Prison Issued Stationary

To the attention of James Jones - Department of Corrections, PA

Dear James,

I was thrilled to receive your letter! Thank you for accepting me as your pen pal. You mentioned you were a 'ticking time bomb' in your 20's. Why do you say that? I have so many questions for you, but am wary being so frank in asking. I do not want to come off exploitive or rude. I am just curious. I want to know about your childhood. Do you have siblings? Have you been in love? What were the events preceding your present situation? Please answer only what you feel comfortable with. Or just send a draft of your autobiography.

In regards to your hand written manuscripts, I would be happy to type them for you. I am not interested in financial gain, but rather helping you become published while learning more about you. You have my word that I will not run with them, or violate any agreed upon terms. Please make copies and send as certified mail, if you have access. We do not want these to get lost!

I look forward to hearing from you!

Best,

Candice Smith

And so begins my recent pen pal relationship with a death row inmate. I have been wanting to do this for years, but always received concerned looks from roomates, family, and lovers. "What if they have someone on the outside who will hunt you down?!" This was a concern, especially when I lived at Grammy's. I imagined her answering the door to a teardrop tattooed visitor. But in my studio, there is no one to toss me a low brow glance, or question their own safety. Sorry landlady, don't look too closely at the return address of my mail!

Feelings I will try not to feel in my correspondence.
1.) Thinking from the perspective of the victim's family, if they knew my interest.
2.) Feeling pressured to ensure publication before he dies.
3.) Becoming too attached, invoking a sadness when he is executed.

I desperately want to find that moment, incident, or trigger that turned thought to action. Assuming he did do it, why was it his most rational option at the time? Even in my darkest moments, swimming in disturbing fantasies, I've been able to keep my loose screw in check. Beyond the obvious sociological reasons, where/what/who was the turning point for James?


James Jones, 70, Pennsylvania Dept. of Corrections

Mind the gap!

And off she went to Spain to participate in the running of the bulls, where she was trampled to death in a dirty street.

The bus lost control just as he was crossing the street, and he was killed on his way to his new gf's house.

Saddened by her poor social decisions, she turned to heroin to deal with the loss of a great friend.

Hi, my name is Candi, and I'm a fictio-holic. Four years ago, a WeHo love went sour, and I made up a hateful story about her to numb the pain. At first it was just for fun, giggling about how her cats died and how I seduced her father. But as later social mishaps happened, I began to rely on fiction use more and more, inventing dark and elaborate stories about the one who hurt me. Their 'trauma' became the neosporin to my wounded heart. What I thought was healing was really manifested escapism.

A moment to qualify and claim my seat as a fictio-holic. Night after night, I lied to friends and family. I told them I had a great day and was gonna cap my evening doing something nourishingly creative. "That's great to hear, Candi. We're so proud of you."

Upon entering my house, I ducked into my bedroom. Shut the door with my shades drawn. Turned on a dull light and got high. Sometimes I would record audio sound bites, dictating their misery. Other times, I would journal and draw pictures. But my favorite vehicle to use is my guitar. Night after night, I injected lyrics that I thought were the solution to my social apocalypse. I knew NO other way to deal, and I eventually began perceiving my stories as true reality. The real world that everyone else operated in was, to me, a distorted hallucination. My fiction abuse worked well for me until I'd run into the subject of my story or song, or hear about them via the gossip of others.

What do you mean they are 'happy?!' I last heard they went blind after a pencil sharpening whoopsie daisy! As the worlds of 'reality' vs reality began to collide, I started having physical reactions. Dry heaving and extreme paranoia in public places became more and more common. To get a quick fix, I would journal morbid wishes on my steering wheel while driving. It became hard for me to leave my house, and I eventually stopped entering certain neighborhoods, venues, and bars. My world became smaller and smaller, and my imaginations louder and darker. I lost friends as a result of these mental movies on replay. Movies no one had ever seen but me.

Today I'm 8 months chemically sober, and one week fictio-sober. It's become too difficult to practice fiction without mind altering additives. As a result, I'm rebuilding bridges and putting out a hand to those that 'were' six feet under or brutally maimed. Rise my zombie friends and former lovers! I want to put a band-aide where I once stabbed you with my imaginary switch blade.

I'm going to try with a pure heart to not use. I want to stay present in a world free of social war faring cartoons. Practicing non fiction is the only way I can be of service to others. This is the path I want to pursue, one day at a time.

