Memorial Day Redux

I'm willing to be that my Memorial Day, my first holiday in prison, was both more boring and more exciting than most. 

On the boring front, not only did I not go anywhere (surprise, surprise) but I spent most of my time reading and writing. For excitement, I watched a bit of badminton and walked around the track and played a game or two of Hearts. Mind you, I'm not complaining. It was nice and relaxing and I got a lot done. The weather was nice and we were even served a special lunch: hot dog, hamburger and (most importantly) ice cream.

Apparently, however, not all the prisoners were willing to let the holiday pass un-celebrated. The first hint of trouble came on Sunday afternoon. The guards began to roam the grounds, breathalyzers tucked under their arms, searching for drunk inmates and contraband. To my surprise: their search was successful. A while later I saw them returning to their office with a large unopened bottle of vodka under their arms that they found somewhere on the grounds.

Then, Monday, the real excitement began. I emerged from my early-morning yoga class to find the camp in an uproar: groups of prisoners stood around pointing and whispering. I walked up to a few acquaintances and asked what was up. As we stood there, a young man walked by with a bloody face, holding his nose and looking very upset.

I'm going to self-censor myself here but suffice it to say that his injuries were apparently not the result of an accidental fall or a run-in on the soccer field.

The result?

Lock down for hours as we stood alongside our bunks and the guards stalked the aisles. We all had to remove our shirts as the guards searched our hands and bodies for bruises. Eventually, an ambulance was called and took the guy away. This was followed by random breathalyzer tests, including of yours truly. I'm happy to report that the Diet Coke I'd been drinking did not set off the machine. The whole event was a vivid reminder that we are, in fact in prison. It also drove home the fact that the actions of one can affect the many.

Finally, Monday evening, just before count, a trio of guards ran through our room chasing after a speeding inmate. I have no idea what happened or why or even if they eventually caught the guy: when something bad happens we inmates are typically left standing around gossiping, wondering what just happened. But there we went again: another lockdown, another count. So much for getting to sleep early in anticipation of the work week ahead.

Now it's Tuesday morning, the long weekend is over, and we all survived intact. Time for a return to regular life, or what purports for that around here - weed whacking, chow hall, air force base. All's well that ends well.

Animals, Animals Everywhere

I received a lot of positive feedback on my post about the kitties (thank you Gleni!), so I decided to carry on today with the same theme. In a fortuitous coincidence, I've had a few more unexpected encounters with the animal kingdom since the felonious social gathering around the flock (gaggle?, herd?, group?, pride?) of cats.

First of all, I've befriended one of those ferile felines (forgive all the alliteration - it's 6 a.m. and I'm feeling a little loopy before my acorn coffee). She's a pretty black and white number with a narrow head and long tail. Reminds me of a childhood cat we had named Mittens (or was it Sneakers?, in any event some article of clothing) that lived a short but happy life before crawling under our back porch to die. When the chow-hall chow includes something edible for cats (a hit or miss affair; often, what they serve is inedible to feline and human, both) I bring a piece out for her to eat. She's particularly fond of fried bologna. I'm trying to think of a name for her. Suggestions are welcome.

Yesterday afternoon I was laying, eyes closed, under a pine tree at the edge of the baseball field at the back of camp, dreaming of freedom and listening to the wind in the trees. I must have nodded off because some time later I was woken by a tap-tap-tap on my chest. I jerked awake, expecting a prisoner to be standing over me, maybe someone who wanted to use the field for ball practice or, heaven forbid, a guard who disproved of my lounging.

But what did I see? Two little beady eyes staring down at me, only an inch or so from my face, gray feathers, a pointy orange beak. There was a little baby bird hopping around on my chest. Suddenly, from behind, I heard a loud guffaw. I turned to look and saw two toughs, muscled, drug-dealing cons by all appearances, enjoying the show. After the bird hopped away for richer pastures, the three of us ended up talking about the flora and fauna of this place - there are some beautiful blue herons that stand in a field behind camp each evening - and it turns out they're not so bad after all.

Then, last night, just after count as we were preparing our bunks for bed, a neighbor of mine started screaming like a little girl. "Ew, ew, ew" he yelled, pointing at the bunk ahead of mine. "What is it?" the occupier of that bunk, a nice young Hispanic man from LA asked. "What's wrong?"

"Ew, ew, ew!"

We looked closer. And then we saw. A big old black spider, with a fat round body and long legs, was crawling on, then under, his pillow. Just as we spotted it all the lights went off - the transition from light to dark at camp is a very sudden affair. A mad scramble ensued to find the spider in the dark and then smoosh it. It took about five minutes but, woe to the spider, the hunt was eventually successful.

