Reflections On Caribbean Literature

 

When I saw the flyer on the dorm bulletin board announcing the Caribbean Literature class sponsored by the University of Central Florida (UCF) and the Florida Prison Education Project (FPEP), I said to myself, "That's me."

Fifteen students. I sent in my request form that night.

I approached our first class with an open mind and wasn't disappointed. Professor Heather Vazquez quickly lit up the class with her enthusiasm for the course, and the students caught that enthusiasm. A teacher who loves to teach enhances the students’ learning experience, and I became determined to squeeze every bit of knowledge from the class that I could get. College-level classes in prison are rare, and a professor teaching a volunteer program is rarer still.

I have had a special interest in the Caribbean islands and their peoples for a long time. For ten years my family rented a house next to a large orange grove east of Tampa. An orange grove is a great playground for poor country children: football games between the rows, rotten orange fights with neighborhood children, all kinds of snakes, frogs and other critters rousted by the dogs, and all the oranges one could eat.

When I was nine years old and a new Florida resident, a busload of Jamaican workers arrived to pick the ripe fruit. Years later I learned that thousands of Jamaican laborers were brought in every year to harvest Florida's prodigious agricultural crops.

To a nine-year old boy the Jamaicans were fascinating people who spoke with a strange accent. To them, a nine-year old white child must have seemed equally strange. Nevertheless, they immediately accepted my presence. They taught me to pick fruit. Each man carried a pocketknife with a long, slim, razor-sharp blade. They taught me how to properly peel an orange, Jamaican-style. First, you squeeze the orange until the juice is freed, the orange soft. Then peel the orange carefully, in one long curling strand, leaving the white pulp covering the orange. Lastly cut a circular hole at the top to drink from. Voila! An instant orange juice container.

Sometimes a man climbing a tall ladder would suddenly shout some incomprehensible verses loud enough to be heard across the grove. Workers in the distance would answer him with more words, a chorus. He would shout more verses, and the other men would answer him. They would continue until the work song ended, then laugh uproariously.

I count back the years — 64 — I am now 73 — and wistfully realize that those fine gentlemen who took the time to befriend a curious little boy are most likely all dead.

At the University of South Florida I joined the World Affairs Council along with students from 37 countries, several from the islands, and made a number of lasting friendships. I saw Bob Marley and the Wailers perform, and was wowed by the music. Back to the present day, I can still hear the steel drums reverberate inside my head.

I didn't know what Caribbean Literature entailed, but with my 500-page textbook in hand I planned on finding out. When I began reading our textbook and other materials Professor Vazquez provided, I was shocked by how the women islanders lived, endured and withstood horrifying mistreatment. I told my wife, Libby, about my readings, and shared them with her. She was especially affected by an excerpt from Dr. Anna Levi's forthcoming book, "The Nowherians," about sex workers in Trinidad, and we had several discussions during our weekly visits about how those women survived. From the first sentence of the excerpt, the reader is transported to a new level of horror, which is sustained at that plateau with each disclosure in the subsequent sentences. No joy in life, just unspeakable pain.

Libby said something that struck me. "If those poor women in that barracks yard were suddenly transported and set down anywhere in America, there would be an outcry."

How true. But they aren't in America. They are trapped in Trinidad, with little hope for rescue.

Dr. Levi was a guest speaker one week, and if she can be convinced to return one day, I have some questions.

Dr. Kevin Meehan was also a guest speaker, and is coming again this week.

The class gave me an unexpected opportunity to share what we were learning. An officer who passed through our class caught snippets of discussion and later on asked what it was about. I told him. I said the textbook didn't mention my favorite Caribbean poet, Bob Marley.

"Bob Marley!" he said. "I am Jamaican. I love Bob Marley."

I pulled a sheet of paper out of my book. "My wife sent me the words to the last song he wrote before he died."

"Redemption Song," he said.

"Yes." I unfolded the page with the lyrics.

He pointed out a verse. "The most important words," he said. "Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery."

Amen, brother.

Charlie

February 26, 2023

More Trips, Inside and Out

 January, 2023, proved to be an eventful month in prison. I told you about my progress report January 9th, where I found I had accumulated 10,424 days of gain-time. They award gain-time toward the middle of the month, for the previous month, and on January 16th I received 20 more days for December, 2022. 10,444 days.

I mentioned MLK's birthday holiday provided us with a three-day visiting weekend, which Libby and I took full advantage of. At every prison there are always families of ''regulars,'' usually local people who visit their loved ones most weekends, and that remains true here at Lake C. I. Over time relationships develop among the visitors. We make the rounds of the visiting park, greeting our friends, smiling, laughing, complaining, on our way to the canteen line.

