Friday, December 31, 2010

Trippin'


Copyright 2010 M.S.


"Wow, Trippin’ is just that – tripping.  There is so much going on in this drawing.  It is probably my favorite to date.
This drawing is about racism, the confusion and hatred that exist in our world.  I have been around racism on the level that there is in prison.  It’s terrible here and I hate it.  Some dear friends of mine on the street also feel the stress of hate.  Hatred due to the color of your skin, hated because you are a mixed couple.  Hate comes in many different forms and it is a disease.
It’s time for a change.  I think it is, but many don’t see it that way.  The clock in the drawing represents time to change.  And it’s broken.
Gears represent things running smoothly, things that fit.  Except peoples’ views are different.  Not everything falls neatly into categories of black and white.  People see things that are different and they can’t accept that.  They should, but it is really slow coming.  The zipper is a division between things that are the ‘traditional’ – or what many people might expect – and things that are different.  People don’t see eye to eye on this just like the zipper’s edges don’t line up.
Here in prison I have friend who are black, Mexican, Indian… it makes no difference to me.  I wish people could learn to pull out the stops and remove the division.  So pull here if you are ready to see change!  If not then you are no better than a piece of shit-paper.  Yeah, that might have been a little over the top, but I thought it completed the piece – it was the very last addition.
Another look into my crazy world…"  


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Drugs & Alcohol Don't Mix

I spend quite a bit of time in my memories.  This helps me do this time, but not become a part of this life here.  Some guys give in, and prison becomes all they know.  We call them institutionalized.  Like have you seen “The Shawshank Redemption?”  Some guys wouldn’t know what to do if they were let out of here.  I refuse to let that happen to me.
There are a couple ways I work to stay in touch with the free world.  My memories are one of the biggest.  I’ve done a lot of shit in my life.  There are some really cool things I’ve done, and a lot of un-cool things I’ve done.  It’s it weird how it’s the stupid shit we remember?  …Not the stuff that goes right. 
Like for example, the other day I tried to remember all the names of girls I’ve been ‘friends’ with.  What should come to mind but my sexual ‘mishaps?’  Not the times everything went according to plan.  There’s the time my buddy set up in the closet to video – I actually forgot he was there.  …Until he came crashing out the door into the room.  That chick didn’t call back! 
Then there are the big girls.
I’m a big fan of Jager-bombs.  However, I tend to black out and not remember a thing that happened.  Have you ever woke up looking at a ceiling you don’t recognize?  …Looked to your side and saw a pretty large girl you’re sure you didn’t consciously decide to go home with?  After you throw up a little in your mouth, you lightly slip out of the bed, gathering your clothes as quietly as possible, checking to be sure your number isn’t saved in her cell phone.  The last time this happened to me I called my friend to come pick me up.  The call went like this:
“John?  Hey bro, can you come pick me up?”
Dude!  Do you know what time it is?
“Yeah, man!  Just come pick me up!”
Ok, ok.  FUCK… where are you?
“Um… shit….  I don’t know.”
Well, what street signs do you see?
"None.  I don’t know.  I’m in a neighborhood."
Ok, asshole, you wake me up to pick you up and you don’t fuckin’ know where you are?
About this time I see a guy cutting his grass.  His two kids are in the driveway riding bikes.  I walk toward him to ask where I am.  He shuts off the lawnmower and gives me this disgusted look from head to toe, which causes me to do the same.  Ok, so I buttoned my shirt crooked.  Oh wait!  Is that puke on my shoes?  Sure is!  …Splashed all the way up to my knees.  He gives me hasty directions.
I don’t even know fat-chick’s name, but I will never forget the encounter.  I don’t remember the sex either.  I do wonder where I puked.  I didn’t see it when I woke up.  Was it in her car?

