Raymond Guatemala – Koala-mala. He doesn’t pronounce much anything  correctly. Or spell. But he has beautiful handwriting.

I’ve always thought that with me being so weird or stupid (whichever) that surely I must have some hidden gift to make up for or justify it.

Only thing I’m good at is hurting people. That can’t possibly be it. I think sometimes some people are just broke. Bad broke. And no Venus de Milo.

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Dear God,

Remember when you asked Adam about eating from the tree? And he said, “The woman YOU put here with me, she gave me some fruit from the tree, and I ate it.”?

Sounds like me don’t it?  I know me being a failure wasn’t your fault at all. I just don’t understand. Anything. “You’re supposed  to know my heart. And know all the hairs on my head.  So I highly doubt you missed the tears. Even if I don’t know how to pray right there is no way you couldn’t have heard one.

Supposedly you’re touched by our feelings. How could mine have touched you and you leave me lost and alone. Alone except for the enemy. Alone except for all the people I’ve hurt.

I became what I  hated and fought. Please Jesus be touched. Please. It wasn’t the woman you gave me. It was the calling. I thought it was from you. Please help.

My own beard and hair are streaked with gray. I don’t recognize myself much in the mirror. Good. I’m dreading the point at which I have to shave. I came in weighing 320 lbs.  Went to medical for vitals to be read. Getting paperwork straight. Current weight is now 260. I don’t believe it. Blood pressure low. Pulse 128 bpm. Have horrible dizzy spells so bad I almost fall out of bed when I roll over. I think in addition to destroying my short term memory my little spell of drug abuse might have messed up something a little more serious. 260. I always thought my skeleton must weigh at least 180.

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Jerry is crazier than a circus badger. Jail is a frat-house, summer camp, and psych ward all mixed together. With some locker-room.

Amigo ( the Guatemalen) was sitting at the foot of  Jerry’s bed. Pinching his leg. Jerry kept yelling “Quit quit I’m telling you AHHH quit!” Crazy like.  Amigo didn’t quit so Jerry exposed himself and made sure Amigo and everyone else saw it.

I was disgusted. So was everyone else. Jerry laughed like said badger. I warned him. Man come on don’t do it anymore! I guess it didn’t bother Amigo as much as I thought. He pinched him again.

I was ready. I had snuck up on Jerry (his head was to me). Circus badger waved his junk again. I smacked it ALL with a size 16 sandal. Jerry jumped up and screamed like a scalded badger. He expose himself one more time, but this time I laughed. My sandal had left 3 circles (markings from the bottom of my sandal) and left the old barnyard red and swollen.

They don’t call me Hardcore for nothing.

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All things work together. I’m praying for you. Trust in the Lord. I can do all things through Christ. Read the Bible it will strengthen you.

I think people stop using cliches after someone uses one on them during a crisis. I have a beautiful Brand New BIBLE. Took a lot of trouble getting it to me. When I’m at my lowest I take it out for a little help. I look at it like its an instruction manual for a Russian nuclear sub. Written in Russian.

I guess I’ve lost my mind more than I realized. I don’t even know how to use the Bible anymore. Try letting it fall open to a scripture. Did that. The building specs on the badger skin coated tabernacle didn’t really lift my spirits. Nor did UFO’s seen by a naked profit.

I’m reading through even the New Testament and words are blurring together and my mind is loose and ungrasping. I don’t know anything.

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Whoeever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

 There was a time in my youth where my mother called me the antichrist. (she however, does not remember this EVER happening.). Just several occasions but enough  for it to take root. My brother thought and thinks it was a hoot. I didn’t and do.

At the time I puzzled over it. I didn’t feel like the antichrist. Sure I got trouble but I loved the sweet Lord.  Wouldn’t dream of overtly trying to derail any plans he might have.

A few years later I asked my Pastor if someone could be the antichrist and not know it. Perhaps the ultimate Manchuria-Candidate.

He laughed and assured me that no the antichrist was or would be fully aware of his role and participating in it with enthusiasm. Needless to say it took a huge load off my mind and heart. Now I’m portrayed as a monster. By more people I loved and cared about. I don’t feel like I’m a monster. I certainly don’t want to be a monster. But what makes something real? It is all of them treating me as if I were?  Or how I feel?

Is the value of my soul based  on popular consensus even if only a partial view is available to them? Or is my self-worth based upon what I view it as? I’m not sure. Frankenstein’s monster was created. It came into being with faults not its own. But its faults nonetheless.

In the beginning it wanted out of the cold and developed a friendship knowing something was wrong with itself but not sure what to do.  When all those around it began to attack it, it reacted and became the monster. And suffered an exile as the end result.

Maybe I’m a monster only if I become one based on my reaction to everyone. If I become what they accuse me of being then I am a monster. But if I am what my heart thinks I am then I don’t lose my humanity. I don’t know anything.

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Last night I went to bed thinking about how I could write a book if I were real wise (Dobson) insightful (Yancy) profane (King) or trendy ( I don’t know I don’t read trendy authors. Think Oprahs Book Club).

