13 August 06
Psychotherapy with Dr O Malley (Part 5)
Dr O was listening to "The Godfather Waltz." On his desk were a kiwi fruit, a bottle of Trader Joe’s Natural Mountain Spring Water and a Scientific America magazine headlined Quark Soup. He read my thought journal, which contained some highs (how I’d calmly read out a passage in the SMART Recovery class, and how I’d transformed energy from anxiety into writing) and some lows (getting mad at Frankie for instigating wrestling when I was trying to write, and my anxiety, embarrassment and worry over the lump on my behind).
“Before we begin,” Dr. O said, “is there anything you’d like to discuss?”
“Yes. There is actually. I’d like to get your advice about drugs. It’s self-evident that I don’t need to be running around raves doing designer drugs. But where do I draw the line in a world in which it seems everyone is doing drugs? Nearly everyone I know either drinks or smokes or pops prescription pills or does illegal drugs. Should I be drinking a glass of wine with my parents during the evening meal? Can I pop Xanax before flying because it raises my anxiety? Where do I draw the line?”
“There are two things you need to understand: firstly, you need awareness and mindfulness to understand the situations and the premises that are drawing you to drugs; secondly, you need an awareness of how drugs work. On the wall behind me is a diagram of the limbic system. It’s a system of nerves and networks that when stimulated makes you feel good and tells you, lets get higher and higher. Then, doing more and more drugs gives you immediate gratification. Instead of seeking such chemically-induced extremes, you must learn how to activate it at lower natural levels. Ecstasy, Special K or whatever do not come in nature. They are refined substances that cause huge cascades of neurotransmitters. You need to think about what gives you a little euphoria without doing drugs.”
“Writing, exercise, sex!”
“But frequent sexual encounters are not a positive addiction. If you’re having sex compulsively you’re not enjoying it.”
“I’ve never had any sex that I didn’t enjoy.”
“If you’re increasing the amount, and your sexual aggression is escalating, doesn’t that interfere with your ability to function normally?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re designed for sex, and it’s a natural and healthy thing.”
“Sex is a good thing, but becoming a sex addict isn’t a good thing. It may be pleasurable in the heat of the moment. Some people misappropriate Tantra for Tantric sex.”
“Sex gluttons?”
“Yes. The idea is mindfulness. It’s part of being in a healthy relationship with a person.”
“Are you saying any kind of drug is out of the question for me? Say for example I get a wild idea to take a trip to do peyote with Mexican Indians or Amanta mushrooms with the Siberians? I read about professional people who occasionally do such consciousness-raising experiments.”
“Why would Mexican Indians or indigenous Siberians want you, some westerner, sharing their sacred rites or rituals?”
“I see what you’re saying: they’d be doing it for commercial reasons.”
“Which leads to problems. You’re assuming you can buy a cheap thrill through a mystical experience. A mystical experience is supposed to give you a profound understanding of the universe.”
“Timothy Leary claimed he got that through LSD.”
“Maybe he did, but my answer for you is a resounding no. There are no short cuts for you. Ahead of you is a journey down a long hard road that’s going to get you where you need to be. If you do drugs once, you’ll want to test yourself again and again. You’ll think, I can do this and this. When in actuality your will power is fucked up by drugs. Your neurotransmitters are screwed up by huge chemical loads in the brain. You’ll have to become like a teetotaller who learns to appreciate tea, or a highly-sexual person who learns to have sex with one partner, allowing your partner to look into yourself, and letting her look in synthesis.
Yoga will help you. Yoga was developed by people who sat outside, in isolated situations, and developed ideas that took place over 5000 years of tradition. You need to find things that make sense to you and explore those to achieve unity."
“Writing and creativity make sense to me.”
“There are many authors who have done drugs and done well. But on closer examination they did drugs to address internal turmoil, and when they look back after doing drugs they saw they had natural writing skills irregardless of whether they did drugs or not.”
“I’ve had internal turmoil.”
“It’s something you need to figure out.”
“How?”
“By paying attention to how you talk to yourself.”
“Like with the thought journal?”
“Yes. But also you need to go back, way back and ask yourself what were you telling yourself from the ages of 12 to 25. That’s when your personality solidified and you chose certain paths in life. There was something about you you were not happy with."
To be continued.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The prison blog of an Orwellian unperson. As shown on National Geographic Channel's Banged Up/Locked Up Abroad episode Raving Arizona.
12 August 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 3)
A few days later the cream was delivered: Formulation R Hemorrhoidal Ointment.
What's this skinny black tube with holes in it for? I thought. How bizarre. I'b better read the instructions. Attach applicator to tube. Lubricate applicator well, and then gently insert applicator into the rectum. Thoroughly cleanse applicator after each use and replace protective cover. They’ve got to be kidding. That's not happening. Not in this lifetime. The lump is on the outside. I'll just smear it on and hope for the best. There we go, that did it. It was easy enough to find. Let's get the grease washed off. Whoa. What's that tickling sensation? Active ingredients. My goodness - it's getting stronger and stronger. The last time I experienced this was after Thai food. How am I going to be able to keep a straight face on the yard?
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 3)
A few days later the cream was delivered: Formulation R Hemorrhoidal Ointment.
What's this skinny black tube with holes in it for? I thought. How bizarre. I'b better read the instructions. Attach applicator to tube. Lubricate applicator well, and then gently insert applicator into the rectum. Thoroughly cleanse applicator after each use and replace protective cover. They’ve got to be kidding. That's not happening. Not in this lifetime. The lump is on the outside. I'll just smear it on and hope for the best. There we go, that did it. It was easy enough to find. Let's get the grease washed off. Whoa. What's that tickling sensation? Active ingredients. My goodness - it's getting stronger and stronger. The last time I experienced this was after Thai food. How am I going to be able to keep a straight face on the yard?
11 August 06
Two Tonys On Drugs
“I’m thinking about asking the shrink for advice about staying away from drugs when I get out,” I told Two Tonys.
“Whaddya wanna know about drugs?” Two Tonys said, “I’ve done 'em, sold 'em, and killed for 'em – in a roundabout way, drug debts and shit like that.”
“I’m going to ask for some general advice. Dr. O seems really intelligent.”
“How the fuck's he gonna tell ya to stay the fuck away from drugs? What does he know? Has he ever been hooked on drugs? Ask him that next time you see him. Does he know the thrill of drivin’ down the highway after you’ve just blown a motherfucker's jaw off, high on speed, your mind's trippin’ 45 million milligatts per minute and you’re listenin’ to Pink Floyd’s 'Another Brick In The Wall' thinkin’ you just made the most intelligent decision in yer life 'cause you’re so fuckin’ smart on drugs. You’re fuckin high. You’re fuckin’ John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Arnie and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one.”
“I see what you’re saying: the shrink’s an academic. But he seems to know his stuff.”
“All he can tell ya is there’s nerve-endin’s in yer head like a little clit that twitches when ya do drugs and makes ya think, Man, I’m havin’ a great time. How can I get more of this stuff 'cause I really like this feelin’. I’m so smart. I’m so handsome. I’m so tough. They’re all looking’ at me in this nightclub sayin’, man, who’s that guy?”
“So what advice do you have for me?”
“Don’t fuckin’ do it. Not only don’t do it, don’t hang around with people who are doin’ it or else you’ll end up doin’ it. I don’t care how fine a woman who wants to do drugs with you is, you’ve gotta understand that all your values and the decision-makin’ processes you’ve acquired along the road of life that parents, aunts, uncles, schoolteachers have taught you – right from wrong, good from bad, smart from stuu-pid – you’re gonna throw out the fuckin’ window on drugs.”
“Doing drugs was fun for me but look where I ended up.”
“Oh man, I remember bein’ in those discothèques back in the day with a bad-ass three-piece Armani suit on, gold chains around my neck, packin’ a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38, my Rolex, my pinkie rings, as high as Ike Turner on coke, and that’s a motherfucker who grew a moustache just so he could catch the coke rocks fallin’ outta his fuckin’ nose. I knew everybody in the place was lookin’ at me thinkin’, Man oh man, boy is he cool. And the reason I knew that is 'cause the drugs told me so.