During my drinking days I was pure hell on wheels.  I was staying with my dad for a while.  There’s a local bar in his little town called The Oar House.  I soon found out the locals call it “the whore house.”  …For good reason - and I grew to love the place. 
Now, there are a few medications that advise against mixing them with alcohol.  I never heeded such warnings.  Telling me not to do something is like saying, “This is gonna be really cool!”  So before I left Dad’s place, I ate two Xanax bars.  So far so good.
I then drive to – what else? – the whore house.  The evening is going good, and then everything starts to get fucked up.  Really fast.  People are just looking at me.  I’m getting sick.  I need to leave.  So I jump in my truck to head home.  It’s ok folks, I do this all the time.  Halfway home I forget where I am and stop for directions.
The police report reads like this:
Mr. Smith pulled up to the guard shack of the Palisades Nuclear Power Plant at approximately 3:20 a.m.  He was lost and asked for directions.  The guard stationed in the booth observed Mr. Smith slurring his speech.  He asked Mr. Smith to pull over to the side and please wait.  Mr. Smith complied with directions and we were called to the scene approximately 20 minutes later.  Mr. Smith was sleeping in his truck.  He was placed under arrest at 4:10 a.m.
I woke up at the Van Buren County Jail the next day with a headache.  My first call was to my dad.  He wouldn’t answer.  I finally reached my mom.  That conversation went like this:
“Mom, it’s Michael.”
Yes son, I know who you are… (in a very disgusted tone of voice).
“Where’s Dad?  I’ve been trying to call him.”
He doesn’t want to talk to you.
“I’m in jail, Mom!”
Your dad knows.  The police called him at 4:30 a.m. to come and get your truck.
(Oh shit.  Not good!)
“Well, Mom… can you help me?”
Son, your dad thinks we should leave you in there for a while, so you can learn a lesson from this.  Your drinking is out of control son.
Not good!  Three days later I was still there.  Needless to say, I had to resort to plan B.
So I call my wife.  Yes, I said wife. 
The next day I was released to her custody.  Wearing the same clothes I left Dad’s in four days earlier.  The wife and I were on a “temporary” break.  …One of many over the seven years of our marriage.  I recall the conversation we had, and I remember wishing I had stayed at the county jail.
My sexual mishaps and drinking excursions go on and on.  I was a prick, an asshole, and a cheater.  Those were my wife’s words exactly.  The divorce papers say ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ of course, but I know better. 
It’s said that drugs and alcohol don’t mix.  I’ve tried to disprove this theory many times over the years; ecstasy and whip-its, coke and weed, liquor and pills, meth and G.H.B.  Unfortunately I have a divorce, a D.U.I., a few crashed cars and man, many pissed-off people to prove this doesn’t pay… along with jails, detention centers, and prison time.  Thank God my mother still loves me.  Let’s pray she never reads this shit!

…Speaking of my mom… we were chatting on the phone the other day.  Mom mentioned a last name and asked if I knew it.  I said, “Sure, they ran that little business in town.”
Mom says, “Didn’t you go to school with their daughter?”
Sure did!  That big girl took my virginity – one of my first ‘mishaps.’
…I guess something to that effect came out of my mouth.  Imagine that.
Mom says, “OH MY GOD!  I didn’t need to hear that!”
Turns out that girl works with my mom now – well, sorry!  I mean, what the hell, Mom?  Don’t ask me loaded questions.  You know I don’t have a filter when it comes to this shit!  My give-a-damn broke a long time ago!
You know who you are.  If you read this, Mom said you lost some weight, are really good at your job, and are happily married.  …Just so you know.  


Some more needless bullshit:

Buck: Name for prison wine made from fermented oranges or tomatoes.
Punk or Sissy: Term for a gay man in prison.
Boy: The less-manly partner in a gay prison relationship.
Main-Man: Go-to guy for getting stuff you're not supposed to have.
Snitch: The guy who tells the police you have that shit.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Christmas Greetings from Judicious Jailbird!

I heard my brother's voice today!  I haven't heard it in about two months, so that was pretty awesome!  He's excited to hear that anybody has interest in hearing or seeing the things he has put down on paper.  So thanks to all of you who are reading, feel free to leave comments and let us know what you're doing this holiday season.  This is from us to you:

