It’s true what is said about prison life: One develops a different relationship to time and space and, in turn, reality and the sense of Self are altered. Before I saw the world as stimulating, varied, surprising, and filled with possibility. Now? Now I see it through long, vertical metal bars, floor to ceiling, and all I have is this keyboard to occupy me.
From the kitchen the sound of Beau gnawing a bone. Am I next? Will the dog suddenly turn on me when he tires of chewing the bone and realizes that I have more protein and flavor?
Such are my worries, such are my concerns.
Last night, Manuel, who replaced Karl as the night watchman, insisted that I watch “Drive.” He has a stutter: “It-it-it-it’s re-re-re-really g-g-good,” he said. Of course, it wasn’t. Albert Brooks was almost as believable as a car salesman. The writing would have merited a, “Good Job!!!” had it been third grade. I switched it off when blood filled the screen.
Tonight I am watching “The Black Power Mixtape, 1967-1975,” which, I am told, is a family saga starring Seth Rogen, and that kind of appeals to me, but I suspect that there is more to it than that.
Preceding the film, I am being escorted to Roxbury to face The Board. No one tells me anything, but there are winks and nods in relationship to the meeting. Something about me being on, “the board,” of, “Project Hip Hop,” which is a youth organization all about social justice.
Meanwhile, the task set before me today? I am being forced to write the chapter in my book about Drew Nieporent. That or no supper!