Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #51

Kelly,

I got a flourescent orange letter from you last night, thanks. I am always affected by color, especially in unexpected places. I never noticed it much unitl I lived in a world of cement and steel, harsh lighting, hard angles, and three colors, all traditional institutional colors. And speaking of colors, I created another Black, White, and Red envelope for you. I even shunned the bell stamp for the flag because it had red, white and dk. blue, which would not upset the balance much. I like this one. I tsort of created itself. Oftentimes I paint a variation of what I see in real life, but this, I pulled directly out of my ass. I nominate it museum-worthy!




Glad you liked Mr. Mini [Ed.: painting she did on previous envelope]. God knows you need all the pleasantries you can get right now. When I read your last entry, about the snapping hairband, I totally got you. As in, I was recreated myself. Overm y life,I have gone through cycles, like waves, of depression, since I was like, 14. At 16, I made a valiant effort at suicide, only to wake up alive and pissed off, even more depressed. In jail, in prisonm and because my circumstances keep getting harder, the waves get bigger. Higher highs, lower lows. Crazy, panicky shit. More tears and snot-clogged tissues than I care to count. And it is in those valleys of the wave where those snapping hairbands, a not-good news letter, or in one case, a falling coffee bag, that trigger the urge to just fucking die. I've thought of a dozen ways to end it that would not be too painful or traumatizing. I researched it when I was in Chicago---the levels of pain or panic associated with different types of suicide. And from what I have read, the idea of just walking into the sea surf or sliding down into your tub m ay sound like a soothing way to go, but it is not. One reason why drowning is not ranked up there at the top is because it is not instaneous relief. It is pretyt much like suffocating, because what you are really doing is depriving your lungs of usable oxygen, and so you must suffer the crushing agony of carbon dioxide buildup in your system for about two-three minutes before you lose consciousness, and then another minute or so for your heart to quit. That's why guns are popular. Instant (hopefully) relief. Or the razor-blade-in-water method. It's a lot slower than poeple think. You have to lay in your bloody water for like a half-hour before you bleed enough. If you cut really well, maybe 15 minutes to lose consciousness. 45 to be beyond this world. And it's a cold way to go, literally. I actually found the perfect way to go, where I could jsut lay, listening to my MP3 player until the Universe booked me out. No pain. No panic. And I even wetn so far to begin writing my last letter, but by the time I figured out how to get what I needed (it took 2 days of plotting), I rose up enough out of the valley to push it off for the next time. And then a month later I was arrested. And two years later, I'm still stuck in this bathroom. Anyway, I just totally get you in that moment.

Don't forget, if you commit suicide [Ed.: I never said or even alluded to killing myself] Mini would be the first to find you, and that would traumatize him for life. You wouldn't want that. And then he'd be without you, which would make him want to run in front of a speeding car. Even then, it would only break his legs, leaving him a traumatized, ownerless, gimp. You simply can't do that to Mini.

Did you ever figure out what was written on the copy paper the bank guy was holding?

I, too, look in the mirror, unbelieving the soft wrinkles starting to form around my eyes, on my forehead, around my mouth. And simply cannot fathom that I have lived in prison for ten years. You talk about your youth and innocence being wasted. Don't I fucking know!

I cannot believe you wrote this: "Because he's so prominent and I'm a nobody with a bad reputation, I try hard not to discuss the industry with him." Kelly, I get tha tyou aren't on the Top Ten List of Who's Who in RE, but WTF? Don't you have faith in your abilities? The more you treat yourself as a precious object to be had, the more value you have---because of the way you show up to people. And what about your reputation is so bad? Bc. you were fired for blogging? Because you are the Plaintiff in a lawsuit? Your personal life has absolutely NOTHING to do with your ability to work. Or create. Or organize. Or whatever job skills you need. I have a very bad reputation, yet that sure didn't impair my job skills when I was out. That proves that it's all perception. Perceive yourself as worthy and amazing, because you are. And others will catch on quickly.

Although Amir knows your situation and has not offered to help with job leads doens't mean anything. Men are DENSE. Often they just miss it. Plus they want to feel needed, so maybe he is waiting for you to ask.

How did you know you had so many readers of your now-defunct public blog? Does it tell you how many views you got? And you think you are a nobody..shush.

