Dear World,
I’m sorry you’re dying. If I wasn’t locked up in jail, I promise you I’d be doing something to stop this insanity.
-Jayson
Dear Destroyers of Everything Beautiful,
Fuck you! I just spent 6 hours locked in a jail cell reading the Wall Street Journal. Your attaboy! Your feel good newspaper. I read your numbers. Sure you understand millions, billions, and trillions but for the people making 5 cents an hour to $7.25 these numbers don’t seem to have a relevancy. For those not making any money, for those millions, they’ll just starve.
Your stock market made it back to 10,000. Great. You made millions when it crashed and now you’re making double that. Good job, you’re so smart.
Money is no longer made out of paper but 75% cotton and 25% other. Is that so you can launder the blood that it soaks in, that is soaks up. All so you can have a penthouse and a monthly visit to Cambodia for a taste of a new seven year old.
Wall Street use to be a place to auction slaves, now you trade them, how clever of you. I hate you. I hate you the way a poor child’s stomach hates hunger, the way a seagull hates the 5lbs of plastic that fills her stomach. I despise your greed the way a tree despises the tearing of its flesh from a well oil lubricated oil powered oil forged chain, I despise you the way an electric-less Iraqi village despises the oil that lies underneath it. I wish you lied 6 feet underneath me. I wish you were dead like 200+ dead zones in the oceans you have created. I wish you were deprived of oxygen the way you have deprived 8,000 square miles of once living ocean in the Gulf of Mexico.
I wish I could make an application for your I-phone that would give you the cancer from the production of its internal 32 GB hard drive, instead of it going to the Korean and her family that was forced into starving or producing. Or an application to turn whatever shit excuse for music you listen to up to a 250 DB to blow your ear drums and cause you to hemorrhage and die, in the same manner you kill whales in the ocean looking for more oil, oh, I mean Soviet submarines.
I know your house. It’s the big one on the other side of town. When I get out there will be empty forty bottles scattered on the ground and gas in your beamer to siphon out and one more cocktail to top off your drunken slumber making sure this time you don’t wake up.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Experience as Parable
A young (nice) kid got beat up today, 5 feet from outside my cell door. I heard the 5 or 6 taps from the assaulters first hitting the kid’s mouth and skill. It is sad I know that sound, but it’s even sadder that it took me 45 seconds or so to actually get off my bunk and see if he was okay. I saw the assaulter leave in a hurry so I knew something had happened. The kid’s face and nose were in really bad shape. Eventually the guards came in and took both of them away. They also took a third person away; a guy that attempted to hurt the original assaulter. All three people are going to get punished. The kid who was assaulted and the person who tried to stand up for him will face the same consequences as the asshole that did the violence. That is bullshit and insane, that is unless you are trying to prove two things. You cannot take the law (a monopoly on violence) into your own hands. There are no victims in jail, only criminals, on other words inmates, or more clearly, subhumans.
The blood that was all over his face and the floor made me feel many things. The first was fear, fear of pain, fear of being a victim of assault again. Then came the fear of violence, violence is very dreadful, very real. With the current inequalities and resource scarcities, a crazy amount of violence is happening right now, but soon it is going to have a more physical manifestation. Some people don’t feel fear when they see clearcuts or logger trucks or mills or paper for that matter, but first world people always react in some way to bloodshed. Some sadistic fucks get aroused or happy at the sight of it, but most get a similar reaction to mine. Our culture is use to police and military to do the dirty work. We are use to economic sanctions and prisons to commit our genocides. Back to the point – we are not prepared to see the bloodshed we are currently inflicting and the increased bloodshed that’s coming soon. I don’t even want to write about it, I wish I wasn’t. The next feeling I had was a fear of authority, I had already seen the images of victim blaming go through my head as this kid sat their bloody. I debated whether or not to talk about what I saw. Would it be snitching? Would it blowback on me? Could I say anything, do anything to hide this from the authorities and attempt to handle it on our own?
The final feeling, and I’m ashamed it came so late was, how can I fight back? How should I get this asshole back? How can I get back at the larger culture for making all this so real, so common? How can I get the cops back for putting all of us in here in the first place? How can I make the politicians and corporate executives pay for being even more culpable than even the cops? The guard finally walked over and then all the crazy lockdown, tons of guards rushing in and all that stuff happened. I sat there, well here, and standing, actually pacing, still thinking, still racing through emotions. I realized the assaulter was someone in here on a domestic abuse charge, a charge he bragged about. Why didn’t I remember that before? Why did I not go and immediately confront him? Why was I more willing to – or more rapid – or more able to fight when I was 14 and 15? Now my brain processes and thinks and analyzes. I guess this is good, given my circumstances and consequences. Why is self-preservation so high up on my worries and by worries, I mean excuses? I finally was resolved, ready to fight, and I was locked down powerless.
It’s been about 2 hours since then and I think I know why I’m still bothered by all of this. When it comes to defending those and what I love, I don’t want to act that slowly. I don’t want to have to think, I want to be able to pounce immediately. I don’t want self-preservation or consequences to affect my action/inaction. I don’t want a fear of authority or moral issues preventing me or slowing me from what I want to, what I need to defend.
I guess that’s why I’m so bothered. I already know what I want, what I need to defend and I’m not doing it. All these fears have me paralyzed. I always tell myself I’m waiting, waiting for leverage, for more bang in my buck, but maybe these are just excuses.
I don’t want to overly turn someone’s pain into a look at me, pity me, what about me-fest. So I’ll end it here. There will be no excuse good enough, no resolve resolved enoughed, no preparations prepared strategically enough, if by the time I’m ready to fight, I find myself locked down – so incredibly powerless. Repression is rising and the time for action is now. I’m ready to fight for what I love. I’m ready.
Never give up.
