9:30

9:30 9:30 9:30 9:30 9:30. It took several tries to figure out what time it was. My glasses were not within reach and after re-arranging the furniture the previous day, the clock was further away then before.

Sprawled out in the middle of the floor was not how I normally chose to sleep, and I couldn’t recall why this was, and what had led me away from the recliner in which I had been sitting, watching a film.

The carpet was filthy and several bugs scurried about. The exterminators had been in the basement apartment a week ago, but these beasts were immune to the ancient chemicals these men deployed. Generations of cockroaches have survived, chewing through wires, starting wars with other species, crawling in and out of tiny cracks in the exposed brick walls.

Until recently, I used an air mattress that I had stolen from work as my bed until I could afford the 50-100 dollars it would likely cost to purchase a futon. The new kitten had likely put a hole into it. A few months had passed and many bills, a spread out security deposit, and a severe substance abuse problem left me with almost no money for extras such as food, bedding, or cleaning products. I maintained a bare minimum level of personal responsibility for my health and that had created a paranoid and stressful state of mind for me over the course of the past three months.

There was a time a few years ago, when I had slept on a giant blanket spread out on the floor in my bedroom. The small bit of padding in the comforter at least made the rest tolerable. Today, all I had were two pillows, a very thin, knitted blanket, and a thin sheet. I tried wadding them up in several different ways, but there was no comfort to be found at all. A terrible pain was working its way down my back, and my right elbow was sore, because I had been lying with it tucked underneath me. The pad just below the carpet was no help at all, and I slept on what was nothing more than covered concrete.

Isoladen

--Two inspectors...one in grey, and one in black were tailing me. They certainly know who I am. I didn't see them follow me into the shop, but I could sense their presence. I am no longer safe here. It's time to leave again.--

Official INTERCON Transmission

I am now sure that Isoladen is just a temporary stop for H. He hadn't sought out a permenant residence since his first violation, and has taken to sleeping on couches provided by friends of the ****. The address given to us by the Transportation Ministry was abandoned shortly after H committed his first violation. INTERCON of course knew about the violation, but we were surprised by the scale of the scheme. Normally offenses such as this were carried out by elite members of ****. H was new to **** but he quickly carried out the class five offense. Most **** members worked their way up the miscreant ladder, only committing a class five in a final gasp of defiance, hoping to become martyrs like those that came before them. This class five got my attention and had me checking back through old records to see if H was a new alias. This was an impossibility of course because I have all of the pertinent information: friends, family, frequent night(day) spots, hygiene (or lack thereof), medical health, psychological conditions, numbers, passwords, sexual partners, drug addictions (illegal and prescribed), all jobs held in his lifetime, schooling and so on. Our surveillance techniques used for this job had been perfected for over three-hundred cycles. H had only twenty-one cycles to learn the art of deviance and evasion, albeit with much help from ****. As you all know, no level of training can escape the grasp of INTERCON, but for a short period of time, H did a great job of avoiding detection. Our goal from here on out will be to control H without his knowledge, so he will lead us directly to ****. We must keep his offenses at a reasonable level as to not cause any serious societal disorder. This confrontation is inevitable, until we can find the exact location of ****'s headquarters, at which point we can only hope to crack the thus far impenetrable code.

--During our last conversation, **** had told me to be extremely careful. The game was up, and INTERCON was aware of the entire operation. Isoladen was the sixth metropolis I had fled to this cycle, and it was only the start of the second variation. At every stop I had at least one encounter with the inspectors. They had uttered not a word to me at any point, only making their presence known when I was starting to feel I was rid of them. I am now under the impression that they are using me to get to ****. If they wanted me for what I had done in Glaxton, they would have detained me long ago, but I am wary to declare this outright to **** because I didn't understand why the inspectors kept showing their faces. Now was not the time to figure anything out. I must leave Isolade and get somewhere new, so I could safely cable *** for some answers.

H's luck is up. He is growing paranoid. No longer will he be used for activist purposes.