It started out recreationally for me. It turned into a dependency. Lemmetellyasomethin’ - 'cause you’re gettin’ out soon - I guarantee you that you’ll be right back in here if you go poppin’ that Ecstasy or tootin’ that Special K or sippin’ that GHB. That is if you live long enough, if someone doesn’t kill you, if you don’t OD. Like I’ve told ya before there’s a BD, a DD, and an AD. Before drugs, during drugs, and after drugs. The most horrendous and costly decisions I ever made in my life happened during drugs. People lost their lives. I lost my decision-makin’ processes. How the fuck can a guy like me go from livin’ in a five-level house in a beautiful subdivision in Anchorage, Alaska, drivin’ a gold Cadillac Eldorado and a silver Jaguar, with people around me who cared about me, end up on the back of a Greyhound bus at a food stop watchin’ people eat their fuckin’ hamburgers 'cause I haven’t got any money in my pocket?”
“So you don’t think some people do a little bit of drugs and function fine?”
“Not if you’re weak. It could be alcohol. It could be marijuana. One leads to others. Supposedly Cary Grant took plenty of acid after he was 60. That’s OK if you’re Cary Grant, and you’ve gotta manager and motherfuckers who can protect you from your fucked-up decision-makin' processes. But if you’re just out there climbin' the ladder, don’t do it.”
“What about drug-addicted celebrities?”
“They’re a bunch of fuck-ups too. Look at Whitney Houston or Kurt Cobain. What possessed him to climb up to his loft and blow his brains out when he had the number one band in the world?”
“Smack.”
“And Robert Downey Junior. He crashed and burned. He ran into a cliff. And then there’s motherfuckers who turn into monsters. Look at Charlie Manson with the broads on LSD, drivin’ around L.A. puttin’ turkey forks in peoples bellies, cuttin’ pregnant women open to look at their foetuses and then gigglin’ while they did it. They weren’t insane. Those chicks were from Iowa and Nebraska. Their daddies were grocery-store managers and shit like that. How did Charles Manson control them? With drugs. They’re bad man. Back in the '70s – when coke was chic – they lied to us. They told us we couldn’t get addicted. Cocaine wasn’t like that scumbag heroin that made you wanna lie around all day, pukin’, and scratchin’ your ass and balls. They were wrong.”
“So what’s your advice for me when I get out?”
“Listen, Jon. I like you. You’re a nice guy. The cards turned on you and you wound up in this motherfucker. Not because you’re bad or evil but because you made bad decisions due to takin’ drugs. Get outta here and just don’t take 'em anymore. Stay the fuck away from 'em. It’s that fuckin’ simple. You can spend all the money in the world on shrinks, drug counsellors, and thirty-grand-a-month rehab centres, but, the bottom line is just like Nancy Reagan said, you’ve just gotta fuckin’ say no!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Two Tonys On Drugs
“I’m thinking about asking the shrink for advice about staying away from drugs when I get out,” I told Two Tonys.
“Whaddya wanna know about drugs?” Two Tonys said, “I’ve done 'em, sold 'em, and killed for 'em – in a roundabout way, drug debts and shit like that.”
“I’m going to ask for some general advice. Dr. O seems really intelligent.”
“How the fuck's he gonna tell ya to stay the fuck away from drugs? What does he know? Has he ever been hooked on drugs? Ask him that next time you see him. Does he know the thrill of drivin’ down the highway after you’ve just blown a motherfucker's jaw off, high on speed, your mind's trippin’ 45 million milligatts per minute and you’re listenin’ to Pink Floyd’s 'Another Brick In The Wall' thinkin’ you just made the most intelligent decision in yer life 'cause you’re so fuckin’ smart on drugs. You’re fuckin high. You’re fuckin’ John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Arnie and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one.”
“I see what you’re saying: the shrink’s an academic. But he seems to know his stuff.”
“All he can tell ya is there’s nerve-endin’s in yer head like a little clit that twitches when ya do drugs and makes ya think, Man, I’m havin’ a great time. How can I get more of this stuff 'cause I really like this feelin’. I’m so smart. I’m so handsome. I’m so tough. They’re all looking’ at me in this nightclub sayin’, man, who’s that guy?”
“So what advice do you have for me?”
“Don’t fuckin’ do it. Not only don’t do it, don’t hang around with people who are doin’ it or else you’ll end up doin’ it. I don’t care how fine a woman who wants to do drugs with you is, you’ve gotta understand that all your values and the decision-makin’ processes you’ve acquired along the road of life that parents, aunts, uncles, schoolteachers have taught you – right from wrong, good from bad, smart from stuu-pid – you’re gonna throw out the fuckin’ window on drugs.”
“Doing drugs was fun for me but look where I ended up.”
“Oh man, I remember bein’ in those discothèques back in the day with a bad-ass three-piece Armani suit on, gold chains around my neck, packin’ a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38, my Rolex, my pinkie rings, as high as Ike Turner on coke, and that’s a motherfucker who grew a moustache just so he could catch the coke rocks fallin’ outta his fuckin’ nose. I knew everybody in the place was lookin’ at me thinkin’, Man oh man, boy is he cool. And the reason I knew that is 'cause the drugs told me so.
It started out recreationally for me. It turned into a dependency. Lemmetellyasomethin’ - 'cause you’re gettin’ out soon - I guarantee you that you’ll be right back in here if you go poppin’ that Ecstasy or tootin’ that Special K or sippin’ that GHB. That is if you live long enough, if someone doesn’t kill you, if you don’t OD. Like I’ve told ya before there’s a BD, a DD, and an AD. Before drugs, during drugs, and after drugs. The most horrendous and costly decisions I ever made in my life happened during drugs. People lost their lives. I lost my decision-makin’ processes. How the fuck can a guy like me go from livin’ in a five-level house in a beautiful subdivision in Anchorage, Alaska, drivin’ a gold Cadillac Eldorado and a silver Jaguar, with people around me who cared about me, end up on the back of a Greyhound bus at a food stop watchin’ people eat their fuckin’ hamburgers 'cause I haven’t got any money in my pocket?”
“So you don’t think some people do a little bit of drugs and function fine?”
“Not if you’re weak. It could be alcohol. It could be marijuana. One leads to others. Supposedly Cary Grant took plenty of acid after he was 60. That’s OK if you’re Cary Grant, and you’ve gotta manager and motherfuckers who can protect you from your fucked-up decision-makin' processes. But if you’re just out there climbin' the ladder, don’t do it.”
“What about drug-addicted celebrities?”
“They’re a bunch of fuck-ups too. Look at Whitney Houston or Kurt Cobain. What possessed him to climb up to his loft and blow his brains out when he had the number one band in the world?”
“Smack.”
“And Robert Downey Junior. He crashed and burned. He ran into a cliff. And then there’s motherfuckers who turn into monsters. Look at Charlie Manson with the broads on LSD, drivin’ around L.A. puttin’ turkey forks in peoples bellies, cuttin’ pregnant women open to look at their foetuses and then gigglin’ while they did it. They weren’t insane. Those chicks were from Iowa and Nebraska. Their daddies were grocery-store managers and shit like that. How did Charles Manson control them? With drugs. They’re bad man. Back in the '70s – when coke was chic – they lied to us. They told us we couldn’t get addicted. Cocaine wasn’t like that scumbag heroin that made you wanna lie around all day, pukin’, and scratchin’ your ass and balls. They were wrong.”
“So what’s your advice for me when I get out?”
“Listen, Jon. I like you. You’re a nice guy. The cards turned on you and you wound up in this motherfucker. Not because you’re bad or evil but because you made bad decisions due to takin’ drugs. Get outta here and just don’t take 'em anymore. Stay the fuck away from 'em. It’s that fuckin’ simple. You can spend all the money in the world on shrinks, drug counsellors, and thirty-grand-a-month rehab centres, but, the bottom line is just like Nancy Reagan said, you’ve just gotta fuckin’ say no!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
10 August 2006
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 2)
It took a week to receive a Master Pass for the Health Unit. Walking to medical I envisioned Odd Job caressing a spatula, a glass rod, and a Jaws of Life.
Don't be silly, I thought. Odd Job will just take a gander and say it's a harmless something that’ll quickly go away, like a canker sore.
"Good morning," I said.
"Howdahellaryadoin'?" Odd Job said. "It's bin a freakin' while."
