mirrors.

Four nights a week, all the inmates stop whatever they are doing, and turn their absolute attention to a 13" television. They sit and watch reality shows on the logging industry. Like an absurd two-way mirror, they stare intentively into the glass tube. Afterwards, they talk about the good ol' days. The long hours, the money, the girls, their families, and the money.

However, they will never be able to discuss how now, they are nothing more than outdated tools being stored in Climate Controlled Storage Units. And that's the problem with two-way mirrors. If you are on the losing side, it becomes impossible to see clearly through false Reflections.

Written on 07/15/09 from the Douglas County Jail

(Transcribed by Charity)

No More Cages, No More Locks

His job was to fingerprint me for a ludicrous theft charge but he also asked me about my tattoos? I replied to him with ideas of anti-oppression and resistance. After surveying the surrounding area, he replies. When he speaks, he speaks of high taxes and corrupt, corporate controlled party politics, and fat cat, no good for nothin' Senators. He speaks of greed, money, and the injustices of capitalism. He knows his own role and recognizes its destructiveness, although, he just can't see just how culpable he really is. In all of this, it is not much a dialogue. I suppose what he needed was a confession. The fingerprinting booth acts as his confession cell and I as a priest. He finished the Monologue, not with feelings or even ideas, but with a statement. He looks around once again, reassuring himself no one is listening in and then says, "They better hope this revolution comes after I'm dead, because if it doesn't, I've already picked what side I'm on and I'll be the first to start unlocking cells."

Written on 07/15/09 from the Douglas County Jail

(Transcribed by Charity)