Cold Mountain and Ending August of 2014 - 8/29/2014 (Part One)

 Time flies. I wonder what do the people outside of this place think goes on with me. Do they think I am frozen in time?

I lost two roomies this month. One mouthed off to a guard - or so we heard - and went off to the SHU (Special Holding Unit - the cooler for those having seen The Great Escape).  The other went to a camp. The first one was a Dominican and the other black. The Dominican caused no problems in the room. The black had participated in taking over one of the small television rooms from the whites, and that had repercussions in the room. Too bad because he did not actually cause problems in the room. No doubt, though, he did increase them.

The second guy came down from a medium security prison. Yes, this dropping down through the different levels of security in our federal prison system happens every day for every category of prisoner (so far as I know and care about), except for sex offenders. I am too dangerous for a camp - unlike a career criminal. The people coming here from medium security prisons cause us the most trouble.

That prisoners have done whatever they needed to do to get their security rating lowered to allow for transfer to a lower security prison does not mean they are psychologically prepared for a lower security prison. Not that the BOP cares about this. What happens is these downward transferees attempt to recreate the culture they had in the higher security prison. Tempers twitch, groups form, injuries and thefts occur, and lines get drawn. Not good. Add into this the first-timers - either of the gangbanger or the non-violent type - and all that is needed is a catalyst. Thank you, mandatory minimum sentencing. Thank you, our brutish national culture.

We have a bunch of white guys who might just be the catalyst. Gay men, here for illegal porn, would generally be enough for shunning. That they have what seems to be the emotional age of 13 and all the self-centeredness of 13-yearolds incite them into confrontations and demands that I will get them hurt. I suspect such information will make some of you out there happy. Enjoy your picking on the weak.

Meanwhile, Lou Reed sings "Sweet Jane" on the radio.

News from the outer world convinces me the republic is in its death throes, and the world stands on the brink of world war. I wonder why I keep writing. Why should I care? Why do I believe art, creativity, may make a difference? I do, and I do so because the arts represent the best part of us. The creative acts are us giving the finger to the universe. Besides, it gives me something to do other than succumbing to the nihilism of my depression.

I got a letter from Catherine Poole & one from KH. Nothing from LAH or Gayann. It was a good letter from Cathy. I do not understand why she & KH still take an interest in me. I will write her this weekend. I suspect she will get as bored with me as Gayann & Tim & T2 have.

A line of communication out of this place is needed. I have the fiction, but I need a connection to what goes on outside of here; something rational, something away from the echo chamber. I hear nothing from dad or RE. I assume dad accepted my terms regarding some money, and I am now de facto disowned. He might have done that years ago.

I read Charles Frazier's Cold Mountain. It was a slow, steady read that got under my skin. It struck me as one of those mountain ballads written large in emulation of James Joyce. I really do not understand its rating as one of the 100 best novels of all time. Maybe I need to re-read Raintree County. It did give me ideas - or, at least, sharpened some James Joyce inspired ideas - about braiding some stories in an odyssey. Evangeline comes to mind. So does Moby Dick. And some strays from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, or Neil Gaiman. I keep working at my Jackson stories, but just over the horizon, just out of earshot, are "Moby Dick on the White River" and "Chasing Ashes". Titles are all I have now, along with some glimpses of a story.

I wrote Kevin when I finished "Cruising Down a Blind Alley". Next week, assuming he reads the letter - he will have an idea about my ambitions as a writer. I see myself far more perverse than the federal government thinks me. I will use the opportunity given me to exercise my ambition. Thirty years too late, but we will find out if I am a writer and if a writer, then what kind.

I also read The Best American Short Plays 1990 (Applause Theatre Books, 1991). I'm not so worried about the strangeness of my "Sex Fiend" after reading Christopher Durang's "Naomi In The Living Room" (which I found annoying), or Horton Foote's "The Man Who Climbed the Pecan Trees" (which I thought a bit obscure with hints of Tennessee Williams). Lanford Wilson's "Abstinence" and Ed Bullins' "Salaam, Huey Newton, Salaam", and Carol Mack's "Unprogrammed", and David Ives' "Sure Thing" showed me the form's slipperiness. I finally read Wendy Wasserstein and Aaron Sorkin. I think I was correct, using the one actor format for something absurd and/or comedic. But who was Romulus Linney? His "Akhmatova" stunned me as some sort of absurdist tragedy. I could do my "A Mother's Tale" as a one act, but I knew that from reading Synge. Now, I cannot see it any other way.

sch

[Continued in Cold Mountain and Ending August of 2014–8/29/2014 (Part One). One thing impossible in prison was reaching out and getting information from Google, or the like. Think about it. sch 6/8/2025]