Surprise Attack at ground zero

coordinates: 21°22′N 157°57′

Most every American soldier sailor tinker spy (and innocent civilians) moseying along the beautifully picturesque island of Oahu, the evening of December sixth never imagined, predicted, nor suspected, what annihilating blitzkrieg, catastrophizing debacle, emasculating fiend, Gorgonesque hellish imperial Japanese Kamikaze looming monstrosity neared Secret Operation Z, the unsuspecting civilian and military population, nonchalantly, insouciantly, and blithely went about their usual business, and upon late night hours of dark bedded down until awaking to an unbelievable, unforgettable, unnatural morrow.

When those first rays of sun shone forth on one typical pacific island, that unforgettable December seventh dawned with early risers basking in the warm sunlight initially oblivious to impending insanity, infamy, ignominy, et cetera.

Stock still, and as keen as a doe wide deer (there stood at least) one watchmen accidentally beholding conspiracy displayed flapping eyes insouciantly grimacing, evincing, convincingly approaching flashing red sun sinister terrorists unloading vicious wickedness.

Annihilation, eradication, incineration, punctuated earsplitting cacophony, when just a scant number of hours prior total mortal wrested tranquility, quality, piety, magnanimity, levity, jocularity, harmony became instantaneously obliterated pitching raw troops into the killing machine, where awaiting days, weeks, months...hence, a battle fatigue would be worn couture forcing the hand of Franklin Delano Roosevelt to issue additional conscripts as World War II torch hoard former neutrality, where statecraft instantaneously donned a take no prisoners posture.

This surprise aggressive attack launched a maelstrom of pandemonium before a handle could be grasped to stave off subsequent rapacious quicksilver pounding obliterating national dire straits, sans moody blue.

Loathsomeness kickstarted joint intelligence hurriedly galvanizing fortified ensemble. Duty culled country bravehearts answering belated call to arms, and farewell to family, which urgency to fight back wreaked havoc among family and fare thee well to friends.

No matter what price (paid with young and restless lives), an esprit de corps gung-ho, johnny minted platoons snapped, crackled, and popped into ready action.

Off to the Pacific fleet went stripling chaps barreling into harms way, charging full speed ahead, apply electric koolaid acid test (with no room to fail) assaying quickly assembled on the fly zippered dive bombarding claques, whose headlong risk sans carpet bombing sorties always carried a worse fate than death.

Plan net quickened scuttling damaged military armaments tugged back for possibly being repurposed for makeshift calisthenic, gymnastic, logically rustic yakkking gastric peptic zapper, or if scrapped hastily recycled for munitions.

After some degree of order instituted out of chaos, a well plotted strategy enlisted every spare, tiptop usable vet. This attack on Pearl Harbor delivered (as aforementioned), categorized as a surprise military strike by the Imperial Japanese Navy Air Service against the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii Territory, on the morning of December 7, 1941.

The attack, also known as the Battle of Pearl Harbor, led to the United States' entry into World War II. The Japanese military leadership referred to the attack as the Hawaii Operation and Operation AI, and as Operation Z during its planning. Japan intended the attack as a preventive action to keep United States Pacific Fleet from interfering with military actions they planned in Southeast Asia against overseas territories of the United Kingdom, the Netherlands, and United States.

Well synchronized, linkedin, and choreographed arced traceries over the next seven hours. Japanese coordinated, carried out simulated theatric, which witnessed attacks on the U.S. held Philippines, Guam and Wake Island and on the British Empire in Malaya, Singapore, and Hong Kong.

The attack commenced at 7:48 a.m. Hawaiian Time (18:18 UTC). The base was attacked by Imperial Japanese aircraft (including fighters, level and dive bombers, and torpedo bombers) in two waves, launched from six aircraft carriers.

All eight U.S. Navy battleships were damaged, with four sunk. All but the USS Arizona were later raised, and six were returned to service and went on to fight in the war. The Japanese also sank or damaged three cruisers, three destroyers, an anti-aircraft training ship, and one minelayer.

One hundred eighty-eight U.S. aircraft were destroyed; 2,403 Americans were killed and 1,178 others were wounded. Important base installations such as the power station, dry dock, shipyard, maintenance, and fuel and torpedo storage facilities, as well as the submarine piers and headquarters building (also home of the intelligence section), were not attacked.

Japanese losses were light: 29 aircraft and five midget submarines lost, and 64 servicemen killed. One Japanese sailor, Kazuo Sakamaki, was captured.

The surprise attack came as a profound shock to the American people and led directly to the American entry into World War II in both the Pacific and European theaters. The following day, December 8, the United States declared war on Japan, and several days later, on December 11, Germany and Italy declared war on the U.S. The U.S. responded with a declaration of war against Germany and Italy.

Domestic support for non-interventionism, which had been fading since the Fall of France in 1940, disappeared. There were numerous historical precedents for unannounced military action by Japan, but the lack of any formal warning, particularly while negotiations were still apparently ongoing, led President Franklin D. Roosevelt to proclaim December 7, 1941, "a date which will live in infamy."

Because the attack happened without a declaration of war and without explicit warning, the attack on Pearl Harbor was later judged in the Tokyo Trials to be a war crime.

Ordinarily meaning pre Internet days

familiarization with me would entail

bringing the avid listener

into my private mancave hideaways

less a physical place than a juncture in relationship,

(whereby one or the other of us)

would adopt the guise of liaise

to gently coax (seal) along trust,

whereby ye might interject supportive praise

spurring me acknowledge takeaways

baring my soul analogous

to shine on me (comfortably numb)

body electric mimicking x-rays.

Greetings fair lass

without any fanfare from this common man,

(albeit a married sexagenarian)

writing another prefabricated blurb

(ad) aware that patience may be in short supply

regarding whoe eyes alight on these words.

A non malingering effect

from angst riddled adolescence

written into nooks and crannies

of sixty plus shades of gray matter

delineating, housing, limning

pounding, and tormenting mein kampf

these three score and four orbitz

brutally subjected psyche

(analogous to post traumatic stress disorder)

with noxious and ferocious

blistering and battering browbeating,

(but kept on ticking)

viz shell shocking absorbed courtesy

sixty plus four shades of gray matter

testament as clear water credence,

which wretched psychological

consignment as veritable verbal whipping post

spanned mine impressionable

living (social) years decades ago,

the psycho (babbling) social mental events

left indelible imprint etched

blackened barbs upon my rubber soul

ova this pa soon after he made his debut

(out the birth canal)

on a win tree January thirteenth day hence,

though a survivor of self starvation

i yam confounded as an older pence

sill necked geek, what drove dead set

emotional, physical and spiritual sense

less (and socially costly)

ambition to die with fervency

that invariably disallowed

being linkedin to other gals or gents

enduring the quotidian onslaught of this immense

lee debilitating illness of the mind,

where emaciation revealed abs - sense

of properly healthy flesh,

which grim reaper insignia

viz skull and cross bones readily

underscored with dark shadows, where

edge of night descended

once upon upon a time countenance

of happy go lucky boy,

whose spunk forever snatched out his body

still self evident today,

how yours truly corporeal deportment

exhibits non verbal body language

being noticeably physically tense.

Despite fifty one birthdays elapsed

since cataclysmic eruption rent asunder

while civil war within self notched

(experiencing an arrow escape), pitted, and rutted

ironclad maiden of deathly hallows clasped

psyche, an internal maelstrom wrenched

worthiness pitting mien as blunder

bulldozing with razor blades

former childhood wondrous glee raising suicide

quiet riotous ambition, a painfully slow

(self starvation) mine inexorable ride

left yawning stunted chasm

webbed, whirled and wide,

which chronological Grecian frieze

kept hog-tied with iron rail

grippe, and hide bound this one grown male

dredging haunting spectre –

as if yours truly barely survived

a brutish, nasty and shortish gale

proper healthy development did fail

drudge er re: with every exhale

where to be gratefully dead –

within Elysian dale.

