creation…

I am a product of my mother, who I have never known, never met. Never hugged and thanked her for this beautiful life I have found, manifested. Become me, find me. Finally found.
I am a product of my father, the same. I have no past, no proof of my existence, no ancestors and nowhere to look to find out why I am who I am.

I am one. One, alone.

I am only me. I began alone, and I continue that way.
Myself and my dreams, my dreams, my dreams. Much more of me than anything, my dreams.

Look into my eyes and try to see the perpetual pain. Pain is not uncommon, but this one is unique. Only adoptees understand it , as it is something that is accepted. Accepted by all that haven’t been there, who never will be. According to you, we are “the chosen ones”. This is what I grew up with and accepted. Accepted for most of my life…

Fuck you.

Who am I?

I am only words, only offering delight. I am nothing, I don’t exist, I am me.
I am me and I fucking rock.
I have built this life, piece by piece, I have built this life of mine and the sacrifices have been immesurable, but it is my life. I do what I want.  I do what I need to. Tomorrow might not happen. Today must be more beautiful than any other.

I select my friends wisely. I see them with my heart, look at them through my soul. I judge, and I admit it. I haven’t the time for games. I don’t play. See me, feel me. Touch me and wrap your arms around me. I need that – we all do.

Who am I?

I am you.

I am my friends, a mirror.
Look into me and you will find the purest love. trhis is what I find in you.
Look into me and you will find happiness, this is what I find in you.
Look into me and see yourself,

as you are what I am.

I am love and beauty. I am pain and sorrow, and the ways to escape them. I am destruction, I am creation, and everything in betwen.
I am you.

I am you, and thoug it’s been said many times, I will keep on saying that…

I love you, and I wouldn’t exist without you.

I love all of you.

You are the reason that I am stil alive, still here. You gotta take my word on this one…

My friends. My family.

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Stories from the jailhouse, third and final.

Where did I leave off?

Oh yeah – with metting ‘K’ and the melding into other ramblings.
This will be the next eight days…

Nothing. I wait, wait for court. The days blend together. I read, try not to think of my friends, my van – what if it is towed? All of my performance gear – statuing, stilts, fire – my computer, phone, a few books that I love. The picture of my favorite grandma. “Dot”, taken in the thirties where she looks so insanely glamorous and beautiful. It is the only picture I have hanging in my van – she was a true jewel, and I would be more than honered to be of her blood, but I’m just an adoptee. I have no family by blood…

I wait, I think we all do. Santa Rita is not a permanent home, I don’t think – most will be transfered to San Quentin or released – or from what I heard, transfered to any prison to run their sentence.

Monday comes and goes, I start on the second book. the first was by Grisham, and was actually quite good. This is one I’ve alreaddy read by Anne Rice, but luckily so long ago that I could read it again and still be suprised – almost. I made myself be enraptured by the story. I needed to.

I think that it was Tuesday that I was called to court. They have speakers in every cell, and call us individually at around 4:30am. PORTER, COURT. GET READY. This folllowed by the loud clack of the cell door being electronically unlocked. You don’t sleep well here. Jungry all the time, tired and uncomfortable. Imagine that. The best hours to sleep are during the day, somehow – at least for me. Maybe it was because after breakfast I finally had a stomach that didn’t bitch at me, and lunch, served in a sealed plastic bag and consisting of four slices of breas, some strange, inidentifiable meat, an orange, a powder for a drink and a couple cookies – that wsn’t anything to look forward to. I slept during the day, and the nights were spent trying to, or reading.

Waoting, waiting. Finally on the bus, heading to the courthouse in Oakland. We’re placed in a holding cell again, cement benches, overcrowded, waiting for our names to be calle. Mine finally is, and I’m escorted by the deputy through a small hallway into the court. Then, I find out why I am being held. From the DUI years ago, I had a commitment to do comunity service, which I tried to do a couple times, got to the Eastbay late from SF, and essentially, eventually, forgot about. 15 days. The judge, without turning her face to me, says “15 days community service, woule you like to serve that in time now or get an attorney?” I stumble. Fifteen fucking days? I need to WORK! Bohemian Carnival is coming up, I need to get to the Wharf, I need to fucking pay my friends back! ( Is the van still there???)
I’m not a drug dealer or a thief, a gang member or a murderer.  Fuck your law, fuck your judicial blindness. I’m a good person, let me go…

I opt for an attorney who doesn’t do shit. a few days later and I’m iback n court, with nothing relaxed. I’ve been in jail for over a week now, and have met another person – I forget his real name, but he’s a huge mexican guy, and a friend of Little cha Cha’s. He doesn’t kno mine either, so introduces me a s “Blue”, in regards to my fingernail polish. Fucker. beautiful  bastard. That was going to be the name of the child I almost had.
Since this is all about nicknames, i decide to call him Roadblock. He laughs. Good.

After court, I know I have either tow or four more days in here. I can almost taste the air, the freedom. I don’t think about my van, ther is nothing I can do. Nothing.