For those who don't know, I'm a spider-phobe. So now I've been checking my bunk extra closely each evening before bed. So far, all I've found is a mosquito: I didn't think there were supposed to be those in California. In any event, that wayward spider is still the talk of the barracks, the story taking on a gladitorial slant in the retelling, as if a lion had been slayed upon the back fields or a jackal caught raiding the chicken coop. Well, we prisoners take our excitement where we can get it and lately, it just so happens, that excitement has been found in the animal kingdom.

Having Fun Yet?

I've been getting up early in order to start my day ahead of the hassle and bustle - a bit of quiet time before the onslaught when I can almost forget where I am (at least for a few minutes).

Yesterday evening I went to a yoga class and really enjoyed it. I also attended a Toastmaster's meeting - where you learn public speaking. Events like these make the time go faster. Without them, time slows to a crawl and the time between dinner and lights out at 10 stretches for an eternity.

I'm determined to have a positive attitude about the whole experience. I can see those people around me who do - those who participate in events, attend courses, take advantage of the little that is offered, maintain good cheer - and it seems to make a huge difference. Home is where you make it, after all. I spoke last night with a young Mexican man who talked of the fear and frustration of his trial but said that, to his surprise, he actually found prison to be fun.

Fun? That's not exactly a word I'd use to describe my experience...at least not yet and probably not ever. But there are recreational facilities, fast friendships, a certain camaraderie of us-v-them - we're all in this together after all. So the strange fact is that some people actually enjoy prison, maybe even come to prefer it over the uncertainties and difficulties of real life. "Three hots and a cot," one guy told me. "Could be worse." That and guaranteed employment and even a semblance of medical care.  

Personally, I don't find it fun, or comforting or pleasant or, well, really any positive word. Loss of freedom, rude guards, all the negatives are too omnipresent to let me think I'm having fun. I guess, though, I am gradually finding my place in the hierarchy. Basically, what I'm finding is that, whether I want to or not, I'm considered just another one of many white collar felons doing what other WCF's do: complain about their derailed circumstances, tell their stories, get a bit of exercise, maybe take a yoga class. Although we all now have calloused hands - I pushed a wheelbarrow full of rocks all day yesterday - there is something different about us, be it background, or experience, or education. Maybe we're just spoiled. I don't know.

Time to go to breakfast. Today's a big day: we find out our permanent work assignment. I'm not lazy, and I'm not hoping for "fun" in the way of work. But I am hoping for a job that's light on work so that I can focus on writing.

Until tomorrow.

Originally posted on 5/19/14. Re-posted 1/15/17.

Here, Kitty Kitty

Dear readers, in my previous post I left you on the evening of my first day. While there was some continued excitement, I decided for the sake of versimilitude. and to catch my posts up to reality, to skip ahead to day three. So here goes:

I expected a dorm filled with bunk beds. I expected a chow hall and a comissary. What I didn't expect is a family of stray cats. I'll get to that in a moment.

Slowly, I'm beginning to adjust, top meet people. I'm a bit standoffish by nature and in this prisonhouse atmosphere I'm even more cautious. It's hard to tell who is nice and who is trying to scam you.  What is clear is that some people here are weird (myself included?). There's Bob, who I've mentioned before, who appears to have stumbled blindly through life until he eventually stumbled right through the prison doors. He's here for failing to file taxes, but the way he acts, I wouldn't be too surprised if he'd never heard of the concept of paying taxes. He believes that each of our birth certificates are actually money bonds upon which the government can pay its debt. Within his first minutes he got into trouble for taking pictures outside the prison as if he had just arrived at Disneyland. 

Then there's Bill, a man convinced of the existence of the Socialist Republic of America. In his view, that's most definitely not a good thing,  given that Grand Dictator Obama is at its head, preparing to send us off to prison camps and deprive us of our freedoms. He tries to explain to me what brought him here but I just don't get it - it's far too convoluted.  What's clear is that he's convinced he's innocent. Given his views, it's ironic that he ended up in probably the most communistic place here in our United States, a prison camp where, as they used to say in the Soviet Union, they pretend to pay us and we pretend to work. Upon release, Bill intends to leave the US permanently behind for the joys of Ukraine, namely revolution and pretty Slavic girls ready to treat him as the king of the castle.

