Bee bop a loop op a bam bam boom. I seem to remember a suit type person analysing this Rock 'N' Roll lyric on the TV in the fifties or sixties and saying "this is the diatribe the youth of today are listening to and..." At this moment i feel a bit like Rock 'N' Roll - all revved up and no place to go and even though i'm certainly 'no youth' i have a sense that nobody understands me. Story of my life chum, i hear you say? My Mum understands me so this makes it cool. Can't wait to phone her later. Maybe do lunch tomorrow. The lyrics of Tootie Frootie may have been incomprehensible to a certain type but it was music to the ears of a generation. This is a subtle point and i hope one gets it.
I keep going on about being re-born and this is exactly what goes on with me each and every day now. Every twenty four hours is a lifetime. It starts with this, writing of thoughts, feelings, regrets, reminisce and hope, sprinkled with despair, hatred, anger, frustration, suicide and hopelesness. The weather here in Northern Ireland is compared to four seasons in day; can it be possible that a lifetime can be squeezed in there too?
I simply cannot divulge what happened to me yesterday, but what i will say is that the working week ended with me being summoned to 'the office' for a stern ticking off. The diatribe that went in one ear and out the other left me with no saliva in my mouth and tears running down my cheeks on the way back to my outside work placement (litter picker upper). Maybe, the tears, are caused by the sea breeze catching my eyelids as they were very wide with incredulousness caused by diatribitis. However, the fury soon took over and despite the best efforts of my work mates and and immediate bosses best efforts to placate me i had to go off on my own and punch a few walls. Thank goodness i was outside and the see breeze carried away my incoherent rantings and ravings.
So, it's buried, not dealt with, left alone, Epoche'd, to no doubt resurface some day in the not too distant future. I'm sitting here now waiting to be called to get go get the train to Belfast for the weekend. The sun is trying to win a battle with the clouds and as per usual, when I'm writing, it casts gangly shadows across the page filling me full of inner smiles and warmth.
I've been walking on the grass all week, past the signs that say 'do not walk on the grass or you will be shot' picking up the litter, my new job, my penance for my success. It's cool by me though. I predicted it and planned for it, saw it coming a fekkin mile off. For one brief moment yesterday I was overwhelmed with the urge to throw it all away, to give in, to to end it all and curl up in a ball and die, but, something in me smiled. I don't know what it is that was, it needs investigating, needs to be bottled and sold.
About a year ago my friend said i should consider writing about the re-integration process. I have. This process is fraught with hurdles and dangers but many many pleasures and inner smiles. The sensation of a wieght being lifted off one's shoulders as one climbs out of the van and says thank you and goodbye to the driver is palpable. This, today is only one of many i have recorded. I'll come back to this later and tell you how my day went. A different lyric pops into my head "I want to rise today and change this world..."
... twelve hours later i'm sitting at home tyoing this up on my recently new laptop. Pne and paper twelve hours ago and now i've got, Twitter, Facebook, Phone and kindle charging on the computor and a peace that is born out of being content. I met my Mum, we had lunch, i dumped my stuff at my Dads, went o my new house and did a bit of painting, went to an old friend (who abstained from heroin ten years ago), went to my Aunties and we laughed, then home to a chinese and during all of this i was emailing, texting , receiving and calling others and telling them my good news.
My eyes ache, but in a nice way adn my stomach aches but in a nice way and my heart sings at being amid and among people with love. It makes me recognise the callousness of where i've been living for the past six years. I'm going to leave you with a paragraph or two from my book (not yet published) nearly six years ago. I implore you to explain to me what has changed with the system I inhabite.
September 2007 HMP Lewes
I’ve flashes
about making this story into a movie, Peter Sellers and the Pink panther in
mind. Wonder how I’d go about it. Feel as if I’m losing the plot, when it
suddenly occurs to me that ‘most comedy stems from madness.’ Think of Spike Milligan’s gravestone, ‘I told
you I was ill.’
My head feels a bit like a washing machine a times. Have you ever sat in a laundrette and stared
aimlessly at the blur of the washing tumbling around in the machine, every now
and then you clearly see a sock, a sleeve or the bottom half of a leg of a pair
of trousers pressed against the glass?
Well, that’s how my thoughts are at the minute; I’ve got scenes, songs
and statements from all over the shop vieing for my attetnion.
Lying face down on my bed, staring at the telly; muffled footsteps
outside my door. A single sheet of A4 slipped
under the door. Want to see what the
note says, but don’t want to be seen as too
eager. Start to argue with myself.
Get up, read it, don’t bother, don’t let this place get to you, that’s
what they want. They want you jump at their
every whim. Cannot stress how important the quest for information becomes in
these places. It ambushes you, before
you know it you’re a gossip, every meaningless conversation suddenly
meaningful. Is this not what prison, your
punishment, is about, ones loss of liberty.
Right? What rights? You’re on remand, but as guilty as the armed
robbery, doing ten in the next cell. I lie
there forcing myself not, to get up.
Then the questions start in my head.
What if it’s bad
news?
Who’s it
from?
Maybe I’ve been granted a pardon by god knows who, ha, ha, ho, ho, he,
he? Hang it out for as long as I can,
but it’s like trying not to chew a Fruit Pastel. Voices outside my cell. ‘Is there anybody out
there’ (Pink Floyd Lyrics). Voices
outside, vans reversing, people shouting, doors banging.
Losing the plot again; engrossed in my writing; feel as if I’m in
enveloped in a warm, cocoon, wrapped in words on the page, safety and sanctuary
between the lines of text and diction. If only I could stay there, safe and warm and
didn’t have to face the reality of the events that surround me.
I’ve never written so much and at such speed in my life; my arms killing
me. Inffoorrmmattion (the voice of Homer
Simpson in my head) muuuussst reeaddd iiinnnfffoorrmmattioon. Bet the sheet’s a statement from the governor
telling us what’s just been announced on the news, that the systems actions are
legal. The pressure becomes too much, I
give in.
Don’t’ believe
it!
I’m definitely
psychic.
HMP LEWES
LOCAL NOTICE TO PRISONERS NO:
055/2007
RE: INDUSTRIAL ACTION BY THE
PRISON
OFFICERS’ ASSOSIATION
The Home
Secretary has successfully gained a High Court injunction against the POA which
means there industrial action should cease.
The POA National
Committee will be contacting branches to inform them of the outcome of the
court case.
Later on this
afternoon I would expect that staff who are on strike return to duty. As soon as this happens we will return to a
normal routine. I know this has been a frustrating time for you and I would
like to thank you for your co–operation.
Signed by the Governor
I've got six years of this stuff and i'm eager to know if it's worth keeping going. Answers on a postcard please.
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