I cannot even think of anything to say. THought I’d be late to work (meaning less than an hour early) but here I am, a few minutes before 8 am and thus over an hour early. I’ve been reading a couple of prison books. One is an oral history of Rikers, the other a series of stories from people who survived solitary confinement. I sometimes feel my life is lived in solitary. I have no escape, no options, and I must live according to the guidelines established by outside forces but also willingly and even gratefully accepted by myself. People go insane in solitary. Others accept and slowly lose their humanity. They become common animals. So much of this punishment is unnecessary, and without legitimate impetus. But depending on the arrangement I sometimes find the setting to be inviting. Pen and paper? Check. Books? Check. A window, at least? If I could create and let my mind express itself in tangible printed form I think I could be happy in a room like that. But I say this from knowingly naive and deliberately ignorant positions, since the likelihood of this body, however decadent his mind might be, to somehow end up in a solitary confinement chamber, is both absurdly out of the question, but also the stuff of remonstrance, the stuff of the unknown swallows of randomness that in a lightning flash change the world around you.
Am I the Dead Internet I keep reading about? Am I auto-generated slime? I might as well be. We all might as well be slime. The air around me now is very cool and wafty. Conversation is buzzing. I will be naked tonight. She says I make myself vulnerable with my seemingly terminal nakedness. Vulnerable. I am vulnerable slime.
