Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home, Sinking - Sleet (Cassette)

Before they are 70, I expect them both to be dead, and if they are still alive they will be too feeble to be without a full time caretaker. With my life without parole sentence, I doubt I will ever be of assistance.

One of the major subjects I talked about with my mother was her finances. President Obama and the Federal Reserve are doing everything in their power to artificially stimulate the market until the election. However, by propping up the economy, they are only doing more harm. I am steadfast in my position: Europe and the U. The recession will not be as sharp as before but will linger like the stagflation of the s.

Often I wish I could take over my parents' finances despite my mother being an accountant. This will be her last year working and this is probably best. My mother will read my blog posts and she regularly wants to give her opinion.

This week, I was once again told my writing was too candid and mean spirited. She believes one of the purposes of my blog is to inform people about prison ongoings, and another is to get people to like me. I do not write, however, to gain readers' approval or sympathy. The blog is my personal journal, although at times I will discuss broader ranging subjects.

A subject my mother thought would be newsworthy is the charity donated to Stateville prisoners that they regularly never see. Many charities and businesses will donate food to the prison. For example, Stateville has received truckloads of Gatorade, potato chips, yogurt, soda pop, and various other goods over the past couple years. Many times this food will be left in storage for only the guards or other staff's consumption.

When the food is spoiled or past its expiration dates, it is then given to prisoners. For example, two years ago the warden discovered hundreds of boxes of corn and potato chips and demanded the kitchen supervisor to begin passing them out. For months, prisoners ate the expired vending machine sized bags of chips. More recently, truckloads of yogurt were donated and only the guards had access to it until it began to spoil. Then they were served to prisoners.

I had a bad case of food poisoning from eating one, and later I looked at the date and found it had expired over a month ago. To make sure my information was accurate, I stopped by a kitchen worker's cell to discuss the matter today. He told me it was true that sometimes donated food will never be served to inmates. However, he said there were usually reasons. For example, if there is not enough of the product to go to the entire prison population, it will simply only be offered to staff so there are no complaints of disparity.

The kitchen worker also added that once a donation is made to Stateville it is theirs and they sometimes barter the goods with other penitentiaries. As for guards getting first dibs on the best and freshest donated food, this was indisputable and staff is always fed better than the inmates.

I asked him if he knew who the charities were because I think they should be informed, but he did not know. After visiting hours were over, the 30 or more inmates left the visiting room and were sent across the hallway to another visiting room to be strip searched enmasse.

This room is not used and remains vacant despite how crowded visitation may get at Stateville. Once again, the "robocop" thoroughly searched the group of inmates who stood naked and lined against a wall. Searching convicts on the way out of visitation makes more sense than when they are going in. However, the guard had a zeal for strip searching inmates which was not only absurdly excessive but abnormal or weird.

Prisoners called him a homo and a control freak. He responded, "Yes, I am, and now let me do what I do. Despite the guard's extensive search, I thought of numerous ways contraband could have still been brought into the prison.

When I got back to my cell, I knew showers were going to be run for 4 gallery soon. Thus, I thought it would be a good time to trim my hair. Using beard trimmers, a comb and a couple of small plastic mirrors, I went to work. However, it is exceedingly difficult tapering hair where one cannot see.

Despite my best attempts, my hair was irregularly cut when the doors were unlocked for us to take showers. In the shower waiting area, I had another man go over what I did. When he was about finished, Albert was let into the gated area to take his detail shower. In his Polish accented English he said he did not know I wanted a "fade," and he may have been able to give me this hair cut after cutting the other man's hair. I told Albert I did not want it this short, but it was the only haircut Chase was proficient at.

He said he thought I actually looked better with high cropped shorter hair. While waiting to take a shower, I noticed Hillbilly and another prisoner having a heated exchange of words.

There was a tenseness in the holding area I thought was going to lead to violence. A few people were eager to pounce on the retarded snitch until he backed down.

Incredibly, he apologized to several men for accusing him of talking to the police. He did not gain any respect for this and someone spit in his face. Even in C House, a snitch is likely to have trouble. After returning to my cell, I heard someone announce we were on lockdown. This would have been disappointing to many prisoners in C House. The building had not been allowed to receive commissary in over a month, but was scheduled to go tomorrow.

Eventually, I was to learn cellmates were fighting in E House and a rifle blast was reported. The isolated incident only delayed feed lines temporarily. Prisoners were excited to hear they were going to be served a special meal for dinner. Kitchen workers were calling it "Shepherd's Pie. Some people speculated it was a pot pie of some sort. Brown told me it was a poor Irishman's pie of leftovers. He was close to the truth, although while in line I thought it looked like a delicious pie pizza.

I asked the prison worker serving the food if this was Stateville's version of a deep dish Chicago pizza. He told me it was not as good as it looked. Very cheesy scalloped potatoes were piled on green beans and ground turkey-soy kibble and then put on a pizza crust.

As I ate it, I thought it would have been better just to have a cheese pizza. I could have then brought it back to the cell and added some ketchup and real meat to eat while I was watching the movie "Seven".

At the end of this Leap Day, I wished it was another I could have leaped over. In fact, the last 19 years I could have done without. There is news on television currently predicting strong storms to pass through southern Illinois and Indiana. Although it is not yet spring, there are tornado warnings.

It would be nice if a category 5 tornado would directly hit Stateville Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home the night and reduce to rubble this entire miserable penitentiary. Although I will most certainly die crushed by concrete and steel, I dream of the minute chance I will survive unscathed and tossed miles away. In fact, I daydream of being swept up in the tornado like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, but unlike her, I will never seek to return.

If I ask anything from the Wizard, it will be to leap back into the past two decades. Posted by Paul Modrowski at PM 9 comments:.

Labels: donated foodrobocopShepherd's Piestrip searches. Thursday, March 8, 4 Gallery -- February 25, Two days ago, I was moved to a cell on 4 gallery. Four gallery is not on the 4 th floor as many may assume, but on the 2 nd.

Many years ago, the entire block-long building holding most of General Population was one huge unit. However, over the years the building was divided in half, and those two were later divided to make four separate cell houses. General Population is often referred to as the "quarter units" because of this and it is also the reason for the strange gallery numbers.

C and B cell houses only have even numbered galleries while on the other side of the building there are only odd numbers. There are 5 floors numbered 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10 in my cell house. The enormous building which cages about 1, prisoners was not called "The Big House" for no reason, and it was split into quarters to increase control over what was an extremely violent and unruly prison. I was given no advance warning or notice that I was being moved to 4 gallery, although I have repeatedly requested to be moved since I was sent to C House in July.

For 7 months I have lived in cell which was directly across from the holding cage and not far from the front door and guards desk. Due to these factors among others, I have had to deal with a tremendous amount of trafficnoiseand disruption. The holding cage was a large reason for my discomfort. Inmates were packed into this cage most of the day waiting to go on passes or to be allowed to return to their cells.

Often it was filled to capacity and details, religious services, or library lines stood outside my bars talking and yelling. They stared into my cell or engaged one of my 5 cellmates, especially Ely who was always looking for conversation.

I specifically asked the sergeant and others if I could be moved in with Mertz. Mertz is one of the very few prisoners I speak to in the cell house. He has a quiet disposition like me and we share some common interests. I also knew his level E cellmate had to be moved soon because of security procedures. When the sergeant came to my cell and told me to pack up because I was being moved to 4 gallery, I initially assumed I was being moved into Mertz's cell.

However, after some reflection, I knew this was too good to be true. When the sergeant returned to inquire how much time I would need, I asked him specifically what cell I was being sent to.

The cell number was not Mertz's and my happiness abruptly ended. I had no idea who my new cellmate was going to be, whether we could get along, or if there would be immediate hostilities. A different gallery, cell, and cellmate were causing me a lot of anxiety. I am not certain why, but the sergeant after initially seeming unpressed for time, was in a hurry to have the move take place.

He ordered prison workers to take my property upstairs as soon as I placed it near the bars. This was fine with me because I preferred not to do the work or possibly aggravate my lower back injury by carrying cumbersome heavy objects.

As I untied my TV, disengaged extension cords, pealed the mirror off the back wall, and did other tasks, my cellmate spoke to various gallery workers who were moving my property. Thad wanted to know who I was switching places with. The name he was given he did not recognize and he seemed also concerned about who his new cellmate would be. Although I cared little to interact with Thad, I was by and large a good cellmate to live with, especially at Stateville.

When the sergeant returned to see how much progress had been made, my cellmate asked him if it was possible we could both be moved into the same cell on 4 gallery. The sergeant said that only one move was approved by the Placement Officer. The only object I ended up moving to my new cell was my vinyl covered mattress which I tried to roll up as much as possible. The foam mattresses have just begun to be passed out to prisoners.

I had just received mine a month ago and was not going to trade it with whomever I was switching places with. Most prisoners still had the old cotton cloth covered mattresses which I thought were unsanitary to be exchanging.

Furthermore, my mattress was new and uncompressed or lumpy. As I left the cell with the mattress over my shoulder, I told Thad I will see him around. He replied that we will still have plenty of opportunity to talk because 2 and 4 galleries are typically kept together for yard and chow.

I thought, however, that I will probably never say a word to him and since my move, I have not. When I arrived at my new cell, I noticed two black men scrambling in a confused manner to move out the property of one of them. Apparently, the man who was changing cells with me was not given much time to pack or lived in such a state of disarray that moving was not easily done.

From the appearance of the cell, I figured it was the latter. The cell was filthy and had an enormous amount of clutter or garbage strewn about. I did not know which man was my cellmate but both looked disheveled and dirty.

Standing outside the cell, I grew more and more disappointed and angry. I was not assigned a cellmate I knew and was comfortable with but yet another stranger who was seemingly dirty and I obviously had nothing in common with. I said to no one in particular that I was taking the lower bunk, and whoever had their belongings there needed to move them.

The shorter of the two men answered he will get to it after his cellmate moved out. He seemed flustered and possibly this m ove was as upsetting to him as it was for myself. My new cellmate's name is Bobby but some call him Little Bobby or O.

Bobby for "Old Gangster". Mertz calls him Dirty Bobby because he often looks unkempt and disheveled. Bobby is a very short man at least a foot shorter than me. He is in his late 50's and has been incarcerated 23 years consecutively. This is Bobby's second time convicted of murder however and if his former time in prison was included, he has served over 37 years. Most of his second stint in the penitentiary has been on death row and he would have been executed by now if former Governor George Ryan did not give a blanket commutation to all death row prisoners to natural life sentences.

