He is from Argentina. He's tall and very dark brown. Soil dark brown. He's six foot three or six foot four, but add in the bouncy monstrosity of his 'fro and you could then add on six inches or more. He weighs no more than 125 pounds and so his clothes sa off of him, more closely resembling window drapes. Throughout the length of his arm the thickest section is where his hands attach to his wrists. He is the epitome of what it means to be a human stick. When he walks around it most closely resembles a stringless dia de los muertos (calaca) puppet.
I know very little Spanish and he knows even less English, so when we talk it is very limited. The other inmates have come to call him "Seagull" because after each meal he hovers around the garbage can, with a large plastic cup in hand, he scoops everyone else's leftovers into it. For some reason the great majority of other inmates can't stand it.
The black inmates beat him to the garbage and the wait for him to get there. When he does, with exaggerated movements almost taunting him, they dump whats left of their meals instead of giving it to him.
The young Hispanics will accidentally drop their bread on the floor and then after recovering it will send one of their to deliver it. Sometimes the filth on the bread is still really obvious, but they'll hand it to Seagull with a sincere face of charity.
The group of older Hispanics always share portions of their beans and rice, but they never forget to add snot, spit and mucus before giving it. They will even have a friendly conversation in Spanish while doing it.
The whites of all ages, to no surprise, are by far the worst. They try to police the situation by complaining to the guard that its not fair that he gets more to eat. They loudly scoff, scold, insult and harrow him in a language he cannot understand but with a body language that is universally crystal clear.
I can't help but to feel that all of this is more than an exotic big bird being locked in a cage and fed scraps as a source of amusement. This isn't just ignorant cruelty, but intense and deep feelings of hate. I've tried to ask each group of inmates why they do this, and tehy are all quick to get aggressive and I am even quicker to go back to my form of self-protective silence. Sometimes I feel just as guilty for perpetuating this silence through my own silent passivity. How are we ever going to ever see that it is us the inmates, against them, the guards, if we can't even see each other as humans?
Even my use of the nickname Seagull really started bothering me, that is until I realized how anthropocentric I was being. I was viewing seagulls only as I was raised to see them. I was only seeing them as a scavenger of human trash but now I can see that calling the young Argentinian as a seagull is far from an insult and may be an accurate description,
Seagulls are forced to rummage through a city's trash only because cities have successfully ruined their original food sources. Industrial commercialized fishing has stolen most of the ocean's fish while hospitals, factories and refineries have polluted all the world's water. The ecosystems of beaches have become places of beer, tanning and other senseless forms of recreation. After seagulls are born on their native sea shores, they are quickly forced to migrate into cities to subsist on what humans deem waste and trash.
Now the young Argentinian is forced to salvage what he can from inmate's leftovers because he has no access to subsistence food sources. Argentina's land, people, forests and beaches have been converted into resources for hospitals, factories and refineries serving the on-demand exploitative consumption of cities, especially the rich and white ones. Ex-African slave/indigenous forests and shore communities that share the young Argentinian's beautiful espresso skin tone are all but almost completely removed from their native lands and are forced into city centers, slums and even landfills. Their natural communities they were once a part of are now Burger King cattle ranches and the ultimate alcohol and club filled spring break hot spots.
All of this abstract theorizing and critiquing does not change these very real world situation though. Seagulls are still dying from consuming pounds of plastic instead of pounds of fish, while Seagull himself is being subjected to extremely cruel and malicious behavior from other inmates in an already over-bearing, disempowering and oppressive system. Beaches and forests are dead or dying from our gross domestic consumption. Inmates are spending time policing and oppressing each other instead of making attempts to challenge their mutual and overriding conditions. The destructive ideas of waste and trash are still as prominent in the outside world as they are on the inside. The world is going to be completely discarded, just as the inmates in jails and prisons have been, just so a select few can have a world of power, control and money.
This isn't a very good ending and that bothered me at first, but now I'm not worried about an ending. The world's major religions start with people and end with abstractions of faith and paradise and sometimes we as radicals/people/animals are guilty of the same thing. We look at theories as a relief ending point of some understanding instead of using them as a starting point for tangible and meaningful action. We look at events with their own beginnings, middles, and ends instead of looking at our lives as a constant struggle. Who cares if some battles are won if you and everything you are fighting for gets eradicated before the war's end?
This is not the only an end to my writing, but a beginning- no, a continuation of my personal struggle. A struggle that is interwoven into other struggles, human and non-human alike. A struggle of seagulls. A struggle of Seagull. A struggle against those who destroy life.
Showing posts with label Nueces County Jail. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nueces County Jail. Show all posts
Monday, November 9, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
To Whom It May Be of Interest
Sandra C. aka Sandanista posting some backlog letters from everyone's favorite part-time pop star, Jayson Tx. In this entry, I included the prefacing letter to illuminate the lulzy quality of Jaybird's writing. This kid, I swear.
To My Dearest Sandanista, In the wee hours of 9/25/9
To begin with, to say I'm in crisis for paper and up past my bedtime would be an understatement. To start off a letter with an understatement would be blasphemous. To start off another sentence with "to" would just be annoying. To waste four lines when I have only 20 to write with would be quite inane. To use inane instead of silly to sound smarter is the epitome of Jayson Tx, to use it incorrectly or in improper context would be the icing on the honey-less honey bun... to say I miss you more than I miss full sheets of paper might become soon self-evident. To say self-evident reminds me of this country's genocidal forefathers, or to say in clearer words slave-owning crackers, to continue on in this format seems beyond my current control. To speak of current control reminds me of currency control. To write currency control, I feel I am paying homage to Tesla. Yes, Nicola. To further currency control the lizard people, Illuminati, Ron Byers, CCPD and the Zapatista will bankrupt the federal reserve to bring about the new world order. To get to the point, or to make a futile attempt at such would be to state that I found a "to whom it may concern" letter. To say I lost it for a while would be correct. To further leave it up to you to determine if it is of postable character would be appropriate to say the least. To end this ridiculous excuse of a letter now would be to save you the way Jesus saved my brother. To clarify: while in jail J-dizzy saved my bro. Eeek.