Election Blues

disappointed patriots grieve for their fallen leader
fallen. not dead...a loss of grace that was always an illusion
the common man. common to ivy league halls
common in value, but not depth.
common in syntax with the minority who voted for him.

he had much in common with his cabinet...
wooden and always opening to one side,
but he lacks the storing capabilities
more mimicking the hat rack.

he holds many hats, yet can never shake the one used for war
and it has become stiff with dirt and crusted sweat from overuse
the diplomatic one is fresh and shiny, always staring at him
begging to be shown off, but when he does so, it fits awkwardly

like his hat, he himself fits somewhat awkwardly

he began his journey at an opportune time
grabbed a hold of the backlash over a stained dress
and had five judges (daddy's friends) rule in his favor
Choicepoint aided the scandal
with a criminal deletion of eligible felons
a fact that made headline in Europe,
while white (uninformed) voters filled out their Christmas wish lists

the housewife did not wish for a new vacuum or shrubbery
but alas, a lazy husband got us this wonderful bush.
(just in time)
that will go very nice in the nursery.

Sleep

I passed out at seven o'clock. I woke up at a quarter past eleven and had no idea what day, week, or year it was. I was very confused that it was dark outside. I worried that I was late for work.

Freewrite 2

Escaping out the front door was not an option. The man at the door surely would remember his face, and wasn’t going to let him leave. He quickly went down the hallway where he expected to find a set of bathrooms, but instead walked right into a darkened kitchen.

Alex was positive he had seen him go towards the kitchen. There was a route to flee that way, but only someone who worked there could navigate towards it without creating a flash of noise. Edwards was working the crowd, but Alex didn’t trust him at the door. Dave had called in sick, which meant he didn’t have much of a choice, and motioned with his flashlight for Edwards to come to the front door.

The man nearly knocked over a cart of plates, and squeezed between two prep tables to a closed door. As soon as he opened it up he heard footsteps behind him and he went inside and quietly shut the door. It opened ten seconds later.

“You lost my friend?” The man recognized the voice of the doorman, booming out from behind the bright flashlight.

“I guess I didn’t find what I was looking for. Where’s the can?”

“I think you need to come with me. Mr. C would like a word with you.”

“Who the fuck is Mr. C?”

“Mr. C knows who you are, and that is all you need to know right now. Now, get the fuck up and follow me,” the doorman said, pulling back his coat, revealing a bright silver revolver. The doorman shined his flashlight on the protrusion to make sure it wasn’t missed.

“Hey man,” the man started to stand up, holding both of his hands in the air, “Be cool, I’ll go talk to Mr. C. I’m sure he’s simply mistaken me for someone else.”

“We’ll see,” the doorman said, waving him forward with his gun, “Walk motherfucker.”

Mr. C took a large drink of his scotch and water and leaned back in his padded leather chair. The intercom on his desk buzzed. He pushed the button marked, “Listen,” and waited.

“I found him in the broom closet sir.”

“Very well, bring him in.”

He smiled as Alex pushed the man through the doorway. He suit needed washing, and the man looked as if he had been on a binge for several days. His eyes were bloodshot, and wide with fear, but he tried to smile and act cool when he made eye contact with Mr. C for the first time.

“A broom closet? You try to fuck me out of 5 g’s and you hide in a fuckin’ broom closet? What they fuck were you thinkin’ eh? No fucking sense to plan your way out before you make off with my money? Huh motherfucker? Mr. C. was an intimidating presence once he got rolling; the man had a well practiced scare tactic, raising his voice with every word.

“I don’t know what you think I’ve done sir? But I was only looking for the bathroom...please believe me, my date is sitting alone at the bar waiting for me to return.”

“I know your fucking date. Who do you think tipped us off asshole? You think you’re going to come in to my place of business...fuck the best regular piece of ass in the joint, the whore that’s brought me regular business for the past five years, and then you expect to fuck me in the ass as well? You’re god damn out of your mind.” Mr. C finished off his scotch and water and stood up from his chair. “I’ve met a lot of dumb mother fuckers in my life Smalls...” Mr. C trailed off into a mumble, pulling out a large hunting knife from the file cabinet in the corner.