The purpose of this post is not to trash my fellow prisoners, but to highlight the diversity among us. I will write more down the road about the various characters I meet. But please permit me just a few more general observations. The first thing that struck me is all the people, at least among the "white collars", who claim they're innocent. In the stories I hear, it's always someone else who's to blame. I'm one of the very few who admits openly to my wrongdoing. Either our justice system has made a series of very terrible mistakes, or someone in this camp is lying. But without internet - no Google fact-checks here - there's really no way to know. Sometimes I'm proud to own my wrongdoing, to call a spade a spade.  But sometimes I'm almost convinced of these tales of innocence and feel myself a true schmuck amidst the wrongfully convicted. 

Second, people are surprisingly helpful in a guileless way (not merely in order to gouge me for something later). Gordo, my bunkmate, a chubby Hispanic man (who's name, in fact, means Fatty in Spanish) can't speak all that much English but goes out of his way to make me feel welcome, plying me with spicy Cheetos (those things are hot!), contraband ice cream and cake. Soon, I'll be Gordo too. Other gifts over the first days include a pair of tennis shoes from our barrack's resident Syrian, a pillow from a Chinese American from San Francisco, shower shoes from who the hell knows who, and a pen and paper from a film producer and former CIA agent. These initial acts of kindness reaffirm my basic belief that most people, including felons, are good at heart. 

My constant refrain: Good people sometimes do bad things.

So back to the cats: this morning, as I am leaving the commissary after lunch, I almost trip over a posse of at least 10 nearly identical black cats. They are milling about, meowing and rubbing on legs, surrounded by a circle of inmates. I approach warily, considering the possibility of a prison camp version of cock-baiting. What I find, to my surprise, are a number of inmates feeding the cats with lunchtime leftovers. Cats aren't picky after all and seem to enjoy prison food. I make introductions (with the inmates, not the cats), bump fists, and realize that this is a nice group of guys, guys I could be friends with even if not for our circumstances. We stand around for 30 minutes talking.  You can't judge a book by its cover, but apparently "cat feeding" is a nice test of character, one that I consider a prison "life lesson": only befriend those who are willing to feed a stray animal.

Originally Published 5/16/2014. Re-posted 1/15/2017

Day 1: First Impressions at Lompoc Camp

Our first minutes at the camp are filled with bustle and commotion, yelling and questions and fist bumps. I only remember snippets:

Being led to a bunk. "This is yours," the guard grunts, pointing up at a tiny steel cot perched atop another cot high above the floor.

"How will I sleep on that?" I wonder. "What if I fall off?

Cries of "Wassup," and "We got us some fish".

Not sure if the cries are directed at me. Apparently today's new crop of convicts is bigger than usual. It's as if the anthill's been stirred up.

A tall, middle-aged man with a big gut walks over. "At least you're white," he says to me in greeting. 

I've never been told that before. It's not exactly something I feel I should take credit for.

"Yeah, that I am," I answer. "So are you."

"This is my bunk," he says, pointing to the lower steel slab. "You're my bunkie."

He seems nice enough - I am white after all - but I begin to panic that I'm housed with some sort of neo-Nazi.  He holds out his fist.

"What's he doing?" I wonder. Moves it toward me. I'm a little slow, a little out of touch. Finally I get it: fist bump, the universal prison handshake. I raise my fist in reply.

My Aryan bunkie ponies up some stuff for me: holey sweatpants 4 sizes too big, some shorts that could fit a cow. But I'm not complaining. I appreciate the gesture: he's trying to welcome me. 

Someone hands me some more stuff - i don't see who: toilette paper, a thin brown blanket, a towel. I'm at a loss what to do next so decide to make my cot. Needless to say, I struggle. The bunk is about 6 feet in the air and only several feet wide. Every time I try to slip on the sheet, the paper-thin mattress slides off and falls. I realize that there's no pillow.

My Aryan bunkie laughs, takes charge. He shows me how to knot the sheet and tuck in the thin blankets.

Just as we finish the guard returns. "Time to move."

"What?" Aryan asks. "He just got here." 

"Mixup somewhere," he grunts.

The guard points to another bunk toward the front of the room. Another top bunk. Lower bunks are reserved for old-timers, a sign of prestige. I also notice that I'm being transferred to the Hispanic part of town. I'm not at all racist but have heard enough of prisonhouse race relations to be at least somewhat nervous. A short fat man with brown skin and closely cropped black hair smiles at me. I smile back. We bump fists.

"Gordo," he says.

I remember enough Spanish from high school to know that this means "fatty". A fitting name.

Just in case, I ask, "Is that your name?"