Evict me from your worries
and let me squat in your loving affection,
Jayson Tx
_____________________________________________________________________________________
? 9/14/9 ?
To Whom it May Be of Interest (And Yes, Even the F.B.I. this time),
The last couple of days have been "do art and forget about the real world" type of days. My good friend the Colonel, as well as one of the sweetest people I have ever met got tased a couple of nights ago for talking too loud. The correctional officer who tased him has spent the last two days joking and bragging about the whole incident.
My personal food trays during the last couple of days have consisted of not much more than apple sauce and iceberg lettuce. I am told consistently by the guards "Damn, they doin' you wrong. Real wrong." Yet in the same breath they refuse to use what minute power they actually have to help me out a little bit. Even the tone of this letter is following my typical grievance-form voice.
About three of my friends that I met in here all recieved 10-15 year sentences this last Friday, all from the same judge, who as one underpaid public defender stated, "he was probably just having a bad day". My friends will have to do the majority of their sentences, because they were enhanced as habitual criminals- the Texas equivalent of a three strikes law. One will be 72 years old or dead before he leaves the custody, or more appropriately the ownership, of the Texas Department of Corrections. All the while, a Nazi-sociopath pimp who brags about raping and killing women, or in his terminology "facilitating a use and the discarding them", will be back on the street in less than sixty days. He has two brainwashed, desperate and traumatized sex workers waiting and saving up money for him. He explicitly stated that he's also trying to find a way to discard of them as well.
The most upsetting part- okay, I can't say that- but an upsetting part is, this neo-industrialist, rapist, drug dealer not so explicitly explained that one of them has to go because he's falling in love with her and that would disrupt his power structure he currently has and needs in place. You really do have to commodify and objectify something to exploit and destroy it.
But don't worry, even in this meek and disparaging mood I'm still thriving and surviving. Resiliency. It helps to know that I'm a white male and if I choose to, in as much as we can make choices in this culture, I can wear long sleeve button down shirts and slacks and never make it back to similar confines. Of course, I will probably make some right choices and my reward will be the gift of a longer repeat to my current conditions, but it helps to know I have choices. I actually feel more alive than I have in months, and more human, which if anything means simply that I have an upper hand in some unusual way against those oppressing me. That's more than the rest of the world, human and non-human can say. Or maybe the feel the same way.
Even the strongest wall will crumble
and the thickest of cages will eventually rust through.
To My Dearest Sandanista, In the wee hours of 9/25/9
To begin with, to say I'm in crisis for paper and up past my bedtime would be an understatement. To start off a letter with an understatement would be blasphemous. To start off another sentence with "to" would just be annoying. To waste four lines when I have only 20 to write with would be quite inane. To use inane instead of silly to sound smarter is the epitome of Jayson Tx, to use it incorrectly or in improper context would be the icing on the honey-less honey bun... to say I miss you more than I miss full sheets of paper might become soon self-evident. To say self-evident reminds me of this country's genocidal forefathers, or to say in clearer words slave-owning crackers, to continue on in this format seems beyond my current control. To speak of current control reminds me of currency control. To write currency control, I feel I am paying homage to Tesla. Yes, Nicola. To further currency control the lizard people, Illuminati, Ron Byers, CCPD and the Zapatista will bankrupt the federal reserve to bring about the new world order. To get to the point, or to make a futile attempt at such would be to state that I found a "to whom it may concern" letter. To say I lost it for a while would be correct. To further leave it up to you to determine if it is of postable character would be appropriate to say the least. To end this ridiculous excuse of a letter now would be to save you the way Jesus saved my brother. To clarify: while in jail J-dizzy saved my bro. Eeek.
Evict me from your worries
and let me squat in your loving affection,
Jayson Tx
_____________________________________________________________________________________
? 9/14/9 ?
To Whom it May Be of Interest (And Yes, Even the F.B.I. this time),
The last couple of days have been "do art and forget about the real world" type of days. My good friend the Colonel, as well as one of the sweetest people I have ever met got tased a couple of nights ago for talking too loud. The correctional officer who tased him has spent the last two days joking and bragging about the whole incident.
My personal food trays during the last couple of days have consisted of not much more than apple sauce and iceberg lettuce. I am told consistently by the guards "Damn, they doin' you wrong. Real wrong." Yet in the same breath they refuse to use what minute power they actually have to help me out a little bit. Even the tone of this letter is following my typical grievance-form voice.
About three of my friends that I met in here all recieved 10-15 year sentences this last Friday, all from the same judge, who as one underpaid public defender stated, "he was probably just having a bad day". My friends will have to do the majority of their sentences, because they were enhanced as habitual criminals- the Texas equivalent of a three strikes law. One will be 72 years old or dead before he leaves the custody, or more appropriately the ownership, of the Texas Department of Corrections. All the while, a Nazi-sociopath pimp who brags about raping and killing women, or in his terminology "facilitating a use and the discarding them", will be back on the street in less than sixty days. He has two brainwashed, desperate and traumatized sex workers waiting and saving up money for him. He explicitly stated that he's also trying to find a way to discard of them as well.
The most upsetting part- okay, I can't say that- but an upsetting part is, this neo-industrialist, rapist, drug dealer not so explicitly explained that one of them has to go because he's falling in love with her and that would disrupt his power structure he currently has and needs in place. You really do have to commodify and objectify something to exploit and destroy it.