"Yes. A few months, I believe."
"So dats how ya freakin' do it izzit? You come up with a new complaint every few months to get a free trip to see me?"
"Er ... no." I blushed.
"And don't think for one second that I don't have my bullshit detector on."
Oh no. She does think I'm one of those guys who gets off on showing his behind to staff. Quick. Think. Say something.
"It's ... er ... nothing like that."
She looked at the Health Needs Request form I had submitted, occasionally stopping to scrutinize my reactions. "Hmmm," Odd Job said. "If dats what you think it is then lemmetellyasomethin': I can only identify big ones. The doc's gonna hafta look at it. I'll schedule ya for a full examination next week. In the meantime wouldja like to try the cream?"
Phew. No examination today. I'm off the hook with Odd Job, but what does full examination entail? Please no probing instruments.
I suddenly became aware that everyone there was listening to me and Odd Job.
"Will the cream make it go away?" I whispered.
"No. It'll only reduce the swellin' if it is what you think it is. But it might not be what you think it is?"
Odd Job's euphemisms were stirring up the eavesdroppers. I prayed she wouldn't say, "If it is what you think it is," ever again.
Instead, she said, "Does it itch?"
"Er ... not much. Not... er ... really."
"Which one: not much or not really?"
"I haven't noticed it doing that. How can I make it go away?"
"If it is what you think it is - "
Oh no, here we go again.
" - those things don't ever go away."
"Ever?"
"Ever. It's a protrusion of veins. All ya can do is reduce the swellin'. You don't want big ones cause they itch and bleed."
Worrying about what the onlookers were thinking made it hard to concentrate.
It’ll never go away. Is she saying I'll be carrying this thing around for the rest of my life? That's got to be nonsense. If Magic Johnson can beat AIDS, surely I can beat this. Unless. What if it's cancer?
"Could it be cancer?"
"I've never heard of those things you think it is becomin' cancerous. But until the doctor sees it we can't be sure it is what you think it is. So I'll go ahead and schedule you for next week."
"OK."
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 2)
It took a week to receive a Master Pass for the Health Unit. Walking to medical I envisioned Odd Job caressing a spatula, a glass rod, and a Jaws of Life.
Don't be silly, I thought. Odd Job will just take a gander and say it's a harmless something that’ll quickly go away, like a canker sore.
"Good morning," I said.
"Howdahellaryadoin'?" Odd Job said. "It's bin a freakin' while."
"Yes. A few months, I believe."
"So dats how ya freakin' do it izzit? You come up with a new complaint every few months to get a free trip to see me?"
"Er ... no." I blushed.
"And don't think for one second that I don't have my bullshit detector on."
Oh no. She does think I'm one of those guys who gets off on showing his behind to staff. Quick. Think. Say something.
"It's ... er ... nothing like that."
She looked at the Health Needs Request form I had submitted, occasionally stopping to scrutinize my reactions. "Hmmm," Odd Job said. "If dats what you think it is then lemmetellyasomethin': I can only identify big ones. The doc's gonna hafta look at it. I'll schedule ya for a full examination next week. In the meantime wouldja like to try the cream?"
Phew. No examination today. I'm off the hook with Odd Job, but what does full examination entail? Please no probing instruments.
I suddenly became aware that everyone there was listening to me and Odd Job.
"Will the cream make it go away?" I whispered.
"No. It'll only reduce the swellin' if it is what you think it is. But it might not be what you think it is?"
Odd Job's euphemisms were stirring up the eavesdroppers. I prayed she wouldn't say, "If it is what you think it is," ever again.
Instead, she said, "Does it itch?"
"Er ... not much. Not... er ... really."
"Which one: not much or not really?"
"I haven't noticed it doing that. How can I make it go away?"
"If it is what you think it is - "
Oh no, here we go again.
" - those things don't ever go away."
"Ever?"
"Ever. It's a protrusion of veins. All ya can do is reduce the swellin'. You don't want big ones cause they itch and bleed."
Worrying about what the onlookers were thinking made it hard to concentrate.
It’ll never go away. Is she saying I'll be carrying this thing around for the rest of my life? That's got to be nonsense. If Magic Johnson can beat AIDS, surely I can beat this. Unless. What if it's cancer?
"Could it be cancer?"
"I've never heard of those things you think it is becomin' cancerous. But until the doctor sees it we can't be sure it is what you think it is. So I'll go ahead and schedule you for next week."
"OK."
09 August 06
Motivating Shane
To qualify for hepatitis C treatment, Shane has to complete a course developed by the Hazelden Foundation. After his most recent class, I found Shane cursing his Criminal and Addictive Behaviour workbook and the course.
“I don’t need," Shane said, “to be in these stupid support groups and courses! How do I know it’s legit? The book says I sacrificed goals because drugs and crime were more exciting, but that’s not true, because after a while, drugs and crime weren’t exciting.”
“I think it’s true. My ex-wife, Amy, was at the U of A, and she really tried to get me to go there to do a master's degree. And what did I do? I sacrificed a positive goal to run round Phoenix partying and raving and doing drugs, which seemed more exciting. If you’re going to reject the whole course because you disagree with some wording, then you’re not going to benefit from what the course has to offer. People who do drugs do it for excitement – especially in the beginning – and they do sacrifice family, education, and work goals. How can you dispute that?”
“But it’s not because those goals are not exciting.”
“Maybe not, but doing drugs and crime is more exciting. Stop fighting the book. Be open-minded. Focus on helping yourself instead of finding small objections to reject the whole course. Cognitive-behavioural therapy can help your mental state. How many disorders are you suffering from right now?”
“Bipolar, antisocial, and borderline personality.”
“Don’t you want to construct a positive mental framework to deal with them?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t you want to get the most from this course to help you with your mental disorders?”
“Sure. If it’s legit info.”
“There you go, resisting again. You’re familiar with the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, right?” I asked this because Shane does lots of legal work.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop seeking problems with the letter of the course, and go with the spirit of the course.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“It’s a cop out to focus on the wording.”
“But why should there be double meanings to things?”
“Your mind is creating double meanings. If you choose to get stuck on objections, you’ll never benefit.”
“Maybe that’s why I am who I am?”
“But don’t you want to change that? Isn’t that what this cognitive class is trying to achieve for you?”
“I need a course that’ll teach me not to resist courses. Of course I’d try and resist that course too.”
We laughed.
“The bottom line is, you’ve got to want to help yourself, it’s got to come from your heart.”
“But it’s a joke how they’re doing courses in here. It’s supposed to be done in a live-in community with in-house counsellors where everybody’s doing the same course.”
“But we’re in prison. I’d like to do yoga on a yoga mat instead of the concrete floor. I wish there was enough space in my cell to be able to rotate into the splits from headstand. Do I quit yoga because of these things? No. I adapt. I make the most of the circumstances. You should try and make the most of the course in spite of the environment.”
Shane returned in the evening, and said, “I stand corrected. I am a word quibbler. It says so in a later chapter of the book. I employed a diversion strategy – a way to divert attention rather than understand.”
“It sounds like you’re doing better.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna give it a try.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Motivating Shane
To qualify for hepatitis C treatment, Shane has to complete a course developed by the Hazelden Foundation. After his most recent class, I found Shane cursing his Criminal and Addictive Behaviour workbook and the course.
“I don’t need," Shane said, “to be in these stupid support groups and courses! How do I know it’s legit? The book says I sacrificed goals because drugs and crime were more exciting, but that’s not true, because after a while, drugs and crime weren’t exciting.”
“I think it’s true. My ex-wife, Amy, was at the U of A, and she really tried to get me to go there to do a master's degree. And what did I do? I sacrificed a positive goal to run round Phoenix partying and raving and doing drugs, which seemed more exciting. If you’re going to reject the whole course because you disagree with some wording, then you’re not going to benefit from what the course has to offer. People who do drugs do it for excitement – especially in the beginning – and they do sacrifice family, education, and work goals. How can you dispute that?”
“But it’s not because those goals are not exciting.”
“Maybe not, but doing drugs and crime is more exciting. Stop fighting the book. Be open-minded. Focus on helping yourself instead of finding small objections to reject the whole course. Cognitive-behavioural therapy can help your mental state. How many disorders are you suffering from right now?”