"Yes," he says as he gestures toward a folding chair beneath the bunk. "Use this if want," he says.

I don't understand the significance but say thank you. Later, I learn that he's inviting me into his house, bidding me to feel welcome. He's a long-termer and there are a lot of subtleties of prison-house culture (i.e., all of them) that I do not understand. He hands me some super-spicy Cheetos topped with hot-pepper sauce.

I decline.

He insists.

I try one. My face turns red, my throat burns. I feel welcome, I guess. I wonder if I should be suspicious.  Something inside me tells me no. 

I climb, wobbly and unsteady, to my bunk. Stare about. The place is hustle and bustle; cramped; bunks stacked floor to ceiling, no open space but a narrow path through the center. It reminds me of an overpacked airport after a storm. I can't imagine a day in this place, let alone a month, or a year, or two. My sentence stretches out in front of me like all eternity. I want to walk away, leave, escape, get out.  I feel isolated, cut off from the world. I don't yet understand the culture, the words, the rules, the rhythm of my new world. It's like moving to a new country....a country called 'hell'.

The hardest part is that, although there are a ton of rules, nothing is written down. Inmates pelt me with hours and rules and times. Be here, do this, don't do that. I wonder how I'll remember them all. I begin to write things down: time for lunch, where I can walk, where not, what to wear and when. How to wear your ID (inside your shirt so that it's hidden-go figure!). Some of these rules I learn by breaking them: my fellow inmates are great traffic cops, it's better to be stopped by them than by the gestapo guards.

Time out. To be continued tomorrow.

Originally Published 5/15/2014. Re-posted 1/14/2017

Day 3, Continued

Dear readers: I'm continuing with my flashbacks to Day 1 from my notes on Day 3. Someday soon I'll be caught up to the present and will switch to topical posts. Thank you to those who have been responding on Facebook: my mother forwarded me your comments.

------------------

The three of us stand silently in our small cell fronted by bars and backed by a metal toilet without a seat or lid. I have to pee but don't want to do it in front of the others. I decide to hold it. I finish my forms in about 20 minutes (skipping, as I mentioned, the question regarding death) and stand staring through the bars, avoiding eye contact as if we are scared of each other (which we are).

After about an hour of this, I notice that the gray-haired gent is struggling with his forms. "Can I help?" I ask. I decide that my inner nature, my natural impulse to be friendly and helpful has to win out over wariness and caution. If it doesn't, I'll have lost something of who I am.

"Thanks," he says, surprised. For all I know, he thought I was a crazy mass murderer.

I help him with his forms. It turns out he's not the sharpest tack on the board - a topic I'll return to at a later date - but he seems nice enough.

"What are you in for?" I ask, in the first of many times I'll ask the inmate's favorite question over the next few days.

"Tax evasion," he says.

I sigh: another white-collar felon. "Are you going to the camp?" I ask.

"What's that?" he says. "What are you talking about?"

I think of all the research I did, all the worrying about where I was going, all the talks with my lawyer to prepare, calls with former inmates about what awaits and what to expect. This man clearly came unprepared. I hope it won't come back to haunt him, but, unfortunately, over the next few days, it will. I'll return to that as well, although to give him credit, I'm not sure I'd be as with it at 60 as I am at 44.

Before I can answer, a screech erupts from somewhere down the hall, a real scream from hell. I hear pounding feet. The clang of metal. A bell begins to ring. "Lockdown," someone screams.

I have no idea what to do. A few seconds later, a guard runs by and  yells at us to turn around. We quickly obey. A few minutes pass. I can't see what's happening, just hear the confusion, the yelling. By the sound of it, someone's being dragged away.

Finally, a guard approaches. "Follow me," he says. We are led to another cell, a bit larger but jammed full of people. I look around me, see a bunch of tough looking dudes. Who are all these guys? Are they lumping me together with high-security inmates? We stand like cattle, lowing and jostling as the hours pass. "Where are you from?" I finally ask the guy next to me. " The prisoner's favorite opening line.

"Transferring in from Terminal Island," he answers.

It turns out that these men are being transferred to Camp Cupcake from all over the West. Some have served time in higher security prisons and are now reaping their rewards for good behavior.  I still have to pee - the refrain of the day - but there's no way I'm going to do it in front of 20 guys. A few do: when you gotta go, you gotta go.

A guard wheels a gray box toward our cell. I smell something that can only be described as food. He grabs a key, opens the door.  "Eat" he grunts as he slams the trays through the door.

My first taste of prison food.