But don't worry, even in this meek and disparaging mood I'm still thriving and surviving. Resiliency. It helps to know that I'm a white male and if I choose to, in as much as we can make choices in this culture, I can wear long sleeve button down shirts and slacks and never make it back to similar confines. Of course, I will probably make some right choices and my reward will be the gift of a longer repeat to my current conditions, but it helps to know I have choices. I actually feel more alive than I have in months, and more human, which if anything means simply that I have an upper hand in some unusual way against those oppressing me. That's more than the rest of the world, human and non-human can say. Or maybe the feel the same way.
Even the strongest wall will crumble
and the thickest of cages will eventually rust through.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Excerpt from a Letter (Written 8-23-09)
Parts of this letter have been excluded for personal/security reasons.
...
When I first got locked up I was so so angry and energetic. Now I'm starting to get in the "groove" of things, and I hate it. ... Today I spent more time with the sociopath woman killer... He scares me so much. I gave him my email. He thinks we are not only on the "same side" but also potential friends. If he emails me when he gets out we will have to come up with some evil plan for him, or at least mischievous.
The "Colonel" is this schizophrenic who is on lock-down for 23 hours a day, and they only let him out for one hour between like 2 and 3 am, and so he just came to my door and we talked for a bit. He's a sweetheart, and it hurts to see him in here, especially with his infliction. It can't be good. He's been in here for like 4 months for improper use of 9-11, but I think there is more to it.
Well I really was just writing because I was wide awake thinking about my cell mate, and I also don't want to have to go to bed and have nightmares. Last night they were the worst they've ever been in here... I hate it... but good news: I read today about inmates setting a prison on fire in Kentucky and about a dam being taken down here, and about Mexico City decriminalizing drugs, and about California having to let go of thousands of inmates cause they can't afford them, and about "natural disasters" getting more intense in the next 20 years--I only hope I can do the same--no I'll make sure I can do the same.
...
Something meaningful and inspiring,
-Jailbird J
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
Excerpt from a Letter (Written 8/20/09)
Some parts are left out for personal/security reasons.
He identifies as an industrialist, neo-nationalist (Nazi), Mormon, superior to women, ex-military current militia patriot, drug dealer (meth), pimp (escort security), and he hopes to buy land and clear cut it to make money to buy guns. He wants all minorities dead, all women to know their place, all disabled and white trash dead (haha he grew up "trash"). He thinks Stalin and Lenin's murder of 26 million people was necessary, he knows the holocaust was a lie, he kills animals for fun (and talks about it). He thinks that we're "friends" (i.e. he thinks I'm dumb enough to help him in his causes), he's anti-government but pro-America, he's disgusting, creepy, hateful, and a sociopath. He creeps me out more than any child molester (chomos as they are called here), judge, or cop I have ever met and I've met some evil mother fuckers.
Anyways after we finish talking I get so upset and overwhelmed... talking to you on the phone was the only thing to calm me down and make me happy.
...
I am forced to drink city water in here which is disgusting not only in taste, but in contaminants. I think David said this was one among only 20 cities whose water system completely failed the national standards (which are horrible to begin with). for 21 days I couldn't eat any of the food in here save for oranges, lettuce, and occasionally potatoes. I came in at 185 and now I weigh 168... and last week I was 165 so I'm doing better. When I get to state jail they'll have better (but not good and definitely not healthy) food, and I hope to get back to 175 before leaving. My arms have dwindled and my chest too. Oddly enough, my stomach has bloated out. I honestly don't think my arms have been this skinny since I was 12. If not 12 for sure 13.
I'm almost positive that without receiving protein or nutrients if I were to "work out" it would just burn away more muscle. I don't want to become one of those skinny malnourished vegan anarchists (i.e. my friends). But it's all set up to make me break down and start punishing myself, haha they have to be joking themselves to think I'm about to do that.
I'm in a mental health unit because I have a wheat allergy and this is the safest place for me in case of a "medical emergency". So I'm in a unit with 74 people--two to a cell except for the "high risks" that stay in their cells on a 23 hour lock-down. Most of the people aren't crazy (I mean as far as civilized people go) but there are some inflicted people and it breaks my heart. It also breaks the law that they are in here but they have no one advocating for them. I've seen a schizophrenic dwindle to nothing because of this environment...
This guy "The Colonel" is on 23 hour lockdown and sings children's songs. He's incredibly smart and kind but he's a paranoid schizophrenic and so things trigger him and he goes on yelling rampages. He's allowed out from 1-2am by himself, and the rest of the time he stays in his cell. :( The guards purposefully fuck with these inflicted people to set them off for entertainment purposes. So do the inmates. I've almost gotten into two fights for calling out the inmates on it (I can get in fights here but in state jail its zip my mouth for 75 days) and I've been writing grievances on the fucked up guards (which does nothing here and at state jail would make me a target).
There are also very old people in here in their 70's that are not a threat to anyone and are actually so endangered in here--their eyes are always glossed over and red from sadness or recent tears. It made me think about DGR and Lierre talking about how our movements don't have elders, we don't respect them and she's right, warriors are nothing without the guidance of elders. We just follow the same way the rest of this culture treats them... lock em up in homes if they're rich, and in jails if they're poor. We need to reclaim our elders and the knowledge they carry with them.
It's about 30-35% black in here when there are less than 10% blacks in the county. Every single one in my unit came from the same neighborhood. The same 8 blocks. The run down part of town on refinery row.
...