Finally, after four books, coutless games of cards with Chad ( who usually won, damnit) many other things and hours and hours of meditation, my name is called agoin over the cell speaker. PORTER, ROLL UP – YOU’RE BEING RELEASED.

Released.

Waiting again, but happier, more anticipation, less patience. Realeased out of this place where I most certainly do not belong, and will never return. Myself and others go throuhg the ritual – dressing out, getting property, waiting for doors to click open. I had no cash on me, so they gave me a BART ticket for 3.90.  Walking away, more waiting, the end of the Dublin line. I hop on the train, take it to 24th st. Mission, talk to the stationn managr who lets me through – the ticket was a buck15 short for where I needed to be.
 
Off BART, breathing in the fresh air. Walkijg dowm 24th St. The entire time I was locked up I sent out energy to my van, trying to make it invisible, making it still be there. I turned the corner – and
and it was. In an area that has 1 hour parking except fro area P permits, I had only two tickets for street sweeping – and a notice on the windsheild that it would be towed that very day. You can only park in S.F in one spot for 72 hours.

I am blessed.

I am blessed, and fucking tired, but I needed to complete this saga. Now, I need to sleep, get to the Wharf early tomorrow, and make some scratch for my trip to New Orleans on Monday.

I will never be able to express how much I love all of you, but I’ll do my best.

I will never be able to express in words how much I missed you, or at the same time, how wonderful this strange non-existence felt. How dissapearing was so delicious. How it was to have absolutely no responsibilities, to have human taken away, to escape time, obligations… to escape life.

I will never be able to express the absence of everything that I felt. This absence is necessary in there. It was a strange temporary death.

I will never be able to express how much I love you…

dreams…

Azure Ray – I will do these things…

I will take your childhood dreams
And turn them into to beautiful film
I will take your most important things
Cast them gold fill a mueseum

So your heart doesn’t know where mine’s been
I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

I will kiss away every tear
They’ll disappear in my mouth
And i will believe in all your fears
You let them in, i’ll let them out
And put them in their place, my love

So your heart doesn’t know where mine’s been
I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

I’ll never let your heart go where mine’s been

backwards for forwards again…

back to the Oakland Jail…

Mike and I are “dressed in” in our county issue red pants and shirt, given socks, an undershirt, rubber sandals. The color you’re dressed in denotes where you’re placed, how youare seen. Red is for protective custody and psychos, orange for the Surenos gang, and blue is mainline. Thankfully they don’t place the PC’s with the psychs in holding. They scream and bang a lot…

We’re taken to the bus – the big green County Sherrifs bus with bars all around – some of you may have seen them. It’s seciotened off into different cages for different colors. I’m placed into a small cage with three others, quiet people. In the garage everyone is talking at the top of their voices, laughing, just having a ball it seems – until the second gate starts to slowly open, sunlight streams in, and the bus starts.
As we pull past the gate there is a hush that overcomes the people inmates, and where as before they were all faced inside, as I watch the conversations end in mid-sentence, and they all turn towards the window to look out past the bars. I watch them – on the trip to Santa Rita Jail in Dublin, almost nothing was said, they’re silence and sad stares saying everything…

I was picked up Monday afternoon. This was Thursday. We arrive at Santa Rita, and again, the processing, the waiting. Finally, at 3am, Mike and I are called out, given out bedrolls which consist of a pillowcase, a sheet, blanket, washcloth and towel, walk through the building, right shoulder to right wall, no talking. We’re taken to our “Pods”‘, as they’re called. He is sent into 21 West, I am taken to 23. I don’t see him again until over a week later.

My cell is number 35. There are 48 indivitual two man cells here on two tiers, along a row that has a 60 degree bend in the middle of it. Across the common area, the deputies qatch quarters see everything through tinted windows that we can’t see in. I wait by my cell door until I hear a lout clack, open it, walk in and shut the door which instantly locks. I have the top bunk. Chad & I introduce ourselves, I make the bed just enough so that I don’t have to lay on the plastic coated pad, put the case on the plastic coated “pillow”, and do my best to sleep.

Friday comes and goes without my name called for court. I still have no idea what the warrant was for exactly, but I expect that I’m there because of a DUI course from around four years ago that I didn’t complete. Almost did, but ran out of money, so they kicked me out. I want to go to court, expecting that I’ll simply be released that day with another court date…
I need to wait the weekend. Hopefully my name will be called on Monday…

I essentially keep the same demeanor that i think I have on the outside, (listen to me – “on the outside?”) friendly without being imposing, mainly keeping to myself but open to anyone who doesn’t seem like a total nutjob. I noticed how few white guys there were in there, and the ones that were were people that I looked at and immediately didn’t want to associate with, except for my cell-mate, Chad. They just felt wrong.
I guess in order to land in jail while white, you must be really stupid and easilly pegged as a criminal, (or have a warrant that you didn’t know about, which I guess falls under stupid, ahem) while the other races don’t need to make much effort at all.
Just an impression.