Jayson Tx #10126758
P.S. This is by no means meant to sound fatalist in any manner. I still look forward to fun and happy things. I still want to find more loves, grow more veggies, read more books and heck, even dance a little. It’s just having such a literal metaphor (I don’t know how else to describe it) I guess an experiential parable, yeah that’s it, having the Experiential Parable of being locked up when I was finally ready to act, made me realize that I don’t want that to happen again, not ever, especially not for those things I feel closest to.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
The blood that was all over his face and the floor made me feel many things. The first was fear, fear of pain, fear of being a victim of assault again. Then came the fear of violence, violence is very dreadful, very real. With the current inequalities and resource scarcities, a crazy amount of violence is happening right now, but soon it is going to have a more physical manifestation. Some people don’t feel fear when they see clearcuts or logger trucks or mills or paper for that matter, but first world people always react in some way to bloodshed. Some sadistic fucks get aroused or happy at the sight of it, but most get a similar reaction to mine. Our culture is use to police and military to do the dirty work. We are use to economic sanctions and prisons to commit our genocides. Back to the point – we are not prepared to see the bloodshed we are currently inflicting and the increased bloodshed that’s coming soon. I don’t even want to write about it, I wish I wasn’t. The next feeling I had was a fear of authority, I had already seen the images of victim blaming go through my head as this kid sat their bloody. I debated whether or not to talk about what I saw. Would it be snitching? Would it blowback on me? Could I say anything, do anything to hide this from the authorities and attempt to handle it on our own?
The final feeling, and I’m ashamed it came so late was, how can I fight back? How should I get this asshole back? How can I get back at the larger culture for making all this so real, so common? How can I get the cops back for putting all of us in here in the first place? How can I make the politicians and corporate executives pay for being even more culpable than even the cops? The guard finally walked over and then all the crazy lockdown, tons of guards rushing in and all that stuff happened. I sat there, well here, and standing, actually pacing, still thinking, still racing through emotions. I realized the assaulter was someone in here on a domestic abuse charge, a charge he bragged about. Why didn’t I remember that before? Why did I not go and immediately confront him? Why was I more willing to – or more rapid – or more able to fight when I was 14 and 15? Now my brain processes and thinks and analyzes. I guess this is good, given my circumstances and consequences. Why is self-preservation so high up on my worries and by worries, I mean excuses? I finally was resolved, ready to fight, and I was locked down powerless.
It’s been about 2 hours since then and I think I know why I’m still bothered by all of this. When it comes to defending those and what I love, I don’t want to act that slowly. I don’t want to have to think, I want to be able to pounce immediately. I don’t want self-preservation or consequences to affect my action/inaction. I don’t want a fear of authority or moral issues preventing me or slowing me from what I want to, what I need to defend.
I guess that’s why I’m so bothered. I already know what I want, what I need to defend and I’m not doing it. All these fears have me paralyzed. I always tell myself I’m waiting, waiting for leverage, for more bang in my buck, but maybe these are just excuses.
I don’t want to overly turn someone’s pain into a look at me, pity me, what about me-fest. So I’ll end it here. There will be no excuse good enough, no resolve resolved enoughed, no preparations prepared strategically enough, if by the time I’m ready to fight, I find myself locked down – so incredibly powerless. Repression is rising and the time for action is now. I’m ready to fight for what I love. I’m ready.
Never give up.
Jayson Tx #10126758
P.S. This is by no means meant to sound fatalist in any manner. I still look forward to fun and happy things. I still want to find more loves, grow more veggies, read more books and heck, even dance a little. It’s just having such a literal metaphor (I don’t know how else to describe it) I guess an experiential parable, yeah that’s it, having the Experiential Parable of being locked up when I was finally ready to act, made me realize that I don’t want that to happen again, not ever, especially not for those things I feel closest to.
Written from Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Code Names
I just decided we all need code names, and yes that's probably just the cool punk rock excuse to rename ourselves the way hippies do...
David will be Dr. BHT, Alyssa - Captain Raccoon, Kaleb - Professor K-Dubz, Steve - Sir Pittstown, Charity - the Honorable Judge Leaf-Beer, Ema - Dr. Moonshine Remedy, Hudson - Pope John Paul the Negative, Thomas - the Decepticon, Ted - Bill, Tara - Subcommadante T2, Sandra - Sergeant Sandanista, Alyse - DJ Rage-a-Lot, George - Colonel Space Jam III, Jenny - General Yaya!, Jan - Ms. Mother Jones, my Mom - Officer Holdin' It Down, Spookie Hysteria II - El Presidente Spookie Hyst-a-ria II, me - Avril Lavigne/The Sentimental Senator...
Okay the names need lots of work and of course no one gets dubbed a name until they move to Picket Pin Ranch/Roseburg/Umpqua National Forest...
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
David will be Dr. BHT, Alyssa - Captain Raccoon, Kaleb - Professor K-Dubz, Steve - Sir Pittstown, Charity - the Honorable Judge Leaf-Beer, Ema - Dr. Moonshine Remedy, Hudson - Pope John Paul the Negative, Thomas - the Decepticon, Ted - Bill, Tara - Subcommadante T2, Sandra - Sergeant Sandanista, Alyse - DJ Rage-a-Lot, George - Colonel Space Jam III, Jenny - General Yaya!, Jan - Ms. Mother Jones, my Mom - Officer Holdin' It Down, Spookie Hysteria II - El Presidente Spookie Hyst-a-ria II, me - Avril Lavigne/The Sentimental Senator...
Okay the names need lots of work and of course no one gets dubbed a name until they move to Picket Pin Ranch/Roseburg/Umpqua National Forest...