I am so grateful to be here and to forgo this new journey. I want to welcome those that are new and wish happy birthday to those celebrating. Thank you for allowing me to be of service.

[clap clap]

MC April Fool-izzie

I'm still sick and catching a bus to work. I'm always wary of sitting in the back of bus and muni, because that's where most the 'action' is. Drugs, tagging, hijackings - oh I've seen it. But today, snot riddled sinuses muffled warnings, and I ventured deep into the pit of pub transpo. And wouldn't ya know it, I found me a lil #24 rapper/trickster. That's right, a rapper AND a trickster!


He started by yelling the 'n' word A LOT. He tried busting rap lines that were just mediocre and over done. "We got the money, the money, we be flippin the power the power..." Very T-pain-ish. He was butchering standards of Snoop, Em, and Biggie. I was inclined to tap him on the shoulder, confident that I could out rap him. But while my OG words are bloody raw, filled with pain and destruction, my actual rap execution is horrible. So I rescinded the challenge I only imagined.

I did, however, enjoy his interludes of phone calls to his friends. And he had them on speaker...

[ring ring]

Hello?
Yo yo..I just passed your house and it's ON FIRE!
What? Are you serious?!
Ya man, there's all this smoke and shit.
Really?!
Ha ha ha! April fools!! I got ya, though, didn't I? You thought your house was burning up!
Ya...
I gotta go, on my way to work. [click]

Rap continues: And the pigs be rollin us rollin us, and we be hustlin hustlin...

[ring ring]

Hello?
Yo yo, I'm in town, at the Greyhound station. Come get me.
What? For reals?
Ya, shit man, I'm tired. Pick me up. I'm crashin witchu.
Umm...
Ha ha ha! April fools!! You were ready to come get me though, huh?
I guess.
Haha! I gotta go, I'm on my way to work. [click]

He had an ID around his neck, revealing he works at the Goodwill. I was tempted to follow him in the store. I wanted to tell him that I just arrived via Greyhound to find my house caught on fire. And if he'd help me, I'd sign him to be the biggest rapper MTV had ever seen. I'm positive this guy would have gone for it. Then I'd scream APRIL FOOLS! And run out the store with my own HA HA HA!

But my sickness and senses held me back. I just blew my nose and continued to bounce over pot holes on Mission. Next year...you will be mine, my rapper/trickster. You will be mine.

Cough cough, zombie wink

I'm home sick today and quickly running out of ideas of things to do from my bed. I can't watch anymore tv. If I peruse facebook a second longer, I'll be tempted to stalk an ex which will only give me the crazies. Surrounded by used tissue paper and going mad in 3-2-1...

What to do? For the longest time, my sister has been on my non existent nuts to join a dating website. She said, "Let's put up a profile together!" I was confused. Um, like, share a profile? One's straight and in Newport Beach, and one's gay in San Francisco...send us a wink! "No no, Candi, you make a profile and I'll do it too." Gotcha, that makes plenty more sense.

I click and join OkCupid under the profile, ZombieWhisperer- 28 yr old gay female from San Francisco. Of course I'm a touch nervous that someone will see me and say, "I know that chick! Poor desperate thing." But then again, why are they browsing profiles of the brave and single? The upside to being seen is seeing someone you know. Hahahaaaa...pickaboo, I see you fellow city dwelling singles!

Omg #1. I had NO idea this chick was even into chicks. I see her about once a week and have always creeped on her. A few months ago, I nervously told her I found her inspiring. "Really? That is so sweet. I'm so glad you told me that." I failed to mention that a majority of what she inspires is one dirty thought after another, and a firey jealousy each time I see her holding hands with a new guy. Ha!

Omg #2. This chick plays on an opposing football team and is a total b.i.t.c.h. on the field. No one on my team cares for her, and she is waaay easy to tease when she is foosball flustered. BUT I love what she wrote on OkCupid, and she's not that bad looking when she is sweat and scowl free. She too is into political sex scandals! I want to pee in a stall next to her and tap my foot, then whisper, "I hear your cat has mental problems..."

This is fun. I just sent my first wink, not to either of the afore mentioned, and her profile is not shared with her sister.

You're not tall enough for this ride!

A couple of days ago, I went to a meditation meeting. I love these, but struggle with being silent for a whole 5 minutes. My mind is pretty much a constant carnival of sex, screaming babies, and recipes I'd like to try. It's messy in there, and seductive demons always float in, knocking on the back of my forehead, Come and play with us, Candi...