After helping beget second of two offspring,

which punim afflicted with developmental delays

she, the youngest o me two female progeny

nevertheless segued untrammeled

thru twenty plus four years

on February fourth

two thousand twenty three,

which observance of young people

easily triggers flashback to wretched tears

sans that insidious roiling jagged stone

shredding/ thwarting desire to be alive

shockwaves extant to this day -

no matter long since recovered from nosedive

emotional, psychological & social repercussions

hound me present mental state

indelible permanent scars

(per anxiety, panicky, quirky tics)

seem never to abate

try as I might to shake free

from the riptide affects

that drowned this boy to grow,

he experiences an especially perilous remembrance

of (things past) that abysmal infernal woe

when thee second punim o thine

two lovely offspring passed that milestone age

with nary a hint how her papa felt locked up

within his abysmal agonizing stage

impossible to forgive permanent harm

inflicted not only on self but searing pain

both my late mother & father

whose angst this dada insight re: did gain

from bringing forth his own progeny

each a smart reed

exploring cornucopia of life experiences -

unlike mice elf at their ages

which years eclipsed at breakneck speed

whereby each special daughter -

daring to block and tackle challenges indeed

with greater rolly Poe lee moxie engendering me

to announce L’Chaim

qua greater self-esteem they did feed

evincing greater sturdiness

akin to hardy weed

about stay'n alive almost

bound to surpass their papa hemming

and hawing way and boast

(when and/or if they ever beget offspring)

how coping with life coast

them manageable efforts

versus permanently branding my youthful ghost

of Christmases past -

when ability to function as recipient per host

averse to bing a guest,

and easily mistaken

for a stick figure or off fence post

forever knowing potential to die,

that burned life force like blackened toast

recidivism in times

of despair temptation to cease eating

attempts with jabbing knife pains to fork get

recreating duress, with hunger pains even to this day

frequently blithely ignored as if still callous

tempted, lured and baited by hand of death

this grown man wished inxs to kiss.

Methinks, I blithely shared

most of this confidential information before

trying to retain the initial core

when Matthew dashed out the door

up with greater clarity,

that perchance numbered four

sentiment when (a near futile)

attempt made bon Jovian jour

to evoke slow burning suicide less or more

This note originally composed,

when psychologically poor

and slightly updated

with minor tweaks to bolster and shore

to ply tire less role of taxi

for youngest daw tour,

whose most recent orbitz round the sun

as iterated her twenty fourth birthday already whar

February fourth two thousand

and twenty three.

I very strongly disagree with the manner in which our pop culture both misunderstands and then subsequently "misuses" generation names. First to note, these are not hard and fast categories. It is not like the naming of a generation comes from either an official need to do so or a traditional framework that happens according to certain parameters. Every state has a state bird, every U.S. President has some favorite snack on record, pretty much for the sake of lightheartedly knowing weird trivia like Ronald Reagan was the jelly bean president. It's as if to say, "We've tracked it before, therefore it's a thing we should always track." I’m not against that, but that’s not how it works with naming generations.

Widely started with Tom Brokaw's book, "The Greatest Generation" giving rise to that phrase popularly being attached to those who fought in WWII; referring to a generation by a collective name was neither something we'd traditionally tracked, nor something that was even a sociological measure. The name of a generation is basically a meme, repeated enough times that everyone knows the ad hoc reference. It’s a matter of multiple authors or speakers through multiple platforms throwing different names against a wall and not even anticipating which will stick. We treat the names of generations (and even what we might numerically consider to be half-step generations) as if there is science to it, as if there’s a cut-off date where one officially begins, and another officially ends. We treat the act as if there is some sort of official process a body of similarly aged persons is filtered through to arrive at a factual result. There is nothing official and almost nothing resultantly factual about it. Sure, it’s somewhat helpful to collectivize voting blocs by age and, if you do you, you’ll need a manner in which to refer to them in conversation. But beyond that, the name of a generation, the span of time it supposedly covers, and the manner in which we come by a name is all traditionally happenstance by design.

Some of the names that happened to stick (Greatest Generation, Baby Boomers, Me Generation) generally did so in presumed relation to observable and pan-applicable commonalities shared by the persons said to be part of that bloc. Greatest Generation, as a title, was a broad capture, associating folks by who’d lived in The Great Depression and then fought in that world war. Though broad, that was an easy one to understand because, globally, no one was untouched by those two world events.

Flimsily trying to use that touchstone as what makes a generation, the commonality factor, then we had the narrower commonality of Baby Boomers, people born in large numbers soon after the war when soldiers returned home and started families. I mean, I am quite certain that with very few statistical outliers, all those people had something more in common throughout the longest lives in recorded history, than the mere timing of their births, perhaps even predominantly so. While not everyone in that group would have been a greaser or a rock ‘n’ roll fan or a target for McCarthyism, that generation could have just as easily been named The Tail Fins Generation or the TV Generation or The Desegregation Generation. How bizarre the stretch to need to start naming groups by birth brackets and how much more bizarre the almost accidental stretch for commonality to reach the name “Baby Boomers?”

I begrudge no one their attempt to add a literary moniker to a group. But the rest of us have lost the plot. Naming a generation, as is now a new tradition, carries about as much weight as being born under a given constellation. It’s a forced preamble. When you hear of a generation by name, your mind would do well to temporarily rename it in your head to something like The Scorpio generation before discussing it. Do not draw suppositions from these titles.

In fact, if we put that happenstance design under a microscope, in absence of the, say, every-digit meaning that goes into something like a social security number or, say, a system by which we know when the ensuing year will be the Year of the Monkey; the few “practices” you can conclude that go into naming a generation are thus:

1) They tend to be based upon a perceived commonality

2) They tend to be named after-the-fact, often by people not part of that generation

3) While there is an unconscious acceptance of the name, the way there is of a meme, people belonging to that generation generally do not get to pick and choose their own group moniker.

4) We call it a whole generation, as if global, but the chosen names tend to be situationally limited to Americans.

Fast forward to the name that stuck with my generation, Generation X. There are scant few born later than us who even remotely know that Gen X was the name that stuck to us as Coupland’s book was trying to follow this oh-so-loose commonality tradition. We were called Generation X supposedly because there was no, one single commonality between us. The X was like an unknown in a math equation. In fact, “Generation X” was an older phrase borrowed from previous generations, back then meaning disenfranchised youth or alienated teens, a phrase originally intended to separate out a body of persons from the larger generational bloc; which, almost ironically, was first applied to the same generation we now call boomers. Shorthand, “Generation X” as a term was meant for “greasers,” but never stuck. Decades later, post Me Generation and/or Silent Generation, Coupland’s version stuck during a period of time when everything out of Hollywood was made to sound more exciting by use of an “X” (X-Files, American History X, the origins of Netflix, the film for Malcom X, X-Men, The Matrix, and for those who get the Stargate meta-reference, “Wormhole X.”). This newer version was a sort of anti-commonality describing mainly kids of the 70s and 80s as having no, one, big, shared factor that would define us in distinctive parallel against other groups, named or unnamed.

So, this is where the misuse and misunderstanding comes in. Gen Y and Gen Z were then “chosen” to follow Gen X, misinformedly so, as if there had been a Gen D, Gen E, and Gen F. There were not. The scotoma-adjacent grand explanation for the appearance of the new terms is a repeated, meme-driven supposition that the practice is derived from an implied sequencing, like naming this year’s hurricanes in alphabetical order or sticking decimal points after new releases of computer applications. Again, this had never been. Such ignores all four, now frequented, ingredients to how generations take on names: perceived commonality in the title, not getting to choose your own generational group name, an American focus, and getting named in some semblance of hindsight. That’s before we even mention that “Gen Y” and “Gen Z,” likewise, lack much of the “throw it against a wall and see what sticks” quality, among several options, as had been the case for others since we’d started the practice.

Gen Y, if there is such a thing, whether referred to that way or alternatively labelled as millennials, are only passively referenced, without any more meaning or identity than being in direct shadow of another generation, or in an even narrower, boomer-like, birth proximity to a specific, but almost numerically mundane date. They have a date-name that linguistically prescribes everyone born for about 99 years into a single millennial status, despite the arbitrary and wildly disparate year brackets assigned them, those generally topping out across all barely overlapping OPINIONS somewhere in the late 90s. It’s all accidental, but nonetheless hogwash! The youth of Gen Y and Gen Z deserve better.

Further, the quick-to-stick presumption that there is only sequencing and no meaning in naming a generation, the precept that gives us “Gen Y” as a term, effectively erases the once au courant and poignant gravitas of “Gen X.” It is as if what little identity GenXers would take from that title has been erased and forgotten. We were on track to be predominantly called The Slacker Generation, The Latchkey Generation, or the MTV Generation, the lot having to do with the perceived breakdown in family values and work ethic, all names that we seemed to accept as we grew up and proved them ironic or wrong. Yet we happily accepted “Gen X” and its actual meaning as this sort of badge. It was as if the observation of our collective dissimilarity was an indication that we’d finally reached a flexion point in American freedoms. We were an unboxable, undefinable, je ne sais quoi, accepting enough of all peoples that no one trait rose to the top as widely applicable. It is a name that we continued to proudly embody well into our adult years. It was a name that simultaneously flipped the script from previous groups, while coming about under the same accepted conditions.