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Reading Disorder
I’m awoken to the sound of heaving
It is a sound I thought I had become so accustomed to,
But it’s a miserable sound, no matter how hard I tried, I never quite get use to
I turn to see light, splintering out around one of the room’s three door frames
And as I make my way to open it
I’m afraid to see the pain, I soon find on the floor behind it
No matter how I wished to be apart from it
I know that I’m inescapably a part of it
Inexplicably, I attempt to be there for you
As I ask you if you’re okay, your eyes quickly reply, telling me that you are not
And it’s not for a lack of trying, still answerless, in my ability to understand all of this
But problems only seem to multiply, with the entrance of each one of my sentences
You misconstrue all the intentions in my words, with that pocket dictionary of yours.
The one you found on the clearance rack, mimicking your life, written in only past tense
So your past tensions begin the progression towards a relentless retention covering your body with every painful memory
With your hands resting on cold ceramic and your head wearily above it, you lean
Barely above it, you heave with a hollowed revereb, that only a bathroom can lend
You give up the food, that sustains your every act of existence
In hopes to purge yourself, of those memories, that keep reenacting your inflictions
Disease, disorder, abuse, control, trauma, and self hate
Mirrors, beauty, identity, family, what equates to in one’s weight
All become words, as cold and meaningless as the ceramic bowl, you hug onto nightly
As I hang on tightly to memories interpretation of what once was known as you
I too, find my own books on the clearance shelf, in order to fix you
Those words inside paragraphs, pages apart of chapters, front to back, cover from cover
I broke so many spines, searching to find, what to do
Ink imprinted paper, carefully edited, but never perfect, misled me dearly, even more away from you
I searched for a universal answer, to what I falsely called my particular problem
All while you defied the universe’s ends with your own particular beauty
And that’s all you needed to be, and that should have been what I embraced
But like almost all others, I was trained to fix, solve, abstract, and equate
And so I subtracted you from you; from the specific
Dissolving our connections; our bond, dropped reflecting your weight
Colder than the tile floors, colder than the ceramic bowl
I gave you a cold shoulder to cry on
In which you refused to take
Intake, input, internalize, the very Culture that I hate
I stopped touching you as if it was you
Gave up your smell so distinct; forgot it, as I never knew
Share, compare, compartmentalize
I continued to commodify
All your despair into a word; into emotions
Deny, demote, decide, demolish
For what it all comes down to
Annotations; your entire experience
Touching, feeling, breathing another
Become disposable experiences
Long before I ended us; you and me
Entering into a relationship, your past tense dictionary, could not define
Being not having, my clearance rack stack of books, three words in a row, never able to find
So you heaved, in hopes to give more than food
So I left, in fear that I was owning you
So we both wrecked, too damn busy, to listen anymore
Heartbeats, gone ascounding, left pounding
In your breast and on my chest
We both became blind, dumb and deaf
Impaired beyond repair
We got scared
And lost touch
Relationships always start with that very first touch
And inevitably end when we give up the belief that
To touch, that to feel, is no longer enough.
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity
It is a sound I thought I had become so accustomed to,
But it’s a miserable sound, no matter how hard I tried, I never quite get use to
I turn to see light, splintering out around one of the room’s three door frames
And as I make my way to open it
I’m afraid to see the pain, I soon find on the floor behind it
No matter how I wished to be apart from it
I know that I’m inescapably a part of it
Inexplicably, I attempt to be there for you
As I ask you if you’re okay, your eyes quickly reply, telling me that you are not
And it’s not for a lack of trying, still answerless, in my ability to understand all of this
But problems only seem to multiply, with the entrance of each one of my sentences
You misconstrue all the intentions in my words, with that pocket dictionary of yours.
The one you found on the clearance rack, mimicking your life, written in only past tense
So your past tensions begin the progression towards a relentless retention covering your body with every painful memory
With your hands resting on cold ceramic and your head wearily above it, you lean
Barely above it, you heave with a hollowed revereb, that only a bathroom can lend
You give up the food, that sustains your every act of existence
In hopes to purge yourself, of those memories, that keep reenacting your inflictions
Disease, disorder, abuse, control, trauma, and self hate
Mirrors, beauty, identity, family, what equates to in one’s weight
All become words, as cold and meaningless as the ceramic bowl, you hug onto nightly
As I hang on tightly to memories interpretation of what once was known as you
I too, find my own books on the clearance shelf, in order to fix you
Those words inside paragraphs, pages apart of chapters, front to back, cover from cover
I broke so many spines, searching to find, what to do
Ink imprinted paper, carefully edited, but never perfect, misled me dearly, even more away from you
I searched for a universal answer, to what I falsely called my particular problem
All while you defied the universe’s ends with your own particular beauty
And that’s all you needed to be, and that should have been what I embraced
But like almost all others, I was trained to fix, solve, abstract, and equate
And so I subtracted you from you; from the specific
Dissolving our connections; our bond, dropped reflecting your weight
Colder than the tile floors, colder than the ceramic bowl
I gave you a cold shoulder to cry on
In which you refused to take
Intake, input, internalize, the very Culture that I hate
I stopped touching you as if it was you
Gave up your smell so distinct; forgot it, as I never knew
Share, compare, compartmentalize
I continued to commodify
All your despair into a word; into emotions
Deny, demote, decide, demolish
For what it all comes down to
Annotations; your entire experience
Touching, feeling, breathing another
Become disposable experiences
Long before I ended us; you and me
Entering into a relationship, your past tense dictionary, could not define
Being not having, my clearance rack stack of books, three words in a row, never able to find
So you heaved, in hopes to give more than food
So I left, in fear that I was owning you
So we both wrecked, too damn busy, to listen anymore
Heartbeats, gone ascounding, left pounding
In your breast and on my chest
We both became blind, dumb and deaf
Impaired beyond repair
We got scared
And lost touch
Relationships always start with that very first touch
And inevitably end when we give up the belief that
To touch, that to feel, is no longer enough.
