SHOOTING RUBBER BULLETS

It wasn’t much fun at first in the dim latrine light, behind the KP shed, even under an old Sherman tank. Just a desperate relief, but I learned some techniques, efficiency, the way to shape my own hungers and lonesome moan. Then I’d collapse and rinse and bag her, store her flat as a poncho under my mattress …
—R.T. Smith, “Boonie Wife”

Yeah, another sexually explosive story; a first person narrative where a Vietnam Vet tells his wife how he managed to stay faithful to her while fighting in the jungle.

As for me, what happened in the prison last week had to be an inside job—HAD TO BE—how else do you explain it? Administration has these monthly fundraisers for various charities—the usual fare: chicken, burgers, red hots—you buy a luncheon ticket and they enter your name into a raffle. I seldom attend, opting to brown bag my meal instead; been doing it that way for the past nineteen years to save money.

Not that I’m complaining about what happened; I certainly didn’t turn down the twenty-five dollar gift card for the AMC theatre; everyone needs an escape, a fantasy, a something … I suspect one of two scenarios: either personnel rigged the drawing, or someone(s) requested my name as a replacement. Probably the latter. I’m starting to view my employer and my coworkers in a different light; their actions speak loud and clear: Michigan Department of Corrections’ employees really do care for one another; we’re family regardless of the circumstances. Thank you for this unselfish act.

Also, I had numerous invites for Easter dinner; all of which I turned down. I told one coworker that I was going to a fish-fry on Friday night.

“Oh yeah?” he responded. “What church?”

“Church?” I answered, somewhat bewildered. “It’s not a church, it’s a gun club.”

We both laughed.

In a follow-up conversation, I told him about my Dad’s advice to another diner regarding manufacturing rubber bullets. This particular gun-club member works as a carpenter in Detroit and he’s tired of having his tools stolen. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” he said. “I just want to make them hurt.”

*Today’s photo showcases my own carpentry skills on a 1940’s migrant-workers’-house-turned-storage-shed.

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I’d like to send another shout-out to a special friend who offered to bring me a lasagna dinner. You know who you are—you’re the greatest!

Lastly, thanks again Erik, for sending more of those “post-punk” music cds. I have a longer commute and have been listening to the songs—what better way to prepare for eight hours of playtime with Michigan’s finest.

LOST SCARECROW IN AN ANCIENT GARDEN

I’m playing Solitaire and winning, so why the emotional detachment? I’m in the basement of my parent’s home on my Dad’s antiquated computer (Windows 98, no internet). I’m alone. I’m thinking, where do I go from here? How do I re-establish myself, my identity?

I’m floating around, each night in a different place, each meal a surprise, served with hospitality, yet I know not to stay too long—there’s no sense in getting comfortable or wearing out my welcome. I’ve witnessed diametrically opposed actions: mean-spiritedness & genuine concern (both, of which can get you into trouble).

I’m re-reading some of my favorite short-stories; not in their entirety, nope, only the sections that appease me, like the opening paragraph of Howard Luxenberg’s “Civics Lesson”:

Why would a middle-aged man, a prosperous middle-aged man, a partner in an architectural firm, the father of two – Sarah, 16, and Noah, 10 – husband in good standing to the lovely Rebecca, a man faithful and considerate (but firm when the occasion warranted), a macher in the local conservative synagogue, my long-standing friend or at least the embodiment of those pillared qualities, if not a pillar per se – why would such a man, why would this man, Gideon Stern, place on his lawn a chiseled granite statue of two dogs fucking?

Such a brilliant narrative: how he questions his neighbor’s motives. I needn’t read any further. I already know that Gideon Stern loves his wife; I already know that the “lovely” Rebecca has been fooling around on him. None of which matters to me—I’m not interested in the blow-by-blow, in-your-face arguments, the warring factions—I’m interested in the opening conflict only.

Then there’s Craig Bernthal’s “A Knight Pursued”:

Mark Altschuler awoke, priapic with yearning for his wife, or perhaps, he had to admit, for women in general: after all, what did hormone fluctuations know about loyalty?

Is this coincidental? Are all stories constructed with a tinge of sexual tension? Why am I re-reading stuff dealing with this particular theme … especially now? Is it an escape from my own problems? Is it pure entertainment? Or am I reading for the sake of reading, going through the motions, searching for answers I may never find?

