I’m still stuck back in the “SHU”

(from Josh Wilson)

I’m still stuck back in the “SHU”.  This is my fourteenth day back here.  I have had some better luck in the last couple of days.  I finished my “hole” time for the fight, now I’m on “General Detention”.  Same place, same shit just a different name for it.  Since I have been put on General Detention I’ve been outside twice for one hour at a time in the “Dog Cage”.  The Dog Cage is just how it sounds a cage about the same size as your cell except its outside.  Plus I had a visit which really helped.  After seeing family it’s easy to put things back into perspective.   It’s real easy to lose yourself into the prison mentality.

drawing by Jonathan Caleb Monk. color made from melted M&M candies

 

 

I should be going Monday for my hearing to see if they are going to put me back in General Population or transfer me to another prison.  Being so close to home hopefully I stay here.  But at this point I have no say in it.  Until then I’ll continue to read what books I can, which the last two I really liked “York town” Burke Davis and a book of Charles Darwin’s essays and writings.  The latter of which I have read 9 or 10 hours straight.  At this point I’m very easily entertained!  And pissed, football preseason has started and I’m stuck back here spending my Saturdays and Sundays reading about the American Revolution and Evolution!

Another day of doing nothing

(from Josh)

Another day of doing nothing.  My cell is only big enough to walk in little circles.  It takes me 13 steps to make a complete one.  And that’s how I pass time, walking in circles.  The first 3 days you can pretty much sleep the whole time.  There’s really no reason to get up.  But after that you never really get any good sleep.  You might sleep a couple of hours here and there, but no good 6 or 7 hours at a time.  It isn’t like you go to bed at night.  There is no day or night.  You only know what time it is by when they bring your food to you.  Working out or any kind of exercise I wouldn’t do, because you stay hungry as it is.  You eat dinner at 4pm then you don’t eat again till 6am, 14 hours and no food is a long time.  With what they feed you, you’re hungry again within two or three hours anyway.

painting by ashley addair exploring the way bad institutions dehumanize their people

 

 

So what I do is I save something off each tray, put it in these little plastic containers our milk comes in and save it for later.  That little bit of food is the best tasting meal I get.  So if you was to work out you would probably starve to death.  Lucky for me I have managed to get a nurse to sneak me two books in here, which has been a life saver.  One was “Dreamcatcher” by Stephen King which sucked for me.  I couldn’t really get into, but with nothing else to do I managed to finish it.  The second one, was much better.  ”The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien, the only problem is I find myself enjoying it so much I can’t put it down and pace myself.  I’m going to end up finishing it in a day then I’ll be back to having nothing to do.  Which is what we’re all trying to avoid.

I’m still back in the “SHU” (Special Housing Unit)

(From Josh)

I’m still back in the “SHU” (Special Housing Unit) or to us “the Hole”.  We are suppose to have showers on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays.  I’ve been back here since Monday and as of this morning (Saturday) they still hadn’t given me one.  After asking nicely for five days and getting nothing done but lied to.  So just to get a shower, I had to cuss, scream, and threaten the C.O.  So he would call somebody above him, just so I could get a shower.  The floor officer hadn’t done nothing for five days, I tried everything to get  a Sgt. down to talk to me.

downtown. just outside the prison

Two minutes of raising hell and he was down here and I had my shower.  The floor officer thought I was going to cuss the Sgt. too.  Then they would have came in and fucked me up and gave me more hole time too.  Now he’s just pissed off I got my shower and nothing happened to me for cussing him out.  So I think it might be a few days before I get another one.

 

I’m writing from medical isolation

(from Josh)

I’m writing from medical isolation.  I’m not allowed to have anything back here, thats why I’m writing on the back of these form they gave me.  I was able to talk a nurse into slipping me a pen.  I’ve been back here since Monday (the 3rd) 4 days now.  So let me tell you why I’m back here with stitches in my face and a nasty black eye.  All this shit happened Monday morning at breakfast.

I went into the chow hall to get breakfast, just like every other morning.  I noticed that right before I got to the tray window that the milk containers had run out and a big line was starting to form while they was refilling the containers, no big deal, I just figured I’d get my tray to go ahead and sit down, then once the line went down I’d come on up and get my milk.  So after a few minutes I noticed that the line had went down some so I get up to get my milk.  When I get to the containers I noticed that they had only filled one side.

the view from Josh's family home in Tazewell, Virginia

So now you have two different lines trying to use one container.  Thats where the trouble begins!  So I step up and a cut in the other line tells me to go ahead.  The person behind him said something about letting people skip line or something like that.  So I asked him if he had a problem.  He said something slick, I said something slick.  He put his tray down, so I punched him.  We started fighting.  Everything was still good at this point!

