Keep Rolling, Sisyphus.

The world problem is the individual problem; if the individual is at peace, has happiness, has great tolerance, and an intense desire to help, then the world problem as such ceases to exist. You consider the world problem before you consider your own problem. Before you have established peace and understanding in your own hearts and in your own minds, you desire to establish peace and tranquility in the minds of others, in your nations and in your states; whereas peace and understanding will only come when there is understanding, certainty and strength in yourselves.

Where does it all begin, what's the root. No guts, no glory, or something, right? Lamont is most likely a crackhead. He met with me one day because he needed a voucher for gasoline, but I couldn't give him one. We talked for awhile anyway, about poetry, and before he left he gave me the Emily Dickinson volume he had been cradling under his arm. We see each other around town and we interact as two human beings. Allen Quinn too. He's absolutely a crackhead but when you stop treating him as though you know he's going to freak out on you, there is a human underneath. I'm not saying you should leave either one alone with your children, but we are all human beings. We all want the simplest things. To be treated with compassion. To be safe. To be cared for. I wish that more people would see thier individual goals as macroscopic goals. I wish it were easier for all of us to find compassion in our souls, to find the commonality that binds us all together as humans.

I wish it were easier for me to put the madness of that hallway out of my mind, but I can't.

We sat next to a really nice guy who had a stack of court appointment cards that was literally fist thick. He works on a ship and has to request leave each time, and it costs him $60 to make the roundtrip. A stack fist thick and he hasn't even glimpsed the judge yet. The prosecutor met my glance with a sneer as she walked by. I don't know what we're doing, or why we're doing it, but it's time to reassess absolutely everything. It's a problem when there is a price tag on freedom. It's a problem when someone who has committed a crime is constantly beaten down with the "you did this to yourself, well, fuck you" mentality. How is it productive to make a guy who's trying to earn a living come to a building upwards of twenty times only to sit in a hallway, and then telling him that he deserves it because he's a fuck up, and he'll always be a fuck up? What is justice, exactly? It's a problem when we come to positions of power and forget that we, ourselves, are thirty seconds away from being criminals. (You better believe I would arrange another lynching ala Damien Tyree if some fool tried to hurt my mom or dad or sisters or Aimee.) A lay-off away from homelessness. A medical disaster away from starving to death or freezing to death because there's no money to pay bills. There is a serious problem when we stop seeing other people as human beings. So much hostility, everywhere. Maybe I'm crazy, or retarded, or something. I just can't figure out how things could have possibly evolved this way. "What you do unto your fellow man, you do unto Me also." I wish we could all just remember that.

Helpless, Scared, Lost

It's weighing so heavily on my mind; it's all that I can think about, and I'm sure he's picked up on it. Because I've seen what it's like to be on the other side. Because we have submitted official change of address forms five times, and he's told them his new address while on record twice, and they still can't seem to get a single one of those god damn secretaries to take two seconds and actually change it. And you go to the window and try to plead with them, don't you understand that he considers his life to be forfeit! and the only emotion they ever muster to greet you with is something so awful and ugly that you can't even use words to describe it.

We have sat in that dismal hallway in Sandusky for a total of 23 hours waiting for him to see a judge. Twenty three hours. Seven trips out there. There are always scads of other people waiting, and the lawyers and prosecuter walk in and out of doors like an old Scooby Doo chase scene. You never really know what's being done behind those doors, because they hardly ever call anyone in. TWENTY THREE HOURS! One of his probation requirements is to have full-time employment. How many jobs would be so gracious as to allow an employee to leave randomly and often, for hours at a time, so that they can wait for their court appearance? Six of the seven trips have ended with continuances because they just couldn't get to him. This last time he finally saw the judge, and no one had actually read his file or completed the PSI, so he got another continuance... but not without a lecture from the judge, not without the threat of prison, not without them calling up the deputy who laughed at him the time before, when he was in so much pain that he couldn't even sit. We walked out of the building like two corpses.

And so the 13th is the next and probably the last appearance, and who knows whether the judge will really read the testimonials from his PO and boss and caseworker or not? "I'll end my life if I have to go back to jail," he tells me. "You will never, ever be able to imagine how absolutely horrifying and chaotic it is in there. I would be a wild animal, what's left of me will be torn asunder, I will never be the same guy, the guy you know. I can't go back there, I can't do that to my self." He got sick in there. He was in such pain for two weeks that he couldn't stand -- it was only until he was lying on the floor next to his own vomit that a nurse came. And they gave him advil.

How is that helpful for anyone involved, for the prisoner, for the society outside, for the victims? I can't even think about it, I can't even entertain the thought that this is all going to be torn away from me, this life that I absolutely adore. I am finally beginning to understand what it's like, to know that you could spend your entire life with just one other person. And were you damned to be somplace that I was not, that self were hell to me.

Let my grace pass to him. Let the judge find mercy in his soul on the 13th, let them see with clear heads all of the work and effort that he has put into turning his life around. And if you pray, beg God to not tear the very breath from my lungs.

I have an alligator growing out of my armpit.

Help.

Second Headshot

First Headshot

This is the headshot I did yesterday of my neighbor, Ami. I'm trying to tap into the college performer market in town to make some side money! I was thinking about it today, and it's only been about eight months since I picked up the 8008 and really started to mess around with it. I think I've learned a lot and come pretty far!

my little buddy.

Like A Freaky Streaker

It's funny. She just found out about the letter two hours ago. I don't know who it was that called, but she went into Anne's office with the light off, shut the door, and stayed in there on the phone for 45 minutes. I was standing out in the reception area and could hear her say, "about Josh, now, I liked working with him...." voice trailed off. Nervousness. Fear. You're not wearing any clothes, emporer! How sad.

She emerged from the cave and interrupted me as I was speaking with someone about Oberlin's disaster relief effort, and what role OCS could play. "Ahhhh, excuse me, I've got to run an errand, I'll be back in 5 minutes." Okay, peace out, whatever. But so 20 minutes later she comes back, document in hand, gravelly face like a cock-eyed alligator. She enters the building, goes into her office and shuts the door, is sequestered away like this for another 30 minutes. Who's she calling? Who knows. Who cares. She gets up to fax something. Lies and fear. I'm sick and I'm tired, but it's a light at the end of the tunnel now, and not just another tunnel. When she looks at me it feels like cancer. 11:15 and the door is closed again. Why not just be honest, why not just stop this interminable game of spin control? Just leave. It's time, don't you see that? How do you not see that. It is so supremely depressing to watch her claw and scratch at this place, to watch her gnash her teeth against reality, to watch all of this stagnation mislabeled as chaos, in order to uphold the facade of service, effort, assistance. People complicate things so much.

Anne is a brave warrior. Thank god she knocked down that leaky dam.

just hush that fuss.

This is what's the most annoying thing ever.

you're showing someone your portfolio, and they go, "gee, you must have a really good camera!"

....

i will break you.

transporter II is out yall. i got some really good shots of the river at indian hollow last night, i'll post 'em to my photo site either tonight or tomorrow. the river was up way higher than usual, and it was moving like a freight train. so ch-check it out!

19 days left, after today. $1700 for 19 days isn't a bad trade off, right? i can do it if i just hold my breath.