Each prison is known and rated by the efficiency and quality of the visiting experience. Lake is known as a fairly laid-back facility, despite the turmoil of construction, as the north end of the compound is demolished for a building project. That contrasts greatly with the last prison we patronized, where many visitors, including small children and elderly, were subjected to two-hour waits in the weather before being allowed in the gate for ''processing.'' After being admitted to the visiting park, they had to deal with surly guards who stared uncomfortably at the visitors.

On Wednesday, January 18th, UCF Professor Heather Vazquez treated our Caribbean Literature class with a guest speaker, author Dr. Anna Levi from Trinidad, a skilled and highly qualified professor. She quickly involved the class in a writing exercise that revealed several already good writers in the group. Dr. Levi has a book coming out this summer, ''The Nowherians,'' which the students agreed they all wanted to read.

On Friday, January 20th, we had a special treat at the Toastmasters Gavel Club meeting in the recently-converted old chow hall/chapel. This camp has shrunken by at least half in population in the past two years, as the north end housing units closed down, and that has affected attendance at this voluntary program. Every few months the Gavel Club sponsors an ''open house,'' where each member invites a guest.

The outside sponsor brought in approved coffee, doughnuts, and cupcakes for a nine o'clock breakfast session that provided a rare opportunity for the attendees. Ten members were called on to make impromptu short talks on topics chosen by a moderator. The group then voted on the best speech. Hopefully, some of the guests will decide to join the Gavel Club.

Saturday and Sunday Libby and I visited once again.
Monday evening, January 23^rd, a guard told me I had to go to the infirmary for the night. I knew what that meant. I had an outside medical test scheduled for the next day, and I was required to fast the night before.

The night medical staff, consisting of a nurse and inmate orderly, knew me well and were very polite and attentive. Seven sick inmates of varying medical conditions were housed in the nine-bed infirmary. I knew one, an old friend who was awaiting surgery to repair a bad hernia operation from years before.

The treat of overnighting in the infirmary is sleeping on a thick, soft hospital bed. It seemed like only minutes of restful sleep had elapsed before I was awakened at four a.m. to get ready for my medical trip.

I knew something was different when the transport van turned south on Hwy 27 rather than north toward Lake Butler — RMC. In minutes we were headed east on Interstate 4 toward Orlando. 5:45 a.m., traffic both ways on I-4 was bumper-to-bumper. Soon we were passing through downtown Orlando with tall hotels sprouted like mushrooms on either side of the highway, sights I had never seen during my lengthy imprisonment. Does Hilton own Orlando? Or just most of the hotels?

We were lucky to get through traffic-clogged and over-developed Orlando when we did. For the next two days after my return the local TV news station gleefully reported ad nauseum the tragic fatal crashes and hours-long traffic backups on the same road we had uneventfully traversed Tuesday.

Soon I-4 turned into Interstate 95 North at Daytona Beach, where I had spent many forgettable years at Tomoka C. I. When we passed the big sign for Ormond Beach I thought of my dear first cousin, Betty, retired, scant miles away.

The road signs whipped by in blurs. St. Augustine. Flagler. St. Johns. Jacksonville — 27 miles. How many times had Libby driven this same path home from visiting me? The last time I'd been to Jacksonville had been several years before when I went on a medical trip from Columbia C. I. to Jacksonville Memorial Hospital to have ultrasound treatments for kidney stones. The driver exited I-95 near University Boulevard. Soon we were parked at Jacksonville Cardiac Center, Dr, Waddah Salman.

Tuesday must be prison day at the Jacksonville Cardiac Center. Still burdened with chains, we wended our way past several guards clogging a narrow hallway to a small waiting room. Four other chained-up men waited their turns, men from Sumter, Taylor, Union and FSP. One elderly, wasted, toothless old man in a wheelchair informed us that he had recently had a stroke, and tended to talk too much and repeat himself. We should just tell him to shut up if he did that. Then he told us again. And again.

"Shut up," the man from FSP said.

"Okay."

Nuclear technician, Ms. Libia, came in and explained the procedures for the upcoming stress test we were about to take. They don't use the old-fashioned treadmill anymore. Instead they insert an IV containing liquid radiation into your arm to illuminate your veins and heart, then inject another chemical that causes your heart to race as though you were running on a treadmill. A large machine then takes photos of your heart.