I understand about not being able to talk about the deal with "John" openly. My random thought was -- ok NY is a blue state...

I hate it how every time I get handcuffed behind my back, my nose itches.

So, do you smell like your apartment? And what does your apartment smell like?

What will you do for Thanksgiving? I bet Chinese food is popular in NYC.

Hope you liked my first story. I look forward to getting a response from Michele. Oh, that info you sent for the Creative Non-Fiction Magazine, how much does s single issue or subscription cost? I'd liek to see an issue before I write something to submit.

Hope you are well and the Universe has brought you a big, happy blessing!

Peace,
Sarah

Letters from the Inside, Ira Einhorn, #3

Hi Kelly, [insert sign for Taurus]

Hope you are feeling better. I take no meds and ever virii in creation seems to love my cells, so... I empathize heavily with sickness; may it pass quickly.

I am an expert in the paranormal as in anything else I have ever studied, so your story [Ed.: He is referencing Brujeria] conveyed and yes you should have listened.

I was a ground for psychics and one of my closest during the 70s knew more about the paranormal than any planetary being: Andrija Puharish.

I midwifed URI which was his international bestseller that I got to Bill Whitehead at Double Day--he was my conduit for many books. I was an unofficial editor there frolm '68-'69 to my being blown out of the H2O.

My network was set up to involve the top physical minds in reflection upon the paranormal.

I held physics and consciousness conferences all over the USA. Ah, the puckered lemon of history.

Look up: SPACE-TIME and BEYOND, SARAFATTI, WOLFE & TOBIN (a book I agented); BEYOND TELEPATHY- a book I had reprinted.

For Taureans--try to find Marc Edmund Jones (I think that is correct): He is the clearest and the finest--read his chapters on Taureans in any book you can find. Better than my babbling. And look at his studen: Dane Rudhyar- The Astrology of Personality.

I am very intuitive and psychic in a wayno one has been able to explain, including myself; I did palmistry so naturally and accurately that i felt like a fraud, so I took up astrology to ground myself. I read everything extant. I did 200 charts (all the movement heavies were my friends) and then put it all away.

BUT
The psychic is very real and I worked with some of the best.

Our rationality is the tip of the iceberg, a took that has driven spirit from the world and we are all suffering loss

ALAS

Taureans are fixed earth--2nd house of the Zodiac--the house of resources---but al my Taurus is found in my chart in the 8th: SCORPIO--Love, Sex, Death and the Occcult (hidden) in A + - sense.

Steadfast, ridiculously loyal, particularly as my Venus is found at the mid heaven.

Just think: Years of women filling my bed, knocking at my door, calling me, writing me.

Wall to wall and then: Boom, I meet a woman who really pleases me.

AND MONOGAMY

Without a 2nd thought.

Instant transformation/transmutation.

14 years, for me of CLOSENESS, infinite patience with the cultural difference: she's Swedish--mother problems--distant father, but lots of love and caring.

In astrological terms I'm a Uranian-- my sun is combust Uranus and in conjunction with Mercury.

I change/transform in an instant and communicate it. I should have een or would have been an actor in 1920.

In 1960, I became a life actor on the Movement Stage.

Journals are the crux of a very big tale. [Ed.: He is referring to the fact that 63 of his journals were seized by the police and used against him in his trial and he is petitioning to get them back contending they were taken and used illegally.] You can't take personal writing; It is protected and then taken illegally they were given to a writer: My life's work---PLAGIARY--to be used against me and then used illegally in court. [Ed.: He encloses he court document/petition.]

I read early, I was a math whiz and progressed from comic books to sports books to the classics, mostly innate. The desire to learn was insatiable.

A good highschool--Central High in Philly--a sage as a mentor and close friend who encouraged me, but the drive was innate.

There is always the thrill of the first page of a new book, not unlike the first kiss of a new love.

I felt that way for 14 years with my wife.

Genuine love and adoration, energy. Our bodies liked each other. Again: Little to do with upbringing in temrs of instilling. Support--yes! My mom was there unitl her last breath at 94.
By 12, I was beyond them.

I filled my room with books, but I was also social and athletic: I could have gone to a small school on a football scholarship.
I chose an Ivy League school.