Someone once suggested asking these demons to sit with you as you meditate rather than playing mental bouncer. As the name suggests, my demons are not nice. They're like my own entourage of mean girls, except they never make me look cool because they're imaginary. So all I get out of this distorted relationship is their incessant sh*t talking. Would you like to meet some of them?

Meet Crow...Mission hipster dyke on a fixie bike doing circles around me on Valencia. She gave herself that name because she HATES that her given name is gender suggestive. Covered in tats. Asymmetrical haircut. Fled to SF from some small town to escape their 'agenda.'

Crow: Hey, you stupid b**ch.
Me: Oh, heeeey Dee. How are things?
Crow: What the eff do you care?
Me: I actually don't, asshole! Why do you flood me, sneering, and hating?
Crow: Cuz you're not a real dyke! You try to fool us with your hair and careless gait. You sleep with men when you think SF isn't looking. You are horrible to your gf's. Your art and 'creativity' is juvenile, and we all know you don't recycle your compost!
Me: Frakin' eh!! OUCH, biotch!! Ugh, can we have coffee to talk about this? Maybe chat and breathe together?
Crow: I suppose…is it fair trade?
Me: I could do fair trade.
Crow: Hmm, I guess.


Eww, I feel sick. I think I just therapized myself via innocent blogging. I feel like I am on the verge of a breakthrough, a burp struggling to surface. And when it does, gaseous insecurities will spill onto my lap. I seriously feel like I'm going to be ill. I want to cry. I need a cigarette and screamo music. Playlist- Slipknot's, My Plague, Deftone's, Shove it, and Distiller's, Idoless. Repeat 2x. Brb.


Crow was enough of a carnival ride for me today. I'll play with the others later. Maybe.

21 tennis ball salute

2 missed calls from my parents can't be good when they know I'm at work. Shit shit. I hope nothing has happened to grammy. I call them back and dad answers...bad sign.

Hi honey, so..uh..today Angel wasn't doing so well and we took her to the...uh..vet. We had to put her down.

What?!?

Ya, I'm so sorry honey. It was pretty bad. And we didn't want to call you while you were walking home or on bart.

So you thought work was better?? Dad, I work with a bunch of boys who tell fart and sex jokes! I can't cry here! Now I have to fucking fake it til 5..which is only in 45 minutes. Does Carly know?

No, she has work and has clients.

And I don't have clients?? I'm sorry dad. I know that must have been hard for you guys, but shit. I just can't really deal with this right now.

I'm sorry...hold on. Mom wants to talk to you.

Alright alright. Fuck.

[crying] He..ello...oh it was awful, Candi.

I know. I'm sorry mom. I just can't deal with this right now. I work with boys and can't cry in front of them. [enter co-worker] Hold on..oh, hi ____, what's up? Hey, the server is back up for ____. Can you call and let 'em know? Okay great, sure sure, I'll call 'em. [exit co-worker] Sorry mom, I'm working. I just can't cry here. They will just make jokes about it.

Well I'm sorry, Candi. It's been a fucked day for us! And don't tell your sister yet; she has clients. We thought hearing it at work would be better for you. We really thought about it. We thought maybe if we told you while you were walking home, you might be too upset to pay attention and get hit by a car or someone might grab you.

I know, I know. I'm sorry you had to go through that. I know it must have been hard for you. I gotta wrap up my day. I'm sorry. I'll call you later. Love you. [click]

I finished an email and walked over to the bathroom. I hung on the counter and cried over our family dog. I have to do this in silence because the bathroom walls are so thin. The guys hear everything. Hence why I also never take a shit there. Crying hysterically in silence is difficult and not entirely satisfying. Slap white make up on my face and I'd look like a distressed pantomime. I hate crying at work, but have learned to master the miming. I splashed some cold water on my eyes and practiced my fake smile. Get over it, Candi. Everything dies.

My defense is to think about life shot on a time-lapse camera, like on the discovery channel where the life of a flower passes in 10 seconds. Everyone experiences death, and everything will end one day anyway. That's why I look at every mug as already broken and every girlfriend as an impending ex. I said goodbye to Angel last week when I left for my plane back to SF. I whispered, I love you, old girl. Be good. I kissed her head and walked out the door with my backpack. So hit me with ebb and flow, macro science, and evolution so I don't have to remember her soft eyes and requited goodbye said through that familiar whimper.