During the weekend, during “Pod Time”, where we are actually let out of our cells for an hour or a few, a young mexican kid actually comes up and introduces himself to me – I have no idea why. His name is Little Cha Cha. Nice kid. We don’t talk much, just say hi. This gives us the okay to nod a friendly “hello” when we pass each other, opens things up to become friendly, and possible conects me as someone unthreating and generally okay to his friends. I don’t feel threatened in here, but there is an unwritten protocol that is easily learned if you pay atttention. If you don’t…

Eating lunch a couple days later, another guy – another mexican, somewhere around 50 and looking pretty old school, calls to me. “Hey – did you ever spend time in Federal?” I look at him, think of what my answer should be.
“Yeah – a long time ago, but that was in San Diego.”
“I thought I regognized you. I remember you from MCC.”
We introduce ourselves, his name is “K”, but I can’t place him. Still, nice to have another ally. Aparently, a fimiliar face goes a long way here if there isn’t war attached to it.
I look at him a bit closer when he isn;t looking, and then remember – he’s the almost spitting image of Marlon Brando from “The Godfather”, with smaller jowels. I remember writing about him after I got out of there, and here he is again. Later, I ask him what he’s been up to, where he’s been.
He lists a chain of around six prisons, almost as a badge.
This, apparently, is his home.

For most of you who don’t know, around seven years ago I spent some time in Federal Prison in San Diego. Working for a Harley Shop, my boss – Rick Nelson, (((one of the very few people I would happily torture – not for what I got myself into with him, but because while briefly living with him and his family I saw how he was desrtoying his two beautiful daughters and treating his wife – though she was pretty damn discusting too – they were the worst white trash you gould imagine – and the first on the list is George W – Rick is second, don’t know of a third)))… Anyway, Rick dealt pot. No problem by me, until I had my suspicions of the untimely and strange death of a good friend of ours as they were riding bikes back from Cabo for a Harley rental company that used us as a business and maintenance base.
George wasn’t the best rider by any means, but he was very aware of his limits and as far as I always saw, intentionally rode under them.
The went off the road about 50 miles of Loreto, Mexico, head neatly cracked on a rock.
Rick owed him lots of money.
This is all a different story.
Back to the reason I ended up in Federal…

Rick set up a deal through friend of his in Boston that he hadn’t heard from in a while – 400 pounds.
A sample was sent to them in the mail – one pound. Mail = Federal offence.
I knew what was going on, but somehow was smart enough to not say anything in out meetings. Any questions I had I asked Rick afterwords.
Ends up, Boston guys got busted prior to this, were working with DEA to lighten the sentence and lead them to a kingpin, and contacted Rick. The stupid shit set it all up with undercover, and I was caught with 98.8 pounds of pot in the trunk of the car I was driving.
I worked at a Harley shop – we pick up cars, bikes, and drop them off as well. They couldn’t prove I had any knowledge, so instead of getting a pretty hardcore felony I plead to a misdemeanor. One month in Federal, then one month again when I fiolated probation on a traffic ticket.
That’s that story.

Fuck, there is so much in my life, all a part of a previous story. Intertwined, everything effects everything. I may have not make the best decisions at times, and there is an ongoing feeling of just a floater, a dreamer, wanting someday to do for everyone but until then being only one who wants. I give what I can, at this time it isn’t anything compared to what I desire to.
The list grows, I shrink, drink, and wish to be what some people see in me.

I’m a vagabond, a dreamer. It took 38 years to realize that I couldn’t live any other life than this. I give everything for this, and what I am. I reach as far as I can, then further. I loathe the mundane with a passion, and with absolutely no arrogance I ignore it – feel that it is not worthy of me or the people I hold dear. I’m not good at day-to-day shit. Parking tickets, court, Yeah, I’m stupid, but fuck it. There is no question that new worlds begin with sacrifice, and it is time for a new world. Long fucking time that it came about.

I was talking with my mom tonight. One of the most loving and caring creatures ever,  and  ther came a point in the conversation  where she was concerned with my lifestyle,  not having a savings, a retirement. Five or ten years down the roa
d, where I will be?

I needed to remind her.

These days, today is everything. Today is the only. I feel good, but tired and sore. Tomorrow – fuck that. Today. E verything today. All of me, all i can give. My health is waning, I can’t get to my doctor who works at the clinic on Fridays only until I pay my friends. Friday can be a good day sometimes at the Wharf.

I’m tired, sore – but for now, I’m alive, and I will do everything I fucking can to share that. If I get to sick to work next week, I will have no qualms, no  regrets. I brought as many smiles and as much wonder to people as I could, and it will be a passing that I won’t argue with.

But i won’t get sick.

All be told, it’s been about 22 years.  In ’85 I heard, didn’t believe.

Fuck you, I love you. I’lll sorvive as long as I need to. I’m ready anytime.

I’ve made my peace a long, long time ago –
and now,  I almost want.