“Bipolar, antisocial, and borderline personality.”
“Don’t you want to construct a positive mental framework to deal with them?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t you want to get the most from this course to help you with your mental disorders?”
“Sure. If it’s legit info.”
“There you go, resisting again. You’re familiar with the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, right?” I asked this because Shane does lots of legal work.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop seeking problems with the letter of the course, and go with the spirit of the course.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“It’s a cop out to focus on the wording.”
“But why should there be double meanings to things?”
“Your mind is creating double meanings. If you choose to get stuck on objections, you’ll never benefit.”
“Maybe that’s why I am who I am?”
“But don’t you want to change that? Isn’t that what this cognitive class is trying to achieve for you?”
“I need a course that’ll teach me not to resist courses. Of course I’d try and resist that course too.”
We laughed.
“The bottom line is, you’ve got to want to help yourself, it’s got to come from your heart.”
“But it’s a joke how they’re doing courses in here. It’s supposed to be done in a live-in community with in-house counsellors where everybody’s doing the same course.”
“But we’re in prison. I’d like to do yoga on a yoga mat instead of the concrete floor. I wish there was enough space in my cell to be able to rotate into the splits from headstand. Do I quit yoga because of these things? No. I adapt. I make the most of the circumstances. You should try and make the most of the course in spite of the environment.”
Shane returned in the evening, and said, “I stand corrected. I am a word quibbler. It says so in a later chapter of the book. I employed a diversion strategy – a way to divert attention rather than understand.”
“It sounds like you’re doing better.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna give it a try.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
09 August
A Xena Day
“Can you describe a typical Xena day?” I asked Xena.
“When I wake up, I think about my dreams. I feed bread to the pigeons and go coo-coo. I make coffee, and don’t go to breakfast. Usually, I go to work on the farm crew, mowin’ and weedin’ grass, sweepin’ sidewalks, washin’ bird doo-doo off sidewalks, and pickin’ and shovelin’ – it’s ass-bustin’ hard work for four to nine hours. But I get to kick back and watch the birds and the bees, it’s invigoratin’. And passers-by all yell ‘Xena!’ and I never get a moments peace.
When I get home, I take off my boots outside, and get my clothes, soap and shampoo and stuff, and go take a shower. After showerin’, I put on deodorant, and cover my entire body with lotion, and usually I wait for my hair to dry before I comb it out.
At chow, I make fun of people, and they make fun of me, while my celly, Savage, looks at me thinkin’, Oh God, why me? Why this again?
At nightime rec I DM.”
“What’s DM?”
“I am a Dungeon Master in Dungeons and Dragons. I’m obsessed with D&D. My NPCs (Non Player Characters) rip heads off, rip guts out, flay Player Characters one piece of skin at a time while keepin’ them alive, inject veins with fire….
Sometimes I bug you and Frankie when you’re tryin’ to play a serious game of chess. I run around the yard sayin’ and doin’ crazy things, and watch people’s reactions, includin’ showin’ them my wasp - the tattoo on my penis.”
“Why did you get a wasp tattooed on your penis?”
“’Cause I don’t use it, so I figured I’d decorate it.”
“What do you do at night after lockdown?”
“Eat and talk with Savage. Read D&D books. I usually go bed between midnight and two in the mornin’”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
A Xena Day
“Can you describe a typical Xena day?” I asked Xena.
“When I wake up, I think about my dreams. I feed bread to the pigeons and go coo-coo. I make coffee, and don’t go to breakfast. Usually, I go to work on the farm crew, mowin’ and weedin’ grass, sweepin’ sidewalks, washin’ bird doo-doo off sidewalks, and pickin’ and shovelin’ – it’s ass-bustin’ hard work for four to nine hours. But I get to kick back and watch the birds and the bees, it’s invigoratin’. And passers-by all yell ‘Xena!’ and I never get a moments peace.
When I get home, I take off my boots outside, and get my clothes, soap and shampoo and stuff, and go take a shower. After showerin’, I put on deodorant, and cover my entire body with lotion, and usually I wait for my hair to dry before I comb it out.
At chow, I make fun of people, and they make fun of me, while my celly, Savage, looks at me thinkin’, Oh God, why me? Why this again?
At nightime rec I DM.”
“What’s DM?”
“I am a Dungeon Master in Dungeons and Dragons. I’m obsessed with D&D. My NPCs (Non Player Characters) rip heads off, rip guts out, flay Player Characters one piece of skin at a time while keepin’ them alive, inject veins with fire….
Sometimes I bug you and Frankie when you’re tryin’ to play a serious game of chess. I run around the yard sayin’ and doin’ crazy things, and watch people’s reactions, includin’ showin’ them my wasp - the tattoo on my penis.”
“Why did you get a wasp tattooed on your penis?”
“’Cause I don’t use it, so I figured I’d decorate it.”
“What do you do at night after lockdown?”
“Eat and talk with Savage. Read D&D books. I usually go bed between midnight and two in the mornin’”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
08 August 06
Los Betos Burritos
A benefits fundraiser for Homicide Survivors Inc. enabled us to buy burritos for $6 each.
We could choose from bean and cheese, chicken, and carne asada.
When the delivery van arrived at Yard 3, inmates mobbed Yard 4’s gate. The mob looked dangerous, so, I sat by Building A.
When the van arrived at Yard 4, Slingblade, who hadn’t ordered any burritos, began to circle the mob. Each time an inmate tried to return to his cell with his burritos, Slingblade, topless and wild eyed, stopped in front of him, and blocked his path. Slingblade, unable to form words, would howl in the inmate's face. Then the inmate, clinging to his burritos, would sidestep Slingblade and hurry home.
“Do you know why Slingblade’s going mad like that?” I asked George.
“No. Why?”
“’Cause I told him you were gonna give him some burrito.”
“It was nice of you to volunteer my food.” George said, his face turning stern.
“I’m just kidding. But I think you should give him some anyway.”
“Did George give you any burrito?” I asked Slingblade.
“Hell yeah!” Slingblade said.
"Here's some more burrito," I said.
"Gee thanks." Slingblade took the burrito and stuffed it into his pocket as if it were a secret that needed hiding.
"I like the guacamole," I said.
Slingblade grunted, took the burrito out of his pocket, and I left him to it.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Los Betos Burritos
A benefits fundraiser for Homicide Survivors Inc. enabled us to buy burritos for $6 each.
We could choose from bean and cheese, chicken, and carne asada.
When the delivery van arrived at Yard 3, inmates mobbed Yard 4’s gate. The mob looked dangerous, so, I sat by Building A.
When the van arrived at Yard 4, Slingblade, who hadn’t ordered any burritos, began to circle the mob. Each time an inmate tried to return to his cell with his burritos, Slingblade, topless and wild eyed, stopped in front of him, and blocked his path. Slingblade, unable to form words, would howl in the inmate's face. Then the inmate, clinging to his burritos, would sidestep Slingblade and hurry home.
“Do you know why Slingblade’s going mad like that?” I asked George.
“No. Why?”
“’Cause I told him you were gonna give him some burrito.”
“It was nice of you to volunteer my food.” George said, his face turning stern.
“I’m just kidding. But I think you should give him some anyway.”
“Did George give you any burrito?” I asked Slingblade.
“Hell yeah!” Slingblade said.
"Here's some more burrito," I said.
"Gee thanks." Slingblade took the burrito and stuffed it into his pocket as if it were a secret that needed hiding.
"I like the guacamole," I said.
Slingblade grunted, took the burrito out of his pocket, and I left him to it.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
07 August 06
Peanut Butter Fart Thoughts
Now that Smoker is here my days of basking in the odour of peanut-butter farts are over. As I write this I’m holding several strong ones in. Prison etiquette requires that I don’t launch them off the top bunk onto my cellmate. I’ll liberate them when I next take a leak. It seems to be an accepted practice to fart while peeing. Sometimes you can’t stop this from happening. I’m assuming its an accepted practice to fart while peeing because of all my cellmates I’ve heard do it. It seems to happen more times than normal gas slippage could account for. After hearing it happen so many times it became an accepted practice of mine. What is not an accepted practice is lying on the top bunk and running my feet along the ceiling in a kind of yoga position with my posterior close to my face then letting one rip. I won’t be doing any of that with Smoker here.