In high school, I proudly displayed her various 1st place trophies. She and I were a team. Flyball, obedience, agility. She was so smart, my friends and I used to joke that she was busy writing novels in her doghouse. Don't disturb Angel, she's busy on her sequel. Damn over achiever...

I've lost a lot of pets growing up, but Angel is a big one. Most of our past legacies are buried in the backyard. To me this was normal, but people always seem shocked and a tad disturbed when I tell them. What do you think of our neighbors, the Smiths? I don't know...but I saw Pat with a shovel and I haven't seen their cat in a couple days. I always thought that if there was a crazy flood, skeletons of rabbits, headless parakeets, dogs, cats, and hamsters would rise to the surface of our yard. It would be like that thunderstorm scene in Poltergeist where those graves slosh about in the mud and the family panics. Thank god Southern California 'storms' are less than memorable. And that I was not named Carol Anne growing up on sacred indian burial grounds.

Angel was special so she won't be dumped with the proles out back. My parents will pick up her ashes in 7-10 days. I asked my mom what she was going to do with them. She said she already picked out a spot on the mantle next to a picture. I wonder if it's that old one my dad gave me for christmas where Angel is super imposed in the clouds with a halo. I always knew one day that cheesy picture would become awkwardly appropriate...

I know my heart will rattle in my vans the next time I step in my old house, and she is not there to greet me with those stinky kisses I love. I won't be able to detach enough to rely on time-lapsed flowers or pantomimed emotions. But I kinda wish I could.

Off with her head

So post the dreaded, yet much anticipated "chat," I just feel numb. I feared I would have lashed into her with the typical why why why?! But I didn't. For the most part, I shared my feelings and acted as a healthy person of society should. Hmm...that was new. No verbal shankings and devilish giggles as they cry?? No emotional hangovers of hating myself, alone and nursing my guilt with vodka fueled razor blade kisses?!

Sobriety has taught me to just accept things. You don't have to agree, but you can't change what is reality. Blah blah blah. I still sometimes want to play dictator and behead all my wives who fail to do my bidding. Why did you not greet me with a tender kiss?? Why did you not acknowledge my feelings and respond accordingly?? Guards! Summon the executioner!

With a death implying flick of my hand, armed guards rush in and seize my wife as she screams her wasted apologies. Look away and sigh, On with it. I adjust my crown and sip my nectar. A drink fit for Greek gods and disgruntled lesbian dictators who wish they were.

Evil memories of breakups past. I really was horrible. The screaming, spilling my best 'victim' tears, administering verbal karate chops. Hiiiiyaaa, bitch!!! I can't do it anymore. It is exhausting, disgusting, and destructive. I end up a rabid canine running in circles, chasing my own tail, snapping and foaming. Dizzy and nauseous with my own self created redundancy.

No more naughty Fido. He had to be put down. Now I sit and feel the pain. Ride it out. I've suffered worse - thanks West Hollywood. While far from perfect, I am desperately trying to bushwhack a new emotional path, cautious to not cut at those in my way.

Cathartically I dive in my writing and painting. I bang on my computer and attack a canvas like a famished hunter spearing a boar. When I was a kid bubbling with frustration, fighting projectile tears, my mom would whisper, "Just get it out, Candi." I don't think she had ever pictured it to manifest the way it often has.

Numb and dumb. Shocked by a brief love affair that ended as quickly as a snapping guillotine.

Band aide, please.

Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those sneakers?

Casual stroll, not so much. I normally use my lunch breaks to go on a run (a whole 4 blocks!) to the gym. Do a power workout with ESPN on mute and Snoop on blast. Run back (4 blocks AGAIN!), take a quick shower at work, and bask in my glory that I broke my lunch break habits of napping and movie watching. Today, I opted to go on a walk to people watch and appreciate how beautiful San Francisco looks in gloom. This was quickly interrupted 7 minutes in.

Enter Candi at the park, feeling a presence quickly approaching her back

Man: Ma'am ma'am...can I clean your shoes?!
Me: They're brand new. They don't need to be cleaned. [turn to walk away]
Man: Please let me ask you a question! My name is _____ and I'm from New Orleans. I don't lie. Do you know why?!
Me: No
Man: Because I got no alibi! Do you lie?!
Me: Hmm..mediocrely clever. No, I try not.

I am clearly drawing back; I don't want to engage. Personal space is violated. Song on my iPod now playing to a disconnected audience. Gloomy weather now menacing.