Copyright 2010 M.S.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

I See the Time Passing

December, 2009
"I see the time passing.  Another weekend around the corner, another week down.  I slept in today.  Time asleep is ‘easy’ time.  It’s now mid-morning and will be lunch time soon.  We had biscuits and gravy for breakfast.  That’s our breakfast every Thursday.  One of my favorites.  Ain’t like Mama made it, but I pretend.  I’m 30 years old and ‘play pretend’ a lot these days.
A couple days ago a young kid came here.  He’s 19 years old.  This is his first time in prison and you can see the fear in his eyes.  Funny thing is, he looks exactly like my little brother.  When I saw him for the first time I did a double take.  It caused me to take an immediate liking to him.
Then there’s the ‘old dude.’  He’s been my Bunkie for nearly a year now.  I call him “pops.”  He’s 65 years old and has no teeth.  He’s had a hard life and makes mine hard some days.  He’s my buddy though.  We argue in the mornings (we’re both grumps in the morning), then we’re friends by noon.  Like I said, I call him Pops.  He has one son, my age, and I think I fill a void for him.  He has told me as much.  He shows me pictures of his boy and tells me every few days, “You know, you’re the same age as my son.”  He is Italian.  He speaks Italian and Spanish.  In the mornings when he’s a grump and starts yelling, he swears at me in Spanish.  He calls me ‘basura,’ which means ‘garbage.’  That’s probably the nicest thing he says.  I said he has no teeth, so I tease him and say, “Hey Pops, what’s my last name?”  He can’t say an ‘S’ because of no teeth.  He tries, and I laugh, then he swears at me in Spanish, then we both laugh.  That’s a normal morning for us. 
My other Bunkie is a little younger than me – about 24, I think.  His name is Scott but he thinks he’s P-Diddy.  ‘Scott’ has dreams of being a rap star.  And yes, he drives me nuts with his ‘raps.’  I tell him he should ‘wrap’ it up, but I have to remember it’s what he does to pass his time.  So at 7 a.m. when he wants to thump out a beat and bless me with the new lyrics he wrote last night, I try to be patient.  Maybe that’s why I am so grumpy some mornings – Hmmm….
He’s getting better.  I said to him the other day, “Bro, how many songs are you going to write about guns, shooting people, dope, and cops?”  He just looked at me like, ‘What else is there?’  You know what?  He wrote a new song.  I don’t know where he had to reach to find this one, but it was deep.  Instead of gangsta rap, it’s a musical song about wanting a relationship with a good girl.  He sang for the first time.  The kid can sing beautifully, can hit high notes.  He even impressed himself.  He sings the break, or the chorus, and raps the verses.  It’s really good.  You can see him feel it.  That’s my kind of music.  It doesn’t matter what style it is, as long as you can feel it. 
So picture this: A ‘gangster’ kid’s got tats all over him, mouth full of gold, singing a love song and feeling it.  It’s pretty cool.  For me it’s seeing the good here in this place. 
Then there’s the kid who looks like my baby brother… I can see him now.  He’s talking to the gangsters.  When I’m done with this letter I will offer him a cup of coffee and see what his story is.  Maybe I can get him to work out with us.  We have a good group of guys that hit the gym together each day.  This kid’s gonna need to put on some muscle.  We’re in the world of ‘only the strong.’  Well, I mean, ‘pray and carry a big stick.’ J
So we just ate lunch.  We had tuna fish.  It’s one of the better lunch trays.  Today is hot.  It’s probably 95 degrees.  I ate, came back, put on some shorts, and sat down to write again.  Writing helps me pass a lot of time.  Half of my day is gone now, spent on writing and eating.  Works for me.  As one of my home-boys says, “Wasted days and wasted nights.”  That’s not far from the truth.  I have found a lot of good here, but still at times feel I waste a lot of time too.
I have found other ways to pass my time.  I draw quite a bit.  I have read over 100 books.  As you see, I write a lot.  I like tat’s too.  On the streets I always wanted to have more tattoos.  I was short on the money though.  Tat’s are expensive, and I had drugs to buy.  I was also worried about what people would think.  I’m 30, a convicted felon, been to prison, been to jail, and now, well – I’m pretty tattooed.  My art expresses who I am, where I’ve been, the people who love me, and my savior Jesus Christ.  I have some funny and dumb stuff also.  So if you can’t love me through my ink, well… see ya!
The Bible says, “The Lord looketh on the heart.”  I’m glad He does.  I wish as people we could do the same.  I pray God continues to work in my life as He already is.  Today I am in prison, but I am free in my heart.  The weight of my sin has been lifted from my shoulders and I am a new man.  Honestly, I have never felt free in this way.  It is a real blessing to me.  Yeah, I have bad days – I won’t lie – but I have peace in my life and love in my heart.
For years now I have been addicted to drugs.  I hated myself.  I tried to drown life away.  I feel forgiven now, and have forgiven myself.  I am not ashamed of who I am.  I can love again.  I can look at myself and see a new person.  This has given me the ability to love.  I see my family members for who they are - unique and special, and I love each one of them.  I can have true friends now.  Instead of using people, I enjoy their time.  I appreciate the time each one takes to sit down and write to me, taking time out of busy lives to send me their thoughts – Beautiful!
My Mom, she’s the bomb!  I can talk to her about anything.  I never knew I could be this close to my mom.  She didn’t want to tell me my appeal was denied, but because my mom told me, I was OK.  Mom’s got some inner peace that she can pass to me through a letter or over a phone line.  Maybe it’s that first 9-month bonding experience I had with her 30 years ago.  Over all this time it just got stronger.  Mothers are truly the best gift from God.
I keep thinking I will shut this letter down soon.  However, my pen just keeps moving.  Better get it all out while I can.
Well I have mentioned a few times that I am 30.  Next month I will be 31.  My daughter is 12 now.  So if this all goes like they say, guess I’ll be around 40 when I get out.  My daughter will be around 20. 
I think about weird stuff sometimes.  Like maybe I’ll open up a tattoo shop when I get out.  That seems like a good line of work for a 40-year-old tattooed convicted felon.  I can see my resume will not look good. 
