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…

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