But tomorrow could be exquisite, so I stick around…

because I love you, my life, and the high of dreams realized…

More jail eventually…

exhaustion…

Suprise (somewhat – knew about the date, but not confirmed until this morning) corporate gig with Vau de Vire Society today at the W hotel, nine hours plus with in and out-load of all of our equipment.
Makeup still smeared on my face with only one cleaning, I leave it until tomorrow – more goes on then anyway.
I’ve been wanting to write more for days, but just haven’t had the time or that delicious sense of solitude that becons the words…

So much to do in the next few days. I leave for New Orleans on Monday, and have yet to find a place to sleep for the week I’m there. Perhaps tomorrow night, after the Wharf and dinner with my visiting mom, I’ll get my shit together – call the people that I need to just to simply say hello, make arrangements for NOLA, write more about my jail time…

It’s strange – perhaps those days in jail did have an effect on me, tough Kevin asked recently how I ws adjusting and I said fine, no problem…

 Twelve days of being locked in a 9×12 cell, with little “Pod Time” as they call it, where we get to step out into the common area and almost pretend we’re human. Almost.

The world doesn’t exist in there. Not the outside world – It can’t. I almost understand why people spend their lives in and out of prison, and it’s difficult not to equate it with being a slave in the BDSM world. It’s almost, in a way, so completely freeing, sacrificing your freedom.
They take away any responsibility. You do what they say – if you don’t, you are punished. Life is incredibly easy with the right frame of mind, and you need to have that. If you think of the outside world, what you’re missing, what your friends are doing – if you think of fresh air and good (ie: recognizable and healthy) food, if you think of feeling the Sun on your shoulders, rain on your face, or looking at and adoring the Moon – if you think about a comfortable place to sleep, even if it’s in a van – if you think at all, you’ll be miserable; you’ll go crazy. In there, breakfast, served at 5am for no reason that I could figure out, is the most exciting part of the day. That’s when you could tell what the stuff on the plastic tray was, and since they serve “dinner” at 3:30pm, almost eleven hours before, a true sleep never came easily. Not on that bunk, not hungry. After breakfast, with some food in my stomach and nothing to do but wait until lunch but sit in the cell, that is when I could sleep…

The concrete and steel becomes your home. There is no other way. It’s not rehabilitation – it is breaking the spirit, and gods, how they try…

Even after only twelve days inside – which is essentially nothing, I find myself struggling at times to take care of the thngs I need to. In there, everything was done for me. In there, I couldn’t think about you without wishing I could call and hear your voice. Couldn’t make plans, couldn’t work – it was a strange lesson in living in the “Now” – but far from a healthy one. In their “now”, there is nothing. No action, love or possibilities. In that now, you don’t want to dream.

You only wait…

Now, it is time to sleep, in a glorious bed sans a lovely friend.

Make good dreams.

more.

fightingwords

 just stopped by my miniscule mobile palace, handed me my statue shirt that I left at her place a while ago while caring for her pup and cat. Good to have it back – I thought it was lost and gone, somewhere in travels. She’s a delicious creature, a wonderful woman and growing to be a good friend. Each time I am able to spend time with her (few and far between in the brief time I’ve known her) I delight in fantasies of kissing her, but alas, I do believe that her delicious lips are destined for the more succulent gender. Oh, if I were fortunate enough to be a woman…

I just talked to

colebern

, she’s doing well and fine. I haven’t heard her voice in ages, and didn’t know how much I missed it until I heard her velvetspeak tonight. Her voice is the comfort I have known, a blanket of peace. The world is at her fingers, calling for her. She’ll realize this soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In my van, motor running to support the battery and making this possible. Earlier it ran out of fuel, so I walked to the nearest gas station and filled up the gallon container, then went to the cheapest place I could find. 70 dollars bought me half a tank. Money I shouldn’t spend, but unfortunately need to. I consider it rent. I need to pay people back, and I’ll be standing my ass off come Wednesday to do so.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gods, I really don’t feel like putting down all the notes I took in jail. I’ll abreviate.

Tons of meditation. You’re in your small cell for about 22 hours a day, and the most exciting times are when you’re able to get out and eat. Breakfast was always decent – oatmeal or some cream o’ wheat kind of thang, served at 5am. “Lunch” at 11am, was hideous – some strange baloney type meat, an orange, a couple cookies all packaged up neatly in a bag. Dinner is served at 3:30, and is a hot meal, but less than desirable. We eat it because we need to. I ate because hunger is a horrible thing.

My cell mate is a guy named Chad. In on a paroll violation, the original charge was assault with a deadly weapon. His former wife was cheating on him, so he cracked her lovers head open. Planned it. Almost went down for attempted murder but pleaded lower. Did a nickel (five years) for that, and because of his paroll restrictions ended up back in jail.

I don’t even want to imagine five years locked up.

