Prison Diaries # 6 - The Value Of Arithmetic

Sometimes I think it's only the crashing volume of the music in my car that keeps me from screaming when I leave jail. I stand up with my last young woman, we walk out of the room we're in and less than 4 minutes later I'm in my car on the highway, screaming along to the lyrics and driving way too fast. Some days I wish I could drive straight into a wall.

I spend my days talking to skeletons. Long, emaciated faces and arms, skin stretched so taut it's translucent. Did you know your flesh is disposable and unnecessary? It's really just window dressing - you can still walk and talk without it. Your bones will keep moving.

Ever seen pictures of anorexia survivors? Or worked with them, as I also do? They have nothing on the rivers of girls being eaten alive by crack, the sunken eyes and brittle fingers of someone whose body is literally eating itself. One month I can see a beautiful, healthy young woman and a few months later she looks like she's been in a concentration camp. She smiles and the skin stretches obscenely over her face making her look like a laughing ghoul. It wrinkles up in all the wrong places because it's not attached to any flesh underneath. The knobs of her elbows are bigger than her biceps. Her hair is falling out and her eyebrows are gone. You could draw a line around the eye sockets in her skull, they stand out so clearly.

The best part of it all is when they start to tell me about the guys who don't want to be around them any more because they do crack. They'll start the same repetitive litany about how "he's told me he doesn't want me doing crack, he doesn't even want to take my calls any more. He says he doesn't like me when I'm on crack." Enquiring minds who want to know soon discover that buddy is the same fucker who got her started on crack. And he sells crack. But he really liked her and used to chill with her until she got 'cracked out'. Still more in-depth investigative reporting inevitably determines that buddy was also pimping her out. But he 'really used to like her, he just doesn't like her since she got fucked up and cracked out'.

Rudimentary logic tells us that buddy stopped liking her and stopped giving her free 20 pieces right around the time she became so physically demo'd by crack that she wasn't worth selling anymore. It gets harder and harder to sell her, the more she looks like that. She can't dance, no one but the street tricks will pay any real money to fuck her, and she may have gotten to the point where she has picked away at her own skin because of the crack illusion that there are little bugs crawling all over your body. Not attractive. But buddy doesn't like her anymore because "he hates crackheads", not because she's no longer a profitable 16 year-old he can pimp out of some low-rent apartment or motel. Hmmm, right. So now she's on her own on the street, potentially having been exposed to Hep-C, HIV, HPV and all the other fun little abbreviations, and she thinks the guys she used to chill with don't like her anymore because she's so fucked up. The rejection of "her boys" means she's pathetic, not that they have finished squeezing whatever they can out of her and tossed her aside like the disposable bones she now is. And she never even adds it up. See, I knew it was important for girls to learn math.

A young girl tells me about That Guy, the one who "doesn't want her using crack anymore". He 'helped her out, took her off the street, put her in an apartment, and kept her in every drug but crack'. Because "he really cared and didn't like to see me all cracked out". Okay. Except buddy just happened to be pimping her - oh, sorry, I guess she was "escorting" - out of this lovely little apartment, and had a sitter with her all the time, resulting in her not seeing the light of day for over a month. But "he really wanted to help me out". Really? He wanted to help? This is another reason why it's important for young girls to learn math. By pimping her out to all the respectable businessmen on long lunches, totalling a conservative estimate of $500 bucks a day, for an average of thirty days, he made $15000 dollars on her in that one month. She never sees a dollar of the money. But when she becomes so emotionally unstable that she's difficult to keep sedating with drugs and alcohol, she again becomes unsaleable (not to mention that she's a bit of a heatscore, being so far under 18). So he sends her back out to the street for the next vulture to come bat clean-up on whatever scraps are left of her. But he still manages to prove he 'really cared about her', because when she begs for his help to get out of town he "gives" her 140 bucks of "his own money" to get a bus ticket. The generosity is staggering.

But you know what really makes me want to punch people in the face? Really makes me pull out the crowbars and tire irons in earnest? Ignorant assholes who spout shit about crack whores or trash talk girls on crack. People who pontificate about these fucked up kids and how disgusting they are, or what little sluts these girls are. They do this even while they, or their friends & family, are the ones buying the sex that drives the industry of getting these 'little ho's' hooked in the first place. I've never figured out how it is that all the "respectable folks" in society manage to avoid admitting who's buying the girls. You think it's the "welfare bum" you also hate who's paying to have sex with teenagers? Here's a clue: he can't afford to pay for sex (or not on any regular basis). But your dad can. So can your husband. Particularly if he wears a suit to work. I'd talk more about this but I'm busy with my uncontrollable urge to smash things and start fires.