I've come to love Latin and try to do some daily. English comes from North West Germanic and I've studied its older roots (Old English, Old Norse, Old High German, Middle High German, etc.). I'm not a philologist, but I love the feel of language as much as I love women's bodies.
Sex and intellect but not dry intellect.
Ellen Burstyn and I were close for a few months--not lovers--but close.

I looked closely at a script she was doing (RESURRECTION).

She wanted me to meet everyone she knew, but I went off to teach at Harvard and was so in demand that I neglected her as she didn't attract me physically and then my universe exploded: The Prince of Iran (the Shah's nephew and man) asked me to set up and run his satellite net, but Iran in 1979 was poison to my politics. I knew the downfall was coming.

OMNI was interview me for a big ferature.
I went off to Yugoslavia to talk to the ruling council about a tesla celebration (Google me and the RUSSIAN WOODPECKER.)
My translator who stuck to me like glue for 4 Belgrad days was Tito's translator.

Arthur Koestler had agreed to do a book length interview and a recent friend was on the way to see me about writingt and acting in a 60s TV Dope Opera. ETC ETC ETC. Then the morning of his coming, life ended.

More Anon,
I

Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #50

Dear Kelly,

I'm surprised my fingers are still allowing me to write! For the last two weeks I have written and written, pages and pages, edited, copied, copied again and I am pooped. I sent Michele B. another submission today. It's a story about me and my father, very touching---sort of bittersweet. It developed on its own so I had started it from one thought---about how when I was a teenager, I used to go through his stuff just to feel close to him, learn about him, and I stole his socks.

He had cool socks.

Not the boring white tube socks, although he did have some white socks, but trouser socks of all types. Wool socks.
ARGYLE SOCKS!

Anyway, the story turned out ver different. It makes me appreciate the relationship I have with my father.

If she chooses the first story, I will edit down the father essay to 300 words and submit it to Reader's Write. Or maybe submit it the way it is and let them edit it. I noticed that hte longest RW entries are 300 words. My stories are 1000-1500, so it would be a lot of editing. Or maybe send it to that Non-Fiction magazine. Either way, I got plans. On a day when my mind does not want to work, I will hand copy it for you.

I don't know if it is the change in seasons, the upcoming holiday (for which I have used as an excuse to buy $30 worth of junk food to l ast me through 2 weeks of self pity), or being moved to a room with white-frosted windows so I can't see out of get sunshine in, or what, but I have been feeling sort of empty and lonely, stressed, anxious an dsort of searching.

Okay, bullshit, Iknow why I have been feeling this way, but it's a cumulative effort. It's like I'm okay dealing with living in the latrine, but when the shit starts backing up, there's only so much you can take before the stench makes you want to puke.

Of couse part of it is situational. Living in a cement and steel bathroom for nearly two years isn't easy. Today is day 692. That's fucking ridiculous. And they give me no way out. Like most people can earn their way out by just sitting and following the rules for a couple of weeks or months and they get released. Even ones who got caught traficking pills with a staff member. 30 days. 90 days. Beat up an officer? Get out in a year. Beat up an inmate? 60 days. Get 42 write ups in a year? 70 days. I m ean, these are just examples, but Iit does get a little infuriating when they tell me I'm a threat to the safety and security of the facility so I stay locked away, yet these people aren't a threat? WTF? No to say I want them to stay. Hell, I don't wish that on anyone. Free the people!

And then there's the holidays, my mother's health, my sister's divorce, feeling guilty that my father is going to spend like $800 to fly out here, take a cab from the airport to here and back just to see me for two hours through fucking glass. It's just so wrong. And I think about all the holiday gatherings I have missed and how things would be different if I were home. Last Thanksgiving I spent in a Super 8 motel room eating "Dennys" turkey dinner with two slices of pumpkin pie and a slic of pecan pie for dessert, watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire--I was a little depressed.