Just to give you an idea of what I'm eating in here: for breakfast I had 1 ounce of cereal with a little cartoon of 2% puss and blood filled industrially factory farmed raped milk, and 3/4 (four out of six slices) of an orange. Then for lunch I had a "salad", which is 2 ounces at most of ice burg lettuce with no dressing (hah), a half of a half of an orange (3 slices this time), one 3 ounce hamburger/soy patty. No bun, no veggies, and no dressing. Also two stick of celery this size...
______________________
[______________________] <---This is the size of the picture he drew me.
Dinner will be just like lunch, and I actually get fed better than everyone else because I have a "special diet". It all sounds miserable but it's not. I have Endgame 1 & 2, and Culture of Make Believe. I'm waiting to get more books when I get to state. I have a cool ass anti-civ celly and some other interesting people... we carved and molded a chess set out of soap bars and died the dark pieces with coffee... so playing that has been lots of fun.
I get tons of letters, not tons but comparatively more than the others, and I know that I've got hella love and support from the outside. It breaks my heart to hear from people getting locked up and coming out to find that everyone they knew and loved is dead (no exaggeration). Fuck prisons and jails, burn them down. But also please please please x32 don't worry. I guarentee I'll be fine, plus it's only making me hate them more. If we could pass out anti-civ literature in every jail/prison (to people who already hate and are most negatively affected by it), civilization would be sooo 2009.
...
...
-Jailbird J
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Letter to "Linda"
Space Jam here, for another installment of the Jayson Thomas Fuck the Law Reader.
Today is a special treat for those of yall who aren't from our hood (361 Represent).
If you haven't ever been to Corpus Christi and wonder what it is like, this letter and the characters (some would say caricatures, but those of us who grew up here know all too well the reality of the contents/context) therein are a pretty accurate representation of the culture that surrounded, (in)formed, rejected, disfigured, inhabited, accepted us--making many of us the people we are today: completely fucking insane. In a totes awesome/endearing way, though; we keep it real. Frealz.
I've taken the liberty of breaking the letter up into paragraphs for ease of reading, as well as clarifications of places/events (they will be in italics within brackets).
Much love to my boy Jay, holdin' it down in the dirty third.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Linda,
Girl, I miss you. Bein locked up in her is just not fair cuz I love you more than I love weed. Now I know I've said that before, but baby girl, you gots to believe me. You know, it's like that one time at Bayfest [an awesome/trashy, annual city festival/carnival complete with rides, food/vendor booths, and washed up musical acts] when when I shot them ducks and gots you that big tweety bird. Girl, I spent 30 bucks tryin to shoot them ducks. You know how much weed I could have bought with dat der money. Cuz I'm a balla, I could of got like 2 blizzies off my cuz.
Speaking of my cuz, Shorty, I've heard you been calling him up sayin that you think about leavin me. My other cuz be sayin that you be sayin that your girl be sayin that 2 weeks is too long to wait for no man. Now I know I be servin some hard time but baby girl, you know I gots to do me for me.
So I know Whataburger [awesome local fast food place] be payin you on Friday, and I wonderin, well you know I love you, I gots you that tweety bird, you know, and since I can't be on the grind, since I aint stuntin in here, can you put some money on my commissary. These guards be treatin me bad like my name's Yolanda and I just shot Selena. Shorty, I tried to holla at Hot Z-95 [local rap/R&B station], you know, send out a dedication to you, cuz i know you be listening for our song, but they don't be acceptin no collect calls up in that ho.
First thing when I get up out of here, Ima smoke a blunt and then take you out to eat at Boat N Net [fast food seafood shack. the drive thru "intercom" is a pvc pipe you yell into] and go see a dollar movie. Nah you know what, my cousin owes me like $12.50 for some herb I be sellin, so I'm gonna take you out to the movie and then Golden Corral. I mean I get out on Monday but let's wait til Wed, you know movies be cheaper then.
You know let's got eat and then go to the dollar show and babe, bring that big Gucci purse, so we can fill that ho up with gummy bears from Golden Corral. See if your momz will let you take some of those sodas too, cuz you know my momz only be buyin that Hill Country Fair [local cheapie store brand] stuff.
Speakin of my cousin I heard from my cuz that he saw you at the mall with your cousin and he say you be dressin all like you goin to the club, but its all good cuz I know you aint cheatin on your big daddy like that. You know that Master P song "Them Ho'z crazier than a bag of Ding Dongz" came on and I thought about you. Especially that line about "girl, can you put some money on my books, this world throwed and them cops be a bunch of crooks." That always makes me think of you.
You know speakin of which, since you my shorty and I'm your daddy, you think that when you get payed on friday you can put some money in my books. Nah, better yet check this, you know how me and your cousin used to date, well I know HEB be payin her ass on Tuesday so see if she can put some money on my books. Tell her if she remembers that one time i spent like 2 twenties on her at Bayfest trying to win her that Tweety poster that said "smoke weed." And what about that time I got money from my momz and bought both you and her a funnel cake at the rattlesnake races [exactly that].
Yo, i saw Joker from Robstown, his ass got locked up and your cousin Flip, he's in here too but I heard that the secret service be lookin at your uncle tito because he connected to all that blood shit.
When I get out of here boo, I'm going to buy me one of the Escalades on 32's. I'll get you one of them baby pits that my cousin flip be sellin you know.
Your Southside Country Gangsta,
Dope Boi
PS- Tell your brother to put some money on my books. I know Stripes [local convenience store] pays him on Monday.
Today is a special treat for those of yall who aren't from our hood (361 Represent).
If you haven't ever been to Corpus Christi and wonder what it is like, this letter and the characters (some would say caricatures, but those of us who grew up here know all too well the reality of the contents/context) therein are a pretty accurate representation of the culture that surrounded, (in)formed, rejected, disfigured, inhabited, accepted us--making many of us the people we are today: completely fucking insane. In a totes awesome/endearing way, though; we keep it real. Frealz.
