Dear Kevin Aimes,
Be it some manner of blessing outside of what youd at first presume it to be, or altogether some other frostbitten horror or well-gnarled form of punishment, theyve had me on the chain gangs since ten days ago. Hacking down the highway with rusted machetes and scythes, slowly marching uncomfortably sideways down barren stretches of highway, occasionally passing small thickets of residential housing or some passing cars, or by God even a child on a bicycle, staring with panic-stricken whites of their eyes as if we were all ghosts.
When were returned at a days end I havent the energy to do a thing but close my eyes. It gets so bad I cannot even tell you Im strong enough to keep the dreams at bay. Sometimes drink may do it, or pills, but Ive seen very little of that since starting the chains.
As we hack at weeds and growth alongside the roads, prison officials in suits and armed guards follow suit in their open-bed trucks, rifles trained at our heads, whistling to Hubbards songs. Oh, yes, I forgot to mention . . . though Hubbard is far too old to work the lines like us, they have him along in the bed of the middle truck. They allow him pitchers of water for his voice, and a guitar for the songs. They do this not as a courtesysomething to keep us company while we workbut rather as a cruelty, because its generally seen that Hubbards songs are so sad that it only makes our work harder.
The guards do not treat him so well. So he sings all day long for fear of a rifle end in his twisted old back if he breaks for too long. They allow him lonely little instrumentation to let his voice rest, but the songs dont stop. From 5 oclock in the morning until 9 at night, his old time strumming, gritty, sweetly nostalgic voice wailing on into the hazy dragging of hours.
The work, the hacking, the heat, the obscenities and beatings from the troopers, all thats just part of what goes on. None of that is so hard you cant get used to it after a day or two.
But what you can never get used to is the false freedom. "Youre fucking lucky they let you bastards out at all! is what the guards scream at us, like we actually are fortunate to have this time away. But the only thing the warden has to do to make his dark gray castle of cold cells feared ever the more, is to simply have the entire population out on chain gangs for two weeks.
Taste the simple air outside, hear the simple gravel underneath crackle betwixt boot and the lonely old hot road. March any man across a gaggle of schoolchildren as they gawk at you, seeing the dead.
Then take these inmates back. Take them backfor what it really ishome. The three stone walls that last longer than human loves and lives, and the bars that cap it all off like a showroom.
Thats how prison time is harshest. Ive scurried through beatings in darklit hallways, suffered hot lead on me while I sleep, wormed my way from suffocation so many times the stuffy, rotten smell of wet sweat-soaked cotton pillowcases will always be in my nose. None of that means anything when you get out here and find out the real world is still lazily breezing past without you, not needing you, never needing you.
An old lady and three grandchildren by the side of the road stared at us while we slowly passed, lifting our tools and chains, bringing down the landscape. One of the children pitched his barely nibbled ice cream cone at Barnal, who was beside me.
Barnals eyes fell back into his head, and I dont think hes even alive anymore. Perhaps none of us are.
I cannot bear the time from here to Halloween, Kevin. Send me pills to pass this era naught of conciousness.
Sincerely yours,
Signed.
Be it some manner of blessing outside of what youd at first presume it to be, or altogether some other frostbitten horror or well-gnarled form of punishment, theyve had me on the chain gangs since ten days ago. Hacking down the highway with rusted machetes and scythes, slowly marching uncomfortably sideways down barren stretches of highway, occasionally passing small thickets of residential housing or some passing cars, or by God even a child on a bicycle, staring with panic-stricken whites of their eyes as if we were all ghosts.
When were returned at a days end I havent the energy to do a thing but close my eyes. It gets so bad I cannot even tell you Im strong enough to keep the dreams at bay. Sometimes drink may do it, or pills, but Ive seen very little of that since starting the chains.
As we hack at weeds and growth alongside the roads, prison officials in suits and armed guards follow suit in their open-bed trucks, rifles trained at our heads, whistling to Hubbards songs. Oh, yes, I forgot to mention . . . though Hubbard is far too old to work the lines like us, they have him along in the bed of the middle truck. They allow him pitchers of water for his voice, and a guitar for the songs. They do this not as a courtesysomething to keep us company while we workbut rather as a cruelty, because its generally seen that Hubbards songs are so sad that it only makes our work harder.
The guards do not treat him so well. So he sings all day long for fear of a rifle end in his twisted old back if he breaks for too long. They allow him lonely little instrumentation to let his voice rest, but the songs dont stop. From 5 oclock in the morning until 9 at night, his old time strumming, gritty, sweetly nostalgic voice wailing on into the hazy dragging of hours.
The work, the hacking, the heat, the obscenities and beatings from the troopers, all thats just part of what goes on. None of that is so hard you cant get used to it after a day or two.
But what you can never get used to is the false freedom. "Youre fucking lucky they let you bastards out at all! is what the guards scream at us, like we actually are fortunate to have this time away. But the only thing the warden has to do to make his dark gray castle of cold cells feared ever the more, is to simply have the entire population out on chain gangs for two weeks.
Taste the simple air outside, hear the simple gravel underneath crackle betwixt boot and the lonely old hot road. March any man across a gaggle of schoolchildren as they gawk at you, seeing the dead.
Then take these inmates back. Take them backfor what it really ishome. The three stone walls that last longer than human loves and lives, and the bars that cap it all off like a showroom.
Thats how prison time is harshest. Ive scurried through beatings in darklit hallways, suffered hot lead on me while I sleep, wormed my way from suffocation so many times the stuffy, rotten smell of wet sweat-soaked cotton pillowcases will always be in my nose. None of that means anything when you get out here and find out the real world is still lazily breezing past without you, not needing you, never needing you.
An old lady and three grandchildren by the side of the road stared at us while we slowly passed, lifting our tools and chains, bringing down the landscape. One of the children pitched his barely nibbled ice cream cone at Barnal, who was beside me.
Barnals eyes fell back into his head, and I dont think hes even alive anymore. Perhaps none of us are.
I cannot bear the time from here to Halloween, Kevin. Send me pills to pass this era naught of conciousness.
Sincerely yours,
Signed.
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~cheers