Now, sequencing it into a small, meaningless enumeration, Gen X is suddenly not the last fortunate generation to have had deeper meaning in its label, mine even against a powerful backdrop of disproven prejudgments, but instead the first generation in our ever-more-passive acceptance of thinking as if we are machines. Do we need to name generations? No. Nor do we constellations or ships or songs. But there is this inherent marginalization that comes from ascribing a namelessness to any person or any group. And when that namelessness has the absent-minded power to look back from a forced void and thrust that emptiness onto other people, ideas, and mainstays, it’s not just a misunderstanding…it’s a revisionist history, a poorly applied presentism that seeks to define the past in terms of today, including the baseline premise that today’s definition is zero sum. This is not the act of being misinformed as much as it is the black hole equivalent of what it takes to remain uninformed.

My 16-year-old, born in 2007, and my 11-year-old in 2012, have a full-out argument about once every four months as to whether or not they belong to the same generation, always followed by the conclusion that they do not, and the ensuing, unavoidable “why my generation is better than yours” debate in anger. They are only four-and-a-half years apart. And it’s no wonder when they are pulling their evidences from varied teachers, citing varied look-ups, all with sporadic assignments of year brackets and pop confusion about which name might belong where on a timeline. Plus, there’s all the misapplications of similar look-ups across YouTube voices and TikTok videos. “Why” never comes into it.

Is it not more useful to append those new labels and instead talk about the possibility of a Pandemic Generation, tracing their collective gap in education and/or income out into the results of seasoned adult lives? How about the Generation of Political Divide, the slews upon droves of children in the millions raised during the most politically divisive and longest sustained 50/50 split in our governance in history? I could list a hundred possibilities, none of which changes who an individual is, what they face, or how they overcome. The point is that the blind and uninformed acceptance of a non-existent system yielding meaningless names, works against anything that would allow an applicable name to stick; works against that last bastion of passive, unilateral agreement that is everybody looking up from a book or paper or a broadcast or even an Instagram post and silently nodding to themselves, saying, “Yeah, yeah, that’s us.” One cannot hope to use a benign placeholder, now, and expect something better will automatically arrive to supplant it in the collective psyche. In a world where no 18-year-old can be provided the impetus to cross-reference beyond scanning the first couple sentences in each of the first two Google hits, the placeholder is their answer, their truth, their go-to, even when they do not know what the heck they are talking about. People have formed a comfortable, cognitive dissonance from their informational sources that functions much the same way that we’ve overwhelmingly distanced ourselves from our food sources. Using the term "Gen Z" is little different from ordering something from a menu that just says, "Meat."

Generations are strange, as we view them, collecting folks together in groups not by their true time on this Earth, but ultimately by their first twenty years. That’s quite the narrow gap in which to debate a shared start date and end date, particularly when there is disagreement. Then sometimes we skew the results around some linchpin commonality the way redistricting can either positively solidify voting blocs or disenfranchise them with an arbitrary line down the middle. The best thing we can do is to stop referring to present and future generations by letters and numbers and systems, and instead let them craft the umbrellas that will hang over all their heads until a decent, studied hindsight can identify what color that umbrella should be.

Fortunate for me and the missus,

we reside in a low income (HUD) facility

formerly the Schwenksville Elementary School.

The majority of mine LXIV years roaming

upon terra firmae found this contemplative

bookworm day short and dollar late.

Scrimp and scrape familiar pattern typified

hand to mouth existence extant throughout

three score plus journeys round el sol.

Aye serum eyes while in utero the blueprint

regarding current emotional, financial and

psychosocial characteristics indelibly etched

analogous to musician recording tracks upon

primed digitized compact disc.

Though afflicted with severe panic/anxiety

attacks (became manifest majority decades

of existence torturous) during prepubescence.

Metamorphosis from boy to man found me

strongly averse to growing up.

Anorexia nervosa latched on as method, whence

this now grown male starved or unconditional

self-acceptance by peers.

Mine psyche felt ship wrecked upon jagged shoals

of abject apathy, self-injury, and jury-rigged penury.

These psychological idiosyncrasies perfect breeding

ground for lack of pride and prejudice toward

Matthew Scott Harris.

Both parents (thine mum deceased some fourteen

plus years, then nonagenarian widower pop) espied

sense and sensibility evinced growing inquisitive

kindling moderate opportunistic quest understanding

whirled wide web as young whippersnapper.

Storybooks provided a safe haven to escape daily

onslaught from schoolyard punkish bullies.

Cowardice, fearfulness, insecurity writ large upon this then

diminutive carapace, which I believe suffered stunted growth.

Non-verbal passive behavior (per yours truly) ideal

fodder for carnivorous, ferocious, inxs, et cetera

kickstarter malice oppressing quiet soul uber wounded

knee (possibly gestation spent within womb) wretch.

Mailer daemons choked bravery.

Absent courage endeared grievous inner kinetic mission.

Onset of self starvation, (which evolved via gradations)

omitting first one then two mouthy meals, and finally

declining sustenance into a lad opting to die.

As a licensed practical nurse (LPN) my mother resorted

to whipping up nutritious concoctions in tandem with

giving me iron injections upon one or other cheeks

of bony tuckus.

A raft of mental weaknesses epitomized by refusal to

take in food (death held in check by late mate of father),

heavily impinged ability to function.

An accomplice devilishly game inside Kapellmeister

Matthew Scott appeared to possess upper hand.

Will power to expunge an ever-exhausting cerebral dual.

This oppressive nihilistic plagued mindset kept healthy

positive growth development locked up.

Indifference affects a gamut of personal facets.

Ambition to terminate tender teen dominated and

wrought asunder an imprimatur etched into present

day consciousness.

Though barely squeaking thru dozen grades poor

dividends reaped.

Such absence of perseverance found me undeserving

earning high school diploma.

Upon graduation (no popinjay pompous circumstance felt),

uncertainty prevailed asthma objective.

Thus, this scrivener attempts to captcha those elusive

sentiments of yore) expended precious time and money

flitting (hither and yon to and fro) one university after another.

Now aye make light of the matter, and tell those who

inquire about my college days “I spent time in many

institutions…of higher learning”.

Cumulative result from difficulty coping with changes,

(albeit of self or circumstances)

left inability to be master of my domain.

Fools rush in where angels feared to tread.

Attitude, credo, and ethos (or devoid of said positive

qualities plus generosity, integrity and time management)

set very unsound stage for failure performance

as sought after employee casually decreed ill suited.

Darkness shrouded every my every turn sealed out

enlightenment viz faith no more stifled positive power

to overcome gremlins growing grungier Matthew Scott Harris.

Tell (tattle) tale physiological symptoms such as sweaty

palms, nausea, palpitating heart, and et cetera wrought

havoc linkedin with intermittent spotty employment.

Professional counseling substantiated with irrefutable

diagnoses of schizoid disorder (including social uneasiness

for good measure) found this King Lear candidate eligible

to receive social security disability.

Hence worst half of me life (and hard times) allowed,

enable and provided awareness pertinent to egregious malady.

Since severe struggle the underlying theme from birth till

this moment, I focus energy with improving communication

skills in general and writing in particular.

The written word offers me a panacea (pharmaceutical

palliatives such as prescription medications this daddy’s

little helpers) to express various and sundry moody blues.

Despite a regular exercise of literary expression, thus far

neither fame nor fortune found, this furtive flint stone,

which maintains countless notebook binder comprising

poems and vignettes.

No matter what the outcome (re: endeavor to secure monetary

provision), an emphasis regaling process inherent motif and motive.

So…. whether tangible result i.e. legal tender proffered from

expert editors at large, this dog gone effort provided satisfaction.

I do not feel so melon collie anymore!

Greetings fair lass one month from Xmas 2023

A fantasy of mine envisions me being willingly abducted by a democratic, holistic, linguistic, pacific, terrific and fecund female whisked to never never land.

Marital circumstances disallow me (a sixty four year young blooded hounded, jaundiced, and learned poet/prose reader vexed Caucasian guy) to hear your lovely voice or further this acquaintanceship.

I'm in a monogamous relationship, but I won't be if my significant other finds out about my locked secret harboring a boatload of lovely ship shape bona fide female clothing.

As a strict conservative abbey, this wife strong anchored to orthodox beliefs and would never tolerate such nun sense.

Nonetheless, a fluke that I netted this catch of the day as will be described in the following paragraphs.

