Thursday, October 1, 2015

A Flame Imprisoned in My Bones

By Thomas Bartlett Whitaker

I awoke to the sound of someone screaming.

Before I entered this strange, broken world of steel, concrete and shattered ideals, I thought that all screams were alike. They aren't. They are as varied as types of laughter, as dreams. You can tell from a scream just how hurt someone really is, how surprised, how enraged. You can tell how crazy a person is, too. No, seriously, ask anyone who has been to prison or war: the unhinged have their own aural register, some pitch that manages to combine pain and joy and the promise of salvation all rolled into one, a horrid sound that is pretty good at making an aggressor rapidly reflect that he probably ought to have selected another victim. This scream, the one that tore me from my bunk and had me racing into the dayroom, was the sort that begged for help—help from anyone, in any measure, at any cost, so long as it came now.

I wasn't the only inmate in Tank F-4, Limestone Correctional, to be so energized. I found six or seven of the fourteen men in my section standing at their doors, each of us with the same ten-seconds-ago-I-was-asleep-and-now-I'm-awake-and-terrified expressions that we all tried equally hard to cover up. We stared at each other, trying to decide who was friend, who foe, until another shriek tore the air.

"F-3?" asked Short Dog, the black man who lived to my right.

"I think so," I responded, before heading for the tank's front door. Under normal rules, this gate would have been the boundary condition of our existence, but things in "the Stone” didn't always work according to the regs. We had several standing deals with the screws that worked F-Building. They would buzz us out of our own tanks upon request, for instance, so long as we made them look really good when ranking officers did inspections. It was a good deal for all involved: we got free rein of the four tanks in the building, and the guards got their egos massaged. We weren't the only group of inmates attempting to cross over, as I saw a dozen or so men from F-1 and F-2 through the glass doors, all packed together, waiting for the picket officer to wake up and click the doors.

Nearly everyone in F-3 was awake by the time we entered their dayroom. A few of the men looked back to see who was coming in, but most of the gathered crowd only had eyes for what was going on inside of 5 cage. Now that we were much closer, we could hear other noises, sounds that had mercifully been withheld from us until we stuck our nosy selves right into the mix: pathetic, plaintive whimpers punctuated by a wet pounding sound, vaguely porcine grunts, the squeak of rubber soles slipping over concrete floors. The sounds of war, prison style. Through momentary shifts of the crowd, gaps opened and closed, giving me a brief window onto a sadly regular scene from this incarcerated life: one inmate on top of another, fists raining down with cruel precision, blood spattered all about like a Pollock painting in hell, and not a guard anywhere within sight. Others from the pack pushed their way forward, jostling for a better view, but I had seen enough. Looking around, I spotted a guy I knew from this tank lounging by the door to his cell, sipping on a cup of coffee.

"What's all this about, Ram?" I asked, after greeting him.

"Man, you ain't even gonna believe this shit. Wanna cup?"

"Nah, I'll pass."

"Suit yerself. So, you know them clippers they keep in the D-Space?" he asked, nodding back towards the picket and atrium area. Rather than having to assign an inmate barber to F-Building, the management had simple tossed us an electric razor and let us solve our own grooming issues. Turning back towards the scene of violence, Ram nodded again. "Norm gets up early every Saturday, sos he can claim the television for cartoons, of all damned things. He hears them clippers humming, and looks into 5. Sumbitch in there had them in there, and he weren't shaving no hair on his head."

This took me a moment to unpack. "Oh," I said, finally, unsure about what else to say.

"'Oh' is right. I use them damned things three days ago, and all this time he's been rubbing them all over his sweaty coin purse."

"His...what?" I started, then held up my hand. "Nevermind, I get it. Well, you at least know not to use them again."

"Ain't nobody gonna use em again, period. First thing Norm did is grab them clippers by the cord and smash em over yonder dumbfuck's forehead. Broke to bits after three hits," Ram grinned, before ending his commentary with a snort. "Cheap-ass made in China shit. With American clippers you could whip at least ten such deviants. I'm going back to bed. Fuck this shit."