I look down at my tray. Two hot dogs. Something brown. Something green. I manage a few bites. I'm not picky but can't manage this.

Before we finish, a guard walks in and takes our trays. He throws some jumpsuits our way. We dress. Now I look like an inmate. I'd been warned to expect a finger up my butt but the worst thing that happens is that I'm patted down. My lucky day, I guess.

We stand in line for about an hour and then, in late afternoon, are led to a van in the outer courtyard that will take us to the camp, my home for the next two years.

We drive for 5 minutes, pull in. I'm nervous; don't know what to expect. I glance about. Can't imagine spending an hour in this place, let alone years.  Crowds of inmates dressed in brown stand about watching. Seen from the windows of the van they appear sinister, threatening. We're ordered to climb out. Eyes follow us; cat-calls ring out: Fish! Here come the fish! (Prison slang for new inmates.) We're led in a line to a squat building. We enter into a long, low room filled floor to ceiling with narrow little bunk beds. And men. And lockers.

Out of time. To be continued tomorrow.

Original Post Date: 5/13/14

Greetings from Camp Cupcake

Note to readers: I'm sorry for the delay. There was some mix-up with my funds and I couldn't access e-mail (which, alas, does not come free in prison) until yesterday. But never fear: I've been diligently scribbling my thoughts with a tiny nub of a pencil in a yellow legal pad. Although I'm now on Day 7, I decided that at least for the first few days I'll give you a stream of consciousness directly from my journal about my thoughts and feelings. So without further ado, here we go with Day 3:

Day 3

This is my first real diary entry. Days 1 and 2 were just too scary and disorienting. I also lacked money for the commissary, so spent my time scrounging for scraps of paper and pencil nubs to scribble down my thoughts. What I ended up with were a few unintelligible pages of random thoughts:
  - this place sucks
  - how am I going to survive 2 years here
  - I'm going to run away

Stuff like that. You get the idea. I've basically been a walking zombie (for that I can possibly also blame the one-two punch of caffeine and nicotine withdrawal). 

To recap from memory and the snippets of jumbled scribbles: my mother drove me here, to this place affectionately called Camp Cupcake, two days ago to self-surrender. When we saw the place, she broke down and I had my first real second thoughts. It's not that the place appeared from
the road to be sinister or evil, but if you saw it you would most definitely not want to go there. The road to the complex fronts a barren field of dried grass edged by barbed wire. Squat gray buildings hover in the distance alongside a guard tower. My mother had to catch a plane so I sat on the trunk of a Eucalyptus tree across the street, staring at this place that would be my home for the foreseeable future. I couldn't imagine living there. Not even for a day.

There are actually three separate prisons here: Camp Lompoc (i.e., Camp Cupcake), the prison camp which I now call home, a low security prison and a medium security prison. The latter two are probably more what you think of when you think of prisons. Depressing places with marching guards, barred windows, yelling in the hallways, the clang of steel doors. I know this because I checked in at the medium - it's a dismal, dark, scary place.

Well, what can I say?  It took all the effort I could muster to stand up off the stump and walk down the long road to the prison. Self-surrendering is strange - as if you're voluntarily reporting for your doom. Finally, I entered the gate and told the frowning guard I was here to self surrender.

"ID please," he grunted.

"What? ID? Sorry. I didn't bring any." I thought I was suppposed to arrive with nothing but my body.

"Sorry, can't surrender without ID," he said.

"But, but..." I explained my situation - no ID, mom already left with my wallet, no way to get it back. He pointed to a metal bench. I sat there for about an hour before another guard arrived. Apparently they decided to let me in. Lucky me!

The man glared down at me. "Flip flops?" he asked. "What were you thinking? Don't you even know how to check into prison? What is this world coming to."

I didn't know that flip-flops were not allowed. I followed him silently to a concrete barrier and a gate. "Fire in the hole" the guard screamed. I jumped as a concrete and steel door slid open. To my right as I entered I saw a thick plate-glass window of a holding cell. Leering faces (mostly black and brown, I feel compelled to add) pressed against the glass stared out at me. One man, a tall, bald-headed gent, raised his fist, stared at me and banged the glass. Another flicked his wrist at me in some kind of sign (don't ask me what it meant).

"Oh no," I thought. "Please don't put me in there with them."

Thankfully, the guard led me to another cell, a tiny space with bars on one side, an open toilet on the other and nowhere to sit. "Won't put you in with the baby killers," he said. He then handed me a tiny pen and a reaf of forms. "Can you read?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Fill out what you can," he said.