And then there's my ex-lover, partner, whatever. That is such a long story, but after waiting two years to be able to talk/write to her, she professes her love which is what I've been dying to hear, only for me to write back with all these excuses why I don't see it working out between us. I am such an idiot. I fucking love that woman. Like, be still my heart, make every molecule in my body dance, would walk to the ends of the earth for--and it broke her heart. Now I'm trying to back upand start over, seeing that I hurt her and may have blown whatever chance I had at getting what I wanted. For over four years--her. I guess it was really out of fear. Like, who wants to stick it out with someone locked in a cage inside a locked building inside a locked compound? I am just so sick of being disappointed by people. I don't expect too much. I hardly expect anything at all. But then they offer to help and then they flake out. I think that it's because they see the enormity of what i face and they get scared, too emotionally attached to the outcome, and rather avoid the disappointing possibilities than to try at all, even with the possiblity of success. I used to think there was something wrong with me, but I recently have come to believe that a lot of people care so much that they don't want to deal with the hurt or difficulties I go through in my life. I don't know. It just sucks.

And there's all this legal research and pending court issues. Of course I dont' want to deal with that. And dear God, I don't have the money. Who does? Are wealthy people the only ones who deserve justice? Bullshit.

Fuck.

Pbbbth...

Anyway, that's my bitchy session for the week. Glad you could attend. Please leave comments in the suggestion box.

Goodnight.
Peace.

Sarah.

HOW ARE YOU?

Letters from the Inside, Ira Einhorn, #2

Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #49 Part 2

[This is the personal essay she submitted to the book, Our Voice, I told her about.]

Harriet Tubman would be proud. Through a modern-day Underground Railroad a change of brave friends passed me from an undisclosed location to a Motel 6 to a sagging brown couch to a Super 8 to a place I can best describe as the Cockroach Inn. After being conveyed across state lines, I am left with two bags, three hundred dollars and time to find some direction, which have determined is anywhere away from Oppression.

For years, I prayed to the God of justice to rescue me. Then, disillusioned by a blind, ignorant Justice and an apparently deaf God, I vowed to save myself. Slowly, I stitched together the tatters of my shredded self-esteem and quietly harvested pebbles of courage until I had enough to smash out of the House of Pain.

If i return, He will kill me--mayben not physically but He will eat my soul until I beg for the swing of Death's scythe. That is, if I have soul left, because rightt now, I'm a so hungry I would sell it for a cheeseburger. Although I know that I am being hunted like wild game by a posse, led by Him, of trigger-happy thugs, starvation is a worse fate, so out into the concrete forest I go to forage for food. Luckily my hotel window frames the view of Super Walmart.

Sunglasses and a billed had shield me from the searing August sun. Thick air pushes against my face, smothering me, quickening my pulse. But I shove back against the anxiety and start walking. At the busy intersection the tiny walking man lights up and I quick-step across. From behind their steering wheels a dozen hostile eyes burn me. Though red, if the light abruptly turns green I wonder if road rage would have me run down. Feeling uneasy, I step into a half-jog, and just two steps from the opposite curb, a multi-tasking motorist screams to a halt, almost greeting me with a chrome bumper kiss. Then she glares at me like it is my fault.

My heart pounds furiously, demanding to be let out and absolved of this runaway nonsense. Slow, deep breaths soothe my colicky nerves. I focus on the sun-dappled sidewalk reflecting a shadowy dance of a sugar maple; it's low branches sweet my crown in calming solidarity.

Summer beauty is suddenly swallowed by alarm.

A jelly bean sub-compact follows me into the strip mall entrance and slows dramatically. The shaggy-haired driver rubbernecks like I am a highway accident.

I dribble in my panties.

He turns back.

In protest, my stomach attempts to wrench itself from my gut because it knows that He has come. However unlikely it may be for a hired assasin to drive a powder blue hatchback, I am convinced it merely disguises lethal intent. My legs want to bolt, but switch getaways are not made in heavy boots. People do not clomp their way to safety.

I hold my ground, but avoid meeting his eyes when he stops me.

Through the driver's window, he says, "Excuse me. Do you smoke?"

"Uh, no. Sorry." I tremble.

His hands brandish no weapon.

"Oh well. Alright then." His tone speaks not of a professional predator, but of a boy turned down for a prom date. "You have a nice day."

He creeps away leaving me confused. Smoke? Dude you just passed a gas station. Either I missed a vital puzzle piece or that heat has scrambled my brain because I don't get it.