Smoker is taking a leak right now, and he farted. I took advantage of the situation by following suit with a silent one that is redolent of peanut butter.
I think I’d better concentrate on writing the philosphical piece I started yesterday…
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Peanut Butter Fart Thoughts
Now that Smoker is here my days of basking in the odour of peanut-butter farts are over. As I write this I’m holding several strong ones in. Prison etiquette requires that I don’t launch them off the top bunk onto my cellmate. I’ll liberate them when I next take a leak. It seems to be an accepted practice to fart while peeing. Sometimes you can’t stop this from happening. I’m assuming its an accepted practice to fart while peeing because of all my cellmates I’ve heard do it. It seems to happen more times than normal gas slippage could account for. After hearing it happen so many times it became an accepted practice of mine. What is not an accepted practice is lying on the top bunk and running my feet along the ceiling in a kind of yoga position with my posterior close to my face then letting one rip. I won’t be doing any of that with Smoker here.
Smoker is taking a leak right now, and he farted. I took advantage of the situation by following suit with a silent one that is redolent of peanut butter.
I think I’d better concentrate on writing the philosphical piece I started yesterday…
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
06 August 06
Coming to Prison
“Arriving at jail and then prison were two of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life,” I told Two Tonys.
“I remember,” Two Tonys said, “at the Walls when the big grey bus drove up with the fish in it. Twenty-five guys from Alhambra would get off the bus, get their chains undone, and walk to Cell Block 1 for orientation. Everybody – the white gang members, the eses, and the blacks – would be lookin’ at the herd of fish. Checkin’ out who’s who, who’s weak, who’s fearful, who’s strong. A fish with fear radiatin' from his eyes, with his shoulders humped and his head down, they’d know they could prey on. A swaggerin’ motherfucker, with his head held high, and all tatted down would be a potential comrade. The gang leaders are always lookin’ for new gang members. If I’m Dubya, I want more Christian conservative Republican members, but I’m not gonna just let anyone in. It’s just the same in here.”
Bomba, a Chicano friend of Two Tonys who’s almost completed a twenty-year sentence, said, “The gang members look at fish as furniture for all corners of the room. Each fish fits in somewhere, whether he’s a chair or a table. A fish may get punked out and be a piece of ass. If he’s comin’ in with jewellery or a Sony Trinatron TV then he’s a source of money.”
“Imagine,” Two Tonys said, “the gang members watchin’ the fish come in as wolves on the side of a grassy hill on the plains of South Dakota watchin’ a herd of elk. The wolves are layin’ there lookin’ for any signs of weakness in potential prey. Maybe a limp in an elk, an old-timer trottin’ behind the herd, or a young elk that’s strayed too far from its mother. Gang members are lookin’ for the same. Maybe a guy with an aura of fear who won’t make eye contact is a cho-mo they’re gonna shank. They’ll approach the fish friendly at first. A probate from the same race will roll up to the newcomer and say shit like, ‘Wassup! Where you from? Let’s go eat.’ Over days and weeks the fish will divulge certain information to his new friend. Whether he’s in for murder, rape, burglary. Whether he’s doin’ two years, five, or life. Whether he likes or hates the other races. If he’s a white guy with a Mexican wife, they’ll know he’s not for them. But maybe he has other uses. Does he get a weekly visit from some sweathog in Chandler who’ll bring in to the prison a pussy full of dope? How much money does he have on his books? And they’re always lookin’ for sexual prey, punks, someone to turn out. At the Walls they were lookin’ for bleeders, people who could bleed twice a week for $6.50 from Cutter Lab International.”
“What if you refused to give blood?” I asked.
“They’d bust your fuckin’ head in.”
“So what kind of body language would you recommend a fish portrays when he arrives at prison?” I asked.
“Make eye contact. Talk to motherfuckers. Keep your head up. Try not to show fear or apprehension – although everyone feels it. Don’t be too polite, but don’t be too disrespectful. If somebody fucks with you, get busy.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Coming to Prison
“Arriving at jail and then prison were two of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life,” I told Two Tonys.
“I remember,” Two Tonys said, “at the Walls when the big grey bus drove up with the fish in it. Twenty-five guys from Alhambra would get off the bus, get their chains undone, and walk to Cell Block 1 for orientation. Everybody – the white gang members, the eses, and the blacks – would be lookin’ at the herd of fish. Checkin’ out who’s who, who’s weak, who’s fearful, who’s strong. A fish with fear radiatin' from his eyes, with his shoulders humped and his head down, they’d know they could prey on. A swaggerin’ motherfucker, with his head held high, and all tatted down would be a potential comrade. The gang leaders are always lookin’ for new gang members. If I’m Dubya, I want more Christian conservative Republican members, but I’m not gonna just let anyone in. It’s just the same in here.”
Bomba, a Chicano friend of Two Tonys who’s almost completed a twenty-year sentence, said, “The gang members look at fish as furniture for all corners of the room. Each fish fits in somewhere, whether he’s a chair or a table. A fish may get punked out and be a piece of ass. If he’s comin’ in with jewellery or a Sony Trinatron TV then he’s a source of money.”
“Imagine,” Two Tonys said, “the gang members watchin’ the fish come in as wolves on the side of a grassy hill on the plains of South Dakota watchin’ a herd of elk. The wolves are layin’ there lookin’ for any signs of weakness in potential prey. Maybe a limp in an elk, an old-timer trottin’ behind the herd, or a young elk that’s strayed too far from its mother. Gang members are lookin’ for the same. Maybe a guy with an aura of fear who won’t make eye contact is a cho-mo they’re gonna shank. They’ll approach the fish friendly at first. A probate from the same race will roll up to the newcomer and say shit like, ‘Wassup! Where you from? Let’s go eat.’ Over days and weeks the fish will divulge certain information to his new friend. Whether he’s in for murder, rape, burglary. Whether he’s doin’ two years, five, or life. Whether he likes or hates the other races. If he’s a white guy with a Mexican wife, they’ll know he’s not for them. But maybe he has other uses. Does he get a weekly visit from some sweathog in Chandler who’ll bring in to the prison a pussy full of dope? How much money does he have on his books? And they’re always lookin’ for sexual prey, punks, someone to turn out. At the Walls they were lookin’ for bleeders, people who could bleed twice a week for $6.50 from Cutter Lab International.”
“What if you refused to give blood?” I asked.
“They’d bust your fuckin’ head in.”
“So what kind of body language would you recommend a fish portrays when he arrives at prison?” I asked.
“Make eye contact. Talk to motherfuckers. Keep your head up. Try not to show fear or apprehension – although everyone feels it. Don’t be too polite, but don’t be too disrespectful. If somebody fucks with you, get busy.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
04 August 06
Guida asked the following questions:
Do you have any plans for when you get out?
I intend to live with my parents in Cheshire, England. I'd like to back to university.
How does it feel as you approach the end of your sentence?
Exciting. I feel as if I’ve accomplished a lot, and I can’t wait to apply what I've learned. It’s as if I’ve been shaped into a new person by this experience. I view things differently. I realise how precious things are that I previously took for granted. I want to make the most of the life I have remaining. Thinking about being around my family puts a smile on my face. As my release date nears, I’m sure my excitement will grow. Although there is some anxiety over the prospect of being in a different country, I’m confident that the euphoria of freedom will override my anxiety when the time comes. The day I am free of living under this microscope, and I can exercise my free will again, will be one of the best days of my life.
If you could do absolutely anything you wanted when you get out (after seeing your family and stuff) what would you do (money no object)?
With unlimited wealth and power, I’d retire all world leaders and replace them with yoga-practicing women. That would make the world a safer place for all of us.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Guida asked the following questions:
Do you have any plans for when you get out?
I intend to live with my parents in Cheshire, England. I'd like to back to university.
How does it feel as you approach the end of your sentence?
Exciting. I feel as if I’ve accomplished a lot, and I can’t wait to apply what I've learned. It’s as if I’ve been shaped into a new person by this experience. I view things differently. I realise how precious things are that I previously took for granted. I want to make the most of the life I have remaining. Thinking about being around my family puts a smile on my face. As my release date nears, I’m sure my excitement will grow. Although there is some anxiety over the prospect of being in a different country, I’m confident that the euphoria of freedom will override my anxiety when the time comes. The day I am free of living under this microscope, and I can exercise my free will again, will be one of the best days of my life.