The man has shaggy graying hair that he tries to comb back with grease and is typically seen with a comb caught in the tangles. Bobby has a ragged gray and black beard which adds to his disheveled homeless man appearance.

The lack of most of his teeth does not help impressions either. My new cellmate gave me the initial impression of what Buckwheat from the "Little Rascals" might look like today after joining a real criminal gang, selling and using crack, killing one or more people, and spending a third of a century in prison. The cell house was on standby for yard and both my new cellmate and I were intent on going. Although I felt a strong compulsion to begin tackling the enormous challenge of rehabbing the cell, I also felt I had to get away into some open space.

There was plenty of time later to clean and organize. The pigsty would require hours upon hours of work, if not days. At the moment, I just wanted to put my boxes away and throw my mattress on the bunk which was still all piled up in the front of the cell. My cellmate rushed to untie his TV, fan, and Walkman from the lower bunk beams.

He then moved all the bits of clutter he kept on his bunk plus his lamp, headphones, and numerous hooks he had taped haphazardly to the wall.

After he moved his compressed debilitated mattress to the top bunk and Sinking - Sleet (Cassette) on top of it, I was finally able to move some of my property in place. I thought about cleaning the cell from top to bottom first, but there was no time for this.

Guards were already opening up cell doors on 10 gallery. I simply moved his property box over and scattered what clutter or trash was there to make room for my boxes. Tossing my mattress on the bunk, I placed my TV and radio unplugged. Belongings I had in a laundry bag, I shoved into my large property box. While Bobby was tying his TV to a new location, I asked him if the junk all about the floor was his and told him I liked to keep the cell clean and orderly.

He told me the clutter was his prior cellmates, however, when I began to throw out the various things, he turned around to see me giving a gallery worker an empty cereal bag and told me that was his and he needed it. Outside, it was cold with intermittent drizzle. I began to think I should have stayed inside to begin the transformation of my new cell. Once again my life had been turned upside down and the thought of righting it made me unable to focus much on my exercises or the conversation around me.

As usual, I lifted weights with Mertz but another prisoner who went by the name Chase joined us at various times. Mertz told me he also thought initially I was being moved in with him.

His cellmate was on a court writ and he was uncertain whether to pack his property until a gallery worker told him I was being sent to a cell seven doors away. Mertz was also disappointed and he will soon have to spin the roulette wheel of cellmates where he will most likely be a loser.

I asked Mertz about my new cellmate. He told me he seemed like a dirty person, but on the positive side, he also seemed very quiet.

I looked across the vast South Yard and could not find "Dirty Bobby". For a moment, I thought he had avoided the yard line, but Mertz found him hiding against the handball court wall. I asked what he was doing there all by himself and Chase suggested he was trying to avoid the rain. I myself Pulled at the skein. To be brief, three are dead: Two drowned, one shot herself. And one lives and dies symbolically by the rites of tragedy. But none of the deaths were easy. The odor of lilacs will leave me insane.

False aspiration cut the heart from the brain Each twitches, reaches, parts of a severed beast. Nightlight The Widow Lastly lay in bed And heard the sirens fire the night, Feeling her pillow hold it glued, That halo of the light they sought.

She knew her next breath would explode Her head of white hot ashes, Scatter the once red hair so frayed, Leaden with forgotten wishes. The Widow Lastly pursed her lips To steal the air in little sups. Unquestioning for eighty years She had obeyed the haemal ice.

She knew a full breath would explode Her head of white hot ashes, Would scatter the once red hair, so frayed And leaden with forgotten wishes. It was typed out as prose but has slashes in pen indicating line breaks.

I havent yet been able to discover Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home author of this piece. Listen, Lucy said, do you hear? He disappeared up an alley, the dogs at his heels, but not before they saw her too, naked and lathered, her shower cap askew and panting what have I done what have I done as the alley swallowed her.

Begin Your mad eternal cloak! I, forever lost, Shed many hues. Returning to Cambridge in Mid-winter To sun on some beach with love in my arms, To shade that love when the moon comes hot And the wind dry from inland, that love firm Not the usual spectreliving Thus I sat Dreaming, I know, not really desiring, lost In these many worlds, lost where the heart Is, of course, but the heart recoils in such haste From here and there at some home again, unhurt By the change from one old home to another, but so Tired and a step behind the heart.

To sleep In her arms and the sound, the sound of the sea, To sleep and wake to the evening dream, and hope February [Handwritten at the bottom of this otherwise typed page. Webbs Route 1, Box 58 Anthony, New Mexico [postmarked APR 13, ] Thursday night Received your letter today—glad to hear that you have plenty of water again, not having enough pressure has always been a nuisance.

Who did the work? The last two days, despite predictions of snow, have been very nice. I went down to New Bedford with my roommate for two nights during the recess—relaxing to get a little change of scene. He drove me out to see Cora and family one afternoon. They were very anxious to know if you were planning to come up in June. That was about the only real rest I got. My tutor wanted me to turn in 40 pages of my thesis to a prize competition. Typing it up, etc. Work on the novel is going much slower than I would like, but at least several people are interested in it.

By the way, there is one of Prof. Sorry to hear that Pool is taking such a heavy load, but of course he can bring them all up if he takes a little time. That is very nice of Mr. Kilgore to save his books until I have a chance to look through them. I wish you would call him and tell him I look forward to poring over them all. I think that would really make eating out pleasant—no mosquitoes.

Also fix the little sink and the old icebox out there—and perhaps the roll-away bed and glider. I should think the whole thing could be done for less than a hundred dollars. James E. But fortunately I easily enough got a seat in Venice, where part of the train originated, since it was off the main route. The boat left Brindisi at 11 p. Saturday, so I saw what there was to see during the afternoon—principally the terminal Columns at the southern end of the Appian Way. Parts of the trip were rather rough, but I never mind sea travel.

Called at Corfu Sunday noon, and had time to walk through the town and see the Cathedral. And arrived in Piraeus just before noon Monday morning in a real downpour. Got the bus into the centre of Athens, found a room, and then walked around in the rain—feeling a bit discouraged. But it stopped during the afternoon, and today has been bright sunshine. Had dinner last night with the family of a student I met on the train—reading economics at Newcastle, but came home to Athens for Xmas.

Very good food, and some hints about getting around Athens and Greece. The weather was much improved today—sunny and very warm out of the wind. Took several photos, which I hope turn out well. The landscape and climate are a lot like home, as evidence, I noticed many of the same plants growing. Want to see as much as possible before returning to England—so will check the dates of sailings to Crete, Rhodes, etc. The fruit is a real treat, after England. Our hotel room is opposite what I suppose is about the biggest city market, and can see the stalls of fruit, meat, etc.

The city is very Americanized—even the traffic jams are on the U. Shall not get to Turkey or Israel—both too expensive in time and money. But I may scrape everything together and get a tourist flight to Egypt, which I would love to see.

Teaching is certainly not well payed in England—but then one can live more cheaply than in America. And I might be able to get the thesis in shape too—though I do feel discouraged with research study at the moment. Will write whatever new thoughts I have about it. I imagine Pool and Jill will be there by the time this reaches you—give them my love. Will send the pictures home—as many as turn out well—after showing them to my friends in Cambridge.

But I intend to be certain what I want before I buy. Lots of love to all, and have good holidays and a good rest too. Jim had a list of about half a dozen such projects that he made notes and did research on and some of which he drafted chapters and scenes for. There are indications in the letters that he actually finished more than one novel, but none of them seem to have survived the house fire when the big house in Anthony went up in flames in or thereabouts.

United States stationery. Where will it end—a great river down the Edgware Road. And up from Brixton. The trains waiting Before dawn in either case, the sky still deepest blue to the west. No one else wants the trash she collects, and even the garbage trucks with their DEPT.

But she likes that last hour or two before dawn, she expects it in all her untroubled sleep. The alarm clock never rings. She stands there on the cold floor of her basement room, barefoot, in a tight nightgown with fragments of lace at the top and bottom, all of it, once-white lace and rayon and even the open mouths of split seams a kind of dingy yellow, like the bottoms of her feet.

No one would dare to, surrounded by those precarious piles of junk, those pagodas, card-castles and memorials of hers. But she scratches. And she is always vaguely excited, the tip of her tongue moving and visible between her lips. She dresses. Since this is still her winter, she puts on her warmer workclothes. A black and fuchsia two-piece knit dress that has, with all that time, accommodated itself perfectly to the ample, the monumental parts of her, the somehow perhistoric mounds of her breasts and buttocks and stomach.

She rolls and twists her stockings round her thighs, expertly and unevenly, and somehow fits her feet into rubber boots lined with what was fur and is now felt. Then over all the raccoon coat. With both hands she tries to stretch the hair back from her forehead, pulling it into two snarled clouds darkened for a storm. Without a mirror. She takes up several twine-handled paper bags that hang on the foot of the bed, Woolworths probably, then up the noisy stairs and out the noisy door, into the empty exciting streets.

To see what she can find. Cambridge, dark Boston are about her in their vacant hours. No cars at the curbs or steering down the streets, only lines of parking meters in the cribbage board sidewalks, all swollen and red violation tipped like matches. She passes the domestic trash cans near the corner with the knowing and unseeing disdain of years, and turns down Brattle Street to the Square.

She has the long flashlight out of her pocket now. Down narrow alleys of grayed brick, by the basement doors of clothiers and the barred windows of drug stores, to the regiments of galvanized barrels. Lengths of string and twine, her tongue vibrating in the cold air. Tissue paper and cellophane. The muscles in her thighs twitch. A tired policeman nods and passes.

Her breathing now irregular. In another barrel ribbons, lovely bows, discarded lengths still corkscrewed from the spools. Now in a cul-de-sac behind the cleaners what she saves for last: clothes hangers, black and silver wire, twisted and snapped, dozens of them.

Her hands close convulsively and her eyes roll to show the huge whites, the craze of red and blue veins. The shopping bags are full.

The sky has bleached around her, the street lights glitter in the dawn, a few people in the streets. Awkward grey mountain ranges of mail sacks, lumpy piles of quarry waste. A Christmas tree.

The strings of baggage cars weave through the crowds like giant caterpillars, hooting for the right-of-way, shouting, twisting. Women at tea carts, in tobacco kiosks, in the newsstands wear headkerchiefs and knitted gloves with holes at the fingertips—he wondering whether the holes are cut or whether the abrasion of money, some corrosive quality, the root of, no, the love of is the root.