"Yeah, see you," I replied, turning back to face the crowd. Some of the men were really involved in the fight, their faces scrunched up into grimaces and weird, joyless smiles. I watched them for another minute or so, and then turned to leave. Back in the privacy of my cell, I turned my light off and lay on the cold bunk, filled with self-disgust and indecision. These things happen back here. You feel completely convinced that you ought to have done something to stop the beating, while at the same time knowing that the mob would have torn you to shreds if you had spoiled their entertainment. And who shaves themselves like that in prison anyways? It was almost worth a laugh, that, if only I could have gotten the sight of the poor kid's blood-covered face out of my head.

Prison, more than anything else, is a place of tidal forces. All of the window dressing that people in the freeworld use to mask the red-in-tooth-and-claw nature of life tends to fall by the wayside. Civility? What civility? There can be no real interpersonal decency when the balance of power is this skewed, when those at the levers hate you with the purity of the righteous. It does happen a bit between inmates, but any genuine decency between convict and agent of the system always backfires. Try being nice to a thug in body armor holding a plastic shield, a can of chemical spray, and the authority to use them both. No really: try it sometime, and see where it gets you. We do have that old opioid called religion back here, but it's mostly a scam, even more so than it is in the free. Convicts hoodwinking the parole board with born again epistemological Ponzi schemes, pseudo-prophet inmates using "revealed" knowledge of a series of incoherent Levantine folktales to construct a power advantage over their awed and credulous compatriots, failed chaplains seeking the validation denied them by citizens in the only audience that literally has to listen to their tired, half-baked theological metanarratives. It almost always reduces to power in some form or fashion, and the veneer is just thinner back here, is all. You have to try a little harder not to notice the empty booth behind the curtain. If organized religion has done any actual good to a prisoner besides providing false consolations, I haven't seen it.

Even words don't mean the same thing back here, where cells are "custody suits," and "rehabilitation" can simultaneously mean "hugging a thug" or "clubbing someone unconscious and then dumping them in a management cell for twelve months," depending on the speaker. It reminds me of a scene from Alice through the Looking-Glass:

"There's glory for you!"
"I don't know what you mean by 'glory'," Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. "Of course you don't—till I tell you. I meant, 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!'"
"But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument'," Alice objected.
"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less."

In a world where the measuring stick of right and wrong looks a lot like a metal baton, where the "good" people kill with far more premeditation and precision than anyone they claim to be applying justice to, it's really hard to find anything to believe in that doesn't leave you feeling like a fabulist. (It's even harder when the state keeps saying that you are incapable of even pondering something like ethics, and then the people—who really should know better by this point—swallow the whole thing, hook, line, and sinker.) In Night, Elie Wiesel records two moments of advice given to him for surviving the concentration camps. The first came from an older prisoner, speaking to a group of new arrivals:

We are all brothers, and we are all suffering the same fate. The same smoke floats over all our heads. Help one another. It is the only way to survive.

The second comes from one of the camp's "survivor types":

Listen to me, boy. Don't forget that you're in a concentration camp. Here, every man has to fight for himself and not think of anyone else. Even of his father. Here, there are no fathers no brothers, no friends. Everyone lives and dies for himself alone.

Below all of the other waves that toss a prisoner to and fro, this is the undertow that will kill whatever humanity is still in you by the time you leave the county jail on a Bluebird bus and arrive at the Big House. The lie that some of us tell ourselves is that we always choose option A, and always will. We don't. We won't. We may tell our supporters that pleasant fiction, but all of us—even the best of us—are forced to muzzle the angel on our shoulders from time to time in order to survive. And it fucking kills you, one tiny gash at a time. You see it happening, and you tell yourself that you have to go route A, that your soul/spirit/humanity/choose-your-synonym depends upon it. Then, in spite of your best intentions, some idiot chooses to use the community razor on his nuts, and gets beaten raw for it. Suddenly, it's a really valid question as to why you should get your teeth knocked out over his stupid ass. The justifications come so easy, you just fall right into them—and it gets easier every time. You usually tell yourself that you did as good as you could, that you were "almost" good. Well, almost only counts in horseshoes and you know this on some level, so you die a little every day, becoming what this place wants and demands you to be.