If you could do absolutely anything you wanted when you get out (after seeing your family and stuff) what would you do (money no object)?
With unlimited wealth and power, I’d retire all world leaders and replace them with yoga-practicing women. That would make the world a safer place for all of us.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
02 August 06
Two Tonys Responds to One Tony and Native Lou
Two Tonys and I were discussing the reaction to the blog Two Tonys Philosophizes.
“We were accused of whiny-arsed, left-wing claptrap straight from the factory," I said. "For the record: I think that most politicians, left and right, are liars, and should be replaced by yoga-practicing women.”
“First of all,” Two Tonys began, “whodafucks this One Tony think he is throwin’ out words like arsed and tosspot? Arsed is spelt assed, and if this motherfucker ever ends up as my celly, I’ll show him tosspot. He’ll be washing my boxers, and I’ll be Mr. Tosspot to him. He’d better pray that he don’t get caught doin’ nothin’ wrong. Who is this One Tony guy any fuckin’ way?”
“He’s a Brit. A Cockney living in Phoenix. His family own the George & Dragon pub. He’s actually a cool bloke, and he can give as good as he gets, so I don’t think he’ll be too phased by anything you throw at him.”
“If he’s such a fuckin’ patriot how come he isn’t with the British SAS or paratroopers in Basra shakin’ down Muslims on the way to the mosque, tearin’ off burqhas and burnooses lookin’ for AK-47s? Why isn’t One Tony defendin’ the Empire that the sun never sets on? Whoops. That was last century. Or was it two centuries ago? Why isn’t he chargin’ with Tony Blair’s light brigade? He’s probably kickin’ back in Phoenix while the British boys are holdin’ back the Muslim tide from invadin’ Cockneyland. He sounds like the type of Brit who has pictures of Tony Blair, Dubya, and Rush Limbaugh strategically placed around his home. Not to mention a portrait of Rummy Rumsfeld on the wall above his British loo. He’s probably the kinda guy who’d go on a campin’ trip with John Ashcroft and Donald Rumsfeld, and want to clean their latrine and .44s. So One Tony works in a pub does he?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m wonderin’ what pictures he has on the dart boards. Lemme guess: Hilary Rodham Clinton.”
“So how do you feel about Native Lou’s comment?”
“He wasn’t real vicious.”
“He said some positive stuff as well as calling us lefties.”
“If Native Lou wants some facts why doesn’t he just jump in his pickup truck with the AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT sticker on the bumper and ride to the nearest Veterans Affairs hospital and check out the no-nuts section. There’s the true facts. Does this guy really think we are fighting for free speech in the Middle East? If he thinks Iraqis and Kuwaitis are enjoyin’ free speech he should talk to the sheikhs of the government of Saad al-Abdallah al-Salim Al Sabah who, during Operation Desert Storm, were hunkered in the bunkers of London by which I mean eatin’ tea and crumpets at the Ritz Hotel. Ask the sheikh what freedom of speech he allows his poor camel herders. Just like the Iraqis they have never had and probably never will have freedom of speech unless they check in with General Casey or Premier Maliki first, who are puppets for the US who probably call Rummy Rumsfeld to get top secret clearance to take a crap. Maybe Native Lou should check a few facts himself. I’m sure his nuts weren’t lost to an IED."
“You do have some good points about freedom of speech. And it’s clear that oil is a big factor in the equation. At the end of World War 2, Churchill claimed that peace would be held for fifty years, and that the next world war would be over natural resources. The UK and the US rely heavily on foreign resource extraction. It’s that policy that has generated such high standards of living in the West. And I appreciate our standards of living. But we have so much now. People in poorer countries should be benefiting from their own resources. They’re worried about food and survival, whereas our minds are on iPods and what Paris Hilton is up to. When the USSR invaded Germany they wondered why the wealthy Germans had ever wanted to occupy their poor country. It’s the greed that we’re seeing signs of in Big Oil and Big Defence that leads to much bigger problems for everybody when war escalates.”
“And Bush is pushin’ us that way in the name of oil. I hope Native Lou pities the poor eighteen- year olds who have left their nuts on Saddam Hussein Boulevard, duped to fight in the names of Iraqi free speech and democracy.”
Two Tonys Responds to One Tony and Native Lou
Two Tonys and I were discussing the reaction to the blog Two Tonys Philosophizes.
“We were accused of whiny-arsed, left-wing claptrap straight from the factory," I said. "For the record: I think that most politicians, left and right, are liars, and should be replaced by yoga-practicing women.”
“First of all,” Two Tonys began, “whodafucks this One Tony think he is throwin’ out words like arsed and tosspot? Arsed is spelt assed, and if this motherfucker ever ends up as my celly, I’ll show him tosspot. He’ll be washing my boxers, and I’ll be Mr. Tosspot to him. He’d better pray that he don’t get caught doin’ nothin’ wrong. Who is this One Tony guy any fuckin’ way?”
“He’s a Brit. A Cockney living in Phoenix. His family own the George & Dragon pub. He’s actually a cool bloke, and he can give as good as he gets, so I don’t think he’ll be too phased by anything you throw at him.”
“If he’s such a fuckin’ patriot how come he isn’t with the British SAS or paratroopers in Basra shakin’ down Muslims on the way to the mosque, tearin’ off burqhas and burnooses lookin’ for AK-47s? Why isn’t One Tony defendin’ the Empire that the sun never sets on? Whoops. That was last century. Or was it two centuries ago? Why isn’t he chargin’ with Tony Blair’s light brigade? He’s probably kickin’ back in Phoenix while the British boys are holdin’ back the Muslim tide from invadin’ Cockneyland. He sounds like the type of Brit who has pictures of Tony Blair, Dubya, and Rush Limbaugh strategically placed around his home. Not to mention a portrait of Rummy Rumsfeld on the wall above his British loo. He’s probably the kinda guy who’d go on a campin’ trip with John Ashcroft and Donald Rumsfeld, and want to clean their latrine and .44s. So One Tony works in a pub does he?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m wonderin’ what pictures he has on the dart boards. Lemme guess: Hilary Rodham Clinton.”
“So how do you feel about Native Lou’s comment?”
“He wasn’t real vicious.”
“He said some positive stuff as well as calling us lefties.”
“If Native Lou wants some facts why doesn’t he just jump in his pickup truck with the AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT sticker on the bumper and ride to the nearest Veterans Affairs hospital and check out the no-nuts section. There’s the true facts. Does this guy really think we are fighting for free speech in the Middle East? If he thinks Iraqis and Kuwaitis are enjoyin’ free speech he should talk to the sheikhs of the government of Saad al-Abdallah al-Salim Al Sabah who, during Operation Desert Storm, were hunkered in the bunkers of London by which I mean eatin’ tea and crumpets at the Ritz Hotel. Ask the sheikh what freedom of speech he allows his poor camel herders. Just like the Iraqis they have never had and probably never will have freedom of speech unless they check in with General Casey or Premier Maliki first, who are puppets for the US who probably call Rummy Rumsfeld to get top secret clearance to take a crap. Maybe Native Lou should check a few facts himself. I’m sure his nuts weren’t lost to an IED."
“You do have some good points about freedom of speech. And it’s clear that oil is a big factor in the equation. At the end of World War 2, Churchill claimed that peace would be held for fifty years, and that the next world war would be over natural resources. The UK and the US rely heavily on foreign resource extraction. It’s that policy that has generated such high standards of living in the West. And I appreciate our standards of living. But we have so much now. People in poorer countries should be benefiting from their own resources. They’re worried about food and survival, whereas our minds are on iPods and what Paris Hilton is up to. When the USSR invaded Germany they wondered why the wealthy Germans had ever wanted to occupy their poor country. It’s the greed that we’re seeing signs of in Big Oil and Big Defence that leads to much bigger problems for everybody when war escalates.”
“And Bush is pushin’ us that way in the name of oil. I hope Native Lou pities the poor eighteen- year olds who have left their nuts on Saddam Hussein Boulevard, duped to fight in the names of Iraqi free speech and democracy.”
30 July 06
New Arrivals
July saw the return of Long Island who has been housed with Ogre. I am unable to blog his adventures outside of prison until he has resolved certain legal issues.