While we was fighting, I could hear the COs coming and hollering for us to quit fighting.  I also could hear the dog’s coming.  For real, I just kept thinking please break us up before the dogs get here.  I’m not trying to get hit by one of them!  Anyway, in the next few seconds or so I get sprayed with pepper spray dead in the eyes.  Then next thing I know I get busted in the face with a lock.  I knew right away I was injured pretty bad.  It really buckled me for a second.  We kept fighting for a few more seconds and they broke us up.  Luckily, before the dogs got there.

downtown Pocahontas, Virginia

After the fight I could see nothing because of the pepper spray and being smashed in the face.  Actually right in the eye.  Then I heard a nurse say I would have to be taken to the ER on the street.  I really thought I was fucked up.  They just don’t take you out of the prison for no good reason.  After being fitted with something thats like a shock collar for humans, I guess, I was taken to the ER.  After a few hours and eight stitches later, I was taken back to the “Hilton on The Hill”.  I think the nurse over reacted a little after seeing it.  It did look worse than it really was.  Luckily, he didn’t break my eye socket (which I have seen done before) he pretty much just smashed my face and it swelled up the size of a golf ball.  Leaving me with a few stitches and a real nasty black eye.

Story 2: This was suppose to have comforted me

(from Luke)

This was suppose to have comforted me, and open my eyes to the blessing which have stood before me.  At that moment, her words had their designed effect.  Now however, when I think upon those words, their opposing authenticity screams aloud: had I committed the ultimate crime; my brother, a young father to many, may still be alive.  If I were to have nullified the life of, an abhorrent “…piece of shit…” never would I have met Mrs. Jami Nunley indeed…and never would I have experienced her deplorable perfidy…

PART ONE

Already in my early twenties, I had acclimated myself to the insensitive, calloused life of a convict felon.  By the age of twenty two (or three), I had witnessed every manner of perversion which “man” could inflict upon fellow man:  everything from minor fisticuffs, to maniacal maulings; that resulted in trounced bodies, being covered by death’s shroud.  All out brawls where there were no “rules of engagement”; and anything possibly conceived (and I mean absolutely anything), was wielded to ones advantage.  Asinine dullards duped into consuming toxic chemicals, led to believe they would enjoy hallucinogenic Nirvana (for the putrid pleasures of twisted harlequins); literally wretched their stomach lining, in bloodied vomit.  During the day, lonely men bartered commissary items for the sexual ministrations of the poor, or addicted.  Evening’s shadowed abyss was far worse, as its silence was often penetrated by the crisis of; a pleading prisoner’s ultimate violation.  Back then, nothing had been held sacred, other than the law of might; whether it be physical or mental in nature.  Laxity and indolence may very well cost a man his possessions, life or ostracism’s preeminent taint…the forced denuding of his manhood.  For one to be exiled from amongst society’s condemned degenerates, meant that you belonged with no one; yet were owned by everyone.  The constant threat of impromptu violence hung dense in the air, like a thick fog’s foretelling of humidity’s misery.  The most insignificant, frivolous act could easily be misconstrued as disrespect; and such incivility was a sure harbinger of dire repercussions.  One must always be prepared to stand on his own two feet, for fickle affiliations were often bought, sold, traded, or simply discarded; for whatever reason, and quite often for no reason whatsoever.

pocahontas, va

You had no friends, only “associates” and “acquaintances”; as honor among convicts basically equated to: keeping your mouth shut, eyes averted, and ears deaf.  Yet one must remain vigilant, and ever aware of his environment; inconspicuously processing every diminutive detail of every person, thing, and situation, that surrounded him.  This, my dear friends, is only one’s parturition, into the world of incarceration.

There are three stages of development one must exemplify, in order to be afforded the right to earn; unscathed passage, through these corridors of hell: mental fortitude, self-sufficiency and physical intrepidity.  Once proven beyond doubt, that you possess these qualities, life in prison can settle into a tolerable existence.

Having gone through, and obtained my rites of passage, I was welcomed, as well as accepted into; the Tidewater faction of the institutions, macrocosmic societal community.