I spend my days talking to skeletons, and not the friendly Halloween-kind either. Funny, I didn't used to believe in haunting.

Crowbar, The Asshole

A few weeks ago I was standing outside a conference centre having a cigarette with a pile of other people. It was a beautiful day, sun shining, warm, in a busy downtown core. A man approached us, clearly homeless - bearded, filthy, alcohol-thin - with his hand outstretched;

"I'm hungry. Do you have any money? I'm starving." His tone was mewlish, resentful.

People around me shifted uncomfortably. He smelled worse than any human I've ever inhaled, and he seemed frustrated and angry already. I did a quick pat down of my pockets to see if there was any money in them (there wasn't) and said regretfully, "Sorry dude, I got nothin'."

He was already turning to the next person before I finished the sentence, but he said, as he did; "No, I got nothin'."

Fucker put me right in my place and it was fully deserved.

Plagerized Amusement

[I don't usually repost jokes, but this is an exception...]

Canadian Survivor

We've heard that CBC Television is developing a Canadian version of "Survivor", the popular TV show.

The rules are simple:

Each contestant must travel to Saskatchewan and go from Estevan to La Ronge through Weyburn, Stoughton, Carlyle, Moosimin, Grenfell, Indian Head, Regina, Moose Jaw, Swift Current, Maple Creek, Leader, Kindersley, North Battleford, Saskatoon, Humboldt, Yorkton, Porcupine Plain, Melfort, Nipawin, Prince Albert, Shellbrook and back to Estevan again, driving a Volvo with a bumper sticker that reads:

"I voted for Chretien, I'm from Ontario, I'm gay, and I'm here to take your guns."

The first to complete the round-trip alive is the winner.

"My Windows Look Into Your Living Room..."

I have a new amusement, friends & neighbours. Last night, while walking through the attic rooms that comprise Headquarters, my eye was drawn "across the way". Directly across the street is another old building that's been sectioned into a handful of apartments. They have an attic apartment too. Where a woman lives. A very large woman. A very large woman who likes to be naked. A very large woman who likes to be naked under very bright lights.

It's fascinating. I try not to stare but I don't know how to pull my gaze away. She cooks naked. She reads books naked. She folds laundry naked. All in front of large curtainless windows that face toward our house, a wall of windows she can clearly look in, too. All in bright overhead light.

I think if I could be that disinhibited I might feel less need of all the clubbing and the bludgeoning and the perpetual smashing. But you never know - I might just really like all those things.

What Do You Mean, I'm Not Touching You?

Today's Observation: Prostituted girls can't make contact when they hug.

They say they want a hug but then they step into your arms and barely touch you. They're like ghosts, and I never squeeze them because it feels like your arms will pass right through.

In 8 years of supporting sexually abused and raped women I've given and received a lot of hugs. You'd think all women who've been abused would develop a similar habit of trying not to be touched - surprisingly though, even those who've been sexually tortured or who would attack a stranger who laid a hand on them, can clasp you in a bear hug that'd crush your ribs. It seems to be mostly prostituted teenage girls who've perfected the art of hugging without touching; the ghost hug.

I only mention it because it happened 3 times in a row tonight in jail. Yes, today was a day of much badness.

Prison Diaries #5 - "Don't Leave Until I Sing To You"

"Don't Leave Until I Sing To You, Ok?"

A girl, sitting in a glass box, singing quietly so no one but me can hear her. "Wait, don't go yet, do you have to go? Can't you stay another 15 minutes, I want to sing you some of my songs." A little girls voice, acapella, perfect pitch, singing homages to treatment centres and prison cells. Song lilting up to the concrete ceiling in a cell built to mute things like songs and cheerful sounds. Did you know you're not allowed to whistle in jail, because it sounds like bird song and birds are free, so prisoners don't do it or let each other do it? But she's not whistling, she's singing and there's no one in this room but me to know it. A guard, standing outside, raps on the glass behind her, saying, "You gotta finish up, we need that room." She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn around at the pounding on the glass, doesn't even acknowledge he's there. Her song just trails off as she looks down and closes her book full of lyrics with bright yellow sunflowers on the cover. "Ok, I'll sing for you when you come back next week. What time will you be here? See me first, ok?"