There aren't a whole lot of ways out of the labyrinth. Most people, in my experience, just adapt and close in on themselves. They get the thousand-yard stares, and convince themselves that this is some sort of merit badge. There are a few who refuse to completely pour themselves into the mold, to become "managed," and fall in love with fighting the guards, with "fading the team," as it is known. I once disregarded this option, but I've been paying more attention to it lately, once I wrapped my head around the idea that these guys might actually be more ethical than those who choose to completely socialize themselves to this world. This idea started to percolate when I saw photograph after photograph of the various protests that erupted in the wake of the deaths of Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, and so forth. The pundits on the news shows repeatedly mentioned that these were the largest and most organized protest marches since the late 60s. I immediately had a problem with this comparison (not to mention the complete elimination of the Occupy Movement from the conversation). To my knowledge, the protests of that era—especially the May 1968 student revolution in Paris—had a firm ideological program. They had a utopian vision and a concrete socio-economic and philosophical justification for their marches. The protests in Baltimore of this year were far more chaotic, the equivalent of a scream—exactly like the guys who take over the dayroom and battle the extraction goons. No hope, no program, just rage.

In his book Violence: Six Sideways Reflections, the philosopher Slavoj Zizek talks about this sort of rage as a phatic or meta-linguistic function. Phatic communications are those pointless social exchanges that happen every day: hey, how are you? Fine, thanks; you? They aren't meant to actually convey information, and if someone took your greeting as serious and proceeded to tell you about their myriad problems, you would likely be annoyed. Zizek, echoing Roman Jakobson, argues that the phatic function has a purely technical meaning, to check to see if the channel of language is working properly. In other words, the addresser and the addressee are verifying whether they are using the same linguistic code. To me, when I see photographs of the protesters in Ferguson or Baltimore, or the guys howling in the dayroom just before the team rushes in, what I see is one party asking of the other: hello, do you hear me? The crowds no longer feel that they even speak the same language as the rest of an America that stopped listening to them long ago, and the inmate has intentionally been disregarded and ignored to the point where the only exchange of information possible comes in the form of a punch. All other meaning has been lost, been detotalized. I imagine the guy getting pummeled on the floor at Limestone was thinking something similar. Hello? Is anyone there? I'm human. Are you? Please stop. Please help. Anyone.

I realized this about six months ago. About a half second later, I remember thinking: this is why I write. Unlike the dayroom pugilists, I don't care if the state is using the same semiotic code as I do; I only care to see if you are. For a long time I didn't really have an adequate understanding as to why something as apparently anemic as putting pen to paper felt so right as a response to the radical strangeness of this place. When MB6 went live, I was once again charged with narcissism by my prosecutor, who, at least, can always be counted on to play a dependable role. I just felt deep inside that all of this wrongness had to be documented. It wasn't even about me. That's why I take such care to give explanations of prison lingo or organizing principles or even just the normal, day to day routines. I am just the recorder, and I felt that someday, somewhere, someone might use some of my memories when discussing or trying to understand our era. That's all. It wasn't until recently that I have come to understand that this reaction—this desire to cement this evil in text—has a long history, and is a sort of general response whenever extremity involves moral issues. As Wiesel says in One Generation After:

Rejected by mankind, the condemned do not go so far as to reject it in turn. Their faith in history remains unshaken, and one may well wonder why. They do not despair. The proof: they persist in surviving—not only to survive, but to testify. The victims elect to become witnesses.

The only reason we know anything about what life was like in the concentration camps of the Nazis or the gulag in Russia is because of these witnesses. Before Chaim Kaplan was sent to Treblinka to be exterminated, he recorded the daily events of life in the ghetto in his Warsaw Diary. Each day in the camps, he continued to write. At various points in the text, he refers to this activity as a "mission," a "duty," a "sacred task," and "a flame imprisoned in my bones, burning within me, screaming: Record!" His "utmost concern," he later explained, was "for hiding my diary so that it will be preserved for future generations." "The drive to write down one's memoirs is powerful," observes Emmanuel Ringelblum in his Notes from the Warsaw Ghetto, "even young people in labour camps do it." In And We Are Not Saved, David Wdowinksi says that "in spite of hunger, illness, and privation, there was a compulsion to record this period in all its details." If they were caught, they were shot, notes historian Terrence Des Pres, but this didn't stop prisoners from organizing clandestine groups in the camps, tasked with gathering data for secret archives. For Des Pres, "survival and bearing witness become reciprocal acts."