Smalls? Who was Smalls? The man was certain now, that this was a case of mistaken identity. He had been caught yes, but for the wrong crime. With a blade six feet away from ending his life, he had to think up something quick. The girl, he thought. She would tell him they just met...and that this was his first time in here. He wasn’t even on a first name basis with the bartender yet.

“Please, Mr. C, I don’t know who you think I am, but I swear to you...” His pleading lasted all of thirty seconds, before Alex stuck a claw hammer into the back of the man’s skull. Meanwhile a man named Marcus Smalls, and his girlfriend Samantha, both now former employees of Mr. C’s, made their way down the alley behind the bar, carrying a large black duffle bag.

freewrite 1

Julien didn’t like coming home. The entire town of Pedroia felt strange to him since the awkward commercial build of the early nines. A small town was trying to find an identity, but lacked the originality to make the bustling town a genuinely attractive place to live.

The new buildings were built on top of memories. The Wal-Mart, the Cost-co, the 7/11, the Applebee’s, all of them covered up a different place from Julien's past. A housing development overran the sled hill where he broke his arm in the second grade. Children played on the playground of a K-8 school that was built in a field he had nearly burnt down during an acid trip his freshman year of high school. An entire complex of huge chain stores now occupied the woods where he and his friends would get horribly drunk and sleep with girls for the first time in the back of his best friend Jimmy's Toyota 4-Runner.

Jose’s served very generic Mexican food. Jimmy opened up the place when he moved back to Pedroia after finishing his degree. It flourished because it was one of a few places in town before the chain restaurants were constructed. Julien knew he could get some free food and beer from his friend. He needed a favor, because he was out of money, save the eighty-four dollars left for his bus ticket back home.

The suburban town felt very strange after twenty-six years. He walked the streets expecting to see old friends or meet new people, but nobody ever seemed to leave their homes.

The only reason he had come home this time was to see his mother, who spent her days at the Centennial Valley Mental Health Center. This time she had tried to swallow too much of her sleeping medication. This was the fourth attempted suicide for his mother. He was the only friend she had after his step-father left four years ago. He felt guilty because he could not afford to take care of her, so he came to see her whenever possible.

Matt was Julien’s brother, and worked split shifts at Jose’s, living a block away. Matt was not a blood relative, as he came from a previous marriage, but he and Julien were the same age, and became great friends, and stayed so after the divorce, though Matt refused to see Julien’s mother. Matt constantly talked about moving away to a bigger city, but he never did, and likely never would. Julien didn’t mind this because it gave him a place to stay for free, albeit on a couch that smelled like cat piss.

There was a slight drizzle, and the wind had picked up, ripping through Julien’s hooded sweatshirt. He quickened his pace, but continued to look straight down at the ground so his glasses would not get too wet. Next to his right foot was a single-subject notebook flapping against a dying rose bush. Picking it up, he ducked under the awning of Jose’s. Sitting a bench that was dry, waiting the fifteen minutes or so it would be before Jimmy came by to open the place up.

The notebook was somebody’s journal. Not only did it contain many first person narratives describing relationships and drug-taking, it contained poetry and creative fiction. There was no name anywhere. Julien opened it up to a page near the middle. It was an untitled poem written in purple sharpie:

in a hope

three steps

from the floor

but a breath

three feet

from the cerebellum

...

shattered HEART.

it’s okay.

contagious tears

deprive speech

which allows

cries of

______________.

(emotion)

He smiled and shut the notebook, stuffing into his black and blue backpack. He lit a cigarette and tried to imagine whose notebook he had come across. He hoped it was a friend. He traveled the country trying to find someone that could write the way this person could. He was in love.