The California penal code is fucked. He’s a nice guy, made a mistake which he paid for with five years of his life. Then, on the outside, one and a half years later, he talks to a good friend of his that he plans on doing a side job with to reconstruct a bathroom. His friend was also on paroll, and gods forbid, he can’t talk to them. Can’t talk to anyone on paroll, because they may be planning more crimes.
Violation of paroll, with a possible 12 months. Just for talking to his friend about a job. Fucking absurd.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

More later, maybe.
Right now I go to Laurens’ house, a few steps way from my van, and take a glorious shower…

Hoosgow, part deux

I left off with Mike, in the holding cell for us PC’s.

He told me a bit of his story, more than I needed but still I absorbed it, relished it. I’ve most certainly lived a bizarre life, but his is something that I will never experience. Gangs, bullets, drugs – it ain’t my bag, baby. I learned that it is the lifestyle for far too many. It is all that they think that they have, spoken through generations, handed down.

I’m in Santa Rita Jail now, somewhere in Dublin, a holding cell. It’s Thursday the 12th. I was arrested three days ago.Three days is a long, long time in jail.

We hear the jangle of keys and a deputy opens the heavy door, calls our names and checks our wristbands. We’re moving, getting placed. “Right shoulder to right wall, no talking. Follow the line.” Mike goes into pod 21, I go to pod 23. it’s 3 am.

My cell door opens electronically with a loud clack, and I step inside, shut the door. I meed Chad, my cellie. I piss in the toilet but it wont flush. “Waters off. Should be back on soon.”
I crawl into the top bunk and close my eyes. The foam matress is heaven, and I sleep.

Tired right now, don’t feel like writing. More later.

the sweetest jailbird…

These are the moments I drink in, swirl around on my tongue and savor. These are the moments I close my eyes, turn my face up to the sun, open my heart and almost shed tears in the sheer beauty of everything. Every moment is.

 

I find myself this morning at Fort Funston, a sanctuary in my van, driving wherever I wish to savor the view when I awake from the previous evening. This particular morning the sea stretches out from the cliffs, Ravens dance in the wind and countless dogs play in their freedom. This is where the Ravens play.

I used to bring Bean here frequently when we were with each other, but haven’t been back since she left. Perhaps I was afraid…perhaps, most certainly. This was our place, our playground, and I fell in love with my beautiful pup over and over here. Again and again. This was our place. This place, and everywhere. One of the first thoughts I had of my van was of how much Bean would have loved it… I watch the other dogs play, roam, sniff, jump around… and I can’t express the sorrow that I still feel in her absence. I am here because of her. Fort Funston. My Bean, the best friend I have ever had. I take the lessons that she taught me and smile. She always smiled. In the worst circumstances, when I felt that the world was falling down on me, I looked at her and knew that everything would be better. I looked at her, brought her to me and things made sense again. Even under the crush of life, all I needed to do was look at my beautiful pup, see her look at me with such a brilliant simplicity – and everything made sense. The pain was erased, she taught me to smile with her, and we went on. She knew the Now, and that everything was perfect, everything is as it should be.

I wear her smile around my neck, in my heart… She is always with me. The best damn dawggy in the whole wide world, Ever. My Bean. My girl.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

I’m out now – I’m here, still alive. Still breathing, climbing, relishing the succulence of an exquisite life, a life gloriously full of everything it can fit – and damn, it keeps on fitting more.

 

Yesterday I was released from 12 days in the Alameda county Jail, Santa Rita Prison, somewhere in Dublin.  This is how it happened…

 

I fell asleep in my van after I turned on the motor to re-charge the battery, as the battery on Clotho (my lappytop compooper) lasts for about the duration of a cigarette so I need to constantly have power going to it, therefore I need to run my power converter off the van battery, but it drains the van battery. Run the motor, drink some bourbon and smoke some cigarettes, patience and a day in the life of. I was tired, a bit of bourbon and delicious comfort in my van –  I fell asleep…

 All hail neighborhood watch, as someone decided to call the police and have them check out the van that has been sitting there for a couple of hours with the engine running. I woke up to two uniformed cops, Officers Baca & Lopez, gently and incredibly kindly calling me back into consciousness. I guess I left the side door unlocked. I woke up to their faces peeking in my van . Nothing against them, but hell – waking up to police isn’t really preferred. It was then that I encountered a couple of the most friendly police officers I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and it was shortly after that I was in handcuffs. Monday, April 9^th, around 3:00pm. I had no idea at that time what was in store for me…

 

First, they parked my van a bit better so I wasn’t blocking a driveway, then took me with apologies (“Sorry, we’re just doing our job.”) to the station on Valencia & 18^th. The sergeant asked if I was compliant – “Oh, totally.” Unprofessional answer, but  damn, some cops are good, and I was fortunate to get some really kind ones locking the steel bracelets in front of my back. I need to remember them, send them a note of thanks for their kindness. Yeah, strange – but hell, the Mission District will be my home, wherever I park, and alliances are important. A good cop can be incredibly valuable…

Time passed, some other cop brought in a crazy cracked out woman, then after a bit of paperwork, released her. I couldn’t help but mention that the crazy crack lady got released and I didn’t. Me, nice guy, not whacked out on drugs, Not hurting anyone… Something is wrong in our judicial system. Surprise, surprise.