In Where Are My Brothers, Auschwitz survivor Sarah Berkowitz also records having been awoken by a scream: "One night a girl in our barracks started to scream terribly in her sleep. Within minutes all of us found ourselves screaming without knowing why."
She goes on to say that

this pitiful sound, which sometimes, goodness knows how, reaches into the remotest prison cell, is a concentrated expression of the last vestige of human dignity. It is a man's way of leaving a trace, of telling people how he lived and died. By his screams he asserts his right to live, sends a message to the outside world demanding help and calling for resistance. If nothing else is left, one must scream. Silence is the real crime against humanity.

Halina Birenbaum, Margarete Buber, Nadezhda Mandelstam, Michael Berg, Elinor Lipper, and of course men like Primo Levi and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: these are the names I have come to know over the last six months, as I connected with the concept of writing as the only authentic, moral means of surviving in a world of radical evil. It is true that there is a critical difference between me and most of these men and women, found in the nature of my guilt. After reading much of this literature, I have come to see, as Des Pres did, that we write not to bear witness to internal or external guilt, but rather to describe objective conditions of evil. It is something we do, even in the face of death, that extends beyond the guilt of the individual, as Hannah Arendt notes in the last pages of Eichmann in Jerusalem:

It is true that totalitarian domination tried to establish these holes of oblivion into which all deeds, good and evil, would disappear, but just as the Nazis' feverish attempts, from June, 1942, on, to erase all traces of the massacre—through cremation, through burning in open pits, through the use of explosives and flame-throwers and bone-crushing machinery—were doomed to failure, so all efforts to let their opponents "disappear in silent anonymity" were in vain. The holes of oblivion do not exist. Nothing human is that perfect, and there are simply too many people in the world to make oblivion possible. One man will always be left alive to tell the story.

No one who has actually faced someone with a sword has believed, in that moment, that the pen is a worthy weapon of combat. The real world doesn't fit into easy clichés like that. But it is a weapon, a small one, and it doesn't ever leave my mind that while the prison may be inscribing its codes on me, I am doing the same to it each time one of these essays makes it past the razor wire and then onto your neurons. There's a tiny victory there. It's not much, nothing so dramatic as becoming a good citizen of Prison Land or getting slammed to the floor by 1300 pounds of redneck flesh. It's just enough to keep you sane, though, to have any chance at telling yourself from day to day that you are still human, at least in part.

When Alice innocently wonders "whether you can make words mean so many different things," Humpty Dumpty goes straight to the heart of the matter: "The question is," he says, "which is to be Master—that's all." The thing is, the philosophical egg is right, but perspective matters. It's so easy to look out the steel mesh of my door and onto the miles of concrete and wire and institutionalized barbarity and see only an insurmountable monolith of power. Remembering the reasons that I write, however, reminds me that, so long as such a thing as voting still exists in this world, the Master isn't the goons or administration behind them. It's you. So...hello. Is anyone there? I'm human. Are you?

During the terrible years of Yezhovschchina I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day someone recognized me. Then a woman with lips blue with cold who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all and whispered in my ear— (we all spoke in whispers there):
"Can you describe this?"
I said, "I can!"
Then something resembling a smile slipped over what had once been her face.
—Anna Akhmatova, Requiem

Thomas Whitaker 999522
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

A message from Thomas:  I have recently begun the research phase of my Master's thesis, a fairly daunting task for someone living in solitary confinement.  If you would like to help me with this, I am going to start putting some of the books I need on an wish list.  Any assistance you can give me would be greatly appreciated.  All books must come from, as Texas prisoners cannot receive books directly from individuals.  Used books through are great.  Thank you.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