I've taken the liberty of breaking the letter up into paragraphs for ease of reading, as well as clarifications of places/events (they will be in italics within brackets).
Much love to my boy Jay, holdin' it down in the dirty third.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Linda,
Girl, I miss you. Bein locked up in her is just not fair cuz I love you more than I love weed. Now I know I've said that before, but baby girl, you gots to believe me. You know, it's like that one time at Bayfest [an awesome/trashy, annual city festival/carnival complete with rides, food/vendor booths, and washed up musical acts] when when I shot them ducks and gots you that big tweety bird. Girl, I spent 30 bucks tryin to shoot them ducks. You know how much weed I could have bought with dat der money. Cuz I'm a balla, I could of got like 2 blizzies off my cuz.
Speaking of my cuz, Shorty, I've heard you been calling him up sayin that you think about leavin me. My other cuz be sayin that you be sayin that your girl be sayin that 2 weeks is too long to wait for no man. Now I know I be servin some hard time but baby girl, you know I gots to do me for me.
So I know Whataburger [awesome local fast food place] be payin you on Friday, and I wonderin, well you know I love you, I gots you that tweety bird, you know, and since I can't be on the grind, since I aint stuntin in here, can you put some money on my commissary. These guards be treatin me bad like my name's Yolanda and I just shot Selena. Shorty, I tried to holla at Hot Z-95 [local rap/R&B station], you know, send out a dedication to you, cuz i know you be listening for our song, but they don't be acceptin no collect calls up in that ho.
First thing when I get up out of here, Ima smoke a blunt and then take you out to eat at Boat N Net [fast food seafood shack. the drive thru "intercom" is a pvc pipe you yell into] and go see a dollar movie. Nah you know what, my cousin owes me like $12.50 for some herb I be sellin, so I'm gonna take you out to the movie and then Golden Corral. I mean I get out on Monday but let's wait til Wed, you know movies be cheaper then.
You know let's got eat and then go to the dollar show and babe, bring that big Gucci purse, so we can fill that ho up with gummy bears from Golden Corral. See if your momz will let you take some of those sodas too, cuz you know my momz only be buyin that Hill Country Fair [local cheapie store brand] stuff.
Speakin of my cousin I heard from my cuz that he saw you at the mall with your cousin and he say you be dressin all like you goin to the club, but its all good cuz I know you aint cheatin on your big daddy like that. You know that Master P song "Them Ho'z crazier than a bag of Ding Dongz" came on and I thought about you. Especially that line about "girl, can you put some money on my books, this world throwed and them cops be a bunch of crooks." That always makes me think of you.
You know speakin of which, since you my shorty and I'm your daddy, you think that when you get payed on friday you can put some money in my books. Nah, better yet check this, you know how me and your cousin used to date, well I know HEB be payin her ass on Tuesday so see if she can put some money on my books. Tell her if she remembers that one time i spent like 2 twenties on her at Bayfest trying to win her that Tweety poster that said "smoke weed." And what about that time I got money from my momz and bought both you and her a funnel cake at the rattlesnake races [exactly that].
Yo, i saw Joker from Robstown, his ass got locked up and your cousin Flip, he's in here too but I heard that the secret service be lookin at your uncle tito because he connected to all that blood shit.
When I get out of here boo, I'm going to buy me one of the Escalades on 32's. I'll get you one of them baby pits that my cousin flip be sellin you know.
Your Southside Country Gangsta,
Dope Boi
PS- Tell your brother to put some money on my books. I know Stripes [local convenience store] pays him on Monday.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Excerpt from a Letter (Written 8/11/09)
Here's most of another letter sent just after his court date in Texas. Some parts are left out for personal reasons.
I am in so incredibly tired and in so much pain, but I feel obligated to write you today.
I hope someone let you know the court decision but I'll explain it in detail later. This letter is going to be crude because my body is exhausted and my mind still numb and my heart still racing (it is actually having really sharp pains) but fuck fuck fuck the law! With every ounce of my dying breath, fuck 'em!
I have to say though that my overall feeling is one of absolute adorement. I have the most amazing and inspiring friends, in the whole world. You are included in this without a doubt, but let me give you the run down of the whole day. Wake up and shave, get shackled up and wait for hours to go to court and get bombarded with all sorts of legal paperwork. My friends and Mom are there, my Mom starts crying and it breaks my heart. Then I basically talk on my own behalf. I probably fell short... it's so hard to balance my actual feelings and desires with trying to sound remorseful and all that bullshit.
Then my Mom went up and fuck! What an amazing woman. She did so good Ruth ... she stayed so strong even though during the cross examination the D.A. tried to belittle and ruin her. I wanted to hurt him so badly for making my mom feel like shit. He had no right, and if his job is the excuse then he's still wrong, and even more so.
Then David came up, he did good but was David, all hella relaxed, which is what I needed. Then Charity from Roseburg went ahead and said some of the most loving things I've ever heard. You're going to love her. She has this reserve about her so that when she does speak up finally, it's usually the most amazing clear thoughts, plus she's not "read-up" or any of that. Everything she says comes from experience which is mad crazy!
Then came Sandra, clearly the most eloquent speaker. She has the capability of expressing anti- civ and anarchist sentiments in such a way and tone that it comes off as widely acceptable and desirable. She stood as such a strong Latina woman and refused to be frustrated by the D.A. I'm still crying this whole time, or most of it, it was just so much I couldn't handle it. I could hear my Mom crying behind me and it just killed me.
