Dear Neil Garriscond,
Two weeks in and the difference can already be seen on the skin of my arms and neck alone. It is much paler. In stark contrast to how hard and cold I feel on the inside, my skin is abnormally soft and warm over the brittle ache of my bones. As if by some chance in these near-Arctic halls I have found a way to melt.
Ive forgotten how very difficult it is, at first, to adjust. Standing before a mirror at the Denver Police Station on Castle, Id splashed cold water into my eyes and made a promise that all would be fine. My attorney Bale clapped his large hands onto my shoulders, staring at me in the mirror, but said nothing. But no matter; I could hear the beautiful sound of legal cogs in his head spinning. In therethat massive library of systematic sway and swaggernary a squeak can be heard, because of how well the machines are oiled. Instead there is a cool, autumn breeze-like wisp, somewhat like the call of butterflies. I have perfect faith in Bale, Kevin Aimes and both their teams.
If there are loopholes, they will drive entire buildings of tenants out into the streets, straight through those frays in the fabric. Eyes will pitch for leagues that the deep havent offered yet. Expeditions will be led into the flood.
But for now . . . rest. Lights on and off, people howling during the day and crying at night. The drip-drip-drip of broken pipes. These three walls and a solid steel sheet of bars.
For these three days past I have stood, marveling, on the uncomfortably rigid cot that is my bed and I stared down at a puzzle of prints from the Green Turtle Rodeo tragedy I photographed shortly before the arraignment. Constantly, shifting prints and overlapping sequences. Something did not look right, and no matter how much hot air this institutions warden will have me listen to, he is, quite simply, none of my concern.
John Sheen arrived last week, and after an entire weekend of obtaining clearance, he was, at long last, allowed full visitation so that we could finish this project.
The New York Times, my friend, spoke Mr. Sheen before the Board of Corrections, Will not accept HALF DONE.
And so with that, he stood quietly in the corner of my cell, intermittently connecting to the world outside on his cellular telephone. At one point, speaking to his caller in a very subdued tone, John huffed, then sighed. Kevin, this is not Wild Things. Reclaim your glory in someone elses picture, not mine. Nowhere in your contract does it say you have the right to fuck this project like its some girl you just met and do not know the name of nor could possibly even remember come shoot-time the next morning anyway. I suggest you put your priorities back into Aronofskys hands and be a good little actor . . . sorry, ARTIST.
Flipping the switch on the telephone, he looked over toward me, shrugging his shoulders. Sorry, Jaret. Kevin Bacon is an asshole. He wasnt when we did Footloose, but its not 1984 anymore, is it?
Sometimes I really am glad I know John Sheen. It makes being locked in a prison cell just a little bit less grim.
After three days of indecisionate work, I was finally able to piece together a suitable gallery. I numbered each photograph, signed with a feather-tipped pen dipped in Indian ink, captioned them; I detailed the assailants, the dead, the order of death, the people whose eyes were removed, the bull that trampled its owner, reverently capping it all off with a very heart-warming photograph I took of Benjamin Curtis right before the ambulances arrived, with his nose bloodied and one tooth in front looking a bit crooked. There were clumps of blood in his handle-bar moustache that curtained a deep red smear across his cheek when he wiped the chewing tobacco away for a suitable smile.
Please let me know that my darkroom is being looked over and tended to, Neil. Please instruct whoever is in charge not to allow any visitors without express permission from either Mr. Sheen or yourself.
Thank you.
Sincerely yours,
Forever.
Two weeks in and the difference can already be seen on the skin of my arms and neck alone. It is much paler. In stark contrast to how hard and cold I feel on the inside, my skin is abnormally soft and warm over the brittle ache of my bones. As if by some chance in these near-Arctic halls I have found a way to melt.
Ive forgotten how very difficult it is, at first, to adjust. Standing before a mirror at the Denver Police Station on Castle, Id splashed cold water into my eyes and made a promise that all would be fine. My attorney Bale clapped his large hands onto my shoulders, staring at me in the mirror, but said nothing. But no matter; I could hear the beautiful sound of legal cogs in his head spinning. In therethat massive library of systematic sway and swaggernary a squeak can be heard, because of how well the machines are oiled. Instead there is a cool, autumn breeze-like wisp, somewhat like the call of butterflies. I have perfect faith in Bale, Kevin Aimes and both their teams.
If there are loopholes, they will drive entire buildings of tenants out into the streets, straight through those frays in the fabric. Eyes will pitch for leagues that the deep havent offered yet. Expeditions will be led into the flood.
But for now . . . rest. Lights on and off, people howling during the day and crying at night. The drip-drip-drip of broken pipes. These three walls and a solid steel sheet of bars.
For these three days past I have stood, marveling, on the uncomfortably rigid cot that is my bed and I stared down at a puzzle of prints from the Green Turtle Rodeo tragedy I photographed shortly before the arraignment. Constantly, shifting prints and overlapping sequences. Something did not look right, and no matter how much hot air this institutions warden will have me listen to, he is, quite simply, none of my concern.
John Sheen arrived last week, and after an entire weekend of obtaining clearance, he was, at long last, allowed full visitation so that we could finish this project.
The New York Times, my friend, spoke Mr. Sheen before the Board of Corrections, Will not accept HALF DONE.
And so with that, he stood quietly in the corner of my cell, intermittently connecting to the world outside on his cellular telephone. At one point, speaking to his caller in a very subdued tone, John huffed, then sighed. Kevin, this is not Wild Things. Reclaim your glory in someone elses picture, not mine. Nowhere in your contract does it say you have the right to fuck this project like its some girl you just met and do not know the name of nor could possibly even remember come shoot-time the next morning anyway. I suggest you put your priorities back into Aronofskys hands and be a good little actor . . . sorry, ARTIST.
Flipping the switch on the telephone, he looked over toward me, shrugging his shoulders. Sorry, Jaret. Kevin Bacon is an asshole. He wasnt when we did Footloose, but its not 1984 anymore, is it?
Sometimes I really am glad I know John Sheen. It makes being locked in a prison cell just a little bit less grim.
After three days of indecisionate work, I was finally able to piece together a suitable gallery. I numbered each photograph, signed with a feather-tipped pen dipped in Indian ink, captioned them; I detailed the assailants, the dead, the order of death, the people whose eyes were removed, the bull that trampled its owner, reverently capping it all off with a very heart-warming photograph I took of Benjamin Curtis right before the ambulances arrived, with his nose bloodied and one tooth in front looking a bit crooked. There were clumps of blood in his handle-bar moustache that curtained a deep red smear across his cheek when he wiped the chewing tobacco away for a suitable smile.
Please let me know that my darkroom is being looked over and tended to, Neil. Please instruct whoever is in charge not to allow any visitors without express permission from either Mr. Sheen or yourself.
Thank you.
Sincerely yours,
Forever.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
franandzooey:
I am confused. Are they tearing down your greenhouse? That's wrong. Incorrect. 
burialrabbits:
Yes, the city and victims families have both joined filthy hands in some snotty semblance of a faux-support group/militia, haphazardly putting together some laughable mission statement on behalf of their new organization Families Against Prisoner Say, after which the presiding judge ruled that the greenhouse on my estate is rightfully the property of the state now, and, accordingly, shall be sold to pay for compensation. Ironically enough, the shareholders for the Municipal Building have contracted the offices of Corpse On Pumpkin to photograph the razing. So with any luck, I should be in the possession of a weekend pass right soon. Thanks to President Carter, this is a very real possibility. So feel free to roam along the grounds until you find something that may be of worth to you. If I see you there during the accompanying ceremonies, I will be sure to catch you for a moment to say hello.