Half an illuminated sign brightly reminding top people that they read. The boat train crowds: Americans in the standard light macs, carrying the inevitable suburban Samsonite luggage or folding Val-a-pak, the Australians strapped into their Aden cameras, all with the weathered skin of the new worlds. And look at him: gaunt and gawking, all bundled up and weighed down, in that fuzzy blanket of a coat, by those bits and pieces of strapped-up luggage.

Somewhere among those building blocks, that nursery floor of trunks with the bright initial letters on the sides, somewhere his will be hiding—footlockers 2 —one black, one brown. Thinking: Desolate, Displaced, Drab. No, not Diplomatic, not in this crowd. Damned cold, at least. There: D on brown. Now somewhere a D on black. I wake to the morning sounds, summer sounds.

Birds chattering, the first bus straining up the hill. My eyes are closed. I could see it now. There would be the long poplar bars of shade on the lawn like the pattern the venetian blinds cast on the wall opposite me, and the chairs scattered about under the trees for those awkward family visits to convalescent husbands and fathers and children, white and green and orange chairs, glistening with dew and turned bottom side up to keep the metal seats dry.

Beds of cherry geraniums growing from hidden pots sunk in the soil. It will be quiet outside for a while. Then the push and pause of a lawnmower, perhaps, or the snicker of shears at the hedges, and Sinking - Sleet (Cassette) the deliveries of milk and vegetables and meat to sustain us. Medicine, ink, soap and bleach for our swaddling cloths, crossword puzzle books and shaving cream to be wheeled around on the trolley to those who use them, bowls of flowers with thoughtful cards tied by little ribbons—all drawn like filings to our magnet, day after day.

People come and stay and go, on way or another, but I suspect the hospital goes on forever, rehearsing the routine devotions. Like the routine thermometer. And something of the routine seems to have entered into me after all these years.

I seldom have new thoughts, but play again the old ones, as I will now. I prefer to know. Three years is long enough, or too long.

I remember feeling so comfortable the first few months here: And why not? I was a child of four or five again, back in the America I first knew.

Dark shops with real people behind real counters. Restaurants upstairs with waitresses in white aprons. Most of the cars old and dark and small. Smiling policemen to tell me the way home. But memory is strange, the accidents stay with the essential, and throughout I hear, still, the debating self that accompanied me—I no longer have any doubt about my conclusions, but the doubt of the time is a part of the orchestration still, a counterpoint or decoration, nothing more.

So drop the needle. So I had to be very critical, check everything as carefully as a scientific hypothesis. The unmarried ladies smile at occasional children in the parks, and feed pigeons.

There must be so much searching and straining and sweating and pain in love. Wives grow fat and husbands drink. Governments fight wars, and leave undone those things that they should have done. Science, art, philosophy: all toys. Cancer, starvation, insanity, revolution and counter revolution, suicide, religion, hurricanes, earthquakes.

It hurts me to think about it. Cold clear nights for stars and sleeping, a crystal show for the day— blue sky fading very little at the horizon, glowing yellow leaves on the cottonwood trees, pale dry crumbling earth.

What autumn is like here in the long valley: calm, unending, day after day. The homeless paying for tea but buying warmth and a chair, and a little time, their elbows on the table supporting sagging heads, Irregular nocturnal students, The oblivious young man by the windows, writing something copperplate morning after morning, in half-leather notebooks.

If there were, I would be one. But I chose the wrong one, he was afraid. So afraid that I knew life was too hard for him, and if I could, I would have done it for him: to him, I mean. Judging ourselves by that minor world of the frantic limbed and accepting its standard. What are they doing now, what do they think?

But the answer is very simple—they must be a lot like me. Sometimes for months at a time, waking and dreaming, it was that same cold sweat and teeth on edge at the thought that in a year or twenty or forty I would simply cease But life is too short to worry about how short Lucid and ironic.

Say to pages. Finality of present judgment: the needle on the gramophone record—interpenetrated by past stages. Unnamed: of an age. A large cast of [permancuts?

Views on everything: sex, love, work, death, et al. Lie beside me. Limbs as deformities, malignancies. The intermediates.

Attitude to unknown parents. Rationalisation of peculiarity: metaphor of mercury—the approach to the sphere in nature. Pure consciousness. The converts. Lion railings cast motionless painted shadows.

Jim was doing:] Annabelle Peso kept an alarm clock on the floor by the head of her bed. Every morning—at four in the summer and five in winter—she woke and pushed the button in, before the mysterious innards of the clock could make even that tiny preliminary click that wakes the anxious lover. Sitting on the bed she could reach the light bulb on the low ceiling and twist it home. The clock was a mystery of some sort, for she led such a well-scheduled life that she never needed to look at it.

Either she was muttering about something or she was walking in a hurry to get somewhere, counting the pennies from the Mason jar spilt out on the kitchen table or mending a cracked cup with enough glue to make a healthy moon mountain range, or poking with her red parasol at a white-aproned boy in the supermarket, trying to find out where he hid the Quaker Oats.

In her whole life no one thinking of a train or a dentist or a roast had asked her the vital question. And as she reached for her stockings, hanging on a broken deck chair, she resumed the interrupted conversation with herself.

At the top of the stairs she stepped into her shoes, laceless, and with slits in the toes. She put on her hat by the hall mirror Sorry to hear. Wanted to tell you. Glad to know. And another round of correspondence done.

He stamped the letters and balanced them on the coatrack where he would see them in the morning. He took out his watch, looked at it, shook it, wound it. Three twists. It would take no more. Far too early to sleep. No reason to call on anyone. He walked around the room again, compensating for the sea-swell of the sagging floor.

He dusted some ashes off the corner of the desk with his handkerchief. Again the calm sea, still the restive stresses, the dog-watch rounds and silences. He lowered the window shades, bolted the door, and sat down again at the desk. He unlocked the bottom drawer and took out a manila folder. The sheets of paper were numbered on the right-hand corner.

He took out ten sheets, 31 to 40, and closed the folder. No, an even dozen. He slipped the two sheets under the pile and reached for a pen. Get everything down—details—and worry about order later. Seclusion, cold, nature, dedication and waste of human elements—memories of adolescence. Trip from education, the urban, the motored—yet the same cold, or less.

Reunion of living and dead family—which more embarrassing—shyness, indirection, third hand. Crying somewhere, sometime and so long ago, man lost something, you lost something, somebody, some part, and for the dead flesh [word? If only he does not write me about it. Oh plead guilty now—gross and willing confusion and obliquity—for what are names? Yet the dedication is unavoidable. Make the tale picaresque, yet short-shrift the actual travel. And forswear even the shadow of my vain main eternal preoccupation.

Upper Northern Regional—at least a long sound. Yet their dedication is to what? Long enough to say it all—rather, suggest it allimagine all. One for all till the climax. But write it last—spend a year, not count the cost. And whose shadow in the background of my mind. Guerard or Griffith? Difficult the title, with the threat of Isherwood, whom I shall not re-read. Rejoice, for Ann Arbor I know not nor Chevy. Yet I know the widow and her comfort, since she has called it that.

Ah see one, the reporters, the artists stealing life—but an intoxication in being at work for a moment again. Damn the length—complete the project. Novella surely. Plan for months, now the project is planted. Invitations and public relations, resume the threads of private relations. Announce the date, inform the plasterers. One must arrive from somewhere—the disparate directions. The force of civilization, the militia as we know it. Names there must be, but they need not be ordinary.

The poor, stupid, dedicated fools. You knew him, and I knew him, but I was not the same man. What becomes of his previous life, the part of the past?

Yet certainly there must be less said of him than the others. Would one prefer dissipation to dedication both meanings of both words? The beginning in medias res, no matter how trite? Not bound by what I know but freed by the imagination—there must be some reason I write it and not Wally. Not bless me, father, for man is sin. Not a monument, But please, please.

Dedicate me. The scene, not literate echoes, dictates the style, I hope. Refuse an outline till the words are written. What a hell before me, a profession profess it more richer and more poorer surely, in trickiness and stealth, till the age of retirement. Not bless me, father, for I have your sin.

Not a monument. But please, please. Trees grow can houses shrink. Fall on my knees to enter the room—larger than possibility at ten years and twelve, kick at the walls harder than the womb, more constricting. Extinguish all light and this circle revolving by spokeless nature still revolves also upon my chosen diameter, my running course.

The first remove. In this rupture laceration caesura is my beginning and my end, I remember the actual the original of the vision, I am helpless.

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We are, as adults, skeptics. We are, perhaps, sometimes overly cautious. We think there's al- ways a "catch" when we see something that outwardly ap- pears to be of real value. When someone is friendly. Because we hold this attitude, we do not always participate fully in the game of life. We sit back. It myst certainly be a more pleasurable life for those who have.

Paslor '' Junior Church 12 noon Revival Fires p. Junior Choir Practice p. Jet-Cadets Alpha Teens p. Sunday Meet III! IUliprugramllled I '. Joseoh II. Pastur 7 a. Firsl Frid;,iy ;,i. Jlly 5. Saturday Mass St. Mary's Episcopal.

Prayer 1st. Ministl' r a. Church School I 5 a. Church at Worship. Youth Fellowship J. SUliday Sl:h ol II a. South St reet Rcv.

Jal:k ILllilltllll. Pastllr 7 1. Tliesday p. Friday Y Ul1g People's Servin' a. SlIl1day '. Pastor 1 a. Mllrniflg Worship h p. Morning Wurship p. Evening Wurship X:OO p. Evening Worship! Worship s.

Prayer Servi. Smith, Minister a. Sunday Worship Service. Pastor St',ial Row RO;ld a. Ministl'r p. SUllday '. Scrvll:C Main Street :oo ;1. Wedlll'sday I:vl. Lois Ounaway. Pastur I j: 15 ; Krvl':C a. Sunday I. Main Strcct '. Midwl'l'k 7, p. WorsllI 1 S!. Morning Worship 7 p. Sunday Evening ScrviL:e 1'. Wednesday Evcning p. Youth RCL:reation p. Sunday Sf. James Coffman a. School p. SUliday hc'lIing 7 1. Robcrt Palmer called on his mother. Nettie Palmer, Sunday. Sue Turton of Center- villc called Oil Mrs.

Nettie Palmer Sunday. Lillian Schroeder visited her daughter and family of Lebanon Jan. Robert Crane called on his mother, Mrs. Florence Crane, on Monday. James Mar- tino, Franklin Road. Mart Oils and son left for Salem, W. We wish a speedy recovery to her. Maude Baird will ceIe- 'brate her 88th birthday Jan. Oui' deepest sympathy to Mrs. Glenna Oils and family on the death of Mrs.