Story 2: It never became an issue

(from Luke)

It never became an issue, as far as me writing her was concerned; still I kept my correspondence to a minimum, sending her a letter about once a year.

Brenda’s letter had been dated a couple of weeks prior to me receiving it (sometime around the day of my birth), informing me that; Bushwick was being treated in the I.C.U. ward.  He was suffering from several puncture wounds to vital organs, and it was uncertain if he could recover from the damage his body had endured.  She further went on to insinuate my culpability for her brother’s condition; seeing how, “…this beet shoulda been handled a long times ago!…”.  Not only had I understood her implication; in my mortified guilt, I whole-heartedly agreed with her pronouncement.

The following morning turned out to be a beautiful day, weather wise; emotionally: I cringed at hell’s caresses, lapping at my heart and soul.  It seemed as if everything I touched would wither and decay; as nothing precious remained so, so long as my hand branded it.  Maybe Brenda was right; had we “…manned up…” years ago, and brought an end to one “…murderous peice of shit…”, our brother would not be struggling for his life.  As worried as I was with Bushwick, Mrs. Jami Nunley (to hell with it, I am done with all the pretenses.  This is the counselor’s identity from Bland Correctional Center) remained my greater concern.  Rumors from the population were begining to hit too close to the truth for my comfort, and despite my warnings to Jami; her uncooperative behavior, only made our situation more difficult.  Now I know why, she consistently disregaurded my admonitions; but at that time, I felt as if her “care” for me, was causing her unneccassary unease.

downtown Pocahontas, Virginia

To think that, whether inadvertently or not, I was the cause of her suffering; filled me with dreadful loathing.  How could I keep my sworn promise to protect my heart’s palpitations, when I couldn’t even soothe her troubled mind?  The most difficult decision I ever had to make, confronted me that day; and the glaring reality was obvious: I loved this woman with my vey essence, and the only way to see her safe; was for me to fade beyond her heart’s obscurity.  My idea had been to end our “relationship”, seek a transfer and gleam a semblance of peace; knowing that Jami’s well-being would be preserved.

When it concerns the affairs of love, does anything, ever shake out as intended? (For me, hardly, if ever at all).  This instance was no exception.  There is, yet another story to be told; a story for another time perhaps.  However, I will say one more thing, before my humble homage to Bushwick begins.

a couple of miles from the prison

Mrs. Nunley uttered a statement which was oxymoronic in hindsight.  After giving a synopsis of the inpetuous violence, for which I shall recount, Mrs. Nunley basically stated: if I were to have given into savage impulses and allowed rage to drown reason; my life in all probablility would have been forfeited.  Thus, I would never have had the opportunity to have met her.

Story 2: During chow that evening

(from Luke)

During chow that evening, I secluded myself from my normal dining companions, while brooding over my dilemma.  Due to the stress which our “relationship” had been wrecking on my body, my weight drastically declined (by close to 30 lbs in less than two months) from lack of nutrition; and this evening was no exception.  I could not help, but to concern myself with Mrs. Johnson’s emotional and mental well-being; for I took responsibility to keep her safe, regardless of what may happen to me.  I felt I was miserably failing my duty; besides if I hadn’t agreed to become involved with her, my presence would not be compounding her entire grief (with respect to her marital situation)…still, I could not fathom a life, without her in it.  Staring at the now cold food before me, nauseum settled in my stomach; so I gave the food away, and headed for the exit.

Stopping outside to light a cigarette, a spanish gentleman approached me.  We recognized each other from a previous institution, as he happened to be an old cell partner of Bushwick’s, while the three of us were there.  Handing me a piece of paper, the amigo nodded his head, and returned to the small cluster of spanish inmates.  Finishing the cigarette, I made my way back to the dormitory and went straight to my rack.  I was a little anxious to read what the amigo had to say; for we hardly spoke to each other, except for the occasional words of respect, at having the same friend.

