Letter To C Block cont.

I saw a bright shooting star, with a fiery tail. Then, I saw another, smaller shooting star. I figured that a meteor shower may have been going on. I have yet to confirm this, but the event was the evening of 5/23, a Friday.


Then, along came the pickling lady.


Pickling lady; spraying the parking lot; telling me that she was into pickling foods and telling me of some of the fine pickled foods that she would give me if I would accompany her to her abode in the country.


And so, I rode with Becky, 4 miles out into the country which is the outskirts of Bay Minette. We were to the north, I believe.


This was partly for the purpose of waiting out the three hours before Jeff was due to arrive; him coming from Louisiana, where he was taking water samples from the ocean. Oil spill related work, has tapered off, but hasn’t evaporated, (excuse the pun) entirely. I wonder if someone in Jeff’s church turned him on to the job; it's alright to help one another out.


They (his/our church) gave me a brochure for a "Men's Recovery" type of program, which is run out of Pensacola, along with some nice clothing; Pensacola fashions, as a matter of fact.


It is a place to get right with God, and study the bible in a completely sober state, missing all of the deeper mystical references, because of this. I guess one can't have his cake and eat it too.


I think it is nice of them to have given me the information. It is like a 7 month program. They mention that all the "men" are given work assignments and in fact they call this work "therapeutic," and educational.


I would eventually assault someone with the nearest book that weighed at least a pound and a half, if history repeats itself. I would break out in the middle of the night and call someone, begging them to wire me money so I could just go into a bar and get away from the recovery experts.


Until the Press Register runs an article about my indictment being dismissed, this is going to be a hard town to work in. Going somewhere else for a while might be prudent. The recovery program sounds tempting, but, I think I can admit that I'm powerless on my own time.

She (back to Becky) has 2 dogs, which were of the "lap" variety. These are dogs that sit and stare at diners, waiting and hoping a meatball will fall off a fork. Not my favorite kind of dogs; I at least like the breeds that can frighten off a wild turkey, if called upon by a sense of duty to do so.


Her house was full of very old things, from the artwork, to the furniture. It was probably like going back 100 years in time, and smoking weed with an ex-hippie lady.


A philosophical person might say that she is trying to preserve the spirit of a bygone era, through the appointments in her house, the same way she preserves things like green beans by picking them.


Her piano was not TOO out of tune for an 100 year old specimen of that instrument.


I am pretty sure that I could mess with it for about 3 hours and the right tool (called a "hammer" and almost 30 bucks; whereas, if it were a tool made to be used on a car, it would be about 8 bucks)


I wonder if the murderer played a little ditty on the piano before he hacked his victim up. (I'm not sure if there is any truth to the rumors about body parts being pickled)


Her house was done in turn-of-the-century “little girl,” with dolls and paintings and other porcelain renderings, amidst an Old Curiosity Shop backdrop of interesting sundries.


She had a gumball machine, one from like, the 60's.






I was sampling pickled stuff and settling upon the sweet stuff, the candied figs being prominent in my recollections. These were the whole, fresh, ripe figs -the kind that are purple and very soft if found in the right produce department. They were made into some very thick, and fig flavored syrup.


Candied figs rock. You could probably get an item for candied figs in there, especially if they scooped you at least three of the suckers, with a good amount of syrup.


Coming from out of the Bay Minette Federal holding facility, where a bear claw is as close as one can get to a fine confectionary, the figs were almost overkill.

Becky Used To Be A Body Builder

I never cease to wonder at the serendipity of my meeting people like Becky, the lady who likes to pickle; at the times that I do meet them. I saw two shooting stars that night, before the mosquitoes drove me off. I didn't make any tangible wishes, just the usual mantra of 'send me a lady who pickles things...'


And so, now I have her number and I have about a half dozen of her Mason jars; now empty, souvenirs from the wonderful culinary journey that I took. I should try to return them to her.


As stated in a previous post, I thought about getting a bike and then maybe even poking around Bay Minette, helping Becky around her house, out of charity and not just because it would be nice to sleep in an air conditioned house. Air conditioning can't be cheap. I would have to see how much action there is for a street musician in Bay Minette.


Too bad there wasn't a convenience store that would let me sit on a milk crate in the front area of the store on weekend nights. There used to be, in Jacksonville, until the higher-ups decided that the musician might sue if burned beyond recognition by a gas pump explosion, or if hit by a car which came into the Kangaroo parking lot and just never stopped...