 

Enough of this drivel. Fast forward to 850 Briant St, San Francisco. It’s Monday, April 9^th, around four in the afternoon.

 

I’m in Jail.

 

Apparently there is a “No Bond” hold on my warrant from Oakland. No Bail, no cite out, they want me, face to face.

Sometimes it’s not so nice to be wanted. This, most certainly, is one of those times.

 

Endless hours spent in holding, steel doors, cinderblock walls, echoing voices – we do what we can to pass the time and pretend we’re comfortable. Some try to sleep – I did. Toilet paper pillows and cement benches don’t cut it. About 12 of us in holding, waiting to be processed – we wait, and wait, and wait.

There’s nothing you can do but talk with people if you’re so inclined, and people want to talk. I met some interesting people…

 

Jack – white guy, blond and balding, twitching. Fat gut and friendly, he tells me of his life with little encouragement. I want to know, I want to write about these people.

Jack is based in the Tenderloin, his weaknesses, Heroin and Crack. He’s in here for a $2.50 rock that he got caught with. Jack has been on the streets for around 20 years, looks beaten but is still chipper. He steals to support his habit – A Starbucks theft is his pride – they didn’t lock the window or set the alarm. He went back four times, robbed them silly, and was able to sell his take of coffee makers an everything else for four grand. I ask him why he didn’t find a home with that, or other large thefts he’s gotten money for. He looks me in the eye and tells me that he would rather spend the money on dope than pay someone for a home. Jack looks old, beaten, weathered. Balding, distended gut, proud of saying that he eats four or five McGriddles in the morning when he can, proud of saying that he keeps regular hours for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Proud of his gut because most crackheads don’t have one.

I am surprised when I find out later that Jack is a year younger than I am, and though he’s so animated, so full of life – in a sense, he’s already dead. His only goal is the next high. I used to be that, used to be him. I remember, I know…

 

3:am Tuesday. Finally processed out of the holding cells, our on clothes taken and now dressed in S.F. county orange, we – the people I am in the holding cell with –  are escorted up a few floors to the “F Pod” –  semi-circular setup on two tiers, with the deputy sheriffs station in the middle so they can see everything. Each space has three walls and is open towards the center on the absent one, two bunks, four “beds” and people each. We are given thin sheets and worn cotton blankets, no pillows. On the back wall of my cell is a
slit of a window, 5”x 24”, which looks out onto I-80. I stare out of it constantly, as there is nothing else to do here. In this place there are no books, nothing to read, nothing to do. This is the place where we wait to see what happens. All there is to do is sleep, or talk. The absence of the fourth wall is only a mirage – if you step onto the carpet, the border of all of the cells, you are quickly noticed and told to get off. There are phones available and if you ask, you can use them – but even if I remembered anyone’s number, who would I call, and why? The only number I know is my parents – and I’ll be damned if I call them. No reason to. They don’t need the worry or the interruption in their pristine lives, and even if they could do something, I wouldn’t want to burden them. They’re wonderful people, this is my deal and they don’t need to know about it. I’m doing great for the most part, I adore my life and this jail time is just a little hiccup that will be cleared up in a couple days and no more – or so I thought.

 

Oakland, or, more accurately, Alameda County had a hold on me, so I was just waiting for them to come pick me up. If you’re wanted in another county, I learned that they have five days to come get you. If they don’t, you’re released. They always do, I heard. Fortunately, I was only there two days before they came to get me. More people to talk with, get to know. A strange study on the inside of the jail system. I took it for what I could, listened, asked, learned – and saw so incredibly much in those few days. Kids, just barely 18, whose lives revolved around the getting and selling of drugs. Kids who have factored in jail time as part of their life, expect it and are fine with it, as if it’s nothing more than going to school. It seems that some even wore jail time as a symbol of pride, adolescent gangsters wanting to be big. A strange sub-subculture. I don’t belong here.

 

The next day there is a new person on the top bunk across from me. Silent at first, we all are – but somehow he and I start talking. His name is James if I remember correctly – James Soria – , a professional dancer, and pretty damn gorgous. He’s in because he got in a fight with his boyfriend, his first fight ever, where he just lost it and blackened both of his boyfriends eyes and kicked him when he was down. Beat the shit out of his boy, who turned him in. Domestic Violence is a huge rap, I’ve come to understand.