While out trawling the turbulent seas (a favorite pastime) donning fishnet stockings, skinny jeans and ruby red slippers to boot, this heterosexual cross dresser felt in his usually crabby mood.

As a pennywise and pound foolish dime a dozen quarterback (of no particular denomination), i forever and anon experienced an elusive search to snare even a pair of holy discarded feminine negligee or brassiere.

Today though, lady luck smiled toward these myopic eyes just as I felt on the verge of utter futility and hopelessness.

There but for the grace of dog, a bulging suitcase (property of some unknown woman) bobbed up and down.

Without missing a beat, these nimble fingers snatched the water logged bound paraphernalia overboard.

While the strong overhead sun mercilessly rained solar rays, I arranged the saturated accessories so they would air dry.

How salutary this laugh in fickle finger of fate good fortune that suddenly found me performing Irish two-step dancing accompanied by an imaginary contra band!

At heart, I did consider myself a male jig a low and continually entertained more than a passing whim to succumb to those unbridled longings to enter the verboten supposedly sinful carnal zones of same sex intimacy.

A dash of madness overcame me at times to envision (against the parochial views of organized religion) not only donning myself in gay apparel, but also locating those denizens of homosexual hot spots.

Truth be told, I entertained this notion per being with another man, years ago when an older gentleman (another frequenter at Evansburg state park) made an overt overture with explicit sexual intent.

Matter of fact, he upon reaching out for my hand planted a gentle moist kiss atop each finger.

Aside from that incident, other circumstances occurred about half my lifetime ago (mainly at Antioch college in Yellow Springs, Ohio), whereby mere striplings of young men (practically dripping with hormonal secretion) elicited via non-verbal communication an interest toward naked lunch and dalliance in the dark behind closed doors.

At that time of my life (early twenties), the barest consideration to contemplate intercourse with another guy promptly induced nausea. What a difference slogging along in a charade, facade, mockery, Potemkin village, pretense, sham, travesty of a marriage in tandem with two plus decades strongly eying, but lo baiting for a master to enslave and initiate this mister mom into the warm yet prickly rites of dick kin Zion foreplay.

No fallacy here.

Now to no avail does this gamesome gentleman receive cryptic signals transmitted and decoded by those seeking salacious satisfaction of flesh.

How long will penal solitude sentence last?

I experienced what could only be vaguely described as a surreal dream. Once mine body, mind, and immersed within nebulous dreamy state, a distinct (albeit unconscious) awareness recollected unfamiliar out of this world (i.e. alien) sensation. Cilia of me to flinch at lightly ticklish tactile feeling. This would be analogous as bristle of unused paint brush ever so faintly touching skin surface. I immediately thought faint touch most likely could be explained away by fingertips property of spouse. Upon peering at established other side of bed she occupied (resembling masked aquaint cherub, especially donned with CPAP breathing contraption. Said facial appurtenance/paraphernalia scuba diving like gear supposedly minimized risk associated with sleep apnea. Continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP) therapy is a common treatment for obstructive sleep apnea. A CPAP machine uses a hose and mask or nosepiece to deliver constant and steady air pressure. Common problems with CPAP include a leaky mask, trouble falling asleep, stuffy nose and a dry mouth. Neither her left nor right hand close enough to make contact. While within partial sleep/wake state, an illogical ridiculous notion occurred. Earlier that same day, I while reading weekly issue of The Nation (volume 309, number 7, September 30, 2019) eyes espied an intelligent centipede (yepper every last leg counted at a glance) nonchalantly noiselessly moseyed, inched..., ambled along the wall housing central air conditioning and/or heating. Although I slightly flinched when getting closer look, nothing atypical about critter prolonged initial attention. A magnifying glass lens if accessible would definitely give this scrivener reason to pause, and easily trigger further telltale intrigue. Nonetheless, upon resuming getting engrossed with newsworthy information across this country, no further thoughts distracted my attention. Unsure why bizarre association arose within fifty shades of hazy, gauzy, or fuzzy gray matter. Darkness invariably plays havoc with overactive imagination.

My humble apology if I already posted the following anecdote as an antidote to the cares and concerns of an uncertain world.

Though never overly precocious as a little boy

upon me (late) mother's apron strings I did employ

floundering hook line and sinker

bobbing along climbing and scaling

figurative chutes and ladders

spawning salvation courtesy latter day saints

oblivious to danger

particularly when stranded

analogously lost in space

along the edge of night

the outer limits of the twilight zone

masterly baiting me

fishing for catch of the day to ΙΧΘΥΣ.

Jeesh...how the bindery housing the living moldy pages of this bookish fellow seem to flip by with ever increasing rapidity at a faster pace, particularly with each subsequent orbit Earth completed around the sun. Methought then (when just a wee lad) thee oblate spheroid planet Earth gradually shifted closer to sun eventually... Nevertheless, I could never foretell (predict) when remembrance viz series of unfortunate events occurred.

Yours truly just a fraction his (mine) current age when misadventures elapsed. Odd also that unprompted, enigmatically, inexplicable... one (non bloody) recollection of long ago personal trials and tribulations seemed to snap, crackle and pop into mine noggin (like some kind of cerebral jiffy popcorn advertisement beckoning attention), thus the reason for sharing a childhood fragment asper the following.

This then LVIII roughly aged estimated age neigh saying, when zee ole beastie boy horse drafted the following. No rhyme nor reason, why infrequent recollection (albeit sketchy details at best) regarding boyhood memory took place. Faux pas par faw the course of doddering along the downside parabola of consciousness, which unexpectedly got jarred back lid er rilly lee in time. At such nebulous petty coated junction, whereby me gummed rattletrap writefully, unexpectedly, suddenly... Ma rusty stock, lock and barrel piped, pickled, and packed peppery parable. I quick snatched bobbing and panting square spongiform parcel as if acquiring krabby pattie, or the snatching secret formula thereof.

Schooled in obedience wrought pet smart linkedin lumped in pro literate thinker. Lemme turn back the chronological clock some back countless decades invoking hair raising brush with angelic intervention. Unbeknownst to me why or what activated long dormant gallimaufry memories stashed somewhere within fifty plus shades of gray cobwebbed, whirled, widely dispersed (within skull) matter. An incident predicated on mein kampf as a kid in kindergarten in tandem with his bosom buddy came to light re: as a flash in the pan metaphorical nugget of gold. No explanation seemed to precipitate the following account, which harkened back more’n five decades.

Thus before the mere fragment of a what might be termed divine intervention visited upon myself and close chum, (who became fast friends with me) at Port Kennedy school for those gently cosseted, groomed, and linkedin to commence getting ready for first grade. That particular day began as usual, but ended up doling out my fifteen minutes of fame and fortune to remain intact and unscathed emotionally, physically, or spiritually.

Mother drove me to the nondescript building within which vital lessons, viz how to color (within the blurred lines), frolic, and impersonate a kiddy version of some industrial magnate, et cetera play acted. Hours of playtime ticked by in a flash. Upon dismissal, each child went its separate way. An arrangement got made for yours truly to sally forth with said classmate named Christopher Porter. He lived in Valley Forge trailer park, within walking distance for grown up less so a kid. Before describing the misadventure that involved this then cloyingly innocent, naïvely reticent sole son tied to my mother’s apron strings, and his flaxen haired long time friend (of a couple months) i.e. pal, re: Christopher Porter. I make a brief digression eliciting general habits jousting Kuritsky lass (maiden name of pa’s pretty queen) to inform a major influence upon my ineffable, malleable, and gullible crucible qua cerebral cortex. Ever the obsessively compulsive economical cutler, queen hoarder, and scraper of sundry residual tailings upholding veneer wrested from victuals provided by the modest income of my daddy (a mechanical engineer at General Electric), my mother secured, scrimped, and saved any shred of material and squeezed out every last drop of maximization from father time.

This mindset to refrain tossing anything into the garbage receptacle indelibly etched in conscious on account of growing up in dire straits, hawking heirloom tchotchkes to stave off angst of a bleak, grim, and penurious poverty steeped into her temple mount. This predilection to maintain a skein of mediocrity, paucity, and scarcity indelibly deeply etched within impressionable, malleable, vulnerable... young brain.