How an Atheist Goes to Heaven

By Christopher Wilkins 

Note from Author:  This is not a religious article. Although symbols such as God, good, heaven, hell, faith, belief and others which are typically associated with the religion will be used in order to deduce, denote and describe the common concepts, this is not a religious article. This is no more so a religious article than is the Urantia Book a religious text. The Urantia Book is not a religious text and this is not a religious article. We may use terms such as “Atheist” and “Heaven.” So what? Atheism is a commonly held view concerning the concept of God. Heaven is a state of mind. Hell is a state of mind. In our minds is the place where we reside. It´s all inside. Whatever is to come next or not come next will take 

Now, the hell of it is that there is no place like the hell we make for ourselves inside our very own minds. The hells we create in our minds manifest for us in our daily lives. We actually get to live them. These are known as “Living Hells” of which prison is one.

I am coming to you now from the illustrious dibs that are Texas´ Death Row. And I have seen the light. Now, I would like to say that having come to Death Row has had nothing whatsoever to do with my having suddenly seen the light. But that would be ludicrous. Had I not come to Death Row, in Texas, I would surely never have slowed down long enough to ever have recognized anything concerning having seen the light. Anywhere else and I´d have blown right on through. And I know how terribly cliché it is to go to prison and get religion, but this is not a religious article. I did not say that I got religion. I said I have seen the light. Big difference.

Now, you might say: “It´s a little late, buddy,” and to that I´d say: “It´s better late than never.” And I am saying just exactly that. This is such a wonderful opportunity. No, really, notwithstanding the terrible pain and suffering I´ve caused over the course of my life, and notwithstanding the pain I, too, have suffered over the course of my life, it´s great to have finally found peace.

Look at me, look at me, look at me; see what I can do. That´s how it all starts. We´re just these obnoxious little people who want and want some more. Any attention will do. Any attention at all will suffice. Sadly.

My name is Christopher Chubasco Wilkins. There have been some scientific studies conducted and the results are in: children, by and large, tend to grow into their names. You´d think my folks would have known not to name me Chubasco (“wild wind”), but they did. But the aforementioned studies had not been conducted at the time I was named Chubasco. So, we´ll have to let them off the hook. But it´s no wonder I could not sit still with a name like “wild wind.” Who could expect a kid to do anything other than “climb the fucking walls?” Studies or no studies, we´re talking common sense.

Well, mommy got mad as hell at me for not being able to sit still. Not sitting still is a great way to get some attention. “Stop wiggling—sit your ass down somewhere.” “Fucking kid’s climbing the fucking walls.” My favorite: “Don´t move a muscle.” I´ll tell you for true that it´s truly hard not to do. Not like when I´d be told “I don´t want to hear another peep out of you,” and, invariably, I´d say, “Peep,” just to be funny. Of course mommy never seemed to find it amusing whatsoever. But it was most always good for a smack in the mouth or a whack upside the head. A great way to get some attention.

Cool way to get a sip of whisky or a shot of NyQuil or maybe a half a quay of something. Mommy hurt her hands a lot on my hard head. The booze and drugs in moderate doses helped me to “sit down and shut the fuck up.” I liked it, too. Saved mommy from having to continually smite me.

Now, lest you intuit that I´m blaming my poor dear mother for my having ended up here, let´s put all such thoughts as to these accusations to bed right here and now. My mommy dearest did not put me here. No how. No way. For that matter, while we´re at it, let´s put to rest all of the most common excuses: Society did not put me here. Bad luck did not put me here. God, as such, did not put me here. The devil did not make me do it. I accept full responsibility. I admit it. I put myself here. OK. So there you have it, not making excuses. Reasons are reasons, not excuses. Reason exhibits wisdom. In my maturity, experience has changed me. That I recognize the fact that others never get to mature, or got to mature, is of no question. Nor is the fact that I truly appreciate this opportunity…at any rate. I´m not making excuses. Just saying.

In order for one to have woken up in hell one would had to come to hell to begin with. And to begin with, I used to wiggle a lot. I got a lot of attention by wiggling. I don´t think I wiggled to get attention. Surely, I just wiggled because I could not “fucking sit fucking still.” The side effect was that it got me attention.