 The argument initially was about James leaving the country to tour with his troupe, and his boyfriend – a concert pianist prodigy who performed with symphonies when he was eleven, felt jealous. He reluctantly gave up the performance world to go to college, and at 22 is maintaining a far above average grade at Stanford and working for an institution that’s responsible for telling billionaires how to invest and donate their money, and making tons of money doing it. He was insanely jealous of James’s possible tour, had just recently lost his job (this information came out later) and there was a huge fight. James ended up in jail on a DV charge. James took a liking to me. I have no idea what is happening with him right now…

 

By Wednesday  I was concerned. I wasn’t out yet, and – and I was supposed to have dinner with Kevin on Monday, then pick up my arm stilts from Anastasia and meet with Frank Garvey of Omnicircus on Tuesday, not to mention the people I wanted to pay the day before. I don’t know any numbers, I can’t call. I wondered what people were thinking. I step back frequently, but never disappear so efficiently. Just gone, baby. Gone. Vanished…

 

Thursday finds my name called, and I am escorted to a bus heading to Oakland. Again in the holding tanks doing it all over on the concrete benches, toilet paper roll pillows and finding the most absurd ways to pretend to remember I’m human, I’m good, and fighting the idea that keeps permeating my mind that inmates are treated like cheap cattle. Try to sleep, try to go away from this horrible reality. A fetal position on cold concrete as we all wait. Wait, wait for hours. The stench of the unwashed is almost unbearable, packed into this concrete and steel cell we find places to escape into dreams, or if there are no dreams, just simply escape in our minds. The voices of those who can’t stop talking echo relentlessly in the cell. There is no small sound here. We adjust. I adjust. The human mind is beautiful in the way that it can escape…

 

Processing – again with the photographs and fingerprinting, names turned into numbers. I don’t exist anymore, I am called by the deputies a “body”. They move bodies from cell to cell in the process, until the final goal. I have no idea what takes so much time as we wait, wait, wait, concrete and steel.

 

Processing. Blue painted fingernails. Porter, I’m called out. The placement officer asks me if I’m sure I want to go into general population, or as they call it – “Mainline”.  I tell him I’m fine – then his face shows concern. (Human emotions? Oh MY!) He thinks that because of my fingernails I should go into protective custody – “PC” – “Is that what you think? Hell, this is your house, I’ve never been here. You know better than I… He says that my nails might cause “static”. Another deputy confirms. Whatever. Ignorant fucks… I’m now in Protective Custody, in my own cell, gloriously alone because I happen to paint my fingernails.  “Are you sure you’re not gay?” Yeah, he really asked that. Everything inside wanted to say “Hey, ignorant fucko, when was the last time you saw a gay boy with painted nails? None that I know – they’re just simply normal human beings with an edge on fashion and an occasional tendency for drama – but I’ve never known *any* of them to paint their nails, ya stereotypical ignorant fuck. If you’re going to profile someone, you better get your shit straight, asshole. The most unfortunate thing is that he was a really nice guy, and was just looking out for me – but damn, that frustrated me. A Red state unto himself, only a few miles from San Francisco and millions from the real world. This is why Bush is in office. Love this country, loathe the people in it…

 

I gotta say, as far as being an inmate goes, protective custody isn’t so bad. I was put into my own cell, just me and me alone, no stinky people, no incessant chatter. In the wait, I think I actually got a good nap on the concrete bench.. but a couple hours after I was placed with another PC in the next cell. Inevitably, we talked.

 

His name is Mike. I know his last but won’t say it here. Black guy, really nice with a lot of info and helpful suggestions. Turns out in conversation that he is in PC because he quit his gang eight years ago (Mr. Deputy confirmed his former gang affiliation in a short conversation that I heard) and has since been working the straight life. He told me about how he got his “stripes” in the gang at 17 by stabbing some white supremist in the neck with a pencil on the prison yard. Stabbing him over and over. I have now met someone who spent time on death row in San Quentin. His single cell was right by the shower, so he saw everyone that walked by – he watched Charles Manson walk by his cell to take a shower… I don’t think he has any reason to bullshit, especially to me. As he took his shirt off, I made not of the scars on his body – just a couple, almost perfectly round on his abdomen. Bullet holes.

 

St
ill at Fort Funston – everyone is gone except for me – I should probably move on, find a place that I can park and pirate a wireless connection. A place where this beautiful van stands out a bit less, a place to sleep. Silence, solitude. Much more later – I took notes.

 

a reply I just sent that found my heart…

I don’t know what the fuck either.

We did talk about three or four weeks ago, *** & I, and she did warn me about you – but I choose to meet and get to know people myself, not through other people’s words or opinions. I make my own decisions – if I didn’t, I would probably be one of them christian folk – but I would still probably go to their hell – it’s just who I am! I’m one fuck who can’t help but taste all the pleasures that life has to offer.
I have little doubt that if you searched just a little, you could find a couple people that had a very low opinion of me, as well…

I don’t subscribe to other people’s interpersonal drama, and that’s why I didn’t say anything to you about what she said. As far as her making sure that you don’t perform with us (US, at OUR show?) – well, in my humble opinion, that is incredibly and shockingly unprofessional.

As I know ***, she is a very professional person and performer, and in the brief time we had together in NOLA I got to like her a lot – but we’re all beautifully intricate creatures, and a short time is no time to get to know a person.
What you have just told me strikes me as something that I really can’t abide by nor agree with. As a matter of fact, it kinda pisses me off. Once again, this is OUR SHOW, and we want it to be as amazing as possible, and with as many deliciously sexystrange performers as we can possibly infuse into the mayhem.