Despite our middle income family status, an imbedded a legacy of hardship, hand to mouth existence, and one among countless affected have-nots remained forever scored within the memory of thine late mum Harriet Harris, the Cinderella of Coney Island. She, thee prima donna adored youngest progeny, (who reaped the line ness iz share of parental love), per birth mother Rebecca (doled out blatant favoritism toward thy mother), and paternal parent Morris (Moishe) Kuritsky got instilled by dint of dirt poor travails retained many behaviors linkedin with those critical, primal, and vital early years. Thus, upon readily accepting the responsibilities of motherhood, the instilled atrophied, codified, and mummified manifesto naturally impinged on the habitués regaled upon thyself and mine elder and younger sister. So, rather than expend the extra fuel to drive a fractional distance from the trailer park, her credo found insistence logically ordering riding to aforementioned locale, whence arrangements stipulated to ferry me back to Lantern Lane, an end house nestled adjacent to a Super Fund Site in the potemkin village of Audubon, Pennsylvania.

Unbeknownst to me the specific details underpinning what went awry that typical day. This aging memory can only bring to light a faded, gauzy and indistinctly nebulous picture, which principle outcome found thyself and above named equally demure, introverted and oblivious to threatening uber vipers waiting to prey on two precocious boys. Our respective comforts (referencing self and Christopher Porter) zones encompassed perhaps half dozen mile radius, whereat home sweet home purported ground zero. Unsure how either one of us went astray, since adventuresomeness an alien characteristic exhibited quasi bumpkin boys.

Nonetheless losing our orientation did not require extreme effort. Since absolutely zero recall, (nor token memorabilia) exists, I venture to posit mere lapse courtesy cumulative cloudy (albeit foggy) pate saturated with lifetime of mundane events. Through some happenstance both of us lads found ourselves stranded in unfamiliar territory. We found ourselves to be in the middle of nowhere, perhaps Timbuktu, or possibly up 5th and japip! Most feasible option to thread tattered anecdote with educated intimations. Thus information constituting primary circumstantial details gingerly grappled insync with second (third, fourth, fifth) guessing honestly absent knowledge less optimal to present gripping story. Whoever came to the aid of this coy, puny, and shy thing as well his similarly recalcitrant quiet temperament amigo forever unbeknownst. Perhaps fright compounded and especially intimidated by beefy Lower Providence police officers doing their level best to soldier onward to ask pointed questions. Most likely gentle inquiries met obstinate silence. Maybe at most frustrated men in blue generated shrug or blank stare. now a blessing paid to the fates many years plus Amber alerts reluctantly yielding zero positive results within adjacent zip codes municipalities. Though missing persons bulletins (with attendant reward) unnecessary, never generated cold case with grim nasty, short, and brutish discovery. Quite the contrary! Perhaps courage summoned forth either gratis one or either me or Christopher Porter.

The local newspaper ran a blurb, which clipping ma dear mama saved, though long since lost with other tidbits of mine storied past. What dismays this now midlife crisis dishabille entails how if that scenario occurred today, I would not be alive to tell of such deeds of daring do. So, this spottily recalled anecdote and subsequent belated praise and quite appreciation to those strangers (in tandem with enforces qua strong arm of the law – most likely no longer alive), whose existence today hinged on those fates that clasped faith in the milk of human kindness and at this day and age eclipsed with a plethora of angst riddled cruelty, fiendish incivility, and lackluster noblesse oblige. Hence, the nostalgic pang for a time that seemed more idyllic, when strangers reached out to forge a lifelong impression of positivity.

Such a benediction imbues me with a feeble attempt within this body electric guaranteeing anonymous brethren to salve the ache that found trust to ramp down the doom per being scared. Ah all's well that ended well sans so much within myself (nor oh me oh) to tell this true story. Unsure whatever became pseudo sidekick Christopher Porter with restless leg syndrome, which outdated “fake” definition means to dare embark on serendipitous excursions, whether or not in toto wiz hard ding with spontaneity off to see favorite cartoon character come to life.

For my friends

——————————————

ATTENTION: You are receiving a story from a slave—ahem—from an inmate inside the Bad People Department of Corrections. We are adding to our multi B-B-Billion dollar purse just by letting you communicate with our property. Please remain in the “grab your ankles, bitch” position as we continue to fuck society in the ass.

Thank you for your continued ignorance—hah, whoops…

Thank you for your cooperation :)

——————————————

Holy shit. Prison is nothing like County. Intake was just as violating, but this place is actually clean… ish. It smells like stale air and generic Windex rather than the lingering aroma of sewage pipes and boob sweat.

Walking through the unit, I see that there’s more than just 5 showers per 100 women, and every line has less than 10 zombies shuffling along in it. I must’ve won the lottery of prisons because County was nothing but endless wall-sliding and single-file, consuming your whole day just to eat, bathe, and call home.

The biggest mind fuck is my cell. I have a door that I can not only close, but I have keys to lock it. Even more shocking, my bunkie is apparently in the infirmary (so I’ll have privacy for once). All a far cry from the cramped pole barn at the jail where personal space is nonexistent. It’s like I just moved to a different planet. I’m hesitant to feel comfortable, but the slightly muffled noise from outside my closed cell is a bunch of sweet nothing compared to the echo chamber of hysteria I’ve lived in for the last 13 months.

I finish organizing my bunk and change into my standard-issued prison blues to try to make use of the day I have left. I lock up my cell and head towards the rec area to get in line for the mail kiosks. I’m feeling good because blue is so my color (and my husband’s favorite). He says it brings out my eyes. Oh, my heart! I can’t wait for our first visit next month! I just know he’s going to tell me how good I look in this dark indigo instead of that gross bright orange I’ve been wearing. We never had kids so he calls me his pride and joy, and I’m finally feeling like it again in this pretty color. I’ve learned to really appreciate the small things in life.

I hop in line for the kiosks so I can write a letter to my baby. I need to let him know I’ve made the transport safely. I don’t have a tablet yet, so I’ll have to type something quick on the big screen. The girl ahead of me is much younger, but she looks familiar with the place.

“Hey girl, what’s the time limit on the screens?” I ask in that high-pitched tone us females use when we want to appear harmless.

“Fifteen.” She replies over her shoulder.

Wow! We only got ten at County! Five whole extra minutes when you don’t have a tablet is a godsend. It’s a pain in the ass to type on the big screens that barely register your touch to begin with.

When my turn arrives, I see a new message from my husband… from today? Whoa! Mail actually comes on time here? It took up to 5 days to receive digital letters at the jail (even for short messages), and weeks for snail mail. I’m starting to feel like I’m in the twilight zone. Like this is all too good to be true. Let’s see what my dearest has sent me:

———

09/13/2023

10:13 AM

FROM: Ian Flores

TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013

Hey,

I hope the bus ride went smoothly this morning. Must’ve been a sauna in there without AC. The high is supposed to be 99 today. Please let me know when you’ve arrived. About to jump in the car with Pop. He’s ready to go to the airport now. Your sister wants to come for the drive. Pop’s flight was delayed to 12:13. He sends his love. Stay safe.

Ian

———

Aww! My baby just cares for me. I don’t know what I’d do without him. My husband is the only thing that keeps me sane as a prisoner. I’m actually excited about the future for the first time in over a year because I get to have family visits here. Well, with the family I have left, that is. My sister barely talks to me anymore, and the trial was hard on Pop’s heart. My father-in-law is the only parent I’ve ever known, and I’m the daughter he’s always wanted, but he doesn’t fly down as much now with his failing health. This whole situation has been tough on everyone.

The screen is slow to load, but the timer says I have just over 13 minutes left. I have a million things to tell my husband about this new world in Bad Girl Prison:

———

BPDOC INMATE ACCOUNT

11130013 Jasmine Flores

-Compose-

TO: Approved Contact:

Ian Flores

Hey babe,

Thank you so much for your well wishes. I made it in one piece. The travel time you looked up for me proved useless. I’m sure it will only take you about 1 hour to drive to the BGP, but for us, it took FOUR HOURS in that oven on wheels. They insisted on taking the back roads and confusing routes to make sure us “dangers to society” couldn’t ehscayp into populated areas. It took all day just to get to my new lockup.

I miss home so much, but I’m trying to stay focused on the positives. This new facility is MUCH nicer than expected. Prison is soooo different, babe. Well, this one is, at least. They try to make it look homey in the common areas, and there’s even decorations! They’re really pretty, actually. And guess what else? I heard the jobs here pay $1 per hour! ONE WHOLE DOLLAR, BABE!!! If I’m lucky enough to snag one, I could pay for my own medical visits! Yay! And get this: WE GET TO HAVE A 3 SECOND HUG AT THE BEGINNING AND END OF VISITS HERE!!! Oh, baby! I’m getting you know what just thinking about it! Will you wear that Tom Ford I bought for your bday for me? Mmm, I can’t wait!