I leaned against the concrete blocks and began to write. The first question? "Who to contact in the event of death." In my first act of minor subservience, I left it blank. I'm not planning to die around here.

My hands shook. A few minutes later another prisoner was led to the cell. We stared warily at each other. He didn't look too intimidating - a gray-haired man of about 60. A few minutes later another arrived: a barrel chested, huge-muscled young man. We focused on our forms and didn't speak, each of us nervous and wary of the others.

And so went my first hours at prison. I'm out of allotted time so will carry on tomorrow where I left off.

Original Post Date 5/11/14

Good News and Bad

It's a rare day, at least in my life, where the news is either all good or all bad. In that, most days are just like life, I suppose, where the good and the bad tend to come swirled together into varied kaleidoscopes of black and white, welcome and unwelcome, expected and unexpected. Lest I float off into an esoteric rumination on life and its variegations, I suppose I should come back down to earth. What I'm trying to say, a bit more fancifully than may in fact be necessary, is that today was one of those typical days where good news came along with the bad. And now I will share that news - the good, the bad, the ugly - with you. 

On the bad-news front (in case you didn't know, let me tell you: bad news must always come first), I received my expected "call-up" papers from the Bureau of Prisons inviting me to join them on a Monday morning several weeks from now. I have embedded the letter for your edification at the bottom of this post (those Wisconsinites among my readers may find it amusing that it misspelled my address as Oconomowolc, WI, admittedly a difficult word). The bad news is, of course, that I received such a letter in the first place. A letter like this ranks right up there on the welcome-ness scale with a letter from the lab telling you that your liver enzymes are all out of whack. I have received letters of both types, so am speaking from experience when I say that they engender similar reactions.

But even here the news was a mix of good and bad. The good news within the bad is that I received what I requested: an assignment to the idyllic wonderland of Lompoc Federal Prison Camp on the balmy, central Californian coast above Santa Barbara. I will be so close to Santa Barbara, in fact, that under different circumstances you could almost call this a vacation not that far from paradise. Come to think of it, that almost sounds like a Jimmy Buffet tune:

Tried to amend my thieving habits.

Made it nearly seventy days,

Losin' weight without speed, eatin' mushy green peas,

Picking up trash and countin' the days

At the least, I've heard, prisoners can smell the eucalyptus through the bars of the windows that line the gymnasium where they sleep in countless rows. 

The good news lies in the fact that such an assignment was by no means assured: I have heard tell of convicts requesting Florida and receiving South Dakota (although one of the purportedly "best" prison camps happens to be located in Yangton, S.D., so there too the good news is mixed with the bad). The fact is, I got what I wanted given the limited choices available to me.  

This good news within the bad is, in fact, of more consequence than it first appears. It means, for example, that I will have some hope of seeing my children on a regular basis following their impending move from Moscow to LA. Really, that's all that matters. Lower down on the consequence scale, it also means that I will be in a facility that offers the magical drug treatment program (RDAP, for the uninitiated) that could magically shave an entire year off my sentence and maybe even cure me once and for all of my perennial cravings for codeine. Even lower on the scale is that the Bureau, in its kindness, granted me three extra days of freedom: the court set my "check in" date as May 2; the letter revised that to May 5. I suppose I will need to find some way to commemorate those three extra days, make them special. Suggestions are welcome.

And last, but not least on the good-news spectrum, I have finally learned my brand-new name, the name by which I will be known for the next three years of my life: 19314-111. A new name and so soon after my birthday, to boot; makes me feel special, almost as if I've been born again or reincarnated. On the worrisome side, I have never been good at memorizing numbers so am somewhat concerned - given past troubles with telephone numbers and the like - that I may transpose a nine or a three, thus confusing myself with a fellow-prisoner down the aisle and causing great confusion behind the bars. Only time will tell. But in your notes and letters please feel free to refer to me by my brand-new name. 19314-111. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Better, in any event, than 66666-666 or 00000-000 although if I had my choice, I think I might pick 12345-678. 

19314-111

Here I am, at the end of this post, back again with a variation on the esoteric flight of fancy with which I started: Can bad news, if it is fully expected and even, in a sense, welcomed, still be considered bad news? For example, if you know already that you are going to die and then receive a letter informing you of that fact, is the letter itself truly bad news? In my case, the only surprise, really, was the speed with which the letter was sent: given typical bureaucratic disfunction I had expected to receive it on the eve of my reporting date. But I am thankful that at least some good news came along with the bad.

In any event, that's enough news - both good and bad - for one day.

Yours truly,

19314-111