I’m not sure that I could contribute enough to pull my weight around Becky’s house, if I can’t make money on music somehow.


I'm going to print this out and send it in. Ray will be the recipient, and then can let the others read, in a certain order, based upon who is in Ray's good graces that day.


I'm sure that anyone wanting to read and see what's going on in the outside world (things are getting put in jars with a lot of vinegar and spices), I'm sure that there will probably be at least one Hertel to get past. BaaHaaaHaaa!!!


I'll be telling my grandchildren that one.


Cook: "What, after you sit them on your lap??"


Well, I've had about enough of this for a day. It has been in the 90's out here and humid enough last night that it seemed like breathing in steam. It made me lazy and I just sat there.


Not helping at all was the fact that I had smoked some botanical incense, and then I rubbed some deodorant on my arms. My deodorant has crumbled and no longer is manageable with the plastic dispenser that it came in. Are you following me!?!


By the way, when I put "Are you following me!?!" It's supposed to be yelled loudly, almost barked, like a dog. It's like a wake up, cold water in the face "Are you following me!?!"


Then, I put on some skintastik mosquito repellant type stuff.


The combination of gasses from the skintastik applicator towelette, which is a repellant to mosquitoes, combined with some of the chemicals from the deodorant, which was all over my fingers, because I had just wiped it all over myself; and had gotten on my cigarette.


It was like some new designer drug, which I had accidentally discovered. I envision a club full of people dancing, while mirror balls spin over their heads, bouncing beams of colorful light everywhere. Each one of them has got a skintastic towelette in one hand, which they periodically huff. A thing of Degree anti perspirant is being passed around. The dancers seem oblivious to everything else...


Here is your one more installment.


Has anyone had the guts to request the partially hydrogenated soybean oil-free diet, and practice the art of pickling?? Don't look at it as giving up your chicken patty,; you can always trade for a chicken patty, especially if you get fat slices of tomatoes. Someone needs to take a bullet for the team and become soy intolerant, or you boys won't be getting your 4 food groups.

Can't Linger On The Keys

The Man who stands out in front of a certain restuarant and acts like he, (not his wives family) owns it; he also acts like a neighborhood watchdog, he who has called police before, and reported the drinkings of alcohol in the park which sits caty cornered to his restaurant.
He is kind of activist against the homeless in general, the bums in particular, and the bums that panhandle are what he did his Thesis on.
He has prominently taped up in some of his windows, news of the anti-panhandling laws, and beseeches people not to give in to anyone's begging
Man With The Hat Speaks Out
Imagine that. Imagine the man with the hat speaking out.
Standing out in front of his restaurant with his hat on his head, giving vent to the sum of his reasonings.
He isn't preparing food; he's agitating with hat on head, instead.
Yes, the Man With The Hat, had some harsh things to say, regarding charges which had been dismissed against me. In the mind of The Man With The Hat, though; I must have broken the statute, word for word.
The Order of this day will be to see about the local newspaper's "recanting" editor.

I Talk To The Federal Defendants
The Federal Defendants greeted me warmly and congratulated me upon my victory.
The assistant guy reassured me that a certain person at the Press Register operation would be more than happy to run a story in which it is announced that I was let go and not charged as originally charged.
I think about living way up in Washington State and panning for gold in the streams, living off of a lot of fish; and playing music around the Seattle area for fun, skill, health and wine money.
I have lived there before. The most noticable thing, to me was the dimness of the sun. The lattitude of Seattle places it up near where Newfoundland is, to use a New England reference. Yes, the sun is just that much dimmer and not a raging fireball in the sky, like it can be in Alabama. Yet, in Alabama it gets cold enough in the winter to make one say "what a God forsaken spot on the globe."
The time has come to relocate and to give things time to cool and to help myself out some.
There never was a whole lot of money here, but there was a different kind of charm; a charm which has been evaporated out of a large sector of Mobile, now that I have been through a scandal.