I miss Pop already. Let me know how his next doctor appointment goes? I hope he’s feeling better. Tell him I’m so hungry that I could eat my chanclas. LOL! It’ll make him laugh. All we had was a sack lunch of slimy bologna and stale bread for the ride over. They should be calling last chow soon. I’ll let you know when I get my tablet and commissary. The money hasn’t gone through yet, but everything seems to run faster here so I’m sure I’ll get it tomorrow. Thank you for always keeping money on my books. You’re the light leading me home.

Hope you had a lovely day!

I love you!

Jazzy

PS: I tried calling right when I got to the unit but it says there’s no money on the phone. Perhaps you need to reset automatic payments for this new location? I’ll try to find out how that works. Thanks, babe.

———

I learned that I can’t write stuff like “escape” because the system will instantly deny my mail before the COs even read it (because I’ve typed a no-no word), and they don’t give refunds either. And I definitely can’t tell my husband I’m getting wet in anticipation of touching him for the first time in a year. A chick from County taught me to use bad spelling to have some freedom of speech in our letters.

I once got reprimanded for telling my own husband that I miss making love to him through the partition at the jail (shut it down folks, we’ve got a psychopath on our hands!). All the while, I had to watch certain male officers fuck us with their eyes every damn day. And since they don’t give a shit about those of us disabilities, they had no clue I could read their lips as they fucked us with their words, too.

The worst COs would sexually harass us right to our faces (both male and female). But, they can do that because they’re allowed to break the rules (and they get paid and praised for it). However, when the rest of us make mistakes, we don’t deserve to be human anymore. Scratch that—when you’ve been caught making mistakes. Until then, you get to walk around with a golden stick up your ass, shaking your finger at everyone else.

The screen confirms that my email has been sent 09/13/2023 at 16:13 PM. My account has been charged 1 stamp and—look at that! A whole 6 minutes to spare! Not too shabby! I’ll let the chick behind me step on early…

Wait! I’ve got a new message from Ian! Screw it, I’ll make a good impression another time. I’m taking this:

———

09/13/2023

15:13 PM

FROM: Ian Flores

TO: Jasmine Flores 11130013

We just got home. I want a divorce.

———

What the FUCK?! No. No, no, no! I read it over and over:

D-I-V-O-R-C-E

A divorce?! WHY?! How is this possible?! We’ve never so much as uttered the word “breakup,” let alone “DIVORCE!” Ian and Jazz are that couple who grow old together! And what does he mean by “we” just got home?! That’s our home! My fucking home! The house I bought for us! Is he talking about him and my sister?! Is he fucking my fucking sister?!? Has he just been using me this whole time to secure a way out? Is that why my sister stopped talking to me?! Or wait—did he fly home with his father?! What does he mean?! If he’s with my sister, I’m gonna fucking kill him. Everything was fine! Oh fuck, I’m gonna throw up…

I rush to the giant rubber trash can secured to the wall next to the kiosk and quickly puke my guts out. I hear a couple women in the line laughing at me as I leap to grab my last 5 minutes, but the chick who was behind me has already taken my place.

“Hey, sorry, I had 5 minutes left. Can I go back? Please? It’s urgent.” I plead to her in a guttural, low-pitched tone.

“You snooze you loose. Well, more like ‘you puke you lose.’ Yuck. Go to the back of the line. Your breath stinks.” She doesn’t even look up from the screen as she shoos me away.

I race to the back of the line. There’s 6 people ahead of me. With 3 machines, that’s up to 30 minutes of waiting just to send a “WTF” to my husband. My husband! The love of my life! I feel like I’m about to shit my pants. My whole world is spinning. What the fuck is happening?! I shift from one foot to the other, holding my stomach as I wait.

Just as I’m about to take my turn on the next available screen, they blow an emergency count. The siren is deafening and my head is already pounding.

“No! Please! I just need one minute!” I beg the officer headed our way to wrangle us back to our cells.

“Sorry. No can do. You’ve got 3 minutes to be in your bunk. Go on, get!” He, too, shoos me away like a dog.

I speed walk in the direction of my cell, ducking under the stairs to save a few seconds, as if that will help count go faster. I’m already calculating the time it will take to tally every single woman in the prison. My stomach turns even more.

They sound the alarm again, signaling the end of a successful count. I immediately race back to the mail kiosks. A woman gets on the loud speaker to call our unit for chow, but there’s no way I can eat now. Maybe I can grab a phone when everyone is at dinner. I hope the money went through. Shit, now I’m unsure if Ian put money on my accounts at all.

I have no way of accessing what’s left of my funds without Ian. How will I buy my necessities? I don’t even have tampons yet and my period is supposed to start this week. The pads the DOC gave me in my indigent kit couldn’t absorb a ball of spit, let alone my endometriosis horrorshow. The last few e-stamps on my account are my only hope. I need to find out what the fuck is going on. I hope Ian hasn’t blocked me by now. No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave me all alone in here. Would he?

The same douchebag officer stops me just before reaching the kiosks.

“Phones and screens just went down. You’ll have to try back after dinner.” He scoffs while holding his duty belt, creating a firm barricade between me and my only link to the outside world.

“Sir, please! It’s urg—"

The CO stops me by putting his hand in front of my face.

“Go to the chow hall or back to your cell! NOW!” He commands, pointing his finger over my shoulder, waiting for me to turn around and leave.

I huff away, knowing full well he can give me a ticket for “poor attitude,” but I couldn’t care less right now.

I storm into my cell, lock the door behind me, and climb up to my bunk. I plop down onto the 3 inch mat and shove my face into the flat pillow so I can scream. My anger is boiling.

We’ve been married for eighteen fucking years. Together for twenty. It’s always been just the two of us. Ian and Jazz against the world because we are the perfect couple—minus my convictions. But my side hustle paid off our mortgage! We would’ve been homeless without it! All because my darling husband ruined our legitimate business. When we went under, I found a way to keep our heads above water. Me! I’m the one who paid off all our debt. How could he leave me like this? And without explanation? Now I’m here, paying our debt to society for the both of us! Like always! Am I really this easy to throw away? After all I’ve done?!

My thoughts spin out of control, and before I know it, the stress of today knocks me out cold.

I wake up startled by the horn, not realizing where I even am. Oh—it’s final count. I wave at the flashlight shining into my dark cell through the window to prove I am where I’m supposed to be. I see the silhouette of someone walking in front of the light. A woman unlocks my door and enters the cell. She reaches for the lamp below me and flicks it on. It’s my bunkie, back from the infirmary. She’s very young and frail looking. She waits for the second horn and closes the door, locking us in for the night.

“Hey.” She says quietly, looking up at me as I stare down at her.

“Hey.” I reply softly.

We both instantly recognize deep sadness in each other.

“I’m Sandra. You just get here?” She asks, trying to be polite despite her obvious melancholy.

“Yeah, earlier today. I’m Jasmine, but everyone calls me Jazz. How long you been here?” I ask, trying to match conversation.

“I got transferred here 3 weeks ago, but this is my second time down… and last…” Her voice dwindles.

“You come from County, too?” I ask.

“No, the Max. Way out in the woods. I just made Level 2 after seven months there. I worked hard to complete my treatment plan in time for… whatever. Now I’m here.” She looks away, hiding her pain.

I heard a couple of female guards gossiping about my bunkie when they assigned my cell. She apparently took a murder plea for stabbing her husband to death after he beat her for years. If that’s true, I say he had it comin’ and he ran his damn self into her knife. Ugh, I shouldn’t think like that. How horribly sad for her and her family. But, it must’ve been a good deal to not fight a murder case like that—any murder case. I want to find out more, but I’ve learned not to ask about people’s cases. She’ll tell me eventually if she wants me to know. I just hope she has a chance to get out someday, as young as she is.

Sandra finishes organizing her things and slowly sits down on her bunk, wincing loudly in pain.

“Hey, you okay?” I hop down from the top bunk to see if she needs help. “You were in the infirmary, right?”

“Down the road at Saint Mary’s, actually. Or ‘Hell Mary’s’ more like it.” She holds her hips in pain and lowers the elastic waistband of her bottoms to find comfort. That’s the first time I notice her big belly.

“Oh! Did you just have a baby?!” I ask in excitement, but immediately realize my mistake and apologize with my expression.

She stares up at me in despair as tears rush into her eyes, trying to muster a response.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracks.

The pain on Sandra’s face is haunting. That’s not just the “baby blues,” that’s someone who’s been through torture. Oh my God… I can see the marks on her wrists from being shackled while giving birth.