Dils' father. The ship was blown ashore dur- Ing a storm and landed on the Eastern shores of South Carolina in Colonists helped repair the ships and the governor of the colony was given some rice seeds In appreciation of the colonists' help. The family of Clarence Price. Florence Moran. Life, in its most casual sense, can never be free from the necessity of decision.

One does not wander away from truth; the step is premeditated. Remember God, live bv the commandments and your pathway will lead only to the rewards ;f a fruitful life.

Some folks even phoned me last week - as if long-distance is only two or three nickels 'down the slot! The first letter is from a reader in Pennsylvania. I didn't have time to ask if I could usc his real name, so let's on "Ed ward.

Ten years ago I became an invalid and my wife went to work. What area do you advise? My wife enjoys a smaller town with nearby shopping and medical facilities for me. What- ever she wants suits me fine. But make no decision until you in- spect carefully, first. Never buy blind from a brochure. I don't like the two communities you singled out.

They're so bu,ried in wilderness only an Olympic pole- vaulting carrier pigeon could ever find them! She writes: "Several times you mentioned senior centers and their social opportunities for lonely people. Who starts such centers? Are they like a club with dues? Who pays upkeep -- the city? If so, we'd never get one r- -- -- - - -- I S annual subscription I here on a squeezed budget. If all we need is loneliness start one, my hometown.

She'd about a senior center in Calif. Today, Citizens' Center of Wis. Nope, no dues, it's "clubby" in every being introduced to new by staff hostesses. She says she'll be. Mildred M. Krez, Senior. Write to Gerald Andrews of this newspaper.

Or ask. BOX Constant care in a good t home. A ' naUonwide CO-hour wage law became effective, October 24, Benjamin FrankUn advoeate1l crop insurance, Oc- tober 24,1' Smith, October Z6, The Spartans led throughout the game, starting with the first period score of 34 - The score at the end of the third period was Waynesville 50, Springboro Again in the Varsity game as in the reserve game, the Panthers scored more points but couldn't score nearly enough to come close to the Spartans.

This is the second victory for the Spartans of the season. The high scoring player of the Varisty game was Jim Ben- ton. The Spartans and' Panthers were tied ' at the end of the second period but Waynesville pushed ahead in the third period. During the fourth period, al- though the Panthers scored more points, the Spartans were far enough ahead to prevent them from catching up. The high scoring player was Dave Dic. Z5 Lebanon Dec. U Kings Dec.

Little Miami Jan. Z3 Kings' Jan. Z9 Little Miami Feb. Steve Jones scored first for Waynesville then a lead was built and held for most of the period until the last 10 seconds. Blanchester scored first in the second period then Jim Benton uf Waynesville scored. Although WayneSVille battled furiously. During the third and fourth periods, Waynesville continued to fight but could not catch Blan- chester.

The high scorer for Waynes. It was Jim Goode that brought the Spartans ahead with a field goal in the last two seconds of the first period. The Spartans continued. TF-iIS During the third period, Blanchester seemed to ralley but couldn't catch the Spartans and the period ended with a score of Waynesville 16, Blanchester I'll try to make it short.

One day. This other "irl at school likes him. I think she told him thiJigs that weren't true. She is very jealous. I would do any- thing to win him back. That is why I ask your help. What should I do? If a boy really- likes you, his actions will prove th"t he does - not his words.

Be yourself. Remem, i,f'''' too. Extra Ham Homemakers today purchase pork from leaner hog:s. The amount of ham and loin in hogs has increased by There's a more uniform. And, then there are some boys who like whichever girl they happen to be with at the moment. The high scorer of the reserve game was Jim Goode with 11 Points. The ship was sponsored by Corporal Stein's mother, Mrs.

Teresa K. Walters of Dayton his sister acted as proxy sponsor during launching ceremonies due to the ill heallh of Mrs. Walters' daughter, Mrs. Ralph Oney of Dayton, was mat- ron of honor. Walters accepted a large silver tray etched with a picture of the ship for her mother. The fragments of the shattered cham- pagne bottle used to launch the vessel were also sent Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home to Mrs. His address was one of anum. Captain Walter A. Walters at the moment Mrs. George S. Walter, is shown above with the chrislcningOs pal speaker.

TIle Honora ble Charles W. Corporal Tony. Stein of launching. TIle Stein has been designed for ant i-su bmarine warfare. She is feet in length. Corporal Stein, the lirst man of his unit to be on station after hitting the beach in the initial assault on Iwo Jima. He was killed in combat I, during a mission". Corporal Tony Stein was porn. He :". Before being stationed in Pacific. Joan Stominger in July. San Diego. Ball 78 - Phone DAlton ' Reginald O. Wood, 18, of Franklm.

Both Hatmaker and Wood were westbound on Route Wood was stopped in the road and was struck by Hatmaker as he d10ve over the crest of the hill, Wood was arrested for driving while intoxicated by investigating patrolman, Richard Donley of the Lebanon Post of the Ohio Highway Patrol Both drivers were taken to the hospital by Oearcreek Life Squad.

The design, fabrication anu construction will pro,eceu illlmediatcly after the comple- tion of the contracts. Installation will have 'to be timed to fit per- iods when units can be taken off the Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home interfering with the electric power supply.

Hutch- ings station near Miamisburg. They will take the place of the present mechanical dust collec- tors installed in the late 's and early s. The return is excellent. May and of Ne"rly S3. This involves six boilcrs and f0ur staLks and is scheduled to he complcted by the su'mmer of We starteu in Hawke waS appointed Cham- ber President during a recent meeting of the organization's board of directors.

The Chamber's new president said that he planned to "change the complexion" of the group. Membership fee structure has already been rebuilt and lowered according to him. The heaviest concentration of work at pre- sent will be placed on member- All of OUl" Illlilers haw dust hut we havc flllllld that units do not wilh l'xisting rl'!! For exisling l'quipn1l'nt. Thl' tlltall'xl'l'lIditUl"l's. JIl ell'l'lric: late illcreaSl'. All presons interested in Chamber mcmbcrship should call Nell at Hawke has disclosed plans for thrce dinner mcetings which will featurc ' speakers with topics con- cerning the aims of the Chamber of Commerce Other new Chamber officers include Mrs.

Lynn Steve Fields. Secretary and Mrs. Doris Edgar Smith, Treasurer. The next general meeting of the Chamber will be Feb. ITEM: Upholstering furniture can be fun, saves money. A fabric with a balanced weave will wear longer than a brocade or highly textured fabric. Cotton, nylon fibers are durable, and fa- brics made from them usually will give long.

Never sign a con- tract with blank spaces. Be sure the contract states: what you're buying, purchase p ric e and amount borrowed, interest and service charge In dollars or sim- ple annual rate, total amount due, down payment, amount and ' number of payments and dates c.

A student will be suspended three 3 days if he or she is found guilty of skipping as de- fined above. No exceptions. Re- asonable effort will be made to provide verbal notification to parents. Written notification will follow. SMOKING The use of tobacco in any form during school hours on school property is absolutely for- bidden and ;s a cause for auto- matic dismissal from school. Among these, were different schools with 5, children who used the tours and exhibits, as a part of their Ohio history classes.

These have been offered from time to time, along with numerous other items, such as maps, more' than book marks, numerous spec- imens of paleontology and arch- TAKE A TIP. Protect your farm business for all it's worth! A lew antiques were also donated for this purpose, such as glass fruit jars, which find a ready sale. These ge'nerous donations have helped to meet the cost of operation. The director's book on Warren County Architecture is sold at the Museum and has several hundred dollars to the income.

Volunteers have given hund- reds of hours to the various pro- jects and as guides for the school and adult tours. Several major shows were held in the muse. The first was the Blickensderfer Art Show in April. Followed by a -Honey and Bee's exhibit for the local Ohio Honey Festival, in addition to a booth on the street. All were well attended by out of town visitors and were successful shows, keeping the staff and assistants busy.

TIle degree re- ception eliminates practically all ghost and shadows. All parts are sealed in the weatherproof dome for protec- tion from wind, ice. Also ideal for use on boats and travel trailers. Lion Sal", P. Box Sprtngboro, Ohio PI I would like. Two antique shows, the first in February, the second in Sept- ember, at the Lebanon armory and the flea market at the War- ren County Fairgrounds in July, were sponsored by the Society to benefit the Museum. Other activities, including the bus tour to Shakertown, Kentucky, this year and visitsof other historical associations to our museum, the annual banquet and picnic in August.

The present project to record every burial in Warren County continues daily. Microfilms are made wherever records are avail- able. Tombstone inscriptions are copied where no records exist. These records bring many people who are doing family research to our community. Microfilms are being made at this time to bring the newspaper files up to date and to add some church ' records now available. These activities made our archives one of the finest col- lections in the country. An editor in a national pub- lication reported to genealogists recently "that if the Warren County Historical Society doesn't have much help, you are really in trouble-;-' because they have one of the most thorough indexes for a county, to be found anywhere.

Hazel S. Phillips, Museum Director, ended the year with paid members and 36 honorary and memorial members. Anyone interested may join and attend the monthly meet- ings with programs and parti- cipate in the many activities of this cultural and educational group. Thl' lIrhall:J clllllllry-rock IllllSic ;!

Gaffin llf C"rwin. Members 01 the UfOliP shown. Dick Oun'ham and Ijalc'. Brower of Waynt:s ville was awarded a of Art. Frank Brower of 11 29Mile Road. ROllte I, A. He will be employed the teaching staff of Waynesville High School. Acy Lamb.

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I actually wanted to sleep myself—but fate, perhaps, or some unseen god held my lids open and my mind clear. I began to think, clearly and rapidly. Comparison after comparison, revelation after revelation swept through my consciousness. The blackness crushing against the windows was death and infinite space The train was mankind, forever seeking, yet not his own master—doomed to travel the tracks of destiny till the earth should perish I was no longer a part of the world but a far-off, disinterested spectator—an analyst to whom no facts were hidden.

Suddenly the entire pattern of life and death and infinite time and space lay before me. All petty thoughts, all fears, and hopes, and anxieties were gone. I knew all in reality, in completeness. I knew all, yet I knew I must not remember. Sleep had obliterated it. Not a sleep of exhaustion, but a protective sleep—a hypnotic sleep imposed upon my body lest my mind destroy itself through thought.