I want to play music.  Since I have been in prison I have written some pretty good music - really strong stuff about addiction, pain-in-the-ass chicks, and salvation.  I can tattoo very well.  With all this practice, I will be raw by the time I get out.  My first tattoo was a big $ sign.  My dad saw it and said, “You did that?”  It turned out really good.  Now these guys call me “Big Money” because of the ‘big’ $ sign.  Ha!
I have put a tat on all of my work-out partners, and 1/3 of my dorm.  You know, I have all this time to kill.  I can only work out so often.  I feel like I’m training for the Olympics.  We go 3 – 4 hours a day, four days a week, sometimes five.  When I first came to prison I could almost do one pull-up.  Now I do 300, then I do 600-800 push-ups, then run a couple miles on my day off. 
I try to catch a ball-game on the weekends.  We have softball and volleyball.  I play softball sometimes, but the games get pretty heated.  They had to chain the bat to the home-plate after the batter took the bat to the pitcher’s mound and thumped the pitcher, split his head open.  Now how’s that for entertainment?  We don’t have pay-per-view fights here, we have front row seats.
(10 days later…) 
On top of my regular workout, I also joined a wellness class.  We do a lot of cardio stuff.  Running, jumping jacks, sprints, stair-stepping.  I like it.  I know it’s good for me.  My health is the only thing I will take with me when I leave here.  The guys who take the class and my buddies from the gym are good guys.  Well, they are murderers, car-jackers, armed robbers, traffickers, kidnappers and so on.  But we all have one thing in common.  We care about our health. 
Whatever brought us to prison, we are trying to better ourselves.  These are the guys who have become a part of my life.  It’s a motley crew, so to speak - Black, White, Latino, and Mexican.  The weight pile is one place where none of that matters.  We all help and encourage each other.  It’s so cool.  Plus, they’re the biggest guys on the compound.  Guys here watch who you hang out with.  They see you on a weight bench every day, bumpin’ fists with the top dogs on the pound, and they quit tryin’ you.  I ain’t a dumbass.  I have a plan.  I have done some dumb shit in my life.  Real dumb!  These days I sit back and observe.  I have more patience these days.  My motto is “Why rush?  I have all the time in the world.”
Earlier on in this book I’m writing – I mean this letter- I mentioned a kid who came here, the one that looks like my youngest brother.  Not only did I give him some coffee, but I loaned him a few bucks for the canteen.  He’s waiting for his family to set up an account for him.  We talk quite often now.  I finally told him he reminds me of my little brother.  He said to me, “Why do you keep helping me out?”  I said Because I can.  He keeps calling me Mr. Smith.  I said, “Listen dude, you remind me of my bro.  I wish I could be there for him, but I can’t.  So I’m helping you because I can, but you best quit calling me Mr. Smith or I may stop.”  It’s cool.  I still can’t get him to work out, but hey, like I said earlier, I’ve got all the time in the world.
Last week I had my assessment.  I have been in prison for a little over a year now.  My first two months were the hardest.  Coming off drugs and being tried by other convicts.  I got into 4 scraps right off the bat.  Before here, my last fight was probably back in high school.  My first scrap here wasn’t all that.  I took a couple hits and it was over.  But guys watch, so not long after, I was tried again by a Latino from the city.  I beat his ass.  When I got him down, I saw his friends start to circle around.  I looked around and thought Oh shit, this is about to get real bad.  Bad for me.
About that time another group of guys started to circle.  My buddies from the weight pile.  Here to rescue their little white friend (most of my buddies from the gym are black).  These dudes are hard.  They have been selling crack on street corners and fighting since they were little kids.  About 4 of them stood up for me, saved me from really getting my butt in trouble.
Prison is a weird place.  The guy I fought with is now cool with me.  We don’t hang out, but we nod when we pass.  I earned some sort of a status by holding my own.  Ha!  I think they also saw I have friends here.  Prison is like that too.  Watching and observing pays off.  A dude may be little, but he may be protected by the Dukes, W.P. or the Latin Kings.  You want to be careful who you’re messin’ with.  I don’t get into the gang crap.
My assessment went well.  I was able to put in for a transfer.  I’m trying to get out of here, and back down south.  My dad drives 5 hours each way to come here to see me.  He comes once a month.  We are a lot closer these days.  He gives me a hug and tells me he loves me.  I didn’t get that growing up, so it’s nice to have it now. 
My dad is getting older.  He looks smaller than I ever remember.  I’m bigger than I was, but I see him aging.  On his first visit to see me, he cried.  My dad never cries.  We were standing in the visiting area.  All you see is fence, concrete, bricks, and razor-wire.  My dad cried and put his arms around me.  He said, “This is hard to see my son here.”
It’s pretty powerful.  I will never forget the day the bus pulled up and dropped me off.  I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t scared senseless.  For the first few months all I saw was the bars and fence.  Over time I barely notice it.  They are like giant steel hedges; our trees are 50-foot tall gun towers.  Today I look past it all and see freedom - a life I used to have – one that some day I will have back again.
Prison is another world most people will never know about.  And it’s worth keeping it that way.  At all costs!  You come to prison and find out your life wasn’t what you thought it was.  People you thought were friends, well – huh! – I don’t know what happened to them, but they’re gone.  I needed to break up with that chick I had on the street anyway.  That one didn’t take long.  Here you spend a lot of time looking over your life.  If hindsight is 20/20 then I’m seeing things a lot clearer these days.  I see my errors in life.  I can’t take them back.  That’s why I had to give them to God.  So I could have some peace and quit asking, ‘What if?’  What if I hadn’t married that chick?  What if I hadn’t let that one get away?  What if I’d loved those in my life a little more?  What if I had just said no to drugs?  What if???
See what I mean?  In a way, this place has given me a second chance.  I’ve been going back and asking a lot of forgiveness these days.  I don’t want to ever go back to where I used to be.  Damn!  I was a real asshole!  Could I ask you to forgive me?  Would you?  If you will accept this, I’m sorry.  You loved me and I let you down.  I know who my true friends were.  That’s why I am telling you I’m sorry.  Thank you for always being on my side.
Until next time,
Much Love,