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
A late night, drug-induced, transcendental piece of dadaist found object art
So, first and foremost, the poem you are about to read is a piece of drug-induced transcendental dadaist found object art... let me explain. The last night I was in Oregon (DC), before they extradited me, I was incredibly high on a magnitude of coffee... the coffee they had there as I explained in other letters was magical to say the least. So that night I was so messed up that I thought I had transcended time, space and especially language. I felt the way that people explain mushroom tripping to me... yest, that fucked up. So I attempted to start a letter to you, the Roseburg crew, when in my delusions I realized I was far past a mere letter to friends and began to challenge the foundations of civilization, language, and everything... I would pause writing and with my brain contemplating at opposite ends of the universe I wrote line by line, each time finishing feeling like I had made an immeasurable advancement. For 4-5 hours I wrote and wrote and wrote and then they came and took me away... I was not reunited with the letter until last week. Upon reading it, I felt an embarrassment level I have never felt previously. I remembered feeling so inspired during the actual writing itself, but could not remember any of the content. So when re-reading it I felt like I was reading a 12 year old rant from my youth, I was immediately disappointed. I had no idea of the horrendous rhyming and ridiculous repetitiveness. But upon reading it a second time, I grew fond of it, after all there will never be many if any other drug-induced writings from Jayson (although half of them probably seem drug-induced). So I was going to re-write it, to polish it, but I decided it would be a grave injustice and insult to my artistic integrity to not have it repeated verbatim... So all I did was format it into poetry from from letter form (which I can't even format my own poems) and changed three words that I obviously knew were incorrect. So now you know the mindset in which it was written, enjoy! If it is the worst thing you've ever read in your life, than that's a good thing, it it's one of the funniest that's even better, if it makes any sense than please seek immediate attention:
Hey you guys, and gals, and those that prefer to identify with neither.
Today, my eyes filled up with tears
I know that’s no way to start a letter out from jail
But let me make my case
This world is dying!
I take that back
The world I’m in
This cell
In this jail
In this town
On this freeway
Apart of a network with other cities
In this state
In this nation
A part of a global system
Is already dead
We live in modern pyramids
Mega machines
That converts everything living and wonderful
Into dead things
Things that have value to them
Like
Money and tools
Houses and cars
Jobs and pools
Banks and bars
Value – what a useless word
Use another useless term
It’s in our languages, it’s in our religions, it’s in our sciences and in our governments
DEATH.
But not the same death
That once was celebrated along the side of life
Not even the same death
That was once a part of life
Capital-D, Death as its own thing
As it capital-Departs from life
As it capital-Destroys life
Thing – we view the world in things
Abstractions, Definitions, Ideals, and Beliefs
Everything is a thing
Everything as a thing
What a silly Ideal!
Science, religions, governments, and languages
These are ideals
These are our ideals
These are based on their own ideals
Ideals of control, isolation, explanations, control
Definitions, understandings, beliefs, control, love, hate
Separations, control, life, death, definitions, control, intangible
Untouchable, incapable, unknowable, control, Angels, Devils, spirits
Souls, control, freedom, liberty, democracy, control, study
Experiment, discovery, control, letters, words, sentences, paragraphs and pages
Control
“I think therefore I am”
Fuck Descarte
If you add another “e” and flip the “a” and “r”
You can then desecrate
That fucker Descarte
Reality – what a human thing
Human – yet another thing
Another – still some other thing
Other – a separated something
Separated – an isolated thing
Isolated – a definition, an ideal on how to view certain things
View – a way of observing, speculating, or seeing such things
Things – everything is a thing
Nothing is a thing
No thing is still a thing
N – O – T – H – I – N – G are all things.
Things are dead and dead becomes things
Existentialism, even has a particular meaning
Existentialism – what a silly, useless thing
I think therefore I am
Inverts to
I am therefore I think
The other is based in insanity,
But both are ideals and ideas are mere things
I don’t want a new philosophy
A new definition, ideal, or worldview
While though I will never be able to break from
Viewing things as things
I can at least break apart some of the parts
In this death-craving mega machine
Here’s to a world where everything surpasses the tangible defines in intangibility
Where anything refuses the definable limits of undefinability
So that somethings are not left limited to an unbearable unlimitedness
To the point where nothing can be explained
Anymore
Here’s to everything being wild past our wildest dreams
And it may have been expressing dreams that first defined this world into things
But now it’s dreams that make it possible to break through every single thing
So to those in power, you can try to keep me locked up behind steel doors
But eventually even these doors will wither down until they are no more
And then I’ll be the one knocking on your very front door
Written from the Douglas County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Hey you guys, and gals, and those that prefer to identify with neither.
Today, my eyes filled up with tears
I know that’s no way to start a letter out from jail
But let me make my case
This world is dying!
I take that back
The world I’m in
This cell
In this jail
In this town
On this freeway
Apart of a network with other cities
In this state
In this nation
A part of a global system
Is already dead
We live in modern pyramids
Mega machines
That converts everything living and wonderful
Into dead things
Things that have value to them
Like
Money and tools
Houses and cars
Jobs and pools
Banks and bars
Value – what a useless word
Use another useless term
It’s in our languages, it’s in our religions, it’s in our sciences and in our governments
DEATH.
But not the same death
That once was celebrated along the side of life
Not even the same death
That was once a part of life
Capital-D, Death as its own thing
As it capital-Departs from life
As it capital-Destroys life
Thing – we view the world in things
Abstractions, Definitions, Ideals, and Beliefs
Everything is a thing
Everything as a thing
What a silly Ideal!