“I’m gonna get some sleep. Nice meeting you.” She whispers.

Sandra turns to her side and kicks her slides off the bed. She’s clearly in too much agony to even change into her casuals. I see her inmate number splayed across the back of her blues. Oh, no. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Her number is my wedding date: 10132005. Well, I guess October 13th used to be my anniversary. I’ve always had shit luck, Pop even says that I must’ve been born under a bad sign, but this feels like a cruel joke from God. And what happened to Sandra is just fucking cruel.

“Goodnight.” My voice trails, failing to offer her any comfort because I’m a sad sack of shit.

I climb back up to my bunk. Sandra waits for me to get settled to turn off her lamp. Her kindness makes my heart ache even more.

This is insane! I woke up this morning the same Jazz I’ve been for the last 18 years. I’d never felt special until I became Mrs. Jasmine Flores. Ian always called me his spring flower when we were newlyweds. I hate my maiden name. Am I plain old Jasmine Withers again? Oh, God… old. What will a middle-aged woman with no family and a record do on the outside? I’ll be forty-fucking-six and ten years gone when I’m released. Who’s gonna give a shit about me now? Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Shit, I don’t even know me. The only identity I’m absolutely sure of right now is 11130013.

The shapes of the room fade to black, but my mind refuses settle. I toss over in frustration, making both bunks squeak and clank. As soon as the clatter stops, I hear Sandra start to cry.

Holy fuck. This poor girl. She just gave birth and can’t even hold her child—hell, can’t even see her child—when all mom and baby need are each other right now. Captivity breeds madness, but being forced apart from all that you know and love… that’s the real punishment.

I can already imagine ignorant ass people talking their shit about someone like Sandra. They would say she’s not a “real” mother, or that she doesn’t deserve her child. But I can feel her maternal desperation in my bones with every uncontrollable wail coming from her soul. It’s the most agonizing sound I’ve ever heard.

I begin to cry along with Sandra, trying to hide my own sorrows in her sobs. I feel pathetic for drowning in self pity when she is going through something much worse, but my pain hurts, too. It really hurts! And it’s all my fault. What have I done to my marriage? To my life? I did this! Me!

In our own way, no matter how much time we get, we are all serving (and giving) life sentences. We will always be paying for our mistakes, and no amount of pain in here can fix the pain out there. It just creates more pain for innocent people who don’t deserve to be motherless, daughterless… wifeless. I don’t know how to fix any of this, but hurting more people can’t be the answer… can it?

The sounds of Sandra’s loud, painful bellowing causes women from other cells to start shouting all over the unit.

Woman 1: “I’m trying to sleep!”

Woman 2: “Stop being a little bitch, Sandra! I had to do it, too! Shut the fuck up!”

Woman 3: “YOU shut the fuck up, Dee! Put your headphones on, you heartless bitch!”

Woman 4: “JUST SHUT UP!!!”

Woman 5: “Y’all bitches are crazy! Haha! Craaazaaay weeoo weeoo!”

The douchebag guard from earlier comes to our door and bangs on the window, scaring Sandra and I so bad that we both jump.

“Hey, Flores! How do you like it here? Hah! Welcome to the machine!” He taunts me loudly, making sure I know I’m on his shit list. I can hear the other guards laughing, joining in his schadenfreude.

Ah, yes. There it is. This is more like the punishment I deserve. Nonstop chaos. The optimism I had when I arrived was but a momentary lapse of reason. Prison isn’t this cozy, decorated home they’re trying to fool us with. It’s fucking prison: a torture chamber designed to destroy human beings… and it is succeeding.

The personal laments of 100 women continue to fill the thick, nobody gives a shit atmosphere. I cover my head to shut out the madness, but it’s just no use. There will be little sleep as this symphony of destruction plays in the BGP tonight.

This has been the worst day of my life…

And it’s just day one.

.

.

.

.

.

PRISON BLUES

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

This is a work of fiction. However, it was written with real men and women at heart, because their stories matter. They, matter.

crafted approximately circa June 10th, 2018.

Imagine yourself tubby a decimal point, and assigned a variable valued place holder, now go past the ones units, tens, hundreds, and STOP at the thousands, which enumerated status approximates, where the expense to rent an average sized cubic footed living quarters marks the lowest cost, which hoop fully engenders an idea that high principally income earners populate this neck of Penn’s woods.

Known as the Mainline (a throwback from the days of me bubba’s zayda bubba…). The Philadelphia Main Line shortened to the Main Line, is an anecdotally bemusing carryover, delineating Europeans fundamentally garnering heavenly inviting, incorporating juxtaposed linkedin monied natives occupying pleasing quadrant. These uber voyagers wrested yearning zeal. Access to remote tracts initially made with sporadic genteel explorations, when indigenous (native peoples) predominantly occupied clustered enclaves extant within virgin lands.

As increased frequency of forays penetrated deeper into lush domain of hinterland, there arose greater deadly contention between immigrants (who built permanent redoubts hearths, and battlements) verses the fleet of foot “red men”, who described a nomadic hopscotching existence from one to another primitive built huts. Spur of the moment stealthy rightful housing ordinances pitted aggressive occupiers against misnomer nom de plume“ Indians.”

Thus Spake Zarathustra.

Sworn fealty foisted enamored conquerors to cave into temptation and declare swath (far as the eye could see), the verdantly undulating, teasingly serenading, and radiating quintessentially perfect outlook. Neutrality manifestly and immediately leveled. Kombat jimmied imposing heathenism generating fiery extermination debacle capping bloody annexation. Might overran the rightful occupation of “Noble Savage”, whose prescience foretold verdant and fecund vastness never more the sacred place of their ancestors.

The strong armed lance bearing fighters spontaneously glommed together vis a vis Olde World ragtag, mishmash and higgledy-piggledy militia of unorganized settlers eventually devolved into what became endless pitched battles indiscriminately raping, pillaging, and murdering, like some pestilence, these amazingly graceful children of a lesser God.

Once the region supposed, “Tamed” or more accurately villainously, traitorously and recklessly subjected to genocide, a rapid acquisition and subsequent industrialization followed suit.

Suburban Philadelphia, Pennsylvania situated along the former Pennsylvania Railroad’s once prestigious Main Line, tracks run northwest from downtown Philadelphia parallel to Lancaster Avenue (US Route 30).

The railroad first connected the Main Line towns in the 19th century. They bespoke the vested gentry and noblesse oblige of Merry Olde England, and exuded aristocratic class. Said sprawling country estates belonged to Philadelphia’s wealthiest families, and over ensuing decades became a bulwark, beguiling bastion of “old money”, that predates the Roam Man empire.

Today, the Main Line includes some of the wealthiest communities in the country, including Lower Merion Township Radnor Township, Gladwyne, and Villanova. Today, the railroad is Amtrak’s Keystone Corridor, along which SEPTA’s Paoli/Thorndale Line operates.

The Main Line region was long part of Lenapehoking, the homeland of the matrilineal Lenni Lenape Native Americans (the “true people”, or “Delaware Indians”).

Europeans arrived in the 1600s, after William Penn sold a tract of land, called the Welsh Tract, to a group of Welsh Quakers in London in 1681. This accounts for the many Welsh place names in the area.

The Pennsylvania Railroad built its main line during the early 19th century as part of the Main Line of Public Works that spanned Pennsylvania.

Later in the century, the railroad, which owned much of the land surrounding the tracks, encouraged the development of this picturesque environment by building way stations along the portion of its track closest to Philadelphia. The benefits of what was touted as “healthy yet cultivated country living” attracted Philadelphia’s social elite, many of whom had one house in the city and another larger “country home” on the Main Line.

In the 20th century, many of these families moved to the Main Line suburbs.

Part of the national trend of suburbanization, this drove rapid investment, prosperity, and growth that turned the area into greater Philadelphia’s most affluent and fashionable region. Estates with sweeping lawns and towering maples, the debutante balls and the Merion Cricket Club, which drew crowds of 25,000 spectators to its matches in the early 1900s, were the setting for the 1940 Grant/Hepburn/Stewart motion picture The Philadelphia Story.