Man grabs Candi's right hand, bends down and starts touching her feet

Man: I know where you are going, and I don't lie. You are going to start walking with your left foot and then your right. Am I right?!
Me: Yes.
Man: Can I get a tip?! How about a hug?! Give me a hug?!
Me: Umm..No.

I try to pull my hand out of his. Drawing back is much more obvious and a woman starts yelling, "She said no! Get away from her!" Panic ensues. Please give me my hand back. Oh god, is he going to hurt me?? Quickly scan the park for witnesses that may need to be called upon later. Stupid fucking city, this never happens in Orange County. But nothing really happens there.

The tops of my toes still feel his pressure. The skin on my hand burns where it was touched. Invisible creepy crawly infectious germs embed my pores and spread on my clothes. Where has he been? What has his hand touched? While I am no longer on medication to deal with my daily wars on touch, I still have my battles.

I never said this was okay! An encounter far from threatening in terms of possibilities, but please PLEASE give me my personal space! I'm screaming in my head now, clawing and thrashing about, but to him exhibiting a calmness to not stir any alarm. If I show fear, it might make him angry and retaliate. I'm afraid he is going to put his hands around my neck like those fuckers did last year when I got jacked. "You want me to hit you, bitch?!?" He doesn't know how scared I am that this will happen again and I won't get out of it so lucky. Life adds another generous deposit to Bank of Paranoia.

Candi exits park, disturbed.

Gym tomorrow. Run my 4 blocks fast with Snoop and Em spitting lyrics that make me wish I had a gat, ready for urban battle. Nah...that would just get messy.

And your little dog too.

So much time was spent trying to come up with the most clever URL (my clever fellows, you stole my greatest www dot ideas), I fear I've lost my night's meager writing desire. I wanted to start this account long ago, but never thought I had a life point pivotal enough to ooze on paper or tap in binary code. The other day I was alarmed to think how much my ego has romanticized about such a moment. May I part the seas, will the moon to implode, and only then will I start eJournaling like the rest of society!

I do wish I started this 150 days ago, when I got sober. If you knew me prior to that day, to many, I'm sorry. If you met me after, well you missed quite a show! I have felt amazing in sobriety, working my steps like the good sober others of the 86'd variety. This week, however, I struggle. Step 7: Ask god to humbly remove my defects of character. I did not think I would have issues giving up _____, _____, and ______, but I do! They protect me when I'm insecure and scared. When I think I'm less than, I cling to my little defects like I once clung to various smoking apparati. And so, outside of Embarcadero bart, Zeus cracks me with a lightning bolt. In only 6 hours I had curbed multiple urges to dance with my defective devil. Realizing this, and that I did not act them out, I suddenly felt like a horse who had been broken. A disco ball with no luster, no shine. I felt boring, vulnerable, and goody goody.

Light another cigarette - mom hates them and dad suggests the California culture will ostracize me. Inhale, regain composure, and sneer at the dirty stray pigeon. There, feel better, Candi?

A little.

Sponsor says at these moments I should call her or pray. If I call her, she will tell me to pray. End picture is always supposed to be me giggling at my sneaky higher power. Slapping my forehead, "I should have known it was you all along!" Today I had no desire for such jovial eye openers. I want to practice my defects, roll and rot in them. Laugh and throw mud at passers by. It's my right to engage with some ill intent, some destruction. After all, I gave up booze and drugs. What else? If my defects are taken I will surely be exposed and naked, prone to evaporating into tiny little particles of purity. No thanks. It's the evil goo that holds me tight.

So back to my pranking higher power... I already did my second and third step so this god shit should be in the bag. But did I really embrace the idea? I still have no clear vision of what that is. In my beginning months of sobriety, I just nodded, followed, and took suggestions as though militant demands. Sponsor, yes sponsor! Anything to keep me out of bars where old friends would cheers me, while old girlfriends would judge me, and I would inevitably skip down a yellow brick road, arm 'n arm with the wicked witch, scaring the shit out of cowardly lions. Just for fun. I do not want to go back there. It was dark, it was mean, and I was too altered to care.

So my best thinking takes me here. Don't address it. Avoid it. Let's start that journal you've been thinking about. Ack. I suddenly feel like Doogie Houser. I need a life lesson closing while early 90's bee-boo-boo-bop-beep music plays over my keystrokes. But Vinnie never climbs through my bedroom window, and I am not a child doctor. Just a sober sally seventh stepping to insanity. Good one, god.