Today I received a new celly, Smoker, a mild-mannered 49-year old with two years left on a 20 year sentence for fraudulent schemes and artifices.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
New Arrivals
July saw the return of Long Island who has been housed with Ogre. I am unable to blog his adventures outside of prison until he has resolved certain legal issues.
Today I received a new celly, Smoker, a mild-mannered 49-year old with two years left on a 20 year sentence for fraudulent schemes and artifices.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
28 July 06
Relentless George
“What do you think about the comment following the Pitch-Black Orgy blog a while back, saying ‘good old George,’ and noting your perseverance?” I asked George.
“That was very nice. It’s the only positive comment I’ve had.”
“What do you expect with your sinister and perverse ways?”
“Oh, I’m Mr. Sinister now, am I? Puh-leeze!”
“If you’re not sinister, what are you then?”
“Practical.”
“And you’re wrong about getting only one positive comment. The glory hole blog had some lengthy comments on your side, suggesting I be more open-minded.”
“Well, that’s true, somebody has to be more open-minded, you close-minded British bigot, you!”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“’Cause you’re a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
“Because I don’t sleep with men?”
“You don’t need to sleep with men, just frolicking around a little bit would work fine.”
“Sexually speaking, males don’t do anything for me. I like curvy bodies."
“Look right here buddy!” George ripped his top off, and cupped his left breast with his hand. “You want curvaceous, I can give you curvaceous. Have a closer look, feel them. Come on! Be willing to try new things. Stop sticking your nose up in the air like a bald-headed British snob.”
“Put your saggy waps away, George. You’re putting me off lunch.”
“What are you talking about! I’ve got at least B-cups. Mine are bigger than Xena’s and you’re fuckin’ in love with her.”
“We’re platonic friends. That’s all.”
“Yeah. That’s your story.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you in heat or something? Haven’t you been laid lately?”
“No.”
“Perhaps if you had a regular partner, you wouldn’t be so sensual.”
“Sensual! There you go misdescribing me again.”
“You need to get your pent-up sexual energy out.”
“You need to have a fit of bisexual rage, and instead of sticking your nose up in the air, you should stick your butt up in the air for Frankie and me.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m not into men, or shemales, like that.”
“You’re into male midgets though aren’t you?”
“You can’t say that just because I’m a Bridget the Midget fan.”
George was getting too worked up, so I said, “Bugger off and leave me alone!”
“I’m leaving anyway. You’re abusing my good-heartedness.”
Am I being too mean to George? Does he deserve positive comments?
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Relentless George
“What do you think about the comment following the Pitch-Black Orgy blog a while back, saying ‘good old George,’ and noting your perseverance?” I asked George.
“That was very nice. It’s the only positive comment I’ve had.”
“What do you expect with your sinister and perverse ways?”
“Oh, I’m Mr. Sinister now, am I? Puh-leeze!”
“If you’re not sinister, what are you then?”
“Practical.”
“And you’re wrong about getting only one positive comment. The glory hole blog had some lengthy comments on your side, suggesting I be more open-minded.”
“Well, that’s true, somebody has to be more open-minded, you close-minded British bigot, you!”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“’Cause you’re a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
“Because I don’t sleep with men?”
“You don’t need to sleep with men, just frolicking around a little bit would work fine.”
“Sexually speaking, males don’t do anything for me. I like curvy bodies."
“Look right here buddy!” George ripped his top off, and cupped his left breast with his hand. “You want curvaceous, I can give you curvaceous. Have a closer look, feel them. Come on! Be willing to try new things. Stop sticking your nose up in the air like a bald-headed British snob.”
“Put your saggy waps away, George. You’re putting me off lunch.”
“What are you talking about! I’ve got at least B-cups. Mine are bigger than Xena’s and you’re fuckin’ in love with her.”
“We’re platonic friends. That’s all.”
“Yeah. That’s your story.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you in heat or something? Haven’t you been laid lately?”
“No.”
“Perhaps if you had a regular partner, you wouldn’t be so sensual.”
“Sensual! There you go misdescribing me again.”
“You need to get your pent-up sexual energy out.”
“You need to have a fit of bisexual rage, and instead of sticking your nose up in the air, you should stick your butt up in the air for Frankie and me.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m not into men, or shemales, like that.”
“You’re into male midgets though aren’t you?”
“You can’t say that just because I’m a Bridget the Midget fan.”
George was getting too worked up, so I said, “Bugger off and leave me alone!”
“I’m leaving anyway. You’re abusing my good-heartedness.”
Am I being too mean to George? Does he deserve positive comments?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
26 July 06
What Royo Girl and Some Sexy Others Wrote
What Royo Girl and Some Sexy Others Wrote
Click here for the previous Royo Girl post.
Excerpts, with Royo Girl’s permission, from a letter she wrote after our first visit:
I can’t describe in words how great it was to see you and spend time with you. As nerve-wracking as it all was in the beginning, it was worth any trouble. I could never have imagined how much I would miss you until I had to leave you behind there. I was overwhelmed with unexpected emotions upon my departure. I was incredibly happy and there was gleeful anticipation of seeing you again and determination to make it happen. I even sat there thinking that I need to go shopping to find the perfect top for the next visit. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and wishing you were out and hanging out with me. I have missed you intensely since the visit.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am still in the process of analysing and sorting my thoughts and emotions on the matter. I apologize if this letter and its contents are somewhat incoherent and muddled up. I hope you understand the loop you have put me in.
Regardless of a bit of awkwardness due to the irregular circumstances, I still felt the sexual chemistry.
It seems appropriate to remind myself and you that although we could have some wicked times together and that there is definitely something there between us, it is something that shouldn’t happen. I could easily list why you are so wrong for me, but maybe that is counterproductive. At the same time, I feel like you have lit a spark inside me and I’m even happier than I was before.
I will undoubtedly be thinking of you and wanting you so much more than I should. Missing you loads! Hope you miss me too.
Excerpts from Royo Girl’s second letter following the visit:
…and then suddenly I saw you. My heart began to beat faster and I could feel my stupid cold sweaty palms. I tried to wipe them off to no avail. It made no difference.
I watched you walk in my direction and noted you weren’t actually looking at me while you walked. I was thankful for this, as it would have made my already high level of anxiety higher. Then you came over and gave me a hug and kiss. I was incredibly nervous the first fifteen minutes we were sat together at the table. I was acutely aware of what was going on, but my mind was strangely blank. There were no extra thoughts other than I needed to calm down.
We moved to a table away from the guards and began our long conversation. It was odd how normal it felt to sit and chat with you. I felt like we weren’t in prison at all. It was almost as if we were having coffee in some small café catching up on old times. I can remember thinking that you had not really changed at all and I loved it. You were the same Englishman that I remembered and was quite fond of. I am still amazed at how remarkable our conversation felt given the circumstances.
The rest of our visit does not need retelling to you. I cannot wait for you to get out of prison and see you in the outside world. I am looking forward to our future conversation and banter. Hopefully your prison exit is sooner rather than later. I miss you and will be waiting for you on the outside. Until then, keep safe and stay healthy.
Can any of you help translate Royo Girl’s statements? She wrote that getting together with me “is something that shouldn’t happen,” but she also wrote that she “will be waiting for [me] on the outside.” What’s going on here?
Addendum
Here are some excerpts from letters I’ve recently received from women other than Royo Girl.
When you get out, I’ve arranged my sis to meet you and me, then we are going to strip into thongs and step into a container, and my sis will pour jelly and water over us. We will wait for it to set, and then the task is to be the first person to fight their way out of the jelly. When we get out of the jelly we will blow up an inflatable couch and look at naked pictures of my mother. Then me and my sis will lick the remaining jelly off your body and you will return the favour before we settle down in our flannel PJs watching Last of the Summer Wine, drinking Scrumpy Jacks.
That came from a lady in Norfolk.
I am writing you because your story has touched my heart. I want to get to know you no matter what you done in the past. I am a 6 feet 1 inch tall single white attractive mom of two boys. If you want a good girl in public and a whore in the bedroom, I’m her. I am looking for a long-term thing and I hope you like kids…I want more.
That came from a 26-year-old blond in Nevada.