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Status: I am down to 135 pounds, disappearing into an ever-changing routine. Call me a scarecrow lost in an ancient garden. I’ve quit my therapy in exchange for a support group far better. Thank you, Mark and Jodi for all those coffee sessions. Thank you Erik for the Ramones CD (I’ve heard more are on the way). Also, thank you, Michelle for sending good wishes. The list is much longer: I can’t forget my brother and parents, as well as the best man & maid-of-honor on my wedding day for taking me in and feeding me, or the co-worker who let me stay overnight in his house on such short notice. Thank-you all!

THERAPY IN A COFFEE SHOP

  
I met my other therapist a few days ago—not the professionally trained degreed woman skilled at tossing reflexive questions my way—no, I met a Detroit poet at a coffee shop and he said something to the affect of “Smile motherfucker” before snapping this mugshot. He also gave me his son’s Darth-Vader talking-head-stick with four buttons to push when confronted about marital assets or other trivial possessions accumulated over the years of one’s marriage:

Button one: “I had enough.”
Button two: “Don’t underestimate the force.”
Button three: What is thy bidding, my master?”
Button four: “I want them alive!”

I haven’t been served my divorce papers, or whatever they’re called nowadays, but through that magical portal called the internet I discovered the following “Non-April Fool’s Day” filing/charges against yours truly, the listed defendant:

Ex Parte Order for Status Quo – SGD
Ex Parte Mutual Preliminary Injunction Order – SGD
Record of Divorce/Annulment Received
Summons Issued (Expires 7/5/11)
Complaint/Petition Filed
Entry Fee $150.00.

So the process of wiping out 18 years of marriage will soon be nothing more than court proceedings instead of the personal explanation of “I can’t make you happy.” I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll store it in my memory bank alongside “I don’t hate you, I just don’t love you” and “You’re an excellent father.”

My buttons have been pushed these past few days and I’m trying to hold my head up and move forward. Running every day seems to help.

In case you’re wondering who that Detroit poet is it’s none-other than Mark C. Durfee, author of The Line Between and Stink. He offered me all kinds of retaliatory options, knowing I’d never act on them. “That isn’t your style,” he said, “you have too much care and concern within you. Your petty meanness is stolen from you at your job and she (meaning “my wife”) is fortunate for that, it makes it easy to target you with what she perceives as your failings.”

I’d like to thank Mark for those free sessions. I can’t help but think about my very own “line between”—a reference he made to that short dash on one’s grave-marker, how it represents all our actions between life and death, and I can only hope that my good deeds outweigh my faults.

LIFE IS SHIT

I’ve been emotionally drained for the past two weeks and I’d tell you that I’m messed up in the head if it couldn’t be used against me, so instead, let me just say this: “Life is shit.” So here’s an old post dealing with “shit” and “religion.”

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Once upon a time (Hey, why not? Isn’t that how most children’s stories begin?) … Once upon a time an inmate approached my desk to inform me about a school/religious conflict he had. "Wait a minute," I said slightly confused, "the Melanic’s primary service isn’t today."

He smiled that big ugly grill of his and said, "Yeah, I know. I switched my religion. Check my itinerary, my detail, you’ll see that I am now a Muslim."

Real slick bastard. Anything to avoid going to school. He chose religions as if he were at Baskin Robbins picking an ice cream flavor--"What will it be today, sir?" the woman with the religious-ice-cream scoop would ask. Unfortunately, some religious affiliations you can never quit; You’re a lifetime member--good for the lifetime of the member and not the religious group.

The Melanics were instrumental in pummeling a former inmate beyond recognition with a baseball bat right outside the prison weight-pit. When the victim was discovered, the corrections officer began CPR, blowing into a pulverized face, her uniform and CPR mask soaked in blood. He was already dead, overkill, if you asked me.

One week later, this flavor-of-the-day worshipper unintelligibly asked me if he could be excused from class. His explanation: The spotter in the weight-pit forgot to "spot" him and the weights fell on his face. His jaw was obviously broken.

"So are you a Melanic or a Muslim?" I asked. We both knew the answer to that one.

The prisoner kites and dog shit on my wood deck are somewhat related and not meant to be offensive in any way. I’m tolerant of all religions. It's just that … well, I tried to convey my feelings in my intro. I’ve got nothing more to say.