Quite simple, really. You have a boy called Chubasco, who craves attention and cannot sit still. Not sitting still is wiggling. Gets him attention. Attention is, however, trouble for him. For him, trouble is ever-after associated in his little mind with attention. To get attention Chubasco gets into trouble, which is not so bad when it´s just a smack in the mouth or a whack upside the head. When you´re just a little guy, it´s really no big deal. It´s as one grows, as you might suspect, that, so does the amount of trouble one tends to find oneself in. Next thing you know, you´ve even got yourself a label: “Trouble Maker.”

But, that, that was nothing. No, really. That was no big deal. It really wasn´t. Watch this, and this, see that; now, that´s something there, now ain´t it? But wait. You still ain´t seen nothing yet. And so that´s how these things grow. It´s all so elementary. You´d think that these smart, smart teachers, who are our betters would know about labeling kids. After all, studies have been conducted and the research is in: labeling children and treating children in just such a way causes them to become the epitome of said label. *Phew* It´s almost like they know what they´re doing. Like it´s all a part of some scheme. But you´d think your parents would know not to name their kid Wild Wind, then expect him to be able to sit still. I mean, really? Still, not blaming mommy, or the poor undertrained, underpaid teachers, for Christ´s sake. Just saying next thing you know you might find your ass in increasingly deeper shit. And it´s too late to say, “I´m sorry.” No one cares.

Herein lies our disconnect. It´s the way these things work. We know we´re just these little dummies because our mommies and our teachers tell us so. So we believe it. It´s even cool to see just how dumb we can be. Now, factor in the drugs of every kind. Every kind would include the plethora. A veritable smorgasbord contained in grand-mommy´s medicine cabinet, and that which was obtainable in mommy´s closet. Great stash there. Always the kindest bud. Now, factor in the meth and the coke Tommy´s older sister is turning you on to, and the glue, and now we´re really talking: older girl gives younger boy some attention (abracadabra). Bad boy says: “You ain´t seen n-o-t-h-i-n-g yet.”

To be sure, the shit gets deeper. And I´m not for a minute blaming the girls or the drugs or the Rock-n-Roll music. It´s been a blast. Just saying. Now we´re getting high and getting laid. Who give a damn about anything´s consequences? Not many young men who´re getting high and getting laid. That´s who. So by this age of thirteen we are well on our way.

Alas, some of us somehow snap out of it. We get lucky or wise up, or someone somewhere cares. Some destiny or some fate or something intervenes on our behalf. Or we get scared. But for the most part we lose, because we´re dummies. No matter how smart or clever or slick we think we are, or how intelligent we in fact may be, we are all just a bunch of dummies. All of us: every-single-one-a-dummy. And dummies with bad attitudes make for excellent cannon fodder, that´s for sure.

But the theories I could submit to you about how the powers that be (that´s who “they” always are) breed us all as dummies to be big dummies in order that they (the powers that be) may in fact continue to exhibit and to wield said powers is another subject entirely. We won´t cover it at all here. And besides, you´d be subject to dismiss these theories as “conspiracy” theories, which, in and of itself—is cause for dismissal. They´ve told you so, so it must be true. And besides that you´re subject to ask, why, if I can so clearly see all the conspiratorial threads and threats. Did I not extricate myself there from—and that would be a valid question—but I digress, and all the conspiratorial bullshit aside, it´s not all that difficult to wake up one day in hell. Just look what happened to Kurt Cobain.

Now, you might be saying: “Wait just a doggone minute. Being in prison and being on Death Row are a tad bit different.” And you´d be right at first blush. But hell is hell is hell, no matter which hell we find ourselves in. Prison does not have to be guard towers and razor wire, and electric fences. Any mind will do.

And so now we come to the heart of the matter. And I´ll promise not to get too preachy. I, for one, cannot s-t-a-n-d preachy. And let´s try not to panic whenever I say “God.” Jesus Christ—it´s a concept. Even a construct. Please. And before you say: “Wait just a doggone-mother minute. I do not believe in God,” or, “Don´t you dare blame God,” or, “But I thought you were an atheist?” I´ll just say this: You do not have to believe in or accept God in any way, form or fashion for purposes of this discussion, or ever at all, really. And I´m not even remotely blaming God at all, either. And you´re right, I once was an atheist. But that was before I went to Heaven.