"There's Something In The Walls, Do You Think I'll Get Out?"

A girl, jumping from thought to thought, disconnected: "Do you think I'll get out on Friday? I think I could get out on Friday, do you think they'll give me time served? My lawyer's coming, I'll only talk to you and my lawyer, people in here, they tell things to the government, I know how it works. But I'm not crazy, I'm fine, I know I'm fine. Did I tell you it's my brothers first communion next week? I'm so happy for him. No, seriously, do you think I'll get out on Friday? They make the walls creak in here on purpose to mess with our heads and make us think we're crazy but I know I'm fine, do you like my new socks? They have bears on them, so that's ok, and I'm not crazy, I was talking to myself but I'm going to stop because maybe they'll tell things to the government, the courts and keep me here even longer because they try to say I'm a headcase. Can they do that? I'm not crazy, I know I'm normal, I just talked to myself because they lock me up with no one to talk to and you can't say anything in here without getting sent to the hole anyway. Can they do that, keep me here longer? That's what I wanted to ask you, is can they do that? 'Cause I'm not crazy, I don't answer myself. Do I look fat to you? I think I'll get out, do you think they'll let me out? Time served, I could get time served, right? How much is two thirds? Did I tell you my lawyer's coming?"

"God Doesn't Give Us Things We Can't Handle"

A girl, crying, just got a test back. "I'm 15, I don't want to have a baby, I had everything set up to get my life on track when I get out. But my family says God doesn't give us things we can't handle so I can't have an abortion, they'd kill me, they'd never speak to me again. But I know they won't let me come home once they find out I'm pregnant. I was supposed to be starting my new life, and I really thought maybe I could make it this time, how can I have a baby? Where will I live? No one will help me, but "god doesn't give you things you can't handle", right? I really don't feel like I can handle this. I can't even take care of myself." [And I, the world's most devout atheist, say words I never thought would come out of my mouth, "I won't pretend to be religious, but I wonder if maybe that saying means God doesn't give us choices we can't handle." Fuckin' inspired - I don't even know where that came from.]

"Yeah, It's Time To Go. Maybe I Should Take Some Of Them With Me."

A girl going mad before my eyes. Curled up on the linoleum, sobbing, then laughing hysterically, then raging and punching and prowling the room like a caged tiger. One voice, then another, her face changing as different personalities speak using her mouth. Witnessing the complete disintegration of a person, madness, heading into violence, and suddenly I realize she has brought weapons into the room with her when she threatens to turn them on herself, and when she looks through me in fury it's like she doesn't know who I am. Me, feeling a moment of fear for only the second time in 8 years, but then it passes as I tell her to stop and she does. She describes her plan to kill herself later, starts to say goodbye, thank you for everything, you've done a lot for me. Hours later I don't know if she's still alive, according to the plan she should have done it by now, but I've heard nothing. Perhaps I won't, perhaps I'll read it in the paper with everyone else or maybe I'll get a phone call. Maybe I'll just never hear from her again.

Intercepted Mission Communique - Declassified

The following decoded and declassified communique from Crowbar to a Resistance Force Independent Affiliate was released to HQ Staff at 00:07 hrs, on 1 May, 2005.

Dear Ernesto,

Thanks for your latest shipment of Glocks and AK47's. They arrived in good order although we did get into some skirmishes with some of your delivery personnel. Where are you finding the people you get to deliver this stuff? The Hell's Angels?

And those AK's! Ernesto, you know I'd never complain but those things look about a hundred years old and smell like they were stored in a septic tank. Beggars can't be choosers and all that, but just once I'd like to fight with some weapons that *didn't* smell like the inside of someone's ass.

Ok, now that my obligatory grousing is out of the way, I've got lots of news to bring you up to speed on.

As you may know, members of the Resistance Force and a pile of their affiliates met this past week on the coast to outline a plan going forward. It was all very respectable (we met above ground, for a change), we were booked into lovely hotels, and the cookies they served on breaks were clearly catered (though nothing compared to The Cookiemaker's). That said, I'm not sure how I feel about what went down around the table. 100 delegates from around the country, each purporting to speak for the "grassroots" of the Force, called motions, tabled resolutions, and voted like good little puppets. I'm sorry, but it kinda freaks me out when the Resistance begins to look so much like the Dark Side (TM) that we can't tell whose meeting we're in.