Instead of exiting he recircles. A stall tactic.

I stare with dread at the approaching car. If this is it, just shoot me.

He pulls so close that his air conditioning licks my face. He says, "I can't believe you don't smoke pot."

This frozen pea of information unplugs me, and I really look at him. Just below his scruffy chin, his neck is strangled by a red tie laid over a thickly wrinkled shirt that puckers over his belly. Fast food trash litters the passenger floorboard, and from the rearview mirror, dangles a marijuana leaf.

He is not hunting me. He is soliciting me.

His chubby face waits for an answer, but words lodge in my throat.

He adds, "Because you totally look like you would smoke."

Oh, sure. I can see how my white t-shirt, jeans and twenty dollar shades pigeonhole me as a pothead. What a dope! Please put your Geo Metro in gear and putter away from me. Finally, I cough out a series of responses referencing a husband before I sidewind away from Shaggy, confusion still hanging in the air.

Inside the sliding doors, the cold blast flushes my lungs, refreshing me for about five seconds before a wall of sound slams into me. Beeps and clicks and a wailing child set hte backdrop for a widespan view of profound abundance. Ceilings erected for dinosaurs cover rows of shelves and towers of merchandise, enough to outfit the army of a small communist country. A front line of tanks is formed by checkout stands, lit up and ready to fire.

An ancient,smiling prune greets me.

I greedily accept a wire card as a possible battering ram inm case another svengali shows up in Frozen Foods. Of course, I get the retarded cart with one wobbly wheel that pulls left. It's a sales stragegy to crash you into stuff you dont' need or even want, but once collided with, you rationalize why you can't live without it.

In Produce, uniform stacks of colorful cornucopia beckon me to eat fruit once forbidden in our House. From a cascase of peaches, I select a fuzzy orb and tear off a plastic bag. I shake it, roll it between my fingers, and try opening it with my teeth. Finally, I give up, relinquish the peach, and peel open the uncoooperative bag.

A gigle bubbles up, and momentarily the dark tide recedes, but surges again, throwing me into a surreal Miracle-Gro induced hallucination.

Heads of broccoli, lettuce and other vegetables resembling bulbous yard weeds, pulse like Frankenstein's green heart. Potatoes blink at me. An Ugli fruit snarls.

I dark into the dary section, snagging a bag of baby carrots along the way.

Blessedly, the milk does not moo at me. I pluck cups of Dannon from teh refrigerated shelf, avoiding the probiotics. I can't believe they market this stuff as a seven-day program to make you poop. I pick up pre-packaged chedder and turkey slices, because a deli experience may induce psychosis.

Then I wobble into aisle four and am paralyzed by the Great Wall of Snack Bars. Thousands of colorful boxes line up in ranks like tiny soldiers divided into troops of chocolate, granola, fruits and nuts, low-fat, high-fiber, onm and on for endless minature battlefield miles. I am left with an unfocused stare and hinged-open mouth. like a heavily medicated psychiatric patient minus the drool.

The din of shoppers grows to a roar and together with the harsh flourescent lighting, is as torturous as any military interrogation room.

I must seek shelter immediately.

I manuever through the jungle of sweatshop labor goods to an express lane, but I have one item over the limit. l consider ditching the yogurt cup in the soda fridge, but that's only slightly less rude than leaving unwanted butter on the bubble gum rack, so I veer toward an automatic checkout, softly chanting, "I can do this."

I panic only briefly when the computer cashier loudly accuses m e of stealing. My innocence being verified on the screen, I defend myself. I scanned the stupid cheese, lady. I poke buttons until she shuts up and lets me feed a twenty into her hungry mouth.

As I collect my change a sense of pride swells in me.

Although I survived in the House for eight years, surviving was reative: obeying, retreating, silence, or saying yes to anything to avoid pain. The moment I decided to escape the clutches of oppression, I shopped surviving and started living.

Now, I get to say how it goes.

It takes a lot of courage to own my life, to make choices and deal with the consequences without anyone to blame. It takes courage to move forward through the fire of fear instead of backing away. Even if I get burned, on the other side is a reward for having the guts to try.

I leave with my plastic sack trophy dangling from my hands. Emotion pinches my heart and wrings tears from my eyes that drip off my chin and onto the thirsty pavement.