The railroad placed stops about two minutes apart, starting with Overbrook. The surrounding communities became known by the railroad station names which started at Broad Street Station in Center City Philadelphia and went on to 32nd St. Station, and then the Main Line stations: Overbrook, Merion, Narberth, Wynnewood, Ardmore, Haverford, Bryn Mawr, Rosemont, Villanova, Radnor, Saint Davids, Wayne, Strafford, Devon, Berwyn, Daylesford, and Paoli. At least five of these station buildings, along with the first Bryn Mawr Hotel, were designed by Wilson Brothers & Company. Broad Street Station was replaced with Suburban Station in 1930, and 30th Street Station replaced 32nd Street three years later. Suburban service now extends west of the Main Line to the communities of Malvern, Exton, Whitford, Downingtown, and Thorndale.

The railroad line then continued on to Chicago, with major stations at Lancaster, Harrisburg and Pittsburgh. The railroad, since taken over by Amtrak, is still in service, although its route is slightly different from the original. It also serves the Paoli/Thorndale Line of the SEPTA Regional Rail system.

Memorial milepost chiseled in stone serves as a historical marker on U.S. Route 30, in front of the Anthony Wayne Theater with AT&T tower in background. Today, the “Main Line” is another name for the western suburbs of Philadelphia along Lancaster Avenue (U.S. Route 30) and the former Pennsylvania Railroad Main Line, extending from the city limits to, traditionally, Bryn Mawr and ultimately Paoli, an area of about 200 square miles (520 km2).

The upper- and upper middle-class enclave has historically been one of the bastions of “old money” in the Northeast, along with places like Long Island’s Gold Coast, Westchester County, New York, Middlesex County, Massachusetts, and Fairfield County, Connecticut.

This vested gentry carryover (from the Blue Blood of yesterday) ranks home to some of the wealthiest communities in the United States, such as Gladwyne, which has the 14th highest per-capita income in the country for places with a population of 1,000 or more. The eastern section of Villanova also was ranked 39th in “The Elite 100 Highest Income Neighborhoods in America” with a median annual household income of $366,904. Neighborhoods along the Main Line include nineteenth and early twentieth century railroad suburbs and post-war subdivisions, as well as a few surviving buildings from before the suburban area.

The Main Line proper is a line of communities extending northwest from the City of Philadelphia. From Philadelphia, the stations on what is now referred to as the Paoli/Thorndale (formerly “R5”) Lines constitute a strung out economically variable zone, which include Overbrook, Merion, Narberth, Wynnewood, Ardmore, Haverford and Bryn Mawr, which inspired the mnemonic” Old Maids Never Wed And Have Babies”.

The Main Line now encompasses many communities past Bryn Mawr including the Upper Main Line communities of Rosemont, Villanova, Radnor, Saint Davids, Wayne, Strafford, Devon, Berwyn, Daylesford, Paoli, and Malvern.

There is collective data for the Main Line, so all data is by ZIP code. In comparison, the median family income and home price for the state of Pennsylvania are $68,646 and $155,000, respectively. The following ZIP codes are those within the previously mentioned municipalities that make up the Main Line. All data, with the exception of average home price, are as of the 2000 census.

Though an outlier during the nearly two decades dwelling in this supreme wealthy area (with place names of municipalities that exemplify original Welsh settlement houses, now sports a gamut of cultures.

Priceline costs decided, defined, and determined that his middle aged father (with two precious princesses – if in titular nom de plume only) felt like a non stoppable crash test dummy bumping up against the crème de la crème.

My family income solely predicated on a just barely survivable social security disability monthly allotment. LivingSocial necessitated meager choices. With less than two mere from issuing despairing beseeching angst (engendering thoughts sans suicidal ideation), that a cardboard box would house thyself and spouse (since both young adult daughters rescued by fate) lo and behold, a divine intervention from literally out of the blue became our present manifest destiny.

The Crum Lynne (Ridley Township) second floor one bedroom apartment (less roomy than thee soon to be previous Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania digs found me breathing a sigh of relief, when no hope of salvation materialized, thy psyche got rent asunder with many a bout of apoplexy forecasting living hand to mouth begging for succor.

Such ill fate mortified, petrified, and stultified with terror looming at every corner threatening thyself and his wife. No matter this newfound abode nestled within blue-collar working class, a great joyous magical mystery tour de force made my day.

Premature ejaculation uttered to soon!

Due to a series of unfortunate events foremost being the questionable prospective landlord/property manager withholding critical details from us (this after my father plunked down sizable chump change), and changed her tune from affable (questionable) realtor to harsh taskmaster.

Hello every One and welcome to the second Tuesday Edition for this Terrific Two’s Day, once again making the Title True to its name. Thank King or Queen You for being here, it is always an Honour to have You. With today’s Title, One might be thing King I’m tall King about winning a lottery or something. In some Ways I Imagine (I-Mage-in) that is what it might feel like for Me in six days time. Today’s Title Will be the True Value of the original Trust Claim on 23-10-23!!! Four million, nineteen thousand, eight hundred and ninety five dollars. I’m so generous and for Giving that I am going to drop the penny.

My Friend was as King of Me earlier today how much the Claim was worth in total and I had to tell him I had no Idea but figured it Will be somewhere around four million by the time the hearing rolls around. Turns out I was pretty close, but it was My other Friend, Lucky who said to Me,

“That just shows how little You care about the money. Most People with a Claim like that would be keeping track and probably know the exact dollar value every day.” - Lucky, paraphrasing from memory

Yeah, maybe. But she is right, I really don’t care about the money. I wouldn’t even have a dollar Value attached to the Claim if it wasn’t essential for filing, and the only other ‘punitive’ measure that exists in a commercial world in lieu of criminal prosecution (prison). There’s also no other ‘Real’ Way to motivate One’s adversary to negotiate a speedy Resolute-Sean. I figured ten percent monthly compounding interest would be suffient to motivate My adversaries to negotiate with Me quickly. I’m guessing My adversaries have deeper pockets than I had suspected because the Value of the Claim has never even been mentioned!

The Truth is, it Will be much more than four million. I’m also as King for one million from each lawyer conspiring against Me in their personal, private capacity (because I don’t suspect any have even bothered to advise their insurance providers that they have breached their Trust obligations to the Court), as well as an additional one million dollars against each of the firms they represent. In fact, let’s name those firms right now so You know which ones to stay away from if ever in need of legal services!

They are, Merovitz Potechin LLP; Milton Estates Law; Rosen Sack LLP; Miller Thomson LLP; and Fluery, Comery LLP.

That’s five law firms...

And You may as well know their lawyers and paralegals, too, right?

They are, Noah Potechin, Laraine Burton, Hala Tabl, Neil Milton, Jenny Bogod, Susan Sacks, Christopher Crisman-Cox and Greg McConnell.

Plus eight liars/lawyers...

But We’re still not done, there are also two court clerks involved from the Bracebridge Courthouse, Michelle Murphy and Carey Thomson. Carey Thomson’s position with the Bracebridge Courthouse appears to be ‘Accessibility Coordinator’. Ah, the irony of some of these Titles! The ‘Accessibility Coordinator’ was conspiring with Michelle Murphy to deny Me access to the Court!!! She also claimed to be the Court supervisor. Who knows, maybe she is and the ‘Accessibility Coordinator’ is a secondary title or something.

Plus two court clerks...

But what if I told You that We’re still not done?! Well, it would be True because Carmine Pignataro and Miko Dubiansky of the Law Society of Ontario are also complicit; initially for Carmine’s inability to identify the fraud in the first place, and now Miko Dubiansky and Carmine Pignataro seem to believe that even though they now KNOW all these lawyers are engaged in fraud attempting to conceal Estate assets from creditors waiting to proceed against the Estate with three million in addition claims, yet believe they are not liable to Me in any Way for their failed investigation into the Matter or for failing to right their wrongdoing when Given Notice that fraud WAS in fact taking place at the time of the investigation. My belief is that Carmine Pignataro had some influence in the Matter with respect to Carey Thomson and Michelle Murphy lying to Me about the status of the application.

That’s two representatives of the Law Society of Ontario – the organization that licenses these crooks!!! They learn about this and don’t revoke their license immediately and Give them Notice of such?! So yeah, I’m as King them to come to Court on Judgement Day, too.

So that’s two more for a total of seventeen entities attempting to deceive Me in My sister’s fraudulent CAET application!

I’m as King for a one million dollar fine against each of these criminals, and all of that money is going to go directly back into the public Trust for Canada’s People, so it has nothing to do with what I am as King for as part of the Claim, but it is relevant to Man’s Macrocosm in a big Way!

I’m going to have all of this ‘extra wealth’ to Give Canada, and I’m going to be teaching State Actors how to properly manage a Public Trust account so that the wealth of the Treasury continues to grow until it is sufficient to pay all of Canada’s debt. If You are thing King I’m kidding, just watch My Words Magically Manifest.