After Sandra came Tara who spoke with such definitive love and rage... it was so god damn inspiring. It doesn't help that we've been best friends for fucking ever, but god god damn--and when the D.A. tried to trip her up and attack her she fired back with a certainty in herself and in her words that I had never seen in any one else, period.
Then cam Emma. I literally met her the day before I got arrested, but damn I love that girl. Plus her words were straight up in your face anarchy 101. She was able to fill any gaps or doubts previously left open. Then last, but not least, was Jenny from Corpus, and god damn! If you were to take Tara's sincerity and Sandra's clarity and Mom's straight up love and put them in a flour tortilla, that was fucking Jenny.
By the I had stopped crying, but she started... and then I did again. I don't really get the point of explaining it to you like this... the whole thing was surreal. I think for a while I forgot why I was there. I even forgot that it was for me.
Also in the court was Alyse (an old friend from CC, TX) and she was so strong the whole time, Kaleb (a new friend who came all the way from Roseburg) who I literally had talked to for like 30 minutes before getting locked up but now I feel the ultimate love and friendship for, Alyssa (my new friend who's moving to Roseburg!) who I spent some time with having the best connection and personal talks with--she is such an adorable and caring kid, and George who without a doubt is my most underappreciated friend. I've been through so much with him and we go for months without talking, but I can't think of anyone else I'd want to spend hard time with. Okay maybe Mumia (???can't read it) but that's because he's already holding it down.
There was at least one more person, maybe two, but I couldn't see because all the seats were full. The amount of love that was expressed in that court is going to keep me strong every day I'm locked up and then for the rest of my life, and that's not an overstatement. I had never felt so much on the right side than I did today, I guess that's the point of all this. There I stood against the most destructive and powerful government of all times, and I was not in the least bit scared. There could not have been a single thing said or done to me that would have made me feel ashamed or in the wrong. You know, me and you are pretty pessamistic about winning (whatever that means) but today I realized that we have the most important traits to win.
Everyone in that room (my mom included) proved to me everything I had always believed. We are on the right side. Each one of us can take a thousand of them. The state can and will do fucked up things to us but we won't break.
I have never been so excited about my personal future and the future in general. I know you are deaestated that I will be locked up for a while (at least 6 months, maybe 2 years).
...
Just please remember that I'm going to fight on your side till my very last breath and that I will do anything I have to to help you out while I'm locked up, and when I get out. I mean anything and everything ...
-Jayson
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
I am in so incredibly tired and in so much pain, but I feel obligated to write you today.
I hope someone let you know the court decision but I'll explain it in detail later. This letter is going to be crude because my body is exhausted and my mind still numb and my heart still racing (it is actually having really sharp pains) but fuck fuck fuck the law! With every ounce of my dying breath, fuck 'em!
I have to say though that my overall feeling is one of absolute adorement. I have the most amazing and inspiring friends, in the whole world. You are included in this without a doubt, but let me give you the run down of the whole day. Wake up and shave, get shackled up and wait for hours to go to court and get bombarded with all sorts of legal paperwork. My friends and Mom are there, my Mom starts crying and it breaks my heart. Then I basically talk on my own behalf. I probably fell short... it's so hard to balance my actual feelings and desires with trying to sound remorseful and all that bullshit.
Then my Mom went up and fuck! What an amazing woman. She did so good Ruth ... she stayed so strong even though during the cross examination the D.A. tried to belittle and ruin her. I wanted to hurt him so badly for making my mom feel like shit. He had no right, and if his job is the excuse then he's still wrong, and even more so.
Then David came up, he did good but was David, all hella relaxed, which is what I needed. Then Charity from Roseburg went ahead and said some of the most loving things I've ever heard. You're going to love her. She has this reserve about her so that when she does speak up finally, it's usually the most amazing clear thoughts, plus she's not "read-up" or any of that. Everything she says comes from experience which is mad crazy!
Then came Sandra, clearly the most eloquent speaker. She has the capability of expressing anti- civ and anarchist sentiments in such a way and tone that it comes off as widely acceptable and desirable. She stood as such a strong Latina woman and refused to be frustrated by the D.A. I'm still crying this whole time, or most of it, it was just so much I couldn't handle it. I could hear my Mom crying behind me and it just killed me.
After Sandra came Tara who spoke with such definitive love and rage... it was so god damn inspiring. It doesn't help that we've been best friends for fucking ever, but god god damn--and when the D.A. tried to trip her up and attack her she fired back with a certainty in herself and in her words that I had never seen in any one else, period.
Then cam Emma. I literally met her the day before I got arrested, but damn I love that girl. Plus her words were straight up in your face anarchy 101. She was able to fill any gaps or doubts previously left open. Then last, but not least, was Jenny from Corpus, and god damn! If you were to take Tara's sincerity and Sandra's clarity and Mom's straight up love and put them in a flour tortilla, that was fucking Jenny.
By the I had stopped crying, but she started... and then I did again. I don't really get the point of explaining it to you like this... the whole thing was surreal. I think for a while I forgot why I was there. I even forgot that it was for me.
Also in the court was Alyse (an old friend from CC, TX) and she was so strong the whole time, Kaleb (a new friend who came all the way from Roseburg) who I literally had talked to for like 30 minutes before getting locked up but now I feel the ultimate love and friendship for, Alyssa (my new friend who's moving to Roseburg!) who I spent some time with having the best connection and personal talks with--she is such an adorable and caring kid, and George who without a doubt is my most underappreciated friend. I've been through so much with him and we go for months without talking, but I can't think of anyone else I'd want to spend hard time with. Okay maybe Mumia (???can't read it) but that's because he's already holding it down.