Science, religions, governments, and languages
These are ideals
These are our ideals
These are based on their own ideals
Ideals of control, isolation, explanations, control
Definitions, understandings, beliefs, control, love, hate
Separations, control, life, death, definitions, control, intangible
Untouchable, incapable, unknowable, control, Angels, Devils, spirits
Souls, control, freedom, liberty, democracy, control, study
Experiment, discovery, control, letters, words, sentences, paragraphs and pages
Control
“I think therefore I am”
Fuck Descarte
If you add another “e” and flip the “a” and “r”
You can then desecrate
That fucker Descarte
Reality – what a human thing
Human – yet another thing
Another – still some other thing
Other – a separated something
Separated – an isolated thing
Isolated – a definition, an ideal on how to view certain things
View – a way of observing, speculating, or seeing such things
Things – everything is a thing
Nothing is a thing
No thing is still a thing
N – O – T – H – I – N – G are all things.
Things are dead and dead becomes things
Existentialism, even has a particular meaning
Existentialism – what a silly, useless thing
I think therefore I am
Inverts to
I am therefore I think
The other is based in insanity,
But both are ideals and ideas are mere things
I don’t want a new philosophy
A new definition, ideal, or worldview
While though I will never be able to break from
Viewing things as things
I can at least break apart some of the parts
In this death-craving mega machine
Here’s to a world where everything surpasses the tangible defines in intangibility
Where anything refuses the definable limits of undefinability
So that somethings are not left limited to an unbearable unlimitedness
To the point where nothing can be explained
Anymore
Here’s to everything being wild past our wildest dreams
And it may have been expressing dreams that first defined this world into things
But now it’s dreams that make it possible to break through every single thing
So to those in power, you can try to keep me locked up behind steel doors
But eventually even these doors will wither down until they are no more
And then I’ll be the one knocking on your very front door
Written from the Douglas County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Dear Fucked Reality (Yes that is a choking victim reference, suprise!)
Disturbed, depressed, distressed, and partially destroyed. That is how I feel right now. For the first time I am given a chance to see or read or hear news, it’s bad. Terribly bad.
Can anyone get more info on this 18 year old kid that was set up by the government? Ultimately, although this isn’t always the case, it doesn’t really matter whether he was a crazy right or crazy left extremist. He was a kid. A young one. Coerced and lied to. But nonetheless, more information would be nice.
In case you don’t know, the 18 year old I’m talking about was set up by the Feds to blow up a building in Dallas, Texas. Life in prison (with no chance of parole?) is what he faces. The charge he’s facing is some bullshit post 9-11 Bush era anti-terrorism charge. All I know is the whole thing depresses the fuck out of me.
We just got racked up for 2 hours and shooked down for a spoon that went missing. Nueces County has 2 jails. At one (not this one, but the other one, the annex) you are issued a spoon and cup, at the other you are not. So even though issuing us all spoons would solve the situation of lost spoons, they don’t. So once a week we get shook down because either someone miscounted spoons or someone accidentally/purposely threw a spoon away. Whatever getting shook down is microscopic in the problems that jails and prisons face and by that I mean the inmates who occupy them. Not to mention invisible to a world full of much more immediate and serious problems. Nothing comparable to what that kid in Dallas is going through. Nothing compared to billions of people living in poverty as a direct result of the U.S. tri-phecta of imperialism, consumerism, and sanctions.
Along with an increase in acne, a bloating of my belly, the (should be embarrassing) diarrhea problems, I’m starting to get boils, or at least what I assume to be boils. My body is saying fuck this food, fuck this lack of sunlight, nutrients, diverse physical activity. My brain is screaming for saturated fat to lubricate my receptors. Also, my body goes through periods of uncontrollable twitching and my eyes do this mini seizure thing when I try concentrating on a fixed object. Oh, and my feet and fingertips go numb numerous times throughout the day. But without trying to undermine the personal significance of my health, in outrospect, these problems are below minimal.
It’s a very real possibility that our children or their children will never see amphibians, bears, tuna, old growth, or non-civilized people. More for the history books or more to be overlooked/underplayed by the victors who write them.
Thought crime is alive and well! It is punishable by life in prison. Self-censorship equates to self-preservation and self-preservation comes at the expense of the great majority of the human and non human worldly inhabitants. I apologize to the rocks, soil, trees, birds, reptiles, mammals, and air for not speaking up enough. For not acting up enough. But of course, apologies are never good enough and they should never be.
“Believe the lies, before your eyes, credit cards and apple pie”
10126758 Jayson Tx
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Can anyone get more info on this 18 year old kid that was set up by the government? Ultimately, although this isn’t always the case, it doesn’t really matter whether he was a crazy right or crazy left extremist. He was a kid. A young one. Coerced and lied to. But nonetheless, more information would be nice.
In case you don’t know, the 18 year old I’m talking about was set up by the Feds to blow up a building in Dallas, Texas. Life in prison (with no chance of parole?) is what he faces. The charge he’s facing is some bullshit post 9-11 Bush era anti-terrorism charge. All I know is the whole thing depresses the fuck out of me.
We just got racked up for 2 hours and shooked down for a spoon that went missing. Nueces County has 2 jails. At one (not this one, but the other one, the annex) you are issued a spoon and cup, at the other you are not. So even though issuing us all spoons would solve the situation of lost spoons, they don’t. So once a week we get shook down because either someone miscounted spoons or someone accidentally/purposely threw a spoon away. Whatever getting shook down is microscopic in the problems that jails and prisons face and by that I mean the inmates who occupy them. Not to mention invisible to a world full of much more immediate and serious problems. Nothing comparable to what that kid in Dallas is going through. Nothing compared to billions of people living in poverty as a direct result of the U.S. tri-phecta of imperialism, consumerism, and sanctions.
Along with an increase in acne, a bloating of my belly, the (should be embarrassing) diarrhea problems, I’m starting to get boils, or at least what I assume to be boils. My body is saying fuck this food, fuck this lack of sunlight, nutrients, diverse physical activity. My brain is screaming for saturated fat to lubricate my receptors. Also, my body goes through periods of uncontrollable twitching and my eyes do this mini seizure thing when I try concentrating on a fixed object. Oh, and my feet and fingertips go numb numerous times throughout the day. But without trying to undermine the personal significance of my health, in outrospect, these problems are below minimal.