Back to the bus

For two years now I have driven a car to and from work every day. I could bore you for a while with picky reasons, but overall, traffic stresses me out, the car itself wastes gas and is an emissions hazzard. Frankly I just missed meeting weirdos on the bus everyday, and having a solid hour or two to read every work day. This mornings incident furthered my thought of never driving my car again.

Monday morning:

I peel myself off of the pile of blankets that are acting as a bed for now, and slowly dressed for work. My newspaper was not delivered this morning, and they may finally be upset about the couple hundred dollars that I owe them at this point. Not receiving my news in a blue pouch every morning will depress me for a bit, but I still have free internet (that works sparingly), and a subscription to The Economist, so I can likely still stay up to date on current events.

Two days prior I had gone grocery shopping and knew that my car was parked on the first half of the block, on the legal side of the street. I was nearly to the end of the block when I realized my car was not there.

Apparently, Denver has some sort of official marathon that runs right down my street. They do not post anywhere that I came across that said I would not be allowed to park where I can always park except for the first Tuesday of every month, which is when the street sweepers through. My car was towed several blocks away to a spot between the 9/10th block and Broadway. I was ticketed originally for parking in a zone that was very temporarily deemed a no parking zone, and was then given a second ticket for parking where the tow truck towed my car to.

The city of Denver must be broke. Stay on your toes.

Sunday Talk

Bill Cosby appeared on Meet the Press this morning to promote his new book, Come on People, co-authored by Alvin Poussaint, a noted professor of psychiatry at Harvard. The man seemed very preachy, and showed little fire. He certainly won’t be leading any sort of movement unless he can amp up his stoic nature. Cosby shared the stage well at first as the pair mainly spoke about the high percentage of fatherless families in the black community. This culminates in children having no concept of a two-parent home, and more importantly in his eyes, no model for corrective behavior.

I have not read the book, and I do not know much about Bill Cosby the man, so this reaction is hardly researched. Based on his morning talk show appearance he came across like many conservatives as ignorant of history and is unwilling to talk of the severe setback that the racist nature of this country has caused for black families. He broached the subject of the high percentage of African-Americans in prison, and attributed a large part of the blame for this on mandatory sentencing. While he should be applauded for bringing this topic to attention, this was the only bit of history he discussed in his interview.

He spent a good portion ranting about “gangster rap,” continuingly avoiding the term hip-hop. The chance was there for Cosby to give examples of the many positive things hip-hop has done, and could possibly do in the future. He rightly accused the record companies of marketing negative images to a mostly white audience, but to me this is another example of going after the wrong people for the wrong reasons. This reminds me very much of blaming Marilyn Manson for Columbine, or blaming violent movies like Oldboy for the Virginia Tech shootings. He spent as much time discussing rap music as he did anything else. Citing bigotry as a possible reason for economic disparity is not an exercise in excuse making, but a chance to admit the scope of the problem of institutionalized racism.

Anyone doubting that race is still a tremendous hurdle need only to look to politics, both at a federal, and a local level. In a Louisiana town called Jena, a black student asked the school principal to sit at the “white tree” outside of the school. The principal said okay, and later in the day the kid showed up with some friends to talk with the white students. The next day two nooses were hung up in the tree. Three boys were identified and though the principal advised expulsion, the kids were pardoned by the superintendent, calling the incident nothing more than a prank. Later a group of black students beat up a white student, and are now being charged with attempted murder by a prejudiced district attorney. At the federal level, one small example would be the 2000 elections, when not one Senator would stand up and support the fight against the illegal disenfranchisement and “caging” of thousands of black voters in Florida.

The problem is that many of these elected officials are representing their constituents, and racist beliefs are generally steadfast, and firmly rooted through years and years of ridiculous teachings. It will take much more than the occasional speech with the Rainbow/PUSH coalition, or a meeting with Tim Russert crusading about rap music to keep the wheels in motion. I hope that Mr. Cosby’s book contains ideas for solutions, and isn’t filled with the uninformed diatribes he chose to spew on Meet the Press.

For more, visit http://www.jenasix.org/