Since I’m obviously not wise or insightful I thought profane. But no.  I just don’t have it in me. Baby-killer is STILL trying to get me to curse. So I opted for trendy. I know I said I didn’t read those but I’m a liar. I just got done reading one of Oprah’s Book Club selections and I swear it was the most dull book I’ve ever read. But it was long and in prison you do what does your time (see thats the kind of line that would be in a trendy book. I might be good at this).

So. Seeing as how I’m bored to tears I thought I’d relate a little tale.  Wrote a story about it. Wanna hear it?  Here is goes…

The eighteen wheeler jerked as he shifted from first. The tail lights fuzzed through the dust it kicked up and seemed to wink at me as if they knew a secret I didn’t.  They left and never told me. I looked around. The desert was a deceiver just like the one-armed man waving from the Strip in Vegas. Smiling and waving.

It was night and it was cold. The wind ripped through my tshirt and shorts. Just this afternoon it was 118 degrees in the shade. Now it was 20 degrees in the shade. The wind assaulted me like a billion little glass daggers  ( yes, I said a billion with a B, in trendy writing you can’t just say you’re cold).

I looked up and saw a million stars. Winking at me. A million celestial truckers driving into eternity with secrets that they can’t or won’t or don’t ( yes, can’t – won’t – don’t, you HAVE to love absurd sentences) share with me.  I looked both ways and crossed the two lane highway to the truck stop. (Have to have the ambiguous ending).

 

 

Well, there goes my first little foray into trendy writing. Send me an email at kissit@gmail.com

Next installment I’ll write and use obscure literary and cultural references that no one gets but everyone pretends to so we can all look like we know about something more than American Idol and L.C. And after that, I’ll use big words EVER fewer people understand. NYT Bestseller List here I come.

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Sweeter

I wish I had been  able to be sweeter all the time. And patient. I learn incredibly well, its just always too late. I’m sorry, I wish I had been sweeter. I’m real sad. And sorry. IMW

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Tattoo Ink Reciped from Prison

Get some soot*

Put soot in bowl

Add a 1/2 cup of yellow shampoo

Mix in a shampoo cap full of water

Tablespoon of thick coffee

Stir

Add drops of water gradually if too thick

Mix until it leaves a thick film on fingers

*Soot is made many different ways. One way is to get some styrofoam cups and burn them under the metal bunk. The soot forms on the metal and is scraped off.

Needles to a tattoo gun can be made from a guitar strings, ink pen springs, and even the wire taken from inside a bread tie. There is some incredibly detailed artwork done and tattoos generally cost only 1/10 of the street cost. IMW

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I don’t know anything anymore. Nothing any more. It’s hard to be humble and gentle when you’re incarcerated. All the time hearing people talk about the horrible stuff that got them in trouble. And making it worse hearing their desire to get back out and do it again. Everyone in here is innocent. I think I’m the only one who thinks I’ve ever done anything wrong.. Two guys got into a fight today. Upstairs by my bunk. Raymond and Brad. I tried splitting them up and holding them back. Raymond stabbed Brad in the face with a broken plastic spoon. Everyone wanted them to fight so I let go and went into a toilet stall.

Brad beat Raymond up. Both were bloody. Blood all on the floor by my bed. Raymond kept calling Brad ‘nigger’. An older black man was here for a couple of days to testify in a trial. He was locked up somewhere else. I sat in the toilet stall and cried while I heard the yells of encouragement to the two fighting. When they were done I cleaned Brads mouth up from all the blood with a wet towel. I apologized for the word nigger being used. To the older black man as well. They were both taken into isolation. My nerves and soul are just being trashed. More and more. I’m not even in a position to reach them or have a desire to. I don’t know I just don’t know. I’m real sad.  IMW

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I was always Sure of Prison

Everyone thought I was crazy for being so sure that I was going to prison. I’ve known since I was a child that I would spend time here.  Was it because of all the teachers who kept telling me I was rotten and would wind up there?  Or was it somthing I just knew? Maybe.  I was certain beyond anything months ago. I had everything. And for two years I kept praying, “God please take everything from me. Take it all and let’s see if I’m still going to love you. Make sure I’m serving you for the right reasons?” Every single day I would pray that. Lost my home, my career, my reputation, all my belongings, people who claimed they were my friends. And my wife. I didn’t count her because she was part of me. Don’t pray stupid prayers. Even the disciples had to ask Jesus how to pray.

Then like the idiot I am I kept praying that same prayer. So I lost my health. And short term memory. And basic motor skills. My hands shake. Badly. Then like the idiot I am I kept praying that same stupid prayer. God you forgot my freedom. Hey Mrs. Jones! Ya forget our test today? But I know the sweet Lord very well. So I knew he would take that too. And he did. God answers prayer. Every single prayer. It just might not be the answer you want to hear. And I think I asked for too much. Because it hurts. Dear God it hurts. Losing the other half hurts worse than anything. But I haven’t left God yet. But it hurts terribly. Beyond anything I could imagine. Maybe forever. Probably forever.

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