There was at least one more person, maybe two, but I couldn't see because all the seats were full. The amount of love that was expressed in that court is going to keep me strong every day I'm locked up and then for the rest of my life, and that's not an overstatement. I had never felt so much on the right side than I did today, I guess that's the point of all this. There I stood against the most destructive and powerful government of all times, and I was not in the least bit scared. There could not have been a single thing said or done to me that would have made me feel ashamed or in the wrong. You know, me and you are pretty pessamistic about winning (whatever that means) but today I realized that we have the most important traits to win.
Everyone in that room (my mom included) proved to me everything I had always believed. We are on the right side. Each one of us can take a thousand of them. The state can and will do fucked up things to us but we won't break.
I have never been so excited about my personal future and the future in general. I know you are deaestated that I will be locked up for a while (at least 6 months, maybe 2 years).
...
Just please remember that I'm going to fight on your side till my very last breath and that I will do anything I have to to help you out while I'm locked up, and when I get out. I mean anything and everything ...
-Jayson
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
Excerpt from a Letter (Mon 8/03/09)
This is most of an older letter sent from the Roseburg Jail. Some parts are excluded for possible security reasons.
I Hate Jail, it is a cold and desperate place. They make it that way to break your spirits, but I refuse to let them break mine. I'm goin to stay strong through all of this no matter how ridiculous their attempts at punishing me may be. In case my Mom hasn't informed you, here's the brief rundown. They are trying to prosecute me because I fled probation. I fled probation because I was miserable. The probation was for graffiti ... So the only thing you didn't know was that I was still on the run for it ... So I'm facing 2 years in State Jail. If so I will serve day for do all two years.
This is so ludicrous. Most cases of rape and manslaughter get 10 years in prison with parole out in 18 months--but this is capitalism. This is a culture that puts a price on everything it owns. It clearly values buildings over women and children. Yes, I hate it. Yes we will change it, or die trying.
So there is an 18-20% chance that we can convince them not to lock me away and an even smaller chance that I will be able to leave the state of Texas, but I want you to know I am trying hard and you are one of the main motivating factors. Look at the bright side, I'll have some crazy amazing stories when I get back.
So they have been moving me every few days, and every time they do, they take all my shit away, including my legal paperwork and letters. I finally have a chance to write you, but I still have to make it short because my wonderful Mom has to transcribe it via e-mail to you ... I did not fully realize how much people care about and depend on me until I got kidnapped away from them.
It took 7 very long days to get to my destination of Nueces County Jail. Sleeping shackled sitting up in a van is no fun at all. They forced McDonalds happy meals down my throat three times a day for the whole 7 days. I kind of know how you feel being surrounded by sexist, racist and homophobic people who by no means "get it". The skinheads and Nazis are pissed that I didn't join them for their protection, but I've been fighting them since I was 14 and I'm not going to stop now.
It's scary how segregated jail and prison are. Even if I get locked up there is good work to do from in here. ...
Until the last cop is hung by the entrails, or the last judge.
-Jayson
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
I Hate Jail, it is a cold and desperate place. They make it that way to break your spirits, but I refuse to let them break mine. I'm goin to stay strong through all of this no matter how ridiculous their attempts at punishing me may be. In case my Mom hasn't informed you, here's the brief rundown. They are trying to prosecute me because I fled probation. I fled probation because I was miserable. The probation was for graffiti ... So the only thing you didn't know was that I was still on the run for it ... So I'm facing 2 years in State Jail. If so I will serve day for do all two years.
This is so ludicrous. Most cases of rape and manslaughter get 10 years in prison with parole out in 18 months--but this is capitalism. This is a culture that puts a price on everything it owns. It clearly values buildings over women and children. Yes, I hate it. Yes we will change it, or die trying.
So there is an 18-20% chance that we can convince them not to lock me away and an even smaller chance that I will be able to leave the state of Texas, but I want you to know I am trying hard and you are one of the main motivating factors. Look at the bright side, I'll have some crazy amazing stories when I get back.
So they have been moving me every few days, and every time they do, they take all my shit away, including my legal paperwork and letters. I finally have a chance to write you, but I still have to make it short because my wonderful Mom has to transcribe it via e-mail to you ... I did not fully realize how much people care about and depend on me until I got kidnapped away from them.
It took 7 very long days to get to my destination of Nueces County Jail. Sleeping shackled sitting up in a van is no fun at all. They forced McDonalds happy meals down my throat three times a day for the whole 7 days. I kind of know how you feel being surrounded by sexist, racist and homophobic people who by no means "get it". The skinheads and Nazis are pissed that I didn't join them for their protection, but I've been fighting them since I was 14 and I'm not going to stop now.
It's scary how segregated jail and prison are. Even if I get locked up there is good work to do from in here. ...
Until the last cop is hung by the entrails, or the last judge.
-Jayson
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
The Impossible Palm Tree (A Primer on Subversive Golf Course Maintanence, or a Lack Thereof)
I got moved to a new cell--one on the second tier with no bunk--so I get the whole thing to myself. Most of my view from the window is blocked by a palm tree, or actually, a number of them. They are of course exotics, not native to this area. That's a horrible drawing of one of them...
They got me thinking about two things: leverage and breaking points.
Leverage points. This tree is incredibly skinny about half way up its trunk, and when the wind blows, it threatens to snap in two. If it did, it would land right on top of a few cop cars--which is always good to think about. But more to the point, the fragile trunk reminded me of a similarities between the palm tree and interstate highways.
The palm tree is most alive at the top and in the roots, which are dependent on each other. To stay alive they have to exchange nutrients through the trunk, and if the trunk was to break at its thinnest point, the entire tree would die. Cities are the same way. They are large and interdependent on one another (as well as on the destruction of the living world).