Pulling out the letter, I recognized that the handwriting was feminine, but I didn’t recognize whose penmanship it was.  The only thing that struck a vague cord of recognition, were the initials at the letter’s conclusion.  The initials were “Brenda’s”, Bushwick’s baby sister.

pencil on pillow case. by Josh Wilson

Bushwick was approximately my age, and a drug runner out of the Hampton Roads area.  Traveling between Virginia and South Carolina, a tight crew of three or four guys, had worked for a rising “kingpin”, from the deep south.  Somehow or another, during one of their expeditions, a substantial amount of drugs and money came up missing.  After all the accusations and finger pointing reached its critical apex; Bushwick decided to walk away.  Seeing how he had to care for his sister, a girlfriend, and three young children (only one sired by himself), Bushwick began operating on his own, back in Virginia.  (I shall get into more depth shortly).  Anyhow, he got busted and sentenced both here in Virginia, as well as South Carolina.  Brenda, his overly paranoid sister, who I greatly adore; believed he had been set up.  Her avid belief in this, coupled with two notably violent incidents involving her brother and myself; caused Brenda to be excessively discreet, when communicating with specific friend’s of Bushwick.  Whenever Brenda seeks to reach me, it is done in one of two ways: she will have someone else write and send me a letter, or; she will send a letter to a mutual acquaintance of Bushwick and I, for the message to be delivered.

Story 2: Without so much as a glance in my direction

(From Luke)

Without so much as a glance in my direction, this bearer of ill-fortunes beckoned Mrs. Johnson to her office post-haste.  Knowing my employer’s mannerisms, and seeing how she utterly ignored my presence; a grave foreboding washed over me, and I instinctively knew that this concerned Mrs. Johnson and myself.

Leaving the treatment department’s foyer, as I headed toward my area of employment; I ignored the slight disruption at the back, of my mind.  Mrs. Johnson and I, had recently quelled one building tempest, so I figured that my boss’ urgency had something to do with that.

Pecking away at the computers keyboard, I stumbled into a writer’s blockade; while compiling material for Mrs. Johnson’s birthday present.  Looking at the clock, I realized that the hour was fast approaching, for Mrs. Johnson to be retiring for the day; and I had yet to deliver my letter to her.  Grabbing a cigarette and lighter, I informed my co-worker that I was going to take a smoke break, would return later to help him close up; then made my way to the exit.  The moment I emerged from the treatment department and saw Mrs. Johnson with her co-worker (and new found friend); I sensed something to be terribly awry.  Making a brief comment to the other woman, trying to gauge their dispositions; I turned my focus to Mrs. Johnson, after not receiving the expected response to my remark.  Smoking with her head down, as she wearily leaned against the side of the building’s stairs; she refused to look at or even respond to, my inquiry of her abnormal behavior.  What is wrong, I demanded; turning my attention to Ms. Kay, once more.

drawing by Josh Wilson

Again I was denied a response, so with forceful emphasis in my voice; I commanded to know what was being secreted from me.  Finally, Mrs. Johnson look towards me with tears–of regret, disappointment; shame?–in her sad eyes, and began to interrogate me.  Seeing those tears slowly spill over, unbridled anger ignited my heart into a livid rage.  I could not bear to see Mrs. Johnson in pain, especially such that caused her to cry.  Until I met her I was unaccustomed, and still ill-prepared; to deal with the tumultuous feelings, her sadness invoked within me.  Never had I been willing to give another soul my heart, after doing so with her; the impact of her anguish struck me, with unrestrained velocity.  The only thing I knew to do; was rip the head off of, whoever brought my love distress.

Eventually my temper was calmed, and I returned to my dormitory; not before I gave an oath of inactivity (with concerns for the purported culprit of her misery).  There was nothing left for me to do, other than seethe within my fettered furor.  Reality began to seep in, without the pretensions of wishful hearts: nearly everyone on the compound speculated that something was going on between Mrs. Johnson and myself; even certain officers were questioning the obvious.  It was clear that we could not continue on, consequence free; so long as the both of us remained at that institution.  Yet, I was unwilling to accept this glaring fact.

Story 2: She was going to push the panic button after I felt relaxed and unguarded

(from Luke)

Once this happened, she was going to push the panic button after I felt relaxed and unguarded; then she was going to tell the officer, I was forcing my way on to her.  This was to be the surprise that her, and the Lieutenant she was sleeping with, had planned should I have been released from segregation.  Imagine, if you possibly could, how I must have felt.  Already conceded to the fact that Mrs. Johnson had played me like a fool the entire time; but to learn of her vile scheme to see my freedom sufficiently hindered, with the stigma of such repulsion.  Once this had been revealed to me, along with other accumulated information regarding our relationship; my pain demanded that I retaliate.  There was but one flaw, in my own planned vengeance: I loved her, and still do for some pathetic reason.  This is when my actions transcended erratic, and the only things I accomplished: self-depreciation and dehumanization.

