The Way of the Bull

1/31/2009

You asked how things are going. I wish I could say fine, and everything hunky-dory, but it's not. It's tough here. People begin to lose themselves here; lose hope. We all look for, and must fight to understand, how we can maintain our own essence and not lose it to being institutionalized. I answer that by finding structures to put in place, like writing these letters to you.

I also participate in Toastmasters, then turn those speeches into letters to my son. Here is an example:

In 2005, I went to Japan. On one day, I landed at Shodo Island, a small island off the coast of the Inland Sea. On this island there are 100 Shinto shrines, encased in granite the size of a cardboard box. On an island the size of Catalina, it takes some six months to find all 100. Some find it to be like a pilgrimage; a quest. I see it as "The Way of the Bull", a book written by Leo Buscaglia in the 1970s. He talks about how we all have a path, our own way to go through life. He uses the bull as a metaphor for strength and determination.

Some people take their "way" by finding all 100 Shinto shrines. Maybe my being here is my own search for Shinto shrines.

Some give up after only finding 20, but at what point do we give up, saying only 20 is enough? For myself, the minute I do that, I become institutionalized and have lost myself in the milieu of chaos.

This is my challenge; my quest. I'm still searching for my Shinto shrine. Some on Shodo Island are in plain view along the road or the like. Others are tucked away. I managed to find one on top of a small cliff-like island the size of a small studio apartment. The cliff was only accessible during low tide. It seemed uninteresting at first, but at low tide I saw that I could walk over to it. After I managed to climb to the top, I saw it in the corner, out of sight. I imagine the one shrine to be something I discover of myself, here or anywhere along the way.

During our search, our path, we will find our own shrines; some discoveries we see about ourselves are in plain view, others are tucked away, in plain view only at low tide. Some may ask "What is the meaning of life?" I say it is to give it meaning; the meaning I choose to give it is to learn. My way is learning, this is the Way of the Bull.

2/4/2009

Sorry it took so long to finish up. I've been sick, and my head has been all foggy the last few days. I wanted to get this letter out to you tonight.

People must like my speeches as I was voted the new T.I. Toastmaster President last night. I have a 6 month term, and I have lots of great plans in store for the club. The last president didn't do much. I, however, plan to work hard and diligently to restore this club to the good name it used to have.

Thanks for all your support.

A Canary Flag

The thin, slender, yellow and black flag wisps in the wind. I'm sitting at a table in the yard in the northern part of the compound, watching this object flutter about. Every now and then it gets caught in the Constantine wire, struggling to get from from the razor teeth below it. The end of the flag is tattered; strings of fabric dangle underneath it, a sign of the previous forays with its dreaded neighbor of wire.

"It's for the tear gas, you know."

I am interrupted in thought as someone advise me of the state of the flag and its apparent purpose.

"Tear gas? What do you mean?"

"Ever heard of the good squad?", he asks.

"No, can't say that I have. Who are they?"

"The guys in black - riot gear, shields, tear gas, helmets, the works." He looks at me suspiciously, obviously not knowing one of the major components of life in prison.

"Does it get that bad here? We are only low security."

"It could. At Taft they used it. Without the flags, they fired, and it flew right back in their faces. You got to be careful with it."

The guy walks away, and I continue to stare at the tear gas flag that currently only serves to tell me if it is windy outside, and how much. A while ago, there was tear gas at MDC, and I only just heard about it. The stories I heard are not pretty. It is best to stay far away from a situation before it erupts. For now, I watch the flag look down at my cards, and continue to play my game of solitaire.

I know that I am in an environment where anything can happen. I tend to forget that - always look over your shoulder, always watch your back. The minute you don't is the minute you can be in big trouble. I continually have to remind myself of this task. No one is your friend, you can never trust anyone, you never know what it is they say, and where it will lead, and always land you in trouble.

Thanksgiving @ Terminal Island

"15-2, 15-4, and a pair for 6"

Usually, pegging 6 points in cribbage on the south yard with my cribbage group arouse some flak and trash talk. But not today.

South Yard has a nice view of the Long Beach Harbor. Pigeons make their cooing noises as one older man feeds peanuts to them. Oddly quiet on a Thursday afternoon, there is tension in the air. Today there is less "human noise" and only the pigeons, slapping of dominoes, and the strangely calming clink-clank coming from the weight pile can be heard. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear past the barbed wire and hear the beep-boop-beep-boop of the cranes loading my Thursday friend, Hapag-Lloyd.

However, we are all waiting; waiting for last year to happen again. It was unforgettable for those who were there and re-counted it in vivid detail for those who were not. Watching TV, someone changed the channel, and a fist pummeled into the nose of the offender. The offender scurried out and the assailant pursued with ferocious fervor. An ill-equipped female guard pleaded on deaf ears to stop the melee. The red panic button she carried was pressed into the shell of her walkie-talkie and Guard Tower 2 responded.

Over the loud speaker, the ominous voice echoed, "Get on the ground, face down, arms at side." The 'kur-shack' of the rifle was heard, along with the one, and only one, warning shot. Once the shot is heard, everybody knows, those who don't get on the ground willingly will be forced to do so by the trigger happy guard eager to test his firearm on a moving target.

In a microsecond, people crumple to the ground, a robotic army whose power is cut at the source. Eating grass, the only noise now heard is the cranes loading Hapag-Lloyd, blissfully unaware of the action across the harbor. Spitting out sand, someone slowly arched their head over and whispered, "Happy Thanksgiving."

This year, we all wait for another fray to break out; everyone walking the track looks over their shoulder, conspicuously waiting for a punch that may or may not arrive. Waiting for the shoe to fall, and the break the awkward silence I say, "Happy Thanksgiving". A mere grunt replies, and someone shuffles the cards.

The day ended without incident, but we have not seen the denouement. There is still Christmas and New Years.

In the meantime, as people walk to work they all spit at the Christmas tree erected 4 feet high in the north yard. Christmas behind the wall is looking over our shoulders, afraid to watch TV, and the only safe activity is watching Hapag-Lloyd, our Thursday friend.