MS
 
Brothers

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Moment of Reflection

"Life is full of ups and downs.  Some days nothing seems to go your way.  I love to make people laugh.  Just the same, I have days where I could cry and have done just that.

As a youngster, I was raised in a good Christian home.  My family loved me.  We didn't always have the newest bells and whistles, but we had each other. 

My teenage years came, and life changed for me.  Pimples broke out on my face and girls began to catch my eye.  Around this time, I met a very special girl who became my girl.  One thing led to another, and the two of us were expecting a child of our own.  Yes, I know - sounds like it was an accident.  Actually, we worked very hard at it.  No, we weren't trying to make a baby.  ...Well, you get the picture.

There's so many funny and sad stories during that part in my life.  I broke some hearts, had mine broken, and lost some very special people along the way.

The innocence of youth gone, I began to use drugs.  At first it was smoking weed and drinking.  Three years ago, just prior to this prison sentence, it was heroin and prescription medication.

I began this with life's ups and downs.  A couple months ago I found out a close friend of mine passed away from a drug overdose.  Being locked up, I didn't get the news until nearly a year later.  What a crushing blow.

One of my gifts is art.  Since I've been in prison I have begun to draw.  My goal was to create a piece of art in memory of my friend Kimmy.  What I drew is a memorial that is not only for Kim, but a reminder of where I've been and never want to go again.

I feel this piece of art captures the way I feel about drugs and addictions.  A broken heart is often the cause of drug abuse.  Running from - or trying to drown out - life's shit sandwich has started many a user down the path of drug abuse.  There is a patch on the heart because it's broken.  We all have a good side and a bad side, even addicts.  One wing is topped with a halo for the good.  The other represents the dark side of an addict.  I tend to be to-the-point and in-your-face, so included are instruments for use and dope itself.  I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to reach out to Kimmy.  "Kimmy, I'm so sorry" is in her memory.  I wish I could reach out and do something.  This is what I can do.  My art may inspire you.  To do what, I have no idea." 

Copyright 2010 M.S.


"My jokes and short stories may only piss you off and offend you.  Then again, maybe you'll laugh.  Even here in prison laughter is truly the best medicine.  So if I piss you off - don't look!

This isn't a movie.  I'm a real-life jackass.  I've been crashing all my life.  Maybe I can save you some trouble!"

M.S.



(All artistic works published here are the property of M.S. and may not be reproduced in any form without his express permission.)