My fellow prisoners must have been junkies in their previous lives in freedom. The technician had a hard time finding veins that weren't collapsed. Mine was easy. My prominent veins had never been tampered with by illicit drugs.

The procedure went well, Ms. Libia said.

Monday, February 6^th, the guards woke me up early for another medical trip, this time to RMC for the echocardiogram. The hospital was packed with sick prisoners from at least a dozen prisons. Fortunately for me, few were there for echocardiograms. All went well, the nurse said, six minutes, a sonogram of my beating heart.

Next step, Dr. Salman will evaluate the results, provide a diagnosis, and outline a course of treatment, as necessary. That will be  another RMC trip, most likely.

We got out of Lake Butler by 10:0 a.m., and returned to Lake by one p.m.

On the way back, I enjoyed reading all the billboards — LIVE BABY ALLIGATORS!

 

Charlie Norman

January, 2023

SLOW PROGRESS — A Week In The Life

 

01-12-2023

On Monday, January 9, 2023, I reported to the classification building for my annual progress report. They verify your current emergency contact information in case you die, and ask if you want a transfer. No. There are no good prisons anymore. Job change? No. I am a houseman, light cleaning, no windows, and I don't want to change. My days digging ditches and washing pots are gone. I did find out that my automatic twenty days a month (with good behavior) gain time has accumulated to 10,424 days, or 28.5 years, for what good it does me.

 

3:00 a.m. Tuesday morning I am awakened by a flashlight beam in my eyes.

"Norman, you wanna go on a medical trip," the guard asked.

"Yes."

A couple of weeks ago I had my annual physical. They finally administered my annual EKG two years late. The computer analyzes your EKG now, and revealed an abnormality. The prison doctor put me down for a consultation with the cardiologist at the Lake Butler Reception and Medical Center (RMC), Dr. Waddah Salman, a very well-respected expert.

Loaded down with enough handcuffs, leg irons, and chains that would embarrass Houdini, two guards loaded me into a Ford transport van for the two-and-a-half drive to RMC in North Florida. At least this van had windows and soft seats, unlike the dog box van they carried me in last April.

My dear wife, Libby, tells me how bad the traffic is when she makes the three-hour drive each way to visit me, but you have to experience it to believe it. Five-thirty a.m. — the Florida Turnpike and I-75 are already backed up. We got off the interstate at Gainesville for the guards to order breakfast for themselves at a Krystal, to be met with bumper-to-bumper traffic on six-lane streets at seven a.m. Huge semi-tractor trailers clogged the traffic arteries. Toyotas, Kias, Fords, Chevys, and every other model vehicle I've only seen on TV filled in the gaps between the Ford F-150s.

Rubbernecking is the optimum word. The world has changed and evolved greatly in the forty-four years I've been cast away in prison. I hastily drank in the sights through the black steel mesh grills covering the windows: McDonald's, Chik-Fil-A, Wendy's, Circle K, Publix, Walmart, and all the other dozens more places that did not exist when I came into prison in 1978.

We made it inside Lake Butler before the eight a.m. count, early, I thought, but when we got inside I was confronted by hallways and benches crammed with sick prisoners from a dozen different prisons waiting to see specialists. Dying men. Several I didn't recognize greeted me.

"Charlie Norman. Remember me?" one said.

I didn't recognize the bald, gaunt man in a wheelchair. I looked at his I.D. card. I remembered him from at least twenty years ago.

"You look different now," I said.

"We're all older than dirt," he said.

He was dying of cancer, maybe a year left, he said. Another had a pacemaker, needed a heart transplant, but the odds of that are about the same as winning the Mega Millions lottery.

The cardiology nurse called my name.

Dr. Salman asked me questions and reviewed my medical records on the computer. He scheduled me for an echocardiogram and a stress test. Another road trip.

We made it back to the institution three hours later.

 

On Wednesday afternoon I reported to the education classroom in the former old staff dining room at the rear of the kitchen. They are demolishing all the buildings on the north end of the compound, including the former school, preparing to build another mental hospital, and all programs are cramped for space. The University of Central Florida (UCF) in Orlando is sponsoring the Florida Prison Education Project (FPEP), with classes held here at Lake C. I. and Central Florida Reception Center (CFRC).

I completed the first class in 2022, "Principles of Art and Design," and signed up for the newest one, "Caribbean Literature." Wednesday was the first day.

Professor Heather Vazquez greeted the twenty or so men signed up for the course. We crowded into the small classroom and took our seats at single desks. No matter — we are used to being crowded.