We all know that sometimes, regardless of what is happening in our personal lives, we need to put on our game face and rock the fuck out of our audience. It’s our work, our life, our love and our passion, paid or unpaid, and we’re there for a reason. We love what we do. We love the people that come to see us, and give them as much of ourselves as we possibly can – if we didn’t, we wouldn’t be in this business. We kick ass and then, and only then, when all is done and the show is over, when we’ve made people as happy as we could – we go home and do whatever we need to do to release the shit inside of us. We’re driven by passion, we love with abandon, we relish the beauty and pain at every turn. We suck on the nectar of life with all we have, we create and are immersed in magick and we know it. We feel it. We ARE magick, beauty, love lust brilliance and pain, and that is what makes us different. We do what we do in hopes that someday our difference will be common. We do what we do to change the fucking world. It needs changing.

We’re driven by passion, and as a result are passionate people. We have our differences. We have our beauties and faults – (and gods, I have my faults!) but we are one, we are everything, we are the axis on which the world we are creating will eventually spin. We are everyone, though we still feel, at times, horribly alone. This is our life. We dance, and try to keep smiling. We dance with all of our hearts, and cry when when the show is over, alone.

(Is it a curse of this life we have chosen to feel so alone?)

I want you there, I want to meet you, perform with you – and this is OUR show, not ***’*. If it were, she could of course choose.

For this, she can only choose to be there or not – though I really hope that she will be.

Do what you can to work out the shit with ***. I/We want you there. I want to meet you and see you through *my* eyes and heart, not someone elses words and opinions. I want to see you perform, and perform with you. We’re all Angels in our own way, and we all have our devils.

Come down to the Bayou, m’dear. Come play with us in the forsaken city. Come to New Orleans – and help us teach the world to spin differently…

every drop

24th St. and San Bruno.
Searching tonight, wanting to get back on the interweb, write – it’s been spotty these days, all communication has. So it goes. Bouncing around the city until I found the place with good open WiFi and a place to park, and my thanks to the 24thstBitches, who I don’t know, but have found a good connection with as I hop onto their open WiFi connection. This is how I live my life. Not enough scratch to justify re-uping  the minutes on my phone, i listened to messages and couldn’t call. 
The Wharf is a tempermental bitch, and every day I study it, the people, and the money coming in. After twoandahalf hears of doing this, i finally succcumbed (at the suggestion of the one of two and only decent Bushman, who has become a good street friend of mine) to a handwritten sign saying that tips were appreciated for pictures, written after the first hour today, though I felt it made this static perfomance a bit cheap, though I felt that this is not what I want to do, I can’t help but say that the general population at the Wharf needed some instructing – and yes, it helped. the second hour was wonderfull, the third, quite a bit less – but that is a Sunday. Sundays are early days. after about 4 O’clock they just shuffle by, the end of their exhausting weekend of touristing. Still, I had the children, even if their parents were less desirable, and still I had the beautiful man who gushed with appreciation for what they saw, no tip but from him but I tipped my hat t him anyway, as he was sincere, sane, and  stood there, all 50+ years of him with his woman, and smiled, laughed… and coudn’t stop saying how good i was, the best he has seen.. (his opinion. Mine differs from day to day…) –   – and others who found delight…  Every day I pay attention, I study, I learn. Today was commanding the street, knowing what I do is good – it’s coming back. There is an energy that must be exchanged, an energy that needs to be ever-present. I fight for that. Command the stage. Hold my head high. The energy needs to be there…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Amazing things happening, my life is unfolding, my dreams are becomming. My dreams are becomming because of you. I can get around now, I have a van that I can sleep in. I can work easily, I can do SO much more. Because of you. You and the dreams that I fight for, the dreams that are being manifested. Simply having this glorious van has opened up so many new possibilities. Dig it:
Because of this van and it having a dead battery (super dead, needed replacement) last week Sunday, I missed a day at the Wharf. Got old battery jumped by the wonderful Bobzilla, and as it was too late to prepare and get to the Wharf, I was fortunate enough to help a good new friend, Indira, to move. Then she bought me a new battery for the van. Then, she bought me gas. Uncalled for, and I told her so – but she did anyway. I wouldn’t be able to do anything without her generosity that day. I would be screwed. The battery that came with the van was deaddeaddead, and as we pulle into the parts store, I gave the key one last twist out of curiosity – and ther was nothing. I missed a day of work, but she more than covered it – and all I needed was gas money, I thought. I would have been happy with that.

But yeah – through her I will probably now be collaborating with Omnicircus – Frank Garvey – omnicircus.com – as well as dates that are confirmed for two differeint weeknends in L.A. New orleans before that, Perfoming on ALCATRAZ, Seattle and Canada, and the possibility of Holland.

Life is a struggle, life is beautiful – and I’m tired, been working like hell and my body is soresore, so I stretch out in the bed in my van – and if I go from corner to corner, I can stretch out…. So much more to say, but….

but not now.