I come to you now from such a place: No longer in hell, but in Heaven. Or “at peace” if you will. And that´s just it. The gist of it. Once the use of free will goes against a natural human instinct—or against “conditioning,” this reveals an unnatural act, or a supernatural event (abracadabra) the light goes on. You are being led, not by the mind, but by the inner spirit. And now we are talking. Now we are getting somewhere.

The problem for me with my atheism was the same problem I had with my Christianity and my Satanism and for that time I studied Kabbalah—and for Odinism, too. I just didn´t believe in any of it. I had no faith in any of it. I wanted to. You can be sure that I tried. It´s all just so “organized” though. Even anarchy has rules (go figure). It´s all so sad. Religion or the lack thereof should be a personal thing. Period. And I know this now. But at the tender age of thirteen in the TYC (Texas Youth Council) I didn´t know my ass from a hole in the ground. “Do what thou will is the whole of the law,” says Satanism, and that was right up my alley.

Now, in the Cy-Fair suburbs we fought. There´s the kickers and the jocks and the stoners, and we fought. We fought because “we” were a stoner, and everyone knows kickers and jocks do not like stoners. But fighting in the suburbs is somewhat different from fighting in the State School in Texas. In the burbs you can quit, or the parents or the teachers show up and stop the fights. In the TYC you cannot quit, and no one is coming to help. In the burbs, you´re fighting because you´re a stoner, or because of some girl who some jock´s pissed at you about. In the TYC you´re fighting not to be a girl, i.e., someone´s “bitch,” which is lots more incentive to fight hard. To fight dirty. And not to quit.

The idea of course is to make such a bold impression on others that they don´t want to mess around at all. There you don´t have to fight so often. But you´ve got to be fighting often in order to get good enough at it to have the luxury of not having to fight; stabbing people is much more efficient. And there´s your disconnect. Nothing we ever learn in the State School translates well to society. Now, we´re all set and truly on the road to perdition. Now, I´ve got this created image. I´m this bad-ass-don´t-fuck-with-me-motherfucker, and I´m stuck. I have to uphold this image. I want to uphold this image. I even enjoy upholding this image. It´s all the power and all the comfort I know. I´m too stupid and too blind to see anything else. For me, there´s no other way. I don´t even want to look for one. I´m all set. I´ve found my calling, and no one cares, least of all, me.

To be fair, the courts are not set up “to care.” They have a job to do. They say: “You´ll learn.” And they´re right. They are absolutely right. We do learn. They TYC taught me to be a killer. In the TYC I had two choices only: “fuck or fight.” I learned to fight. I learned to fight to the finish. You´d be surprised at just what you´re capable of when you´re absolutely afraid. Ack! Not blaming the courts and the TYC. Just saying, sadly, I´ve gone to great lengths and wasted many lives and caused w-a-y too much pain to uphold this sorry ass image.

It´s a damn good thing that I did not lose my ability to reason along the way. Reason exhibits wisdom which in turn exhibits understanding. But I´ll be damned if pride doesn´t argue with all the reason. I´m still working on this. But when reason finally recognizes right and wrong, it exhibits wisdom; when reason chooses between truth and error, it is demonstrating spirit-leading. Thus, the functions of mind, soul and spirit are functionally inter-associated. Reason deals with a choice that contradicts what environment forms is unnatural. Being led by the inner spirit that guides us beyond the limitations of animal instinct and the natural mind is a supernatural event.

It has taken me quite some time to understand that it truly is “never too late” and that the simple art of doing what is right and good to another, no matter where you are, is an act of love. And I know we´ve all got our own ideas about love, and I´ll admit it freaks me out a little bit to be talking about love—images and incidents and egos and all things considered. You might even ask what in the hell a person like me could possibly know from love, and it would be a valid question. Hopefully we can all agree that love would be opposite to hate. Hate would be the desire to do harm to others. All things considered, I think I know from hate. Hate is indicative of fear. Fear breeds hate. Love would therefore be the desire to do good to others, and indicative of not being afraid. This singular desire transcends all secular-, scientific-, religious-, and racial-beliefs. If it is true—love outshines all. I have seen the light.