The professor is an obviously intelligent and well-spoken person who exudes her love of teaching, volunteering her free time to drive out here in the boonies for the next eight weeks to offer us a college-level education experience. She is also the coordinator of the Florida Prison Education Project, promising future classes if she can recruit enough professors to volunteer their time to teach. She asked if we had any suggestions for future classes. I would like a composition class that compiles our writings in a journal.

The professor and Mr. Jacobson, the education manager here, passed out writing supplies and reading materials, as she gave us an overview of the Caribbean Literature course. Very interesting.

Next week Professor Vazquez is bringing a guest speaker, Anna Levi, an author from Trinidad. She gave us an excerpt from Ms. Levi's book to read for next week. Being isolated and exiled from free society, it is the rare exception to be able to meet and interact with citizens who are not prison security staff. I am looking forward to exercising my brain and learning more, not only about other cultures, but also my own.

Thursday morning a storm front from the west passed through, leaving rain and freeze warnings in its wake. Thirty years ago the prisons passed out sweatshirts and thermal underwear at the onset of cold weather. They stopped that. Now they issue flimsy jackets that barely cut the wind.
For those who have family to send them money, extra warm clothing can be purchased from the canteen quarterly each year. For those without family, shivering ensues.

Friday morning I donned my sweatshirt, thermals, and blue knit cap to go to the weekly Gavel Club program in the chapel, sponsored by Toastmasters International. Three local Toastmasters members from Clermont sponsor our program, volunteering their time. Without them we wouldn't have a program. I first attended Gavel Club meetings in 1980 at Union C. I., aka "The Rock," Florida's oldest, largest, and most dangerous prison. Over 100 men attended the meetings in the visiting park. It was very difficult to find opportunities to speak with so many members. With a much smaller group here, it is easier to get on the agenda to practice speaking.

I live through the interminable weekdays with their incessant counts and ransacking shakedowns, for the Saturdays and Sundays when my dear wife, Libby, visits me. Only sixteen men were counted at noon in the visiting park this past Saturday. Sixteen out of total inmate population of around 560, less than three percent, a bad number for society. The "experts" know that those prisoners who receive regular visits from family and friends have a much better prognosis for success when they are released from prison back to society.

We had three days of visits this past weekend. The Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday gave us an extra day on Monday. Only nine men stood for the noon count. I can't tell you how much those hours spent with Libby contribute to my positive attitude and hopes for the future. We both need that extra time together. I hope to have a new parole hearing in the next few months, and there is much to accomplish. We talk and plan for the future.

My parole release date is still frozen at July 4, 2o17, and our efforts focus on a new parole release plan. We need letters of support from family and friends on my release on parole. We'll discuss this more in the coming weeks.

 

For over ten years, I have been approved to attend the "Prisoners of Christ" faith-based residential transition program in Jacksonville. "Prisoners of Christ," originally formed by Ken Cooper over thirty years ago, is a highly-respected program supported by some of the most reputable Christian business people in North Florida.

In the recently completed "Creative Writing Workshop” I taught, students are encouraged to keep a daily journal. I send my daily journals by email to Libby, who keeps them. I asked her to share this installment of my past week in prison with family and friends to give you a glimpse of my life in prison.

 

Realistically, this upcoming year is my last chance for freedom. We have to marshal our resources and put together a new, convincing parole release plan. We still need new letters supporting my parole, we have three right now. April 5th will mark 45 years in prison for a crime I had nothing to do with. We called on the state attorney to make available crime scene evidence for modern DNA testing to prove my innocence, but the new state attorney claims the evidence is lost.

I don't want to die in prison. My health is failing. Still we fight on.

Peace, joy and love to you and yours.

Charles Patrick Norman

January 18, 2023

Journal from Solitary Confinement

 

October 10, 2022

Prison Gestapo Strikes Again

Just when I thought things were moving in a positive direction, they struck again. It happened the way it usually has happened, out of the clear blue sky. I had just returned to the dorm after attending a “Principles of Art and Design” class sponsored by the University of Central Florida. I’d just gotten on the phone when a guard came in the dorm amd motioned for me to hang up the phone, I was going to confinement. What charge? No charge – under investigation. For what? No one knows. Captain Stoops knows – his orders.

I do nothing wrong. I walk the straight and narrow. Every year or two, “they” will get angry at something I wrote about and harass me by putting me “under investigation,” then let me go leter, after losing personal property and visits. They know that the only way they can hurt me is by depriving me of visits. Visiting was scheduled to be resumed on Saturday, Oct. 15, after a two-week closure due to Hurricane Ian. I may not make it.