Throughout the duration of our relationship; Mrs. Johnson had been working against me, with my boss.  Their bond forged, during their initial training.  Most of my anxiety and discomfort was intentionally caused, by their concerted efforts (or so I have been told); and it just so happened to be, during one of their manipulative performances…I received the news of Bushwick’s murder.

art by josh wilson

The warm July morning began pleasant enough; the atmosphere was amiable, as were my jocund spirits, for the most part.  The only cloud upon my sunny skies: my evening rendezvous with Mrs. Johnson this week would have to be postponed; as she had an out of town conference the next day, which required her presence.  Believing that Mrs. Johnson anticipated our private encounters as much as I did (and for the same reasons); I thought to write her an exceptional letter, with proud encouragements and warm wishes.  I also wrote an extremely titillating piece of erotica; an effort to tantalize her, so she wouldn’t forget who awaited her return.  This particular morning, and afternoon; was spent composing a vividly detailed scenario of sexual delight ( I had impishly withheld the orgasmic climax, giving her something to look forward to; once she returned).  I must say that this raunchy display of hedonism, was by far the most exhilarating; imaginative fantasy, that I had ever written for her.  Even I had to pause a few times, to wend my way back to reality.  Yeah, it truly was that good.  Unfortunately, I never would be given the opportunity to deliver, my wanton tour  de force.

Once count cleared, and I was released from my building to report for work I hastened to the treatment department; intent upon finishing a project, so I would have a moment’s time with Mrs. Johnson before her departure.  After awhile she made her way to my area, and we soon found ourselves back up front, preparing pamphlets for her presentation on the following day.  Laughing and teasing each other, our jocose temperament came to an abrupt, discourteous end.  Just as we were about to complete our task, and retreat to her office; my boss descended her way towards us.

Story 2

(from Luke)

The anguished echoes, of our silent howls,

We are wandering wraiths; forsaken souls.

Our listless glares, from hollowed holes,

Observe a putrid world; within these bowels.

Extinguished life, our deaths you couldn’t care;

Like whispered breaths, so soon we’re forgotten:

“Bushwick”, a different mother had begotten,

My lost brother, whose burden; now I bear.

Prolouge

Okay, so I am no mystical bard, from beyond the ancient realms of Erin; and surely my “prose” is lacking many components, for it even to be considered, pathetic prose.  However, that was but a minute tribute to the murdered friend, who I mentioned in “Fidelity’s Fallacy”.  The next story which I have decided to tell, is that of Bushwick, my brother who I affectionately called “Stumpy Smurf”.  Before I begin, there are some things which need to be said, and I must elaborate on the tale of Mrs. Johnson and myself.  (Bear with me, it will all come together momentarily.)

My reason for choosing this tale to tell, resulted partly from Mrs. Johnson’s betrayal, and my appall that she would use this tragic death to seek revenge.

drawing by Josh Wilson

While we were supposedly “committed” to one another, in the heat of a frustrating moment; I alluded to a precarious incident, involving my brother and myself.  Mrs. Johnson had attempted to use this information (as well as another incident, which shall be the basis for the third story) with Internal Affairs, as retribution against myself.  So you will have to excuse me, though what you are about to read is based on actual occurrences; minor nuances (i.e. names and time frame) have been shrouded in the mist of my imagination.  These fictitious subtleties are a pre-cautious necessity, seeing how survivals behavior from a savage past; may still be subject to legal recriminations.  Mrs. Johnson is fully aware of this; thus her intentions when speaking with the investigator, were to see me prosecuted.  Now I must admit that her talks with the I.A. were provoked, by certain letters written by myself.  (Ah, “what a tangled web we weave” indeed).  Alright, here’s the deal.  When I initially arrived here, as hectic as things were for me (emotionally), I had kept what transpired between Mrs. Johnson and myself under lock and key.  Instead of reacting right away; I called on some favors and established an open line of communication, with those old acquaintances from my last story.  Aside from that, a few “personnel” from the last prison, had received favors from me; and they felt compelled to reciprocate my good nature, keeping me abreast of certain situations.  (Even among guards and cons, there remains a form of decorum: respect earned and gained.)  The one day I was summoned by the investigative authorities from this institution.  After contemplating what I had been told from various sources, and mulling over Mrs. Johnson’s actions, the truth of what had been relayed to me was quite apparent:  Mrs. Johnson actually intended , to set me up for sexual assault.  Basically, the plan was to get me in her office, and get me comfortable.