Someone threw a blanket over me. Although I will never, can never, describe or communicate my sudden revelation of the plan and purpose of life, the warmth of that moment and of the benevolence of God that it revealed will last me all my life. Perfection Comes Not Often O rugged, aged mountains, to the east, Whose barren purple spines have caught on top The paling pink of absent afterglow Look down, deep down, into the time-worn gash Cut by the Rio through millenniums And watch the twinkling lights appear below In the homes of thinking, loving man.

Then stay aloof another billion years Till such a perfect day shall come again. The dryness of their eyes Is the dryness of death, And the silence of their souls Is the silence of shock.

They can not know. An Allegory The moon forgot to rise! No longer can the cottonwoods Cast inky spots of darkness Upon the roads and the dusty fields, For all is darkness, And for the first night since their birth The mountains are unseen. The Forgotten Valley For years and years the moist, white clouds Drifted high and aloof across The forgotten valley and the faithless people. The trees all died.

The ditches were dry. There was no food. Sometimes My Soul Is Gone Sometimes at night I dream That someone is calling From a far-off place, And though my body sleeps on in its bed, My soul is gone to answer that strange summons That cannot be heard, And cannot be explained.

The groping and the walking in the dark Will soon be far behind me, lost in time. The change will be complete in that new day. No longer dying faith, but blazing truth. A Hymn Church bells ringing on a windy night are the essence of my Lord— ageless hymns to the glory of God And wind blowing swift across the earth, the tool of His moving will.

Church bells ringing on a windy night. I want to be a thinking, working man. The Arroyo God made a mountain of sand and stones. He made it steep and tall. He made it smooth and perfect. But the mountain seemed cold and dead. It had no emotion—no experience. So God sent the rain. And the rain washed down the smooth new sides Cutting deep knowing slits through the sand and stone.

Where is your frightful breath that lashed the waiting, hopeful trees? Where is your fury, your malice, your fire? He opened the door of the [tenant? He roamed the streets of crumbling walls; he saw grapevines grow in ruined jacales; he talked of the past; and he hoped for the future. Refugio had been the center of a growing, powerful region.

Ten thousand people had crowded the streets. Now less than a tenth remain. The railroads passed her by. His poems were poignant, beautiful— poems of a forgotten time. In the plaza he talked to lingering ghosts of near-forgotten greats, echoing in his fading mind were their speeches and their songs.

The thoughts, the memories bubbled forth, he rushed to snare them all. With trembling hand and broken pen he wrote on squares of butcher paper. Awed brown hands clutched them tight and treasured the squares as gold. But sometimes he was bitter. He blamed the people; he blamed the river; he blamed the weather; he blamed himself for the natural action of progress. Yet time and reason always tamed the bitter core of memory. The poet is dead. The walls still crumble. The people still hope for a new Refugio.

Yes, the walls still crumble. And still the living die. But his tales of the past are eternal—almost. The sensation of the spine when we know what will happen, exactly who will say what and how and why.

Why do we welcome the orphans of war? Why are we the pattern for a new world, For a world of freedom and peace? America is free—the land of her people. America is free because of her people. People who came from all regions, all faiths. People who built cabins, villages, cities. People who lived on faith alone— Not on food, but on hopes and dreams. People who fought against tyranny and fear.

America had to be free. People who listened to tom-toms at midnight. People who rode through dark country nights To warn America—village and men— That freedom was endangered. People who cleared forests and planted corn, Who built churches and schools throughout our land.

Churches that live today on that same faith that built them Schools that teach peace, democracy, kindness. Churches and schools that keep us strong. People who worked under clouds of smoke To make for America a better life.

People who knew that peace required more Than lip-service and half-hearted toil. Soldiers who gave their lives and hopes To keep America free. Scholars who studied the mistakes of history To keep America free. Scientists who work, through day and night, To keep America free. And the cliff of love has strong winds, too, That smash those drawn within its power. Like the tiny rocks, lovers lose Their lives, so small and useless, For a life of love, and, shattered, Support the base of the cliff.

No longer can the cottonwoods Cast inky spots of darkness Upon the roads and the dusty fields, For all is darkness. And for the first night since their birth The mountains are unseen. Sleep is peace enough for anyone. Chaos is a clean shirt. II Ladies and gentlemen, no need for introduction, the learned Doctor, new to none of you. The lecture fund endowed in memory of our late Professor, author, donor of the Please tell me: why the tenderness? Why the placid sleep, the backward hands that will not touch, caresses lost to lust in magnitude of space?

I would speak to any who have questions later on these subjects Depart and peace go with thee III slowly, slowly shed the drowsiness— we wander on through yearning lustless rains, the normal detriments, the usual obligations of this the morning mood, the toothbrush cold, the shower warm, and down the stairs, the breakfast fruit, the acid fresh appointment with the day IV This systematic study of the systematic philosophers, the speaking in abstractions of the realities of fear, does not intoxicate the mind, but only drugs.

By God, you must have! In this half-light, see neurotic Boswell, and Hume too much the cynic to be English. Irony the chapel bell ends the lecture— so much for today. Jim seems to have removed it and made a few revisions. The law cares nothing about motives. Then it must be very foolish law.

But what can I do with the sun hurtling past? The breath of tonight is chilling my back, and the left cheek watching the sea But what can I do with the sun hurtling past?

Surely the poet-myth has heavier tools and secret pens we daylight men shall never find. He used depth to create depth, where is the art there, where is the art in mechanics? Is art still art if never seen and never understood?

There is no more to say and here the museum publications—in cases to the left and right. Francis with his times. As if a godless subtle student could unwittingly break through the barriers of biographers, canonization, melting institutions, relic bones hear the whirr of time passing with two or three well-chosen observations define eleven of the twelve.

Yes, I listen to that whirr of time passing through a thousand watches carefully watched, and count the thousand nervous pencils in a thousand hands carefully tensed Relisez votre copie. Tell me what you read. Where is the blue-eyed boy, the cracking voice. The will to discovery was stunted.

While I dawdled in toddle-carts and practiced the finest careful arts the careless buck has traced the snow-eyed deer—he has hunted down the ghost of sex and found a mate, while you and I have blundered through our youth without the slowest taste of animal truth. He lies, he lies. And when I sleep, dreams assault me, pompous, parading. I cannot sleep I cannot wake I cannot live I cannot die yet.

The fall of all this bloom was prophesied at birthhe lived, he thrived, and yet he died Two: The Swimming Pool Diving through congealed defeats we rise in aspirin spray; spindle women smoke the day in sunburn lotions.

Yellowly at play the child repeats our wading pond emotions. This morning I was eighteen. The winter-air was colder than the air without. The house wrapped its windows about the cold, Embraced the puritan centuries, then loosened its hold. The fire was dying. We no longer moved about, But sat in blankets. Lustily as doom we sleep with open eyes and count the spring in cracking logs. The clock enslaves the room with silence: silently fear the moonlight!

Sliding about my brain these phantoms bring the sound of sea-shockthe wave returning dashes the moon-night. Slime and surf rethread the loom of dawn. The dying log blackens and crashes. The phantom gulls from ashes spring The reading is free with cake and tea. You do want to see the future? Here only the proletariat, faded Irish twice-huge women the casualty of careless drinks, see that man? You can try, though, with stubby pencils preparing bets.

He decided to save to buy binoculars for the back-stretch, but silver-dollar turnstiles, summer beer, and cold spring days a slave of coffee, hot-dogs, mustard—What? The crowd, hear? II First Affirmative Why must you flaunt your body before me? In dreams you haunt me with my desire; the spasms that tore me, the scars of the fire, all this is more the sterile death, the blighting breath, the funeral pyre, than any love fulfilled could be.

A body thrilled deserves another body. Love shook me suddenly. Your fingertips, your lips replied to my confused cry, drowned in ice and sleet. Tangled breathlessly in bed twenty painful years met twenty more, unfathomable, and absorbed them. The whispered warning of the moonlit bed: a venetian portent on the rippled flesh of what chaos ago the dog said. The release --as a river, eternal—that I night-through prolonged with you, I now make easy, mechanically stirring new delights with hands no longer free.

Love is dead. Loose sheets of poetry that may have been written at various times; some draft variants of lines appearing in Fragments for Fentonesque. For Judy I speak laughingly of a latter-day Hester who named her silent dry-eyed Pearl Rose describing the bolshevik hair and the eyes inert under muscular lids, the long nights alone, the self-imposed penance, a part of my tale.

The poems you write and resolve finally in fire parody me and subtly. I admit you made a fitting dinner partner, self-conscious beside my own fear, and compelled me too to admit some birth of puritan strength and winter blitheness. Today be content with vices: inordinate lust for, inordinate trust in a man neither better nor worse than other men.

In autumn leaves and the ghost of that wind body of my body we lay down together. The mythology of ignorance Insensibly dangling the bait in voluptuous pools of honey and lust, of langour and hate the penetrable inept crust of water creating the string, bending the string must vagrancy wait, blending expectation and blackness, silence and fate, confident of ending.

Nights after Jericho With satin and cashmere glibness in velvet rooms, the strength of night rewoven on phantom looms, emerges the swaddling child from tombs of sunlight. With you as those others I speak best in darkness. Here, here the edge of love, The last dry kiss, Here the manumitted slave, Free, base.

I ran from the sun, chasing the rain Across many states, expectant, hopeless In time but trusting in space, the best Sinner and the godless saint still worthy of grace. In the inner darkness in rotted leaves the earth- Worms slide through tunnels chocolate with wet. Once more The force that splits the atom bathes the lambs. The first drops melting the seeds of grain Send the blood swelling to brain and groin. Red caps, black faces— furtive smiles and hurried kisses, handshakes awaited and forgotten.

Haste and lethargy breed unseen and multiply the salesmen and children that coltishly deflower the gate in tangled lines. Walt Whitman Walt Whitman is dead, very conveniently dead. We can shuffle his ribs, measure his skull, for playing with his poems and life, we finger the bones. What more than bones? Thought the comfortable hull requires a passive plastic mass for tones of judgment, damnation or sainthood; critics await death to praise are they deaf?

I hear the moans of a thousand infernal poets, When of late I lived and wrote, who heard? What college of critics can sate both the partisans of change and who hold their breath till lusts undone are secret, not out-spread?

But there was no carnage, only the ghost and the prediction Of ceremonial deaths. I have no use for masks. A tragedy is action— If only the movement of an eye, or the unnoticed passage Of a vagrant memory. There have been love And sacrifice and death since the seas fell back And the reptiles surrendered, leaving man as I Am left neither whole—nor new—nor safe. There have been heroes and martyrs, sailors, saints, Willful love, willing sacrifice—we find Them still and wonder. They are tragedy, They alone are tragedy.