It’s a very real possibility that our children or their children will never see amphibians, bears, tuna, old growth, or non-civilized people. More for the history books or more to be overlooked/underplayed by the victors who write them.
Thought crime is alive and well! It is punishable by life in prison. Self-censorship equates to self-preservation and self-preservation comes at the expense of the great majority of the human and non human worldly inhabitants. I apologize to the rocks, soil, trees, birds, reptiles, mammals, and air for not speaking up enough. For not acting up enough. But of course, apologies are never good enough and they should never be.
“Believe the lies, before your eyes, credit cards and apple pie”
10126758 Jayson Tx
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
Check Mate
It started with six bars of soap, one cup, one spoon, some coffee, and a fragment of string. Between the carving out of pieces with the backside handle of a disposable white plastic spoon, the molding of equally more pieces with the excess soap shavings and the dying of half the pieces with a stain made from a thick coffee past, six days worth of doing time flew right on by. And on the seventh day, we played chess. The chessboard was penciled in on the flipside of a large storage bin container. The white pieces had a robust smell of soap, while the marbled brown pieces had a lingering coffee scent. Without a doubt, the queens on both sides stole most of the board’s spectators’ attentions. Merciless is the only word to suitably describe the intensity of their presence on the board.
For the next two months, the pieces engaged in many hundreds of battles. Constructed from a material more fragile than glass or marble, some damage was incurred during these ferocious contests. One of the white rooks looked as if a corner of its towers had been blown to rubble by an enemy catapult. One espresso colored horse had lost an entire ear as if the other side’s knight had taken a lance to it. Where the opposing pawns stood in almost perfect uniformity, one brown pawn gained a slight bloatedness as if possibly showing signs that he was the regiments ordained cook. And finally, the white king stood tall but flawed, lacking a tooth on his grand crown as if a bolt from an enemy’s crossbow damaged it in a nearly successful assassination attempt. In a world of mass consumer, assembly-line, plastic chess pieces, these soldiers, royalty, and clergy had some unquestionably unique character to say the very least.
Many prizes were won as a result of some of those battles. Most likely, a side might lose a single pre-stamped envelope or a preservative-laddened, cheese-less, cheese Danish with a shelf-life that makes a package of twinkies seem rapidly biodegradable. But there were a few costly battles in which the victor might acquire an entire $4.15 bag of child-slave harvested instant Nestle coffee, or where the defeated side would forfeit three days worth of breakfast trays. Personally, I never won anything more than experience, but damn, do I have a vicious game now.
The pieces, when retired from fighting, would stay inconspicuously hidden inside a frosted white plastic cup with tight fitting lid. Even during many jailhouse blitzkrieg shakedowns, they never once attracted the attention of contraband fiending correctional officers. But that would all change on one fateful morning.
Incredibly fitting, that morning I was awoken from a dream in which I was a small child in a Jewish family during the Nazi Occupation of Poland. I went from dreaming about a Gestapo raid, to find two very real Gestapo like characters forcefully rendering my cell to an early morning surprise shakedown. Their faces were unfamiliar and the tone their words took to was one of extreme sarcasm. They found the cup and with it, the contents it dearingly held. They then interrogated me about the means to which I carved and dyed the pieces. They wanted me to confess to cutting and shaving the soap figurines with an illegal razor blade, but I continued to contest that my only means was a length of string and a plastic spoon. Before the interrogation tired, two to three pieces at a time, the chess set was taken from the safety of its homely cup and casually placed into the side pocket of one of the guard’s mock military, navy-blue, commando pants.
Throughout the rest of the morning, a number of dedicated chess players and myself vigilantly tracked and followed the bulge in his side pocket, hoping to witness the protusion against the pants’ fabric disappear. If his pockets did deflate, it meant that our pieces, my beloved creations, had made their way into the garbage can behind the guard station. We already began the plans for a real world, covertly militaristic operation to extract them back in an act of defiant reclamation. But the bulge remained an obvious apparel accessory for his entire eight hour shift. A couple chess-playing inmates distastefully and unfruitfully begged and pleaded for him to leave them in the garbage oh his way out of work. Yet each time, wordless, he only replied with a convincingly despicable grin.
After being un-racked from the afternoon shift change that acted as his dramatic exit to stage left, we asked the more familiar guard, officer Senger, about the officer he had just relieved. Officer Zeena was the superfluous name of the swindling swine responsible for stealing our hand-crafted soap chess pieces. Senger explained that Officer Zeena continually brags about auctioning off jail-house contraband on the internet for a plush in-between paycheck lining of his pockets. Knowing the artistic integrity of the pieces, being that he had caught us playing before, Senger in a futile attempt to comfort us, reassuringly stated that officer Zeena the fuck face would probably earn $300 or more off of our jail-house chess set. He continued to tell us how Officer Zeena that shit bag, in an attempt to increase his auctions values, would create harsh and false back-stories about riots in which the items he stole and auctioned off were supposedly confiscated during.
It breaks my heart. All of it. The whole ordeal. Even the knowledge that, as inmates, we are out of a chess set to play countless more games with is unbearably saddening. Even more depressing is the notion that some Obama-worshiping, rich liberal, chess fanatic will win, the now auctioning chess set and then place them as brut artifacts, incarcerated to a shelf in his den or office. Never to see another battle again, two contending groups of mercenaries will minimally act as a reminder to some mid-level, Prozac-popping accountant that his professional occupation offers him the ability to afford such luxuries, on top of his guaranteed full medical benefits and transferable 401K retirement plan. Perhaps the most disastrous and sickening thought of the whole jail house debacle is the knowledge that Officer Zeena the good-for-nothing scum face will most likely be purchasing in excess, some name brand, over-priced, cancer causing chewing tobacco, to accompany cases upon cases of some commercialized, over-rated, piss tasting brewskies and all at the expense of inmate jailhouse ingenuity.