On the bed lay the items she was planning on wearing for him tonight. A thick steel collar engraved with line drawings from the Karma Sutra, heavily padded on the inside so as not to damage the skin around her neck. A pair of vibrating nipple clamps joined with a fine chain. A pair of thigh-high boots with impossibly high spike heels. And her perfume.
That came from Sweetest Sin in Essex who should be freelancing her stories to Hustler, Penthouse and Playboy. She has given me permission to share her stories with the inmates.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Postscript, Jon’s address has changed slightly to:
ASPC-Tucson
Santa Rita Unit
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160, 1-B-10
PO BOX 24406
Tucson, 85734, Az.
U.S.A
(All mail in the pipeline will still get there)
24 Jul 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 1)
While wiping with one-ply, I felt something that set off the voices in my mind: Oh no. What's that? It can't be. A lump? Not a lump. It's definitely a lump. Your run of having a flawless south side is over. What type of lump could it be? A haemorrhoid? A cyst? Cancer? Please not cancer. Is it really there? Touch it again. Gross. The nurse, Odd Job, is going to have fun with this. I can't report it. But you must get it seen to before it gets out of hand. True. It might get bigger if you don't have it seen. But they might want to look at it, and do things to it. Ewww. Face facts, sooner or later someone would be taking a good look down there anyway. Don't be controlled by the lump. Take control of the lump. How? Get a mirror and take a look. It might just be something you can pop.
I had to wait for the count to do an inspection as I didn't want passers-by catching me in a naked yoga position, or to receive a major disciplinary ticket for violation B10: Engaging in any sexual act, including indecent exposure and sexual advances or stalking another person.
Officer Lewalski looked through my window, and ticked my name on her clipboard. As she continued down the run, I sprang into action. Where the toilet met the wall, I placed a sock. On the sock, I slanted a mirror. Using an extension cord, I positioned my reading lamp on the floor, so it would shine upward.
I took a few deep breaths, and thought, It's now or never. Look down the run to make sure no guards are approaching. Ok, all clear. Here goes.
Topless, I lowered myself into a half-squat position above the toilet. With my ears on alert for walkie-talkies, I yanked my pants and boxers down. I was about to part my cheeks when a wasp flew into the cell. The mud dauber buzzed and swooped and had me doing the Macarena so quickly there was no time to pull up my pants. As a defensive measure I grabbed a book. The wasp zigged and I swung. The wasp zagged and I dipped and prayed that the security camera aimed a Building D wasn't filming my performance. The seconds we spent failing to resolve our differences stretched into an eternity, during which the reading lamp soothingly warmed my behind. The wasp radiated perseverance, so I dropped to the floor and pulled up my pants. It then briefly established a holding pattern in the center of the cell before flying out of the window.
It took several minutes of yogic breathing to manifest the courage to resume the inspection. Lights. Mirror. Action. I almost fainted when I saw a blue lump in a place it didn't belong.
There was no holding back the voices in my mind: Gross. What is that? It’s nothing pimple-like you can squeeze. Pop that and you’ll bleed to death. Is that what a haemorrhoid looks like? You've definitely got to go to Medical now. You'd better get rid of it before it gets bigger. But how? Will they lance it? Or freeze it? Ouch, that's got to hurt. Get it seen to before it multiplies. There could be more lurking deeper inside. And what if they can't do anything about it? No one will ever want to marry me while I've got such a grotesque thing on my behind. And I can't blame them. Would I marry someone who had such a lump? What have I done to deserve this? How do I describe it to the nurse? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Health Unit. Don't be a wuss. Man up. Fill out a Health Needs Request form.
Draft 1: When wiping my behind, I noticed a lump. Upon visual inspection, I saw a blue protrusion on the rim of my anus.
Anus sounds too obscene, I thought. I've got to mellow this out a little. Wiping is superfluous. Try again.
Draft 2: Requesting haemorrhoid cream. I have discerned a lump.
Too brief. How do you know it's a haemorrhoid? But if you sound unsure they're going to want to look, and we know what that means: out come the probing instruments. Add more detail.
Draft 3: There is a blue pea-sized lump that I suspect is a haemorrhoid. Requesting cream or whatever will make it go away.
There you go. That sounds better. Far more professional. None of that anus talk. Let's hope they don't think I'm joking, or even worse: that I'm one of those prisoners who gets jollies from coming out of his cell every once in a while to show his behind to somebody - to anybody. Surely they'll know I'd never pull a stunt like that. I'm an ex-stockbroker. I'm a professional. Everything's going to be just fine.
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 1)
While wiping with one-ply, I felt something that set off the voices in my mind: Oh no. What's that? It can't be. A lump? Not a lump. It's definitely a lump. Your run of having a flawless south side is over. What type of lump could it be? A haemorrhoid? A cyst? Cancer? Please not cancer. Is it really there? Touch it again. Gross. The nurse, Odd Job, is going to have fun with this. I can't report it. But you must get it seen to before it gets out of hand. True. It might get bigger if you don't have it seen. But they might want to look at it, and do things to it. Ewww. Face facts, sooner or later someone would be taking a good look down there anyway. Don't be controlled by the lump. Take control of the lump. How? Get a mirror and take a look. It might just be something you can pop.
I had to wait for the count to do an inspection as I didn't want passers-by catching me in a naked yoga position, or to receive a major disciplinary ticket for violation B10: Engaging in any sexual act, including indecent exposure and sexual advances or stalking another person.
Officer Lewalski looked through my window, and ticked my name on her clipboard. As she continued down the run, I sprang into action. Where the toilet met the wall, I placed a sock. On the sock, I slanted a mirror. Using an extension cord, I positioned my reading lamp on the floor, so it would shine upward.
I took a few deep breaths, and thought, It's now or never. Look down the run to make sure no guards are approaching. Ok, all clear. Here goes.
Topless, I lowered myself into a half-squat position above the toilet. With my ears on alert for walkie-talkies, I yanked my pants and boxers down. I was about to part my cheeks when a wasp flew into the cell. The mud dauber buzzed and swooped and had me doing the Macarena so quickly there was no time to pull up my pants. As a defensive measure I grabbed a book. The wasp zigged and I swung. The wasp zagged and I dipped and prayed that the security camera aimed a Building D wasn't filming my performance. The seconds we spent failing to resolve our differences stretched into an eternity, during which the reading lamp soothingly warmed my behind. The wasp radiated perseverance, so I dropped to the floor and pulled up my pants. It then briefly established a holding pattern in the center of the cell before flying out of the window.
It took several minutes of yogic breathing to manifest the courage to resume the inspection. Lights. Mirror. Action. I almost fainted when I saw a blue lump in a place it didn't belong.
There was no holding back the voices in my mind: Gross. What is that? It’s nothing pimple-like you can squeeze. Pop that and you’ll bleed to death. Is that what a haemorrhoid looks like? You've definitely got to go to Medical now. You'd better get rid of it before it gets bigger. But how? Will they lance it? Or freeze it? Ouch, that's got to hurt. Get it seen to before it multiplies. There could be more lurking deeper inside. And what if they can't do anything about it? No one will ever want to marry me while I've got such a grotesque thing on my behind. And I can't blame them. Would I marry someone who had such a lump? What have I done to deserve this? How do I describe it to the nurse? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Health Unit. Don't be a wuss. Man up. Fill out a Health Needs Request form.
Draft 1: When wiping my behind, I noticed a lump. Upon visual inspection, I saw a blue protrusion on the rim of my anus.
Anus sounds too obscene, I thought. I've got to mellow this out a little. Wiping is superfluous. Try again.
Draft 2: Requesting haemorrhoid cream. I have discerned a lump.
Too brief. How do you know it's a haemorrhoid? But if you sound unsure they're going to want to look, and we know what that means: out come the probing instruments. Add more detail.
Draft 3: There is a blue pea-sized lump that I suspect is a haemorrhoid. Requesting cream or whatever will make it go away.
There you go. That sounds better. Far more professional. None of that anus talk. Let's hope they don't think I'm joking, or even worse: that I'm one of those prisoners who gets jollies from coming out of his cell every once in a while to show his behind to somebody - to anybody. Surely they'll know I'd never pull a stunt like that. I'm an ex-stockbroker. I'm a professional. Everything's going to be just fine.