But the story—two men, two women Who deliberately tangle their allotted strands of life And the third sister, unseeing, snips the thread As kittens play with yarn. I myself Pulled at the skein. To be brief, three are dead: Two drowned, one shot herself.

And one lives and dies symbolically by the rites of tragedy. But none of the deaths were easy. The odor of lilacs will leave me insane. False aspiration cut the heart from the brain Each twitches, reaches, parts of a severed beast. Nightlight The Widow Lastly lay in bed And heard the sirens fire the night, Feeling her pillow hold it glued, That halo of the light they sought.

She knew her next breath would explode Her head of white hot ashes, Scatter the once red hair so frayed, Leaden with forgotten wishes. The Widow Lastly pursed her lips To steal the air in little sups. Unquestioning for eighty years She had obeyed the haemal ice.

She knew a full breath would explode Her head of white hot ashes, Would scatter the once red hair, so frayed And leaden with forgotten wishes. It was typed out as prose but has slashes in pen indicating line breaks. I havent yet been able to discover the author of this piece.

Listen, Lucy said, do you hear? He disappeared up an alley, the dogs at his heels, but not before they saw her too, naked and lathered, her shower cap askew and panting what have I done what have I done as the alley swallowed her.

Begin Your mad eternal cloak! I, forever lost, Shed many hues. Returning to Cambridge in Mid-winter To sun on some beach with love in my arms, To shade that love when the moon comes hot And the wind dry from inland, that love firm Not the usual spectreliving Thus I sat Dreaming, I know, not really desiring, lost In these many worlds, lost where the heart Is, of course, but the heart recoils in such haste From here and there at some home again, unhurt By the change from one old home to another, but so Tired and a step behind the heart.

To sleep In her arms and the sound, the sound of the sea, To sleep and wake to the evening dream, and hope February [Handwritten at the bottom of this otherwise typed page. Webbs Route 1, Box 58 Anthony, New Mexico [postmarked APR 13, ] Thursday night Received your letter today—glad to hear that you have plenty of water again, not having enough pressure has always been a nuisance. Who did the work? The last two days, despite predictions of snow, have been very nice.

I went down to New Bedford with my roommate for two nights during the recess—relaxing to get a little change of scene. He drove me out to see Cora and family one afternoon. They were very anxious to know if you were planning to come up in June. That was about the only real rest I got. My tutor wanted me to turn in 40 pages of my thesis to a prize competition. Typing it up, etc.

Work on the novel is going much slower than I would like, but at least several people are interested in it. By the way, there is one of Prof. Sorry to hear that Pool is taking such a heavy load, but of course he can bring them all up if he takes a little time. That is very nice of Mr. Kilgore to save his books until I have a chance to look through them. I wish you would call him and tell him I look forward to poring over them all.

I think that would really make eating out pleasant—no mosquitoes. Also fix the little sink and the old icebox out there—and perhaps the roll-away bed and glider. I should think the whole thing could be done for less than a hundred dollars. James E. But fortunately I easily enough got a seat in Venice, where part of the train originated, since it was off the main route. The boat left Brindisi at 11 p. Saturday, so I saw what there was to see during the afternoon—principally the terminal Columns at the southern end of the Appian Way.

Parts of the trip were rather rough, but I never mind sea travel. Called at Corfu Sunday noon, and had time to walk through the town and see the Cathedral. And arrived in Piraeus just before noon Monday morning in a real downpour. Got the bus into the centre of Athens, found a room, and then walked around in the rain—feeling a bit discouraged. But it stopped during the afternoon, and today has been bright sunshine. Had dinner last night with the family of a student I met on the train—reading economics at Newcastle, but came home to Athens for Xmas.

Very good food, and some hints about getting around Athens and Greece. The weather was much improved today—sunny and very warm out of the wind. Took several photos, which I hope turn out well. The landscape and climate are a lot like home, as evidence, I noticed many of the same plants growing. Want to see as much as possible before returning to England—so will check the dates of sailings to Crete, Rhodes, etc.

The fruit is a real treat, after England. Our hotel room is opposite what I suppose is about the biggest city market, and can see the stalls of fruit, meat, etc. The city is very Americanized—even the traffic jams are on the U. Shall not get to Turkey or Israel—both too expensive in time and money. But I may scrape everything together and get a tourist flight to Egypt, which I would love to see. Teaching is certainly not well payed in England—but then one can live more cheaply than in America.

And I might be able to get the thesis in shape too—though I do feel discouraged with research study at the moment. Will write whatever new thoughts I have about it. I imagine Pool and Jill will be there by the time this reaches you—give them my love. Will send the pictures home—as many as turn out well—after showing them to my friends in Cambridge. But I intend to be certain what I want before I buy.

Lots of love to all, and have good holidays and a good rest too. Jim had a list of about half a dozen such projects that he made notes and did research on and some of which he drafted chapters and scenes for. There are indications in the letters that he actually finished more than one novel, but none of them seem to have Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home the house fire when the big house in Anthony went up in flames in or thereabouts. United States stationery.

Where will it end—a great river down the Edgware Road. And up from Brixton. The trains waiting Before dawn in either case, the sky still deepest blue to the west. No one else wants the trash she collects, and even the garbage trucks with their DEPT. But she likes that last hour or two before dawn, she expects it in all her untroubled sleep.

The alarm clock never rings. She stands there on the cold floor of her basement room, barefoot, in a tight nightgown with fragments of lace at the top and bottom, all of it, once-white lace and rayon and even the open mouths of split seams a kind of dingy yellow, like the bottoms of her feet.

No one would dare to, surrounded by those precarious piles of junk, those pagodas, card-castles and memorials of hers. But she scratches. And she is always vaguely excited, the tip of her tongue moving and visible between her lips.

She dresses. Since this is still her winter, she puts on her warmer workclothes. A black and fuchsia two-piece knit dress that has, with all that time, accommodated itself perfectly to the ample, the monumental parts of her, the somehow perhistoric mounds of her breasts and buttocks and stomach. She rolls and twists her stockings round her thighs, expertly and unevenly, and somehow fits her feet into rubber boots lined with what was fur and is now felt.

Then over all the raccoon coat. With both hands she tries to stretch the hair back from her forehead, pulling it into two snarled clouds darkened for a storm. Without a mirror.

She takes up several twine-handled paper bags that hang on the foot of the bed, Woolworths probably, then up the noisy stairs and out the noisy door, into the empty exciting streets.

To see what she can find. Cambridge, dark Boston are about her in their vacant hours. No cars at the curbs or steering down the streets, only lines of parking meters in the cribbage board sidewalks, all swollen and red violation tipped like matches.

She passes the domestic trash cans near the corner with the knowing and unseeing disdain of years, and turns down Brattle Street to the Square. She has the long flashlight out of her pocket now. Down narrow alleys of grayed brick, by the basement doors of clothiers and the barred windows of drug stores, to the regiments of galvanized barrels. Lengths of string and twine, her tongue vibrating in the cold air. Tissue paper and cellophane. The muscles in her thighs twitch.

A tired policeman nods and passes. Her breathing now irregular. In another barrel ribbons, lovely bows, discarded lengths still corkscrewed from the spools. Now in a cul-de-sac behind the cleaners what she saves for last: clothes hangers, black and silver wire, twisted and snapped, dozens of them. Her hands close convulsively and her eyes roll to show the huge whites, the craze of red and blue veins.

The shopping bags are full. The sky has bleached around her, the street lights glitter in the dawn, a few people in the streets. Awkward grey mountain ranges of mail sacks, lumpy piles of quarry waste. A Christmas tree. The strings of baggage cars weave through the crowds like giant caterpillars, hooting for the right-of-way, shouting, twisting. Women at tea carts, in tobacco kiosks, in the newsstands wear headkerchiefs and knitted gloves with holes at the fingertips—he wondering whether the holes are cut or whether the abrasion of money, some corrosive quality, the root of, no, the love of is the root.

Half an illuminated sign brightly reminding top people that they read. The boat train crowds: Americans in the standard light macs, carrying the inevitable suburban Samsonite luggage or folding Val-a-pak, the Australians strapped into their Aden cameras, all with the weathered skin of the new worlds. And look at him: gaunt and gawking, all bundled up and weighed down, in that fuzzy blanket of a coat, by those bits and pieces of strapped-up luggage.

Somewhere among those building blocks, that nursery floor of trunks with the bright initial letters on the sides, somewhere his will be hiding—footlockers 2 —one black, one brown.

Thinking: Desolate, Displaced, Drab. No, not Diplomatic, not in this crowd. Damned cold, at least. There: D on brown. Now somewhere a D on black. I wake to the morning sounds, summer sounds. Birds chattering, the first bus straining up the hill. My eyes are closed. I could see it now. There would be the long poplar bars of shade on the lawn like the pattern the venetian blinds cast on the wall opposite me, and the chairs scattered about under the trees for those awkward family visits to convalescent husbands and fathers and children, white and green and orange chairs, glistening with dew and turned bottom side up to keep the metal seats dry.

Beds of cherry geraniums growing from hidden pots sunk in the soil. It will be quiet outside for a while. Then the push Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home pause of a lawnmower, perhaps, or the snicker of shears at the hedges, and certainly the deliveries of milk and vegetables and meat to sustain us.

Medicine, ink, soap and bleach for our swaddling cloths, crossword puzzle books and shaving cream to be wheeled around on the trolley to those who use them, bowls of flowers with thoughtful cards tied by little ribbons—all drawn like filings to our magnet, day after day. People come and stay and go, on way or another, but I suspect the hospital goes on forever, rehearsing the routine devotions. Like the routine thermometer. And something of the routine seems to have entered into me after all these years.

I seldom have new thoughts, but play again the old ones, as I will now. I prefer to know. Three years is long enough, or too long. I remember feeling so comfortable the first few months here: And why not? I was a child of four or five again, back in the America I first knew. Dark shops with real people behind real counters. Restaurants upstairs with waitresses in white aprons. Most of the cars old and dark and small.

Smiling policemen to tell me the way home. But memory is strange, the accidents stay with the essential, and throughout I hear, still, the debating self that accompanied me—I no longer have any doubt about my conclusions, but the doubt of the time is a part of the orchestration still, a counterpoint or decoration, nothing more.

So drop the needle. So I had to be very critical, check everything as carefully as a scientific hypothesis. The unmarried ladies smile at occasional children in the parks, and feed pigeons.