But instead of wallowing in the civil injustices of abusive power structures, I think I’d much rather start subversively widdling away at those same abusive power structures. Because it’s only a matter of time before the alienated and disempowered exclaim to their faultering oppressors, “Check Mate!”
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
For the next two months, the pieces engaged in many hundreds of battles. Constructed from a material more fragile than glass or marble, some damage was incurred during these ferocious contests. One of the white rooks looked as if a corner of its towers had been blown to rubble by an enemy catapult. One espresso colored horse had lost an entire ear as if the other side’s knight had taken a lance to it. Where the opposing pawns stood in almost perfect uniformity, one brown pawn gained a slight bloatedness as if possibly showing signs that he was the regiments ordained cook. And finally, the white king stood tall but flawed, lacking a tooth on his grand crown as if a bolt from an enemy’s crossbow damaged it in a nearly successful assassination attempt. In a world of mass consumer, assembly-line, plastic chess pieces, these soldiers, royalty, and clergy had some unquestionably unique character to say the very least.
Many prizes were won as a result of some of those battles. Most likely, a side might lose a single pre-stamped envelope or a preservative-laddened, cheese-less, cheese Danish with a shelf-life that makes a package of twinkies seem rapidly biodegradable. But there were a few costly battles in which the victor might acquire an entire $4.15 bag of child-slave harvested instant Nestle coffee, or where the defeated side would forfeit three days worth of breakfast trays. Personally, I never won anything more than experience, but damn, do I have a vicious game now.
The pieces, when retired from fighting, would stay inconspicuously hidden inside a frosted white plastic cup with tight fitting lid. Even during many jailhouse blitzkrieg shakedowns, they never once attracted the attention of contraband fiending correctional officers. But that would all change on one fateful morning.
Incredibly fitting, that morning I was awoken from a dream in which I was a small child in a Jewish family during the Nazi Occupation of Poland. I went from dreaming about a Gestapo raid, to find two very real Gestapo like characters forcefully rendering my cell to an early morning surprise shakedown. Their faces were unfamiliar and the tone their words took to was one of extreme sarcasm. They found the cup and with it, the contents it dearingly held. They then interrogated me about the means to which I carved and dyed the pieces. They wanted me to confess to cutting and shaving the soap figurines with an illegal razor blade, but I continued to contest that my only means was a length of string and a plastic spoon. Before the interrogation tired, two to three pieces at a time, the chess set was taken from the safety of its homely cup and casually placed into the side pocket of one of the guard’s mock military, navy-blue, commando pants.
Throughout the rest of the morning, a number of dedicated chess players and myself vigilantly tracked and followed the bulge in his side pocket, hoping to witness the protusion against the pants’ fabric disappear. If his pockets did deflate, it meant that our pieces, my beloved creations, had made their way into the garbage can behind the guard station. We already began the plans for a real world, covertly militaristic operation to extract them back in an act of defiant reclamation. But the bulge remained an obvious apparel accessory for his entire eight hour shift. A couple chess-playing inmates distastefully and unfruitfully begged and pleaded for him to leave them in the garbage oh his way out of work. Yet each time, wordless, he only replied with a convincingly despicable grin.
After being un-racked from the afternoon shift change that acted as his dramatic exit to stage left, we asked the more familiar guard, officer Senger, about the officer he had just relieved. Officer Zeena was the superfluous name of the swindling swine responsible for stealing our hand-crafted soap chess pieces. Senger explained that Officer Zeena continually brags about auctioning off jail-house contraband on the internet for a plush in-between paycheck lining of his pockets. Knowing the artistic integrity of the pieces, being that he had caught us playing before, Senger in a futile attempt to comfort us, reassuringly stated that officer Zeena the fuck face would probably earn $300 or more off of our jail-house chess set. He continued to tell us how Officer Zeena that shit bag, in an attempt to increase his auctions values, would create harsh and false back-stories about riots in which the items he stole and auctioned off were supposedly confiscated during.
It breaks my heart. All of it. The whole ordeal. Even the knowledge that, as inmates, we are out of a chess set to play countless more games with is unbearably saddening. Even more depressing is the notion that some Obama-worshiping, rich liberal, chess fanatic will win, the now auctioning chess set and then place them as brut artifacts, incarcerated to a shelf in his den or office. Never to see another battle again, two contending groups of mercenaries will minimally act as a reminder to some mid-level, Prozac-popping accountant that his professional occupation offers him the ability to afford such luxuries, on top of his guaranteed full medical benefits and transferable 401K retirement plan. Perhaps the most disastrous and sickening thought of the whole jail house debacle is the knowledge that Officer Zeena the good-for-nothing scum face will most likely be purchasing in excess, some name brand, over-priced, cancer causing chewing tobacco, to accompany cases upon cases of some commercialized, over-rated, piss tasting brewskies and all at the expense of inmate jailhouse ingenuity.
But instead of wallowing in the civil injustices of abusive power structures, I think I’d much rather start subversively widdling away at those same abusive power structures. Because it’s only a matter of time before the alienated and disempowered exclaim to their faultering oppressors, “Check Mate!”
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
The Anti-Retirement Treatise: the transposed remains of a Jimmy Buffet and The Clash fatal head-on collision car crash
Don turned 46 today. Incarcerated, with no letter or hallmark card sent from the place he once called home; the only birthday gifts he received was a few congratulatory, homophobic-driven, replacement-for-hugs, masculine-reinforcing, pats on the back, along with a $1.35 bag of oatmeal-less, oatmeal and raisin cookies (1) from Curtis and two over-sized shots of unfairly traded, plantation grown and slave harvested coffee (2) from yours truly. To be fair, the cookies did have raisins, even if they were listed under all the carcinogenic preservatives as the last ingredient.