The idea behind this little tete-a-tete was to hammer out some national positions on issues like prostitution, Restorative Justice, criminalization of women and poverty. Laudable goals, all. That said, it can't be avoided that some Resistance Force members obviously wanted a mandate to go forward in their own battles, and tried to sneak in several trickily-worded resolutions to facilitate this. Caucusing and amended motions abounded. What ever happened to just jumping up on the table, shouting out a call to arms, and charging forward to mow down the enemy? We've become just a little too diplomatic for that, I guess.

Sigh. Diplomacy isn't a bad thing, I suppose, but at some point all these Resistance Force contingents are going to have to recognize that, no matter how many times they go to the table, the Dark Side is just gonna spin 'em around, bend 'em over, and do what they want anyway. And Ernesto, I hate to say it, but this week confirmed my belief that more than one of our battalions has fallen victim to the Dark Side's most insidious and dangerous weapon, the dreaded CO-OPTER. The really sneaky thing about this nasty little small arms ploy is you can't see when you've been wounded by it. At least if someone sticks you with a switchblade you know you're bleeding. When you've been attacked and overcome by the 'CO-OPTATION' tactic you still think you're unharmed and fighting on the right side. It's just that all your allies start to sound like hotheads to you and you start thinking of ways you can marginalize the 'extreme' voices. Like I said, it's insidious, and ultimately a Weapon of Mass Destruction for a Resistance Force. Sadly, the only time those who have been felled by it tend to come up for air and realize they were under its sway is when they look up and notice they have actually completely lost the war. Although my "I-told-you-so" side sometimes craves to be there when this happens, I'm clear it would mean that the Resistance Force has met its end and the Dark Side will once again be all-powerful.

So did I, Crowbar the Bludgeoner, become one of those 'extreme' voices, you ask? Oh Ernesto, you know better. Even in the moments when my foot began to kick aside my papers and voting card in order to hop up on the delegate table, Cake and Cult took over and hauled me back down. I hate it when they do that shit, but sometimes I have to acknowledge that they know better in the moment. Cake generally held her own and came out of the summit sounding reasonable and cooperative (how the hell did she get so good at that?). Cult similarly had a few victorious moments where she was able to reshape the room using her so-hypnotic ways, but even she fell flat on her face at least twice when she attempted to introduce a little *too* much logic, and a little *too* much truth. Typical of those who have been wounded by THE CO-OPTER, the once-allies agreed with her completely that she was entirely right and then proceeded to act as though she'd never spoken. Our Cult rallied bravely several times, but finally she too had to walk away in disgust, leaving Cake in charge of mollification and strategic voting.

So what does all this mean to us, and our business Ernesto? Not much that we didn't already know. You and I both know we are a rogue arm of the Resistance Force, we know that our focus on logic, truth and weaponry is generally unpopular. This means that your job of smuggling the tools of the revolution to us here at Crowbar HQ will be that much harder, and our recruiting work at HQ will need to be far more strenuous. We've already begun looking to our non-traditional allies for support and will be organizing, in the coming weeks, a meeting of like-minded Resistance Force members who we can be sure have avoided THE CO-OPTER when aimed at them. This means we may have to bring our own alliances - those we had a hand in forming so many years ago - low. It's not what I'd prefer, strategically, but it's what I come closer and closer to accepting.

The translation? Look for a shake-up in Resistance Force power over the coming months. Don't believe anyone who tells you we want to halt the transfer of weapons. And Ernesto, do try and find some guns that smell like metal, or shoeleather, or even sawdust. We might have them close to our faces sooner than you think.

CB Out.

I Can See The Future!

Hi there Resistance Force Members!

It's been a while, as Crowbar has been away on a mission to further her attempts to solidify the Resistance around the world. We (the HQ Staff) happen to know that she has a draft update prepared to let you in on what all our various force contingents are doing. There's been a slight delay getting it to you, however, as we've all been very busy here watching the Senate Foreign Relations Committee duke out the nomination of one Mr. John Bolton to the United Nations. If you're not a regular CSpan watcher, may we recommend you take the time to watch some of the hearings?

John Bolton Senate Confirmation Hearings

If you haven't been watching any of this you may be missing the background on what is primed to become the US's next ticking time bomb in the UN. Might not seem real interesting now, but it sure does rise to the forefront when you consider he'll be the voice of the US on issues like North Korea, Syria, Iran and non-proliferation. Wanna understand why the next war happens? Watch Mr. Bolton now and get a preview.

That should keep you busy until we can decode and declassify Crowbar's communique over the next day or so.