What’s it all about? Good question. Bad timing. I have a legal call scheduled and legal appeals I’m working on. “They” censored several emails I sent out about talks I’ve been having with the transgender prisoners that are living in our dorm.. I am filing grievances on the censoring of my emails. They haven’t heard about freedom of speech in Lake County. That’s all I can think of that could be the cause of being under investigation.

Fortunately I had gone to the canteen, and have “trade goods” I can barter for paper and stamps.

ANTS! Millions of them! My food is in a pillow case on my toilet, slowing them down.

What can you do? Prayer is always welcome. and keep in touch. I can’t send email, but I can receive it and snail mail a day or two later.

Best to all from Solitary Confinement.

Charlie

Day Three  Wednesday, October 12, 2022   Solitary Confinement

Over 40 years ago, Jack “Murf The Surf” Murphy, imparted prison wisdom that some old-timer told him years before, about the people who run prisons — “If their lips are movin’, they’re lyin’.” That’s haow you can tell; are their lips moving? then they’re lying. I experienced that yesterday, Day Two, Tuesday.

A group of officials making their required rounds, passed my cell. One said, “What’s he doing in here?”(It’s very surprising to see me, an elderly man, model inmate, 44 years in prison, uninvolved in any prison hustles or gang activity, to be in lockup, under investigation.)

Being inside a steel box, sound is muted. I called out to a female classification supervisor, “Why am I locked up under investigation?” In passing, not slowing down, she said, “An email you sent said you were getting paid for writing articles.”

That’s totally false. Check my canteen account. I denied it. She kept walking. When my classification officer went by, she had nothing to say.

Next, the sergeant over gangs brought a “witness statement” to fill out. that will be brief, I know nothing. I’ve done nothing wrong. I asked him why I was in here; he said, “Someone wrote a kite on you, said you were going to escape.”

Hah! (a kite is an anonymous note written to get someone moved or in trouble.) His lips were moving. I told him, “You should know better. I can barely walk to the chow hall.” I asked him again, “Do you really believe that?”

“No,” he said, leaving the cell.

“Then let me out.” I yelled to his back. He was gone.

They have been tampering with my JPay emails for years, but more so lately. I’ve filed grievances for improper censorship. They erase emails that Libby has paid for. DOC rules state since there are no specific rules governing emails, they are under “routine mail” rules, Chapter 33-210-101 of the Florida Administrative Code, also the Florida Constitution Declaration of Rights and the 1^st and 14^th Amendments to the U.S. Constitution. They don’t care.

I’ve found that it is more effective to drown the thousands of ants infesting the cell than to try squishing them. Pouring water around the walls slows them down.

Charlie

Day Four   Thursday, October 13, 2022

Here I am, still in my solitary cell. I have successfully beaten back the ant invasion. Only two or three make it to my bunk to bite me every couple of hours. I poured a ring of water around my cell walls and the cracked corners they come through, drowned a few thousand and squished the ones that get through.

The lips are still moving. The captain who ordered my lockup came through today. I asked him why he locked me up. “I don’t know.”  He said he had locked up half the people in confinement, and didn’t know why, but it was probably verbal disrespect, or refusing to work.

What? No way! That makes four reasons, none true.

Hopefully, they will get called on this, let me go. Eliminating all the ludicrous possibilities, I know why they are doing this. They don’t want me to write, so they silenced me. No tablet, no email, no writing. Censorship. Illegal. Someone will answer for this eventually, but now I am noe burdened with more hassles, that I don’t need.

more later. Charlie

Day Five   Friday, October 14, 2022  Lying Lips Continued

Today was a little better than yesterday. Just finished my supper — mystery meat patty, watery instant potatoes, green beans, two slices white bread, a piece of sheet cake. The food in confinement is better than that served to the compound. Kitchen workers get locked up for stealing, refusing to work, disrespect, and more. Perhaps half the men back here are out of the chow hall. Their friends prepare the trays and fix them up, all the trays, so when they go to lockup, sooner or later, they will at least eat well. Looking out for each other.

Another day of lying lips, pr more accurately, silent lips. They call “Inspection,” we have to stand up when the officials whiz by our cells, no opportunity to ask them questions… “Why am I back….” Whiz, they’re gone.

The property room gave me two legal folders with a few envelopes and paper, so I’m not so desperate about writing. As I said before, I can’t send email, but I can receive them. they print them out, and I hopefully will receive them a day or two later. I get the USA Today newspaper, and it has been a lifesaver — reading material and crossword puzzles!