So, like I said before: the simple act of doing what is right and good to others is an act of love, I do believe. This will necessarily hold true, no matter where we are or who we may be involved with. It´s enough to liberate you from hell. It´s enough to change institutions. It is enough even to change the world. This very missive is a simple act of love. Sharing is love, I do believe.

So now we get to the really nitty-gritty. This is not at all about making excuses or blaming everything and everyone and the whole entire world and even “God” because of and for my own ignorance and stupidity. It´s not even about blaming myself. I do accept the full blame and responsibility for everything, and there is remorse for it all, as well. But this is not about that either. It´s not even about me convincing you that I am a changed man and I´ve seen the light. Your personal opinion of me does not matter in the sense that my peace of mind—my so-called salvation—requires your belief in me. I will accept my fate, my punishment—as it were, my execution…I have. Escaping the death penalty is not what this is about. It´s about escaping our self-imposed hells. Getting on the right track. It´s about love. It´s never too late. There is a way out of whatever prison is. It´s called “being born again,” and it´s simple: wherever we choose to be led by love (our true inner self, spirit), we are reborn in the sense that we are no longer shackled by fear and hate. It´s a whole new state of mind and a whole new life.

And so you see, a good atheist goes to heaven. Though they may confess with their mouth: “no God,” but in their heart of hearts, acts differently. Because “God,” as it were, is love—it all comes down to semantics. Really. Call it what you will, be you secular humanist, agnostics, atheists, or any of the rest of it. When we discover the power of “Love” we´re well on our way.

Yours truly,
Christopher Chubasco Wilkins

I would like to thank the authors Wegner, Camus, Lovaglia; my tireless researcher Reinaldo Dennes; my editors at MB6; and those who conspired to write and bring us the Urantia Book.

Christopher Wilkins 999533
Polunsky Unit
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Dusty Orange

By Donald Ray Young

Early morning clanging of plastic trays, moving anxiously through metal food ports, signify breakfast time. Come and get it! The rusty, metal tray slots open, and a dusty, burnt orange tray slides into my isolation cell. As my stomach grumbles, awaiting relief, my eyes rest upon a single piece of stale, flat coffee cake, topped with a small mound of dark brown, fear inspiring peanut butter. Holding a “nickel slick grin" on his face, a young guard inquires, “Wanna trade your shower for an extra tray?”

Having recently relocated, from the East Block, into the Adjustment Center’s Solitary Confinement, minus my personal property, hygienic articles and stationary, I now exist within the cold shadow of the gallows. Who am I to turn down this unpalatable gift? Famished, my body craves nourishment. Why shouldn’t I barter away my five minute shower? After all, I am scheduled for three showers a week, but I have not showered in four days. It's interesting how our priorities change, depending upon our living circumstances.

As I hold the dry, hardened coffee cake in my mouth, hoping it will become moist enough to swallow, my thoughts take me back to a time when my pride was the only thing that had to be swallowed. I had once requested, from good friends, any amount of monetary support. Because we are not allowed to hold jobs in this part of prison, donations would have been my one opportunity to purchase food from the Canteen. I was soon assured, in a friendly letter, that the prison diet was quite capable of sustaining me.

As I swallow my pastry, I am hopeful that it will satisfy my intense hunger. Doubts whirl through the corridors of my mind. I ask myself how important that shower is. My self- discipline and fortitude are essential. I will take my five minute shower. “No thanks! I had better get under that water.”

The guards stop asking if I want to trade my shower for an extra tray of nourishment. Days slither into weeks. As they deliver my food, the guards start showing two fingers, in a backward peace sign. We are participants in a war of attrition. Proudly, my head moves from side to side, in resistance to their minuscule offers. I am now three weeks into this nutrition-less, unbalanced weight loss diet of no choice, and things start to look up.

As the dusty food tray slides into my cage, I discover eggs and potatoes are the daily offer. Immediately, I throw up the backward peace sign. I am gifted with two dusty, burnt orange breakfast trays. This time, my stomach is the winner of this struggle for necessity. Life is almost good.

Donald Ray Young E78474
San Quentin State Prison
San Quentin Ca 94974