At first, I whisper into the wind.

Then, to the sun, I turn up my face and stretch my arms out l ike the wings of a great blue heron taking flight, calling into the sky with a triumphant cry, "I am free!"

Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #49

Dear Kelly,

After I sent you the last letter, I got a letter from Michele B. inviting me to submit for Our Voice. And after about 25 hours of writing, rewriting and polishing, I finished the final submission. I am really proud of it. Once I recopy it (which takes about two hours!) I'll sent it to Michelle and keep my fingers crossed. I may try to work on the one about my father, or my first (gay) boyfriend, but I don't know if I can make the deadline. That was A LOT more work than I thought it would be. I evny those writers who can take 6 weeks in the Bahamas and write a best-selling novel.

I like the Dali postcard, but I don't get it. Ossification of the Cypress---no, I don't get it.

I got my buddy hooked on Saturday night Moth hour. A long time ago, I told her she should work on her storytelling. She's naturally funny and comes up with some original vivid metaphors and similes that make me pee on myself. If she would write them down and polish them up, practive, she could totally do a MothShow.

I painted this envelope for you, and see that hte red is more of a pink than a primary red. [Ed.: She always paints my envelopes so I requested she do them in black, white and red. The first was a big red apple and this one she is referencing is a red Mini against a black striped background.] I am going to play with teh colors to see if I can eek out a truer red. I didn't have anything to work from, so my silhouette doesn't look like Mini as I had intended. I need a visual aid to help. Tomorrow or Sunday, I'll be able to paint again.

I get a kick out of what you create on your blog or articles for other sites. For one, it's a glimpse into someone else's life that doesn' t deal with the same retarded assholes that I do. You deal with different retarded assholes. It's amusing.

How did your recording for Mr. Beller's Neighborhood go? Do you think you sound funny on air? I like how our culture is preserving the art of storytelling. Whether is's for convenience of an iPod junkie generation or for a real appreciation for the art, I like it. If there's a magnetic storm or sunspot burst or something that wipes out computers and storage--what's left? Books and storytelling.

When you recorded in the studio, did your nerves make you want to pee a lot? When I get nervous I want to shit.

I am sorry Mini ate your perfect red spread. You sure love that little dog. I would too.

I liked the "Goatheads" article. The way she felt about moving to Brooklyn, being fascinated by all the different cultures, races, languages, shops, foods, etc. -- feeling on vacation every day, that comes close to how I felt when I moved to North Chicago. It didn't ever feel ordinary or boring.

As for the goatheads, that's one culture gap I would not want to bridge. Unless it would grant me a special wish. A really good wish.

I have never heard of this poem, Howl, or the big deal around it. I found it interesting that Ginsberg's boyfriends were bi--the artist said, "straight men" but straight men don't fuck men. Bi men do. But I thought about if there were differents in my attraction towards homosexual women vs. bisexual women. Yes, absolutely. Hadn't thought about that much before.

In the photo of you in the crowd at Amir's event, I know you are twirling your hair but I swear it looks like you are flipping him off. Although Amir is a little goofy looking, his great success and apparent charm make up for that ten times over. I'm a little biased because I know how much suffering you get out of your relationship with him. That makes me want to let Mini poo in his $1200 shoes. :-) He doesn't deserve you.

Have you asked Amir for a job lead?

That painting by your friend [Ed.: She is referencing [someone] from OD] captures exactly how I felt today, and countless other days in the past ten years after realizing my stupid loss.

"Like witches running from a stake." That's a good line, Kelly. You are so creative. I'm glad you have time to write. But why don't you do it to pay your rent? How long will focus groups and monthly columns supplement your PR gig?

Hey, do you have a website counter? If so, what is your reader base?

That "creative writing" you sent a couple of weeks ago, how's the real life version of that going? When you hired your civil atty, did you pay a retainer and then make a contingency agreement? How long do you think it will drag out? Have you talked to any politicians about creating a criminal law against that?