Letter To Cellblock C

Dear Gentlemen,
A week of freedom has been interesting.
I left the jail and started walking towards that water tower thing, which has the town’s name written on it, as if that would be a good place to try to get a ride to Mobile, but not before going into the “employees only” area of the jail and picking their ashtrays. (Note to Leonard: Some very good quality; premium brands; much unsmoked, out of camera range. Rating A-.)
The jail gave me no cash. They are going to mail the balance of my account, to my friend’s house, pissing them off even more than the FBI agents showing up at their residence and giving them possession my coin-holder, wallet type thing. I’m sure that, for their own safety, it had been thoroughly checked for weapons prior to being handed over. Now, they are going to be getting mail from the Baldwin County Jail.
So, I am walking down the street at this point, evening was falling. The setting sun glistened off the shiny water tower thing, with “Bay Minette” written on it, which also stared down upon me like a menacing eye, which seemed to foreshadow doom, by the way.
I had the nagging feeling of being stared at, as if someone was trying to see what kind of vegetables I had.
I got directions to a Wal-Mart, from some guys at an auto parts store. Guys that work at auto parts stores are usually good for directions, especially the one’s who sit out front puffing on cigarettes, I find. They directed me to the Wal-Mart, saying that it was 24 hours in operation, and that it would be a good place to find somebody with a phone that would let me call my friend Jeff, who was on the road, returning from Louisiana.
I somehow walked right past the Wal-Mart. I wasn’t sure if the auto parts guys meant that it was quite a ways, all the way to the Interstate, or what. I had gotten confused because they were debating the wisdom of me taking either of two routes to get “back to Mobile.” One of them would put the tunnel in my path, but would be advantageous in my desire to meet Jeff at a spot convenient to someone coming in from Louisiana way.
The other one involved me walking the opposite way and encountering a 15 mile long bridge at some point. A bridge that at least could be walked across, though, everyone I spoke to added that they “wouldn’t want to do it.”

This is where I've decided to insert this picture of a place
where it gets "pretty darned" cold

Between the two routes being discussed, with road names and numbers being bandied about, an me trying to scope out their ashtray while we spoke, I kind of lost track of where the Wal-Mart was situated. So, when I didn’t see it after walking a mile, I thought that to the auto parts store guys, it may have been “right up the road,” because they are used to driving. I walked another mile, and then another one, because, by now I didn’t want to turn back and wipe out all the positive strides that I had made by walking off in a random direction somewhere in Alabama.
I figured the Wal-Mart was probably at the Interstate Exit, which turned out to be 5.5 miles from the jail. It was about as much leg exercise as I wanted after 70 days of “things that you do while sitting down.” 
I finally saw a glorious light on the hilltop! It wasn’t the radiant image of God; coming down to me as an angel clothed in the light of 1,000 suns; to ease my burdens and carry me home, but it was a BP gas station. Beggars can’t be choosers.
I got to the gas station and remembered the axiom that someone once said: “Do what you can; where you are; with what you have to work with.” That is an axiom that usually comes to me when I am feeling powerless; in a shitty place; and I ain’t got shit, but, nevertheless.
I realized that I had “just released” written all over me, from my ghostly pale skin to the plastic bag I carried.
I decided to work it into a hustle.
I asked the female cashier where the Wal-Mart was. She informed me of my missing it about 5 miles back.
I then launched into a tirade about the harshness of being released to the street with no money and only the clothes on your back, and being expected to find your way home, like a certain pigeon is know for (and stories abound about dogs which were left behind in Kansas after they wandered off; only to show up three weeks later on the doorstep of their New Jersey home, a bit skinny and with something like motor oil on its fur.)
Then, I got my break. The manager lady was trying to get someone to clean the bathroom.
“I’ll clean your bathroom, for a cup of coffee. No, seriously, I’ll hit it with bleach really good...”
I didn’t get the job, but I was offered another position in the “Parking Lot Trash Can” department. The pay was the same; one cup of coffee (of course we all know that refills were had) and the work pleasant. There was a middle aged lady, picking trash as she walked around the parking lot using a giant tweezers type devise to snatch it up. I had sharpened my coffee hustle in the "big leagues" of the Baldwin County Jail, I guess.
I had a conversation with her, where the subject of pickling food came up, almost immediately.
I figured the hippie type (‘cause she was) lady had heard my “story” from the others. I was in touch by phone with a friend, who was on his way in from Louisiana. He wouldn’t be at the station until three in the morning. The station closed at 11:45. I was told by one person that there was a tree, not far from the station, that had branches that hung down and made a hiding spot where others were know to sit and wait for someone, or to sit and drink.
I went and sat under the tree. I saw a very bright shooting star. It had a fiery orange tail. It could have been symbolic. Then I saw another, dimmer, shooting star. I would have to interpret this as a warning from the gods that I would be eaten alive by mosquitoes, should I choose to kick back and enjoy the meteor shower.
Back in the parking lot, the ex hippie lady talked to me some more about her favorite hobby, pickling foods. She invited me to spend the time until 