[Transcribed from Kurt’s “Mail From Jail” letter, which can be found here. Be sure to visit Mail-to-Jail to write letters to Kurt in jail.]
Saturday, October 24, 2009 A.D. Day 23
The Roof
It’s coming down pretty heavy out there and there is a chill in the air. There is the sound of an occasional snore, a television with the volume on low, but low enough that you know it’s some mindless form of distraction, as it almost always is. The inmates beg for direct responses from the “corrections” officers and receive the all too familiar vague answers only people hired not to think or feel can give. There is the echo of the speakers blaring from the task masters “Mister Banker, Mister Durall, Mr. Coll, get ready for work detail!” They are headed out to see “the girls” and milk them and shovel their poop into machines… I guess the cows and the humans are on the same level… slaves of the state, or in this instance, the county as well. An “inmate” which I choose to call “Terry” (that is after all his human name, not “inmate”) says thank you to me for coming over to him with a roll of tissue to blow his nose and dry his tears he is dripping all over the letter he is writing in response to the pictures and letter he just received from his wife and his 18 month old beautiful little girl, he won’t see for at least a month… There is much more to hist story, too, more that the thugs calling themselves “everyone’s government” who dares enter this land. Terry thanks me for the stamp and envelope that I shared with him, knowing that just doing this gets me a “write up” and possibly sent to solitary confinement in East Block.
On the 21st I received mail from my wife that was postmarked on the 12th… that is all too typical. Tim, who has been here numerous times, surely due to the all too insane and dysfunctional “probation system” that is established as a tool to KEEP people coming back and the earnings and profit they steal from you at the point of a gun if you choose not to support it’s violence, again is frustrated that he too gets his mail sometimes the next day, sometimes in a week or so, stands by the door in an attempt to see his family member (I won’t say who) as he keeps asking someone to get her so he can see her through the tiny glass window on the cell door. A glimpse would change his spirit for hours, maybe even the rest of the day. He ends up feeling the same… forgotten. It’s easy to do here, no matter what. Call me a pessimist or a cynic, but I know, that is the design and the desire of the system, and that is the sign to them… that they own you.
There is some good news in all of this. One Massachusetts guy just got converted after reading “Atlas Shrugged”… it’s a small, but honest start… after all he is still from the bad place below. New Hampshirites know it as “Hell,” others know it as “Massachusetts.”
I notice a drip, drip, drip. It’s the second or third I’ve heard today. The puddle forms just below one of the three empty bed support looking things… I think they call them “beds” but I sure don’t, nor does my sore back and neck.
The miracle happens in the midst of it all. A guard comes in with mail for a “Mister Hoffman” and I resist (for maybe the third time since I’ve been here) telling him “that’s not me” and then going through the whole explanation with his government educated mind. That’s getting old and they still don’t seem to get it… do you? Anyway, the resounding drumming on the roof is now a pitter patter yet still dripping on the bunks and other places the building was supposed to prevent… it’s news from Torrin, and second card from SendOutCards.com/jasontorres with pictures of my wife and people the guards don’t even bother to mention, outside with signs and rain-coats… How did this happen? All my life I tricked people and made large sums of currency and played along to get along and I was alone in my thoughts and mind and heart… now, with my big mouth and nothing resembling those days, except for the silver S500 that needs an oil change 200 miles ago (parked outside the jail in the photo, thanks Torrin) I see that I should have opened my big mouth long ago. Public Opinion, a thing the local courts state in their words as their guiding principles, is on my side, or should I say, I am now on the right side. Yes, my mouth is still too big but at least it has said things that the “public opinion” identifies with… another TINY brick is out of the wall, the black dress is not seen as a reminder of something even remotely resembling “justice,” I still see Terry wiping his tears, I still can not provide for my wife, or anyone, there is still no victim… drip… drip… drip…