Cities rely on highways, which work like trunks. They're the weakest point through which critical resources are exchanged. Highways thin down to the fewest lanes when they are about halfway between cities, just like the trunk between the roots and foliage of a palm tree, so it would be most effective to break or attack a highway between two large urban centers. It would take more time, resources, and work to repair a road the farther it is from the city, and this strategy would maximize the distance from both cities.
Breaking Points. The trees outside my window are particularlyweak and breakable because they are not in native soil. Civilization is the same way: it tries to mimic itself in every area, no matter its surroundings. (Las Vegas; case in point) The same is true for major religions, science, and the English language. All of these, just like civilization, try to have universality with little or no regard to their actual circumstances. It is finding or realizing these breaking points that will help bring a stop to this insane culture.
Civilization tries to impose golf courses everywhere it goes, but a golf course, (although always absurd) would not be as significant a target in Washington State as it would be in Pheonix AZ. On the smallest level, the irrigation system of a golf course would be more crucial in Arizona than in Washington. On a much larger scale, Pheonix's entire water supply would be a much more effective target than anywhere in the northwest.
Taking out a fertilizer company in the midwest would cause more overall damage than attacking one in the southwest. Targetting a rail line in New York or Chicago would have a bigger impact than choosing one in SCL or Houston, because those places aren't as dependent on public commute networks.
Think seasonally. A (displaced, tropical) tree can go without being watered for a longer time during the the wetter months than it can during the summer. Similarly, Pheonix needs and uses elictricity more in the summer than in the winter, and Seattle would be the opposite way. We sometimes get caught up in strategies and tactics that worked well once, or in one place, but--just like civilization demanding a golf course in the desert--some things are not meant to be universally applied. All tactics should be viewed circumstancially.
If what we want is to fight on the same side as nature, using seasonal, regional, and circumstancial thinking will maximize our effectiveness.
I feel I should mention a third strategy that takes both leverage and breaking points into account. Civilization is often extremely limited on a certain product or resource. These can serve as critical target points, which are not always specific to one region or area. If there was, for instance, one supplier that provided some important metal used in making computer processing components, and this metal was stored at just one climate controlled facility, no matter where the facility was in the world it would be a crucial target.
Be as diverse as the wild itself.
Most importantly, strategies are worthless unless enacted, and enacting them is impossible if you are locked up or dead. Be brave and careful, courageous and thoughtful, and let fear be a cautionary process--not a paralyzing endpoint.
Till the last exotic palm tree falls on the head of the last Nueces County Sherriff,
J-Bird
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
They got me thinking about two things: leverage and breaking points.
Leverage points. This tree is incredibly skinny about half way up its trunk, and when the wind blows, it threatens to snap in two. If it did, it would land right on top of a few cop cars--which is always good to think about. But more to the point, the fragile trunk reminded me of a similarities between the palm tree and interstate highways.
The palm tree is most alive at the top and in the roots, which are dependent on each other. To stay alive they have to exchange nutrients through the trunk, and if the trunk was to break at its thinnest point, the entire tree would die. Cities are the same way. They are large and interdependent on one another (as well as on the destruction of the living world).
Cities rely on highways, which work like trunks. They're the weakest point through which critical resources are exchanged. Highways thin down to the fewest lanes when they are about halfway between cities, just like the trunk between the roots and foliage of a palm tree, so it would be most effective to break or attack a highway between two large urban centers. It would take more time, resources, and work to repair a road the farther it is from the city, and this strategy would maximize the distance from both cities.
Breaking Points. The trees outside my window are particularlyweak and breakable because they are not in native soil. Civilization is the same way: it tries to mimic itself in every area, no matter its surroundings. (Las Vegas; case in point) The same is true for major religions, science, and the English language. All of these, just like civilization, try to have universality with little or no regard to their actual circumstances. It is finding or realizing these breaking points that will help bring a stop to this insane culture.
Civilization tries to impose golf courses everywhere it goes, but a golf course, (although always absurd) would not be as significant a target in Washington State as it would be in Pheonix AZ. On the smallest level, the irrigation system of a golf course would be more crucial in Arizona than in Washington. On a much larger scale, Pheonix's entire water supply would be a much more effective target than anywhere in the northwest.
Taking out a fertilizer company in the midwest would cause more overall damage than attacking one in the southwest. Targetting a rail line in New York or Chicago would have a bigger impact than choosing one in SCL or Houston, because those places aren't as dependent on public commute networks.
Think seasonally. A (displaced, tropical) tree can go without being watered for a longer time during the the wetter months than it can during the summer. Similarly, Pheonix needs and uses elictricity more in the summer than in the winter, and Seattle would be the opposite way. We sometimes get caught up in strategies and tactics that worked well once, or in one place, but--just like civilization demanding a golf course in the desert--some things are not meant to be universally applied. All tactics should be viewed circumstancially.
If what we want is to fight on the same side as nature, using seasonal, regional, and circumstancial thinking will maximize our effectiveness.
I feel I should mention a third strategy that takes both leverage and breaking points into account. Civilization is often extremely limited on a certain product or resource. These can serve as critical target points, which are not always specific to one region or area. If there was, for instance, one supplier that provided some important metal used in making computer processing components, and this metal was stored at just one climate controlled facility, no matter where the facility was in the world it would be a crucial target.
Be as diverse as the wild itself.
Most importantly, strategies are worthless unless enacted, and enacting them is impossible if you are locked up or dead. Be brave and careful, courageous and thoughtful, and let fear be a cautionary process--not a paralyzing endpoint.
Till the last exotic palm tree falls on the head of the last Nueces County Sherriff,
J-Bird
(Transcribed by Ruthie)
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.
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)
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)
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)
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.
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.
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