Monday Morning; 11-25-2019

  [I am back working through my prison journal. It is out of order. The date in the title is the date it was written.Well, the order is as I have opened boxes. I hope this is not confusing. What you are reading is what you get for your tax dollars. sch 4/23/2025]

Once again, central laundry - the only - laundry is not open. This happened last Monday, too. I am not directly affected - I decided to forego laundry for sick call - but maybe if no one shows up on Wednesday... Wednesday being our other laundry day has now achieved the status of our only laundry day.

I did not make sick call. I get my CPAP water. I refuse to use the chemical laced water available in our drinking facilities. The front teeth bother me. The last vestiges of my vanity.

No work. Nothing to rake. I'm in the leisure library listening to WPRB, making these notes. I will spend today reading W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz, and take a breather from John Dewey's Democracy and Education.

My brain keeps spinning around the dial. Memories and regrets and imaginings and life generally keep popping out of the static. Embarrassments from childhood return to stab me in the heart. I felt worthless a long time ago, and for a long time. I still do - without any corresponding desire to kill myself. I tell myself I am already dead. Orthodox theology has it that with baptism we are dead to the world. I also do not feel any belligerence butting heads with my belief of worthlessness. Could this be why I do not feel depressed? The novel and the stories and most of my journal are on their way out of this place of imprisonment. That changes my attitude - knowing they have escaped, even if I doubt their custodian's desire to protect them. Maybe I am only tired. I have been awake for three hours. A- was on my mind last week. We talked; all well; I hope for the multiverse's existence. I see myself alone until I die, without self-pity  as much as relief. My life was a joke before my arrest, which turned into a farce. Why do I think of the Eastgate Shopping Mall as I write the last three sentences? It comes to my mind fairly often. I cannot say the people I've known have benefitted from knowing me (or vice versa?). I have put myself in a position where I no longer need to think my presence is welcome, while also giving others a very good excuse for avoiding me. I want a rocking chair, my books, to while away the time until death comes for me.

Yet, I cannot stop writing. Trying to say something. Could be, dear reader, you are me? Let me go to John Dewey.

sch

[I finally made contact with A- on March 17, 2025. See Sightseeing Anderson for what did happene when I tried to make contact with A-. sch 4-23-2025.]