Friday night — shower time, Mon., Wed., Fri. At least the heat broke after the hurricane, so the stuffy cells are bearable.

Good night, Charlie

Day Six  Saturday, October 15, 2022  Solitary In The Dark

One thing about solitary is you can catch up on your sleep in bits and pieces, no early morning sliding steel doors slamming the heavy doors closed. 4:15 am nurse handing out medications. 5 am lights out. 6:30 am lights on — chow; 6:45 am lights off, just as I was about to start writing. Six feet up the outer wall a horizontal window, a little light filters in. I can hear the sandhill cranes and their haunting honks passing overhead. I worry about the seven feral cats in the storm drain — no one to sneak sardines and meatballs to them.

It’s 9:50 am, and I can barely see to write. This myasthenia gravis has adversely affected my vision and handwriting.

A friend passed a book to me — “1984” by George Orwell. How appropriate. It has been decades since I read it. I now live in a totalitarian society All I remember is Winston Smith, “Big brother is watching you.” (How true in here.) and the verse, “Beneath the spreading chestnut tree, I betrayed you and you betrayed me.

It is 8:28 pm, Saturday night now. Quiet. They’ll be screaming over football in J-2, my old dorm.

Uneventful day. Read about half of “1984,” filled in my last USA Today crossword puzzle, battled ants. Rewrote a formal grievance on censored JPay emails. Got a lot of rest. No cell mate to deal with.

I regret greatly missing our visits. No phones either.

No matter how closely I walk the straight and narrow, every now and then that old devil sticks me with his pitchfork to test me. I’ve been tested enough. Let me go! Evil!

More later. I pray your circumstances are better than mine.

Charlie

Day 7  Sunday, October 16, 2022  Solitary

Saturday night wasn’t too bad – only got awakened by ant bites 4 or 5 times. I’ve successfully fought back. I made a little levee of rolled up toilet tissue along the wall where the ants come in. I I pour water on their long line of march into the cell — they don’t like water — disrupts their scent trail. They climb the wall and I squish them. That’s good for an hour or two. When the water dries up, they are back. Ouch! One bit me on the neck [ant revenge?] Let me pour more water.

The cell is dark. I can rarely see this writing on the page. Waiting now for lunch and for the lights to come on.

I want to tell you about Friday’s shower night. Forty-two cells, 1^st floor and 2^nd floor. Very depressing. Suicides and suicide attempts are common. The only time you see any other prisoner outside their cell is when someone goes to a medical callout or shower night, Mon., Wed., and Fri.

I am well known in a positive sense, to various staff and inmates as “Mr. Norman.” The guard let me out of my cell to go to the shower, and several men looking out of their little cell windows began yelling. I couldn’t help but laugh when this young, heavily tattooed gang member yelled out, “GAWD! What’s this place coming to? these assholes done locked up Mr. Norman, the nicest man at Lake. I know you ain’t done a damned thing wrong.”

Amen, brother, you’re right.

The sandhill cranes just landed by the pond, and continued honking for a good five minutes. I believe they are calling for their missing baby.

Gotta water the ants. Back later. Charlie

Day 8 Monday, October 17, 2022  Solitary

Quiet day in “the box.” Another “drive-by” inspection. The warden passed by so fast — “Beep-Beep” — thought it was the Roadrunner with the Coyote on his tail, of Looney-Toons cartoon fame.

Had filling tray of spaghetti and meatballs, green beans, chopped raw cabbage, and 2 slices of bread for lunch. The kitchen buys large bags of small commercially-made meatballs, smaller than ping-pong balls. “Out there,” in the dorm, several men sneaked out their meatballs for me to feed the feral storm drain cats. Six meatballs per tray. I try to get 21 meatballs, 3 for each cat, at least one good meal for them.

You should see those cats eat! I scatter the meatballs on the asphalt, and it looks like an eating contest. One cat is like chipmunk — she takes a meatball in her mouth, then stuffs in another one, and runs away from the crowd to wolf down both. May not be able to do that anymore. No telling what may happen, even a transfer.

Monday night, shower night. Some guys refuse their showers. Whew! Body odor! Hot and stuffy all the time in here — no air circulation at all in here. I take all of mine, and stay in until they run me out.

I’ll take a break for now. Finished “1984.” Numerous parallels to prison life. Slavery. Now I have “Lord of the Flies.”

I pray this solitary journal doesn’t continue very long. Keep in touch. I can receive emails.

Charlie