Don, not as in Don=the godfather, but as in Don=the early retiree from the harsh weathered reality of northeastern Washington, has become one of my jailhouse buddies. After running moonshine, dandelion wine, and other mischievous brews for twenty some-odd years, Donny left his 4th generation Washington rooted family for a warmer Autonomous future. And so, a dozen or so years ago he made his way to the south Texas coast.
A couple years after arriving, Don could no longer justify the necessity of paying for a home in such a fair-weathered climate, consequentially adding his name to the short list of people I have met who willingly decide to become and remain homeless (3). Once lessened from the burden of rent, Donald then realized that bosses as well as landlords were to become a thing of the past. Sure he takes upon an occasional pay-for-labor task to in return treat himself to the occasional luxury, like the addictive coronary-clogging, life’s too short, corner-store hot dogs or the megalithic, 64oz high fructose filled to the brim, thirst-quenching, years lessening, fountain soda. But for the most part, he refuses work and enjoys his anti-retirement, “semi-charmed kind of life.”
One of the few people you’ll ever find at a downtown library willingly wanting to read – as opposed to the mass majority of folks who populate such places in either an attempt to steer clear of the “Anti-poor so the rich can get more” police brutality reach, or the kids forced to write research papers while being unconsentingly stuck under the oppressive and suffocating hands of compulsory education’s dream-smashing brutality. Don will check out a couple of books and take them to a nearby park to read in between naps.
Don, Donny, Donald, will be locked up for a total of 256 days as an institutionalized form of pentenance for the offense of creating his own anti-retirement, against the establishment, unplanned paradise (4). Of course now locked-up in the serious hazard to your health, Nueces County Jail, it is Don’s love for literature and high fructose sweetened, artificially flavored, fruit punch beverage that keep him mostly sane. In his already one hundred and some odd forty days of time served, Donny has read close to a grand total of a hundred and some odd books (5). His unrelenting requests for new literature out of the jailhouse “library” (more honestly read as the hallway closet full of books to which no inmate has direct access to) is without a doubt the only reason unit 4-P ever sees a change in our book selection.
Donald, although by profession – or lack thereof – a hobo, cannot for the drunken life of himself, grow the respectable and stereotypical homeless, sun bleached beer-scented beard. Instead, he compromisingly rocks a mustache that looks as if it had been imported from Denmark and a decade old beard, that through its own self-determination and resistance against all authority, remains seemingly well trimmed and kept, making neither the use of scissor nor razors an immediate or far-fetched threat (6).
All of this time being forcibly kept locked away in a large concrete, compartmentalized box has not waivered his anti-retirement, future investment plans one single bit. If anything it has done just the exact opposite. It has been megabyte of memory added onto an already overfilled and practically crashed hard drive that he calls his past life. A soon to be outdated file, inventoried in the folder marked hard times then effortlessly dumped in the trademarked desktop icon reserved as the place for memories trashed. The only thing that can rival his love for a fresh salted breeze and coastal bend fishing, is his undying hatred for recycled stale air, that has long since been bludgeoned to death by the miracle of central air-conditioning.
Within staying true to his anti-retirement, consistent as the scales of a chameleon philosophy, the first investment he plans on making, after being released during next year’s February, is the easily acquisitioned blanket and jacket. His first stop is the thrift store, where he says he plans to say “thank you” before defiantly fleeing out the glass and steel framed door (7). His second destination will be the local Salvation Army or Good Samaritan, where after asking for a bed and blanket, and once in possession of then acquired blanket, he plans on exclaiming, “fuck your scabies filled bed!” as he quickly proceeds to the nearest fire exit (8).
It seems that sleeping under mesquite and oak trees while fishing his days away in the Gulf of Mexico’s increasingly absent marine biodiversity, is exactly how Donald, age 46, plans on spending the rest of his south Texas anti-retirement (9).
#10126758 AKA Jailbird-J
Footnotes:
(1) As much as it may seem I’m joking; the honey-less honeybuns and oatmeal-less oatmeal and raisin cookies are very much real. But to give the producers of such fine gourmet toxics the benefit of a marketing scheme doubt, they do actually state on the package of cookies “oatmeal and raisin flavored (in small print) iced cookies” and the term honey bun is only the common term we inmates and the guards use to refer to the cleverly titled “ICED MONSTER BUNGEZ.” I shit you not.
(2) Nestle brand Nescafe Instant Coffee. Research it if you don’t believe me. Nestle is fucking baby killing swine.
(3) That is, in as much as someone can make choices, locked in chains and under the reign of industrial capitalism.
(4) His actual offense was violating probation by being homeless and publicly intoxicated.
(5) This is an estimation being he reads through at least 5 books a week.
(6) Poetic clarity – for 10 years, his beard without ever trimming has stayed under 2 inches.
(7) Having said this one day jokingly conversing, I suspect just like other lifelong thieves he will walk out the doors more inconspicuously.
(8) This is an event he claims to have already happened on a number of occasions and stating plans to do again.
(9)He actually referred to his homelessness as “retirement” and the “anti-retirement” label was super imposed by me; not only as a poetic scheme but also in an authoritative and illustrative attempt to inspiringly set apart his fuck work – fuck rent mentality from the all too typical and depressing American “me!me!me!” retiree.
(10)So there is no ten and these footnotes had no real intended purpose, except maybe an after the fact notion and explanation of I try to be ridiculous yet maintain an honesty. By “an honesty,” I do not mean objectivity, because fuck all that noise!
Written from the Nueces County Jail
(Transcribed by Charity)
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