There must be so much searching and straining and sweating and pain in love. Wives grow fat and husbands drink.

Governments fight wars, and leave undone those things that they should have done. Science, art, philosophy: all toys. Cancer, starvation, insanity, revolution and counter revolution, suicide, religion, hurricanes, earthquakes. It hurts me to think about it. Cold clear nights for stars and sleeping, a crystal show for the day— blue sky fading very little at the horizon, glowing yellow leaves on the cottonwood trees, pale dry crumbling earth.

What autumn is like here in the long valley: calm, unending, day after day. The homeless paying for tea but buying warmth and a chair, and a little time, their elbows on the table supporting sagging heads, Irregular nocturnal students, The oblivious young man by the windows, writing something copperplate morning after morning, in half-leather notebooks.

If there were, I would be one. But I chose the wrong one, he was afraid. So afraid that I knew life was too hard for him, and if I could, I would have done it for him: to him, I mean.

Judging ourselves by that minor world of the frantic limbed and accepting its standard. What are they doing now, what do they think? But the answer is very simple—they must be a lot like me. Sometimes for months at a time, waking and dreaming, it was that same cold sweat and teeth on edge at the thought that in a year or twenty or forty I would simply cease But life is too short to worry about how short Lucid and ironic.

Say to pages. Collaborations with a range of prestigious national and international clinical and academic centers. She holds an appointment as adjunct professor at the University of Queensland, Brisbane, Australia and as a visiting professor at the Baker Institute in Melbourne, Australia. The Brain and Behaviour Initiative BBI enables cross-faculty, multidisciplinary, collaborative research in the cognitive and affective neurosciences and brings together expertise on phenotyping, genotyping, cognotyping, brain imaging and molecular signatures to address brain-behaviour issues.

New experimental techniques including brain imaging, genetic testing and neuropsychological assessment combined with new theoretical insights have opened up significant potential for the advancement of novel diagnostic tools and treatments for people with mental disorders.

The initial focus on trauma and resilience has now extended to work in substance use and NeuroHIV. Her research focuses on child lung health including HIV-associated lung disease, childhood pneumonia and childhood TB. In she received the World Lung Health Award, awarded by the American Thoracic Society at a ceremony in San Diego, in recognition of work that has "the potential to eliminate gender, racial, ethnic, or economic health disparities worldwide".

Currently regarded as a thought leader in Rheumatic Heart Disease, both on the continent and internationally. Has significant international research collaborations within the Rheumatic Heart Disease Community and within the Cardiovascular Community. Her social responsibility is reflected in, amongst others, numerous board positions; and she continues to be involved in teaching, training and mentorship encompassing courses directed at nurse practitioners, clinical officers and echocardiography masterclasses in South Africa, Ethiopia, Zambia and Uganda.

I had taken this to mean I need not exchange Sinking - Sleet (Cassette) few words I spoke to him daily. However, when he returned from a visit apparently he changed his mind and was his usual self. After I washed up in the sink, I scrubbed it out as well as the toilet.

I mentioned to him if he wants I will wipe out the sink with toilet paper, but not with the rag. He told me that was not necessary and I was right about the germs.

Unfortunately, I see my cellmate still does not see a problem keeping a bottle of drink mix in the toilet to keep it cool, even after he just defecated in it. When I was at chow and the gym, I missed the media following Blagojevich onto the airplane, driving around LittletonColoradoand his final steps into Englewood just before noon. However, it did not matter because all this news coverage was repeated by the local networks at 4,5 and 6 p. I suspect there will be even more coverage after I finish writing at 9 and 10 p.

It reminded me of watching OJ Simpson travel along California highways before finally surrendering. Apparently the former governor wanted to do some site seeing or was just not ready to turn himself in yet. He stopped at a local restaurant called Freddies Burgers and the owner seemed quite pleased to have the media attention, even if it was for a corrupt politician on his way to prison. The patrons also seemed to enjoy the media publicity and Blagojevich himself who was still campaigning and went from table to table shaking hands and talking.

While watching the media spectacle I could not notice how the former governor had a personality almost my polar opposite.

Blagojevich is a very extroverted, social person who loves the crowds and limelight. He cared very much what others thought of him and he at least pretended to care about everyone he met. He was also a very shallow, superficial, manipulative person who was an opportunist with little honesty, integrity, virtue, or work ethic. Such people make friends easily, but after those learn who he really is, I tend to think he is less likeable.

I could see how the public c ould be duped by such a man and why there was a lot of sympathy for him. Despite how I think poorly of Blagojevich's character or job as governor, I agree with popular opinion that his year sentence was excessive, although he will only serve 12 and be in a nice minimum-security prison.

Other politicians convicted of corruption like George Ryan were given less time. Also, the prosecutor failed to prove Blagojevich actually received benefits from his attempts to shake down people and businesses or use his power for illegal quid pro quos.

Although the law does not require this, I would hav e liked to have seen more than talk, even if the governor used such blatant and colorful language such as "I have this thing senate office and it is fucking golden. The man with the big ego could be on a work crew to clean up trash at city parks or along the highways that once had his name on them. He wants to help senior citizens? He could work at geriatric wards cleaning adult diapers. Even having President Elvis in a stockade outside the state capital building where people could spit on him or peg him with tomatoes is a good idea, although people may rather get their picture taken with the man.

I watch Americans eaten up by the costly prison industrial complex every day and it needs to be scaled back for more alternative or productive purposes. The media seemed to infer the former governor was going to do some hard time. Much video of the outside of the stone penitentiary and its surrounding double fencing with razor was shown on TV. On PBS, Chicago Tonight, Scott Fawellanother person convicted and sent to the penitentiary for corruption, was interviewed and he spoke ominously about the conditions inside.

This type of reporting was ridiculous, in my opinion. There are no murders, rapes, hostage taking, stabbings, or brutal assaults occurring at these minimum federal prisons. I doubt there is much violence at all except for a rare fist fight. The rooms at Englewood are freshly painted, clean, without infestation, and in good working order. Blagojevich will even have air conditioning and be given new bedding and clothing upon arrival. As for austerity and oppressive living conditions, this is absurd as well.

Englewood will have plenty of unregulated movement, programs, recreation, pleasant visitation conditions, and overall privileges. Through, or over that purported "suffocating double fence," Blagojevich will be able to view the majestic Rocky Mountains from his cell window or while wandering prison grounds.

The former governor remarked he will " persevere and suffer for his children," however, he will never know what real suffering is. While writing this post, I received a letter from a man I knew in prison over a decade ago. He thanked me for helping him make it through the tough times. I guarantee Blagojevich would not have made it back in those days, especially at Stateville. Even today, I imagine the ex-governor would request protective custody. Interestinglythe governor could have shut this miserable, debilitatedviolent prison down during his term in office.

However, because he was facing the prospect of the legislature signing a bill to remove him, he made deals with certain congressmen and the prison's union to keep it open. There are consequences to political corruption and lack of integrity, even when the public does not readily see it.

Maybe it would be just deserts if Blagojevich spent a few years at Stateville along with some community service rather than 12 years in Englewood. Posted by Paul Modrowski at PM 6 comments:. Saturday, March 10, Leap Day -- February 29, The earth's orbit around the sun does not take a perfect days. Therefore, every four years an extra day is added to the shortest month of the year. February 29th is considered "Leap Day" and to some people it may have special significance.

However, for a prisoner with natural life it is just yet another day I could have gone without. Every Wednesday morning in C House, two lines of prisoners are permitted to go to the barbershop. Each line consists of between 10 and 15 inmates and the first line leaves the cell house soon after count clears. This morning a guard walked by the cell with a clipboard asking if my cellmate and I wanted to go. We both said yes, and he wrote down our names.

About a month ago, I trimmed my own hair in the cell using beard trimmers, a comb, and a couple of small plastic mirrors. I did the best job I could, however, I wanted someone to go over it. Not long after the guard wrote our names down, the names of prisoners on the law library list were announced on the cell house loudspeakers.

After my cellmate heard his name called out, he began to search through his boxes for legal papers. Although I am highly skeptical, Bobby claims to still be on his first post-conviction appeal. Most prisoners have exhausted all regular state and federal appeals within 10 years, let alone the 23 years my cellmate has been in the IDOC.

I speculate because he was formerly on death row, a legal organization or lawyer who represented him earlier has continued to help him but on an irregular appeal. My cellmate and I were let out of our cell to join the crowd on the lower floor. The holding cage was packed with prisoners going to the Health Care Unit and the visitation room. Inmates attending pre-GED classes or going to job assignments, and the law library waited outside.

They were mainly cluttered around my former cell and I was glad to have finally gotten away from it. It is much better living on 4 gallery despite having to readjust myself to a new cell and cellmate. On the fringe of the crowd I saw Albert. Albert is a clean cut Polish immigrant who is a striking contrast to most of the prisoners at Stateville. He lives on the gallery above mine and I do not have much opportunity to speak with him. The lower two galleries are intermingled for yard and chow lines, but all other galleries are segregated.

After talking to him about his appeal to assure myself the U. Albert has been enrolled at the barbershop school for almost a year and is the only person who has some proficiency at cutting Caucasian hair. I assumed he would say yes, but was surprised when he told me he could not.

A Mexican had asked him a week ago if he would be his barber today. I said to him, "But we are Polish and must look out for each other in the concrete jungle. Whatever happened to Solidarity? Albert told me if he had not given his promise he would. I cared less about his promise and told him he was a traitor. The barbershop line was brought into the chow hall to eat first. It was not even 9 a. Fortunately, I brought a Ziploc bag I usually use for bringing bread back to the cell house. The meal was shredded chicken and noodles, and because it was not soy I did not want to pass it by.

It is rare that prisoners are fed real meat. A prisoner at my table seeing me scoop the food into my bag asked if I wanted his, and I took him up on his offer, although in retrospect, possibly I should not have. I filled my bag up so full that later the seal broke and chicken broth leaked into my coat pocket. Fortunately, tomorrow, blue clothing is being washed and I can put my jacket in a laundry bag to be cleaned. While at the chow table, I listened to an inmate give advice to another about his case.

The prisoner he was speaking to is a very stupid and disheveled white man prisoners have begun to call "Hillbilly," although calling him a hillbilly is an insult to hillbillies. The man has little education and an IQ certainly under He is also rumored to be a snitch who was recently sent to C House after X House was cleared of protective custody inmates.

