Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Going South for the Summer

Cellblock C-4, third row, cell #17, Wynne Unit, Huntsville Tx, that was my address. It was around the first of June and that’s when it starts cooking up in the steel and concrete hotel. Imagine Texas in summer with no air conditioner.

In cell #16 was Johnny the Pud. He had moved in about six months ago and for the most part he was quiet enough. Once in a while he would start talking to himself and then answering back. He was a shambling, bullet headed guy with eyes that wouldn’t quite focus on you.

When he first came to the block, one of the other inmates pointed him out to me. “You know ole Pud, he ain’t got no dick.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean he ain’t got no dick, he cut it off hisself. He’s in here for some kinda sex crime and one of these bible thumpers got him all drove up behind ‘if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out’ so he cut it off with a razor blade”

Well, I just had to take a peek in the shower one day and sure enough—clean as a whistle.

It wasn’t a far-fetched idea to me that someone could mutilate themselves over religion or guilt or a combination of the two. I had seen it happen before. But Pud was a quiet neighbor, it was fine with me if he didn’t have a dick. I just wrote him off as being kind of a retard.

But ole Pud had some basic smarts.

One day I was in my usual position in my cell top bunk reading. Every time I picked up a book I escaped the institution. I was immersed in Voltaire when I smelled something burning. It smelled like burning newspapers. I sniffed and looked around the cell to see if I had dropped a cigarette.

By the time I determined that the smoke was coming from Pud’s cell, I heard the bootsteps of the guards on the catwalk. The three grey-suits marched up to Pud’s cell. One of them had a fire extinguisher. The doors slowly roll open. I stuck my head out in time to see the screw with the fire extinguisher go into Pud’s cell.

Pud was sitting there calmly with all his belongings packed. He had piled up paper on his bed and lit it. Then he just sat and waited for them to come and get him. He knew that they would put him in the shitter (solitary) for starting the fire, but he wanted to go to the shitter. It was summertime and the shitter was cool and dark.

Pud may have cut his own dick off but he was no dummy.

I rather liked this prison reminiscence. I'm sure you've got more where that came from -- how about writing a few more?

Ditto to Cat, LR:


These pieces from prison and the drug trade have a bite of authenticity to them.

They are quick, punchy, funny and compassionate.

What in the hell else can we ask from a writer?


--Z

cat & Z

I've been toying with idea of a memoir. I already have a few chapters of pieces like the one above. I have hesitated because I don't know if anyone is interested in my old war stories.

Thanks for the encouragement.

Most people are terribly interested in this sort of thing.

We don't know what goes on in prisons. We hear dark tales, but I know of no book written from the INSIDE describing it all -- at least not one that's been written recently.

I think your background and your writing talent uniquely qualifies you to be the one to share the inside of prison life with the public.

I would say -- GO FOR IT! It's a GREAT idea for a book.


Cat.

cat,

I have hesitated because there are Many prison memoirs, going back to the time of Paul and John (not the Beatles).

When I was in Huntsville at the Walls Unit (this is the main prison) I went to the library and saw a wall of books that had been written by the inmates of that one institution.

Jack Abbott wrote an eloquent book called In The Belly of the Beast

and Norman Mailer became his penpal, much to Mailer's dismay when he went to bat for Abbott in front of the parole board and Jack wasn't out a hot two weeks before he had stabbed a guy who make a wrong move on the street. This was because Abbott was so totally institutionalized.

http://www.crimelibrary.com/notorious_m ... ml?sect=26


another great one is Hate Factory

http://www.writerinthewindow.com/hate_factory.htm


rather than add to the canon of prison memoirs, I was thinking of one encompassing my whole life, including my careers as dope dealer, political activist, musician, writer and fugitive as well as a prisoner.

I think prison memoirs have gotten out of fashion and need to be reintroduced.

Whether or not that is true, I would love to see some more of these from you. This one was very interesting and I am sure you have many more locked up inside you (NPI). I thought you were good at writing editorials, and now I find that you are equally good at other things. My opinion probably counts for nothing, but this opened my eyes a little bit and I would like a little more. Thanks.

Cat

The interesting thing about Felonious is that his whole life has been modeled and predicated on some Crazed Monk's vision the "Lam." You see his dilemma immediately - he can't spell "lamb" . . .

Asking him to write more about his prison experiences is redundant. His whole life is a prison.

He comes from a family of crazies (I know this because I am his brother by default). He's got a sister who sold his car out from under him, another sister that doesn't know what to do with him, a mother more interested in youth than the youth of the children she birthed, a brother that is on the side of "The LAW" (who incidently was instrumental in the fate of a soon-to-be-executed son of one of Felonious' ex-girl friends) that will have nothing to do with him . . . I could go on but you'd think I was dancing in a broken expanse of truth and I have yet to make mention of his father and the series of "steppers" that followed.

Post it note: Don't get me wrong. I'm still in love with one of the sisters, love the rest of the family (again by default) and I'm sure that Felonious has good will towards them when he isn't thinking too hard. He needs to coddle his remaining brain cell you know . . .