Friday, November 11, 2022

I’m not gonna make it. It took me three days to get the last 27 pages written and doing the math, I am not going to make it. I spend 16 hours a day writing. Sick, right? I know. I didn’t sleep at all last night so….I’m a little loopy today. Usually- well, the last three days of my new life usually- I sleep four hours. Four half hour breaks during the day and that gives me sixteen hours of writing. I’m in solitary so, no distractions. Different solitary here than the last year though. This is Fed Med compared to the hole they dropped me in after my trial. Dakar. My lawyer, Kim Wilde of the Southern Poverty Law Center ( I love writing that whole thing out! Sounds official, right, like I am a serious Case of Racial Injustice, right?). Kim told me I was in Dakar; I didn’t do any sight seeing so, I will have to take her word for it. The smell through the slit when they opened it to give me food smelled like spices that were … I don’t know, exotic spices, yea, I will go so far as to say exotic, because west African, Seneglese, spices would seem exotic to me ‘cause I am an Afro American from Pittsburgh, PA and west Africa might be in my blood, could be the blood of my people and single me out as a genetic species different from others that hail from more northern latitudes, but the west African smell is very alien to me. Very alien. I couldn’t place it and knowing that i was there gives me a. Reference for the smell that filtered through the shit and dank rot smell each morning and night when they opened the slit and pushed through the gruel that made me shit immediately at first, till my system got used to it, then plugged me like a dam in my guts once I told acclimated to it.

Today at Fed Med I get one whole hour of req time outside. Outside the cellar . Still inside the facility. I’m allowed to walk around the gym. Yea baby! I’m not even joking when I say that hour is better than sex. Really. Any sex, ever, had by anyone, ever. Think of your best orgasm… it doesn’t come close to the feeling of my slippers with the grippers shuffling around the worn floorboards of the Minnesota Correctional (find the place) gym! Lawyer lady said there would be a harsh mental adjustment after so long in real solitary; she didn’t say I would be cumming just walking again! There are windows way up near the roof that allow some sunlight in. I know the sun is shining his light to me, through the grimy chicken wire windows up there. He gives me his light, even though they are trying to keep it from me and I walk just cumming and cumming around and around that tired old beautiful gym.

No other prisoners are with me and a guard walks right beside with a taser in his hand. His name is Sperowitz and he always has a look on his face like he’s holding back a shout. I know this guy, met him a few times in my year and half locked down, Spezowitz thinks I shouldn’t have any req time, any computer in my cell to tap this story out- Spezowitz thinks I should have his boot on my neck and my face shoved deep down in a pile of shit. He told me, on the first day of req: “As far as I’m concerned, you ain’t no better than the Taliban and it would be my gosh darn pleasure to taze you into the ground, so, you do me a favor and step out of line, ya hear? I live to hurt scum liken to you!” Where am I now? I thought I was in Minnesota, but Speckowitz doesn’t sound like Fargo; he sounds like a redneck. Where do you grow up and learn to say: “liken to you” except the south? He probably moved up here because it was the only job he could find with a 7th grade education and no skills except brutality, I bet old Speckowitz came up here in his beater 1984 Ford Bronco and walked right into the supermarket trailing his trash wife and two little rugrats, saw the flyer for this job with the requirement: “ Need to be a dick and like it,” came over to the prison that day and signed up to live in Minnesota even though he never heard of it before and still can’t spell it if you spotted him the sota and two n’s.

Four hours sleep four half hour breaks and the rest is aaaaalllllll writing I only take the breaks to rest my pecking fingers and let what I need to say next marinate in my brain a bit but even at this pace I’m not gonna make it maybe I cut out the breaks One of the breaks Maybe I don’t know Maybe sleep less I’ll sleep when I’m dead, right

***

I lost half a day.

I thought I wrote out November 11, 2022, but it isn’t here. Maybe I did write it and then erased it by accident. I think I said it out loud and thought I was writing but wasn’t actually pecking it out.

Whatever happened, I lost half a day. It’s Tuesday now. I got a date with the fat lady two Sundays from now. On New Year’s Day. Gotta keep it together. Get sleep. Take breaks. Recharge when I can and stay sane through this. You have to hear the end. So, sorry, I got no time to go back and pick out the useful parts and cut the rest. Tempus Fuegenting...but I promise to stick to the story of last November from here on out. No more about my present situation. You don’t give a damn about me anyway; you just want the story. Here. Take it.