The former P. At the table, he admitted his guilt although I do not think it was ever in dispute. Prosecutors had overwhelming evidence against him including a confession and his DNA from under the fingernails of the victim. Even if the man was to win a new trial based on error, he will be re-convicted. Thus, the convict talking to him told him to play crazy. In Illinois, there is no "guilty but insane" verdict but if a person was incompetent to stand trial, he is remanded to a mental ward until he meets certain criteria to be prosecuted.

The retarded man was being advised how to fake insanity, although I do not think he needed much help. I was quick to ascertain he was a "bug". The prisoner giving him advice I do not especially like either, despite how he tries to impress me with his background in the Armed Forces and a few words he can say in German from being stationed there. His name is Brown, and he is particularly obnoxious and hyper. He also tells me how he killed a drug dealer and his co-defendant was convicted of the murder with him.

He laughs and brags how his co-defendant became ensnarled in the case through his own stupidity. Mertz and I have condemned Brown for not telling prosecutors the truth and helping his co-defendant but from what Brown tells us, it would not matter because of his involvement in an underlying felony.

Under the felony-murder law, anyone guilty of a felony is automatically guilty of any murder which happens in the course of it. This is true, but because I am doing time for another person's crime, I did not like his attitude. Brown, by the way, is attempting to also get himself sent to a mental hospital and sometimes acts psychotic or schizophrenic.

The bullet which went through his brain during an attempt by him to rob another drug dealer, may substantiate his claims on appeal someday if a court hears his case. At the barbershop, I sat in the waiting area while other prisoners had their hair cut.

All of the inmates who had graduated or who helped teach the class have been removed. This left few who knew how to cut hair, especially straight hair. The students could shape Afros, line hair, and beards. They also could do one length hair or bald heads with great efficiency. However, no one was able to layer, feather, taper, or style any type of straight hair with the exception of Albert, and even he was not very good.

I wasted my entire morning at the chow hall and then at the barbershop. I saw the man being called "Hillbilly" sporting a bald head afterwards. He still looked unkempt and possibly crazier which may have been a tip of advice I missed.

Upon returning to the cell, I poured out my chicken noodles into a bowl and only took a few bites before I heard my name called for a visit on the loudspeaker. A guard was quick to unlock my door and I also did not have to wait long for an escort to the visiting room. The strip search room, however, was a different matter.

There was a former Internal Affairs guard in the room and he was meticulously thorough in the search. He went through every article of clothing and even pulled out some insoles of a pair of shoes thinking he found a hidden stash. The "robocop" then wanted to look under our tongues and upper and lower lips. Our ears, fingernails, toes, genitals, and even ass cracks were checked by the weird guard before we were allowed to go on our visits.

NRC has its own visiting room, but it is left empty and these men are bused over to Stateville. Because of this foolish policy, families of prisoners are made to wait an extraordinary amount of time.

Visits for men at Stateville are also greatly delayed. The visiting room is continually jammed full and the noise level so high that people are nearly shouting to be heard. Oftentimes, I will lean in as far as possible to hear my visitor speak. My mother had come to see me alone. She looks frail but good for her age. Unfortunately, she is becoming senile and I often repeat conversations I already had with her time and again.

It is sad to see my mother losing her mental faculties. The week prior, I saw my father and while his memory is fine, he is deteriorating physically. Before they are 70, I expect them both to be dead, and if they are still alive they will be too feeble to be without a full time caretaker. With my life without parole sentence, I doubt I will ever be of assistance. One of the major subjects I talked about with my mother was her finances. President Obama and the Federal Reserve are doing everything in their power to artificially stimulate the market until the election.

However, by propping up the economy, they are only doing more harm. I am steadfast in my position: Europe and the U. The recession will not be as sharp as before but will linger like the stagflation of the s. Often I wish I could take over my parents' finances despite my mother being an accountant. This will be her last year working and Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home is probably best.

My mother will read my blog posts and she regularly wants to give her opinion. This week, I was once again told my writing was too candid and mean spirited. She believes one of the purposes of my blog is to inform people about prison ongoings, and another is to get people to like me. I do not write, however, to gain readers' approval or sympathy. The blog is my personal journal, although at times I will discuss broader ranging subjects. A subject my mother thought would be newsworthy is the charity donated to Stateville prisoners that they regularly never see.

Many charities and businesses will donate food to the prison. For example, Stateville has received truckloads of Gatorade, potato chips, yogurt, soda pop, and various other goods over the past couple years. Many times this food will be left in storage for only the guards or other staff's consumption. When the food is spoiled or past its expiration dates, it is then given to prisoners. For example, two years ago the warden discovered hundreds of boxes of corn and potato chips and demanded the kitchen supervisor to begin passing them out.

For months, prisoners ate the Sinking - Sleet (Cassette) vending machine sized bags of chips. More recently, truckloads of yogurt were donated and only the guards had access to it until it began to spoil.

Then they were served to prisoners. I had a bad case of food poisoning from eating one, and later I looked at the date and found it had expired over a month ago. To make sure my information was accurate, I stopped by a kitchen worker's cell to discuss the matter today.

He told me it was true that sometimes donated food will never be served to inmates. However, he said there were usually reasons. For example, if there is not enough of the product to go to the entire prison population, it will simply only be offered to staff so there are no complaints of disparity.

The kitchen worker also added that once a donation is made to Stateville it is theirs and they sometimes barter the goods with other penitentiaries. As for guards getting first dibs on the best and freshest donated food, this was indisputable and staff is always fed better than the inmates. I asked him if he knew who the charities were because I think they should be informed, but he did not know. After visiting hours were over, the 30 or more inmates left the visiting room and were sent across the hallway to another visiting room to be strip searched enmasse.

This room is not used and remains vacant despite how crowded visitation may get at Stateville. Once again, the "robocop" thoroughly searched the group of inmates who stood naked and lined against a wall.

Searching convicts on the way out of visitation makes more sense than when they are going in. However, the guard had a zeal for strip searching inmates which was not only absurdly excessive but abnormal or weird. Prisoners called him a homo and a control freak. He responded, "Yes, I am, and now let me do what I do.

Despite the guard's extensive search, I thought of numerous ways contraband could have still been brought into the prison. When I got back to my cell, I knew showers were going to be run for 4 gallery soon. Thus, I thought it would be a good time to trim my hair. Using beard trimmers, a comb and a couple of small plastic mirrors, I went to work. However, it is exceedingly difficult tapering hair where one cannot see. Despite my best attempts, my hair was irregularly cut when the doors were unlocked for us to take showers.

In the shower waiting area, I had another man go over what I did. When he was about finished, Albert was let into the gated area to take his detail shower.

In his Polish accented English he said he did not know I wanted a "fade," and he may have been able to give me this hair cut after cutting the other man's hair. I told Albert I did not want it this short, but it was the only haircut Chase was proficient at.

He said he thought I actually looked better with high cropped shorter hair. While waiting to take a shower, I noticed Hillbilly and another prisoner having a heated exchange of words. There was a tenseness in the holding area I thought was going to lead to violence. A few people were eager to pounce on the retarded snitch until he backed down. Incredibly, he apologized to several men for accusing him of talking to the police.

He did not gain any respect for this and someone spit in his face. Even in C House, a snitch is likely to have trouble. After returning to my cell, I heard someone announce we were on lockdown. This would have been disappointing to many prisoners in C House.

The building had not been allowed to receive commissary in over a month, but was scheduled to go tomorrow. Eventually, I was to learn cellmates were fighting in E House and a rifle blast was reported.

The isolated incident only delayed feed lines temporarily. Prisoners were excited to hear they were going to be served a special meal for dinner. Kitchen workers were calling it "Shepherd's Pie. Some people speculated it was a pot pie of some sort. Brown told me it was a poor Irishman's pie of leftovers. He was close to the truth, although while in line I thought it looked like a delicious pie pizza.

I asked the prison worker serving the food if this was Stateville's version of a deep dish Chicago pizza. He told me it was not as good as it looked. Very cheesy scalloped potatoes were piled on green beans and ground turkey-soy kibble and then put on a pizza crust. As I ate it, I thought it would have been better just to have a cheese pizza.

I could have then brought it back to the cell and added some ketchup and real meat to eat while I was watching the movie "Seven". At the end of this Leap Day, I wished it was another I could have leaped over. In fact, the last 19 years I could have done without. There is news on television currently predicting strong storms to pass through southern Illinois and Indiana.

Although it is not yet spring, there are tornado warnings. It would be nice if a category 5 tornado would directly hit Stateville in the night and reduce to rubble this entire miserable penitentiary. Although I will most certainly die crushed by concrete and steel, I dream of the minute chance I will survive unscathed and tossed miles away. In fact, I daydream of being swept up in the tornado like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, but unlike her, I will never seek to return.

If I ask anything from the Wizard, it will be to leap back into the past two decades. Posted by Paul Modrowski at PM 9 comments:. Labels: donated foodrobocopShepherd's Piestrip searches. Thursday, March 8, 4 Gallery -- February 25, Two days ago, I was moved to a cell on 4 gallery.

Four gallery is not on the 4 th floor as many may assume, but on the 2 nd. Many years ago, the entire block-long building holding most of General Population was one huge unit.

However, over the years the building was divided in half, and those two were later divided to make four separate cell houses. General Population is often referred to as the "quarter units" because of this and it is also the reason for the strange gallery numbers. C and B cell houses only have even numbered galleries while on the other side of the building there are only odd numbers.

There are 5 floors numbered 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10 in my cell house. The enormous building which cages about 1, prisoners was not called "The Big House" for no reason, and it was split into quarters to increase control over what was an extremely violent and unruly prison.

I was given no advance warning or notice that I was being moved to 4 gallery, although I have repeatedly requested to be moved since I was sent to C House in July. For 7 months I have lived in cell which was directly across from the holding cage and not far from the front door and guards desk.

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9 thoughts on “Cold Stars 04:52 - My Home, Sinking - Sleet (Cassette)

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  5. to my confused cry, drowned in ice and sleet. Tangled breathlessly in bed twenty painful years met twenty more, unfathomable, and absorbed them. * * * The noon of love was long and lithe and fevered. Each word, each kiss—burnished in space, shined— reflected itself infinitely, released a love unprecedented, and old as sunlight.

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  7. Mar 19,  · October , basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, MO. We marched to the field in rain and sleet. Set up my tent with a buddy, and really felt sick. Next morning I really felt bad. Tried to eat chow, no go. DI said ride back on the mess truck, and go to sick call. Turned my M14 in the arms room, and my gear was still in the field.

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