Have you considered working to write somle public figures' bio or memoirs? You're really good at "As told to Kelly" articles. Maybe Amir or someone he knows wants immortality themselves. Even if in vain, if they have the money you need the work. It doesn't have to be epic, just a job. I bet lots of wealthy people would pay to have their memoirs written. tHey just don't see it out because they don't know they want it---yet. Create some conversations and I bet there's an interest. It would not be heavy content, you would be provided the material and you could make a hunk of swiss cheese sound interesting.

I had some sort of emotionally wrenching reaction to being handcuffed today. I guess I just came to a tipping point. I mean, I get handcuffed every day, sometimes 6 times a day, but I absolutely hate it when an officer clamps them down so small, they might as well be child's handcuffs. I get bruises, no one cares. I got cuffed for my shower and they were supertight, when I asked for them to be loosened, I got justification for their placement and denial they were tight., like I had done something wrong by complaining. I begged, just get them off my bone. Nope. I refused to shower. Take the cuffs off please. I'd rather wash my ass in my sink then get cuffed up like that, like a misbehaving dog on a choker chain. Fuck that. I was so upset, I cried. God please save me, I pray.

Hopefully I'll have a better day tomorrow.

Peace,

Sarah

***

PART TWO will be her writing submission for the book I suggested.

Letters from the Inside, Michael Swango, #100 pt. 3

OK--Totally switching gears to an equally serious topic as your livelihood---your health.

It certainly sounds like you have touched all the bases regarding the persistent sub-acute infection which has plagued you for so long. [Ed.: Group B Strep] I have seen the truly awful results of anal-vaginal fistulea caused when women in rural Africa undergo days of labor because they can't get to the hospital. The instense pressures inside the pelvis can tear significant holes in that membrane. These women become recluses and pariahs. IN fact, there are hospitals in sub-Saharan Africa devotedly exclusively in to surgery to repair these horrendous injuries. As you might image, repair is complex and not always successful. Many women have to undergo two or three operations to finally close the defect. PBS did a stunning documentary on the subject a couple of years ago. [Ed.: He is mentioning fissues because I explained I had to go get an abdominal scan with dye to see if there were any rips in my intestines. Luckily prior to getting that exam, I and my doctor finally figured out why I've had recurrent GBS infections (they are extremely painful and rare). The bacteria was growing from an antibiotic that I had taken quite a few times. It was killing so much of the good bacteria in my system (I do take probiotics and eat yogurt) that it caused a horrible overgrowth of GBS.]

Yes, I know--Michael is always there with a cheery anedote or two...Just putting things in perspective.

By the way---part of my ability to "compartmentalize" is being able to realize that such awful things to not in anyway and should not in any way prevent a man and a woman who are emotionally close and who trust each other from engaging in deep, loving anal sex, especially the utter intimacy & orgasmic intensity (man and women) of anal sex in the missionary position.

I know, TMI. [Ed.: To reiterate, I've told him a billion times, no sex talk.]

Must get this in the mail--but still so much more to talk about. And I will--hope sooner than later. I really do enjoy writing to you, Kelly, even if I drive you half-crazy most of the time...

Just received "Mind Game", the fascinating letter from NZ from the New Yorker. Wow--full comments to follow.

AND your letter in which you relate your confrontation at the laundromat. My God, trouble just finds you sometimes, doesn't it?

So--scanning and very briefly:

>Brilliant discussion/rant re the rescinded job offer!
>I knew that the "Buried" review would bother you. Poor baby. You and I would be perfect in those situations.
> No, I've not seen "Young Prisoner's Handbook" but it just seemed liek a film you must see and tell me about!
> I will think seriously about how a sociopath woudl perceive the whole situation/court case you've described. You asked "How do you think he views me and what do you think he'll do?" I will consider that and I think I can give you a reasoned opinion. I believe there are multiple twists and turns, and that full understanding of a sociopath is nearly impossible without the full picture. And I understand your limitations.


Lots in this letter--and again, sorry it was so delayed. Hope my cash/stamp problem improves. Hope I filled your Brain Housing Group with enough stuff that you forget for a little while how much life SUCKS!!

Thinking of you, Kelly. Hang in there---write soon. And so will I.

Your friend,
Michael

"You know you love me. XOXO." The narrator is of course Kristen Bell. She ends each episode with those worlds.

P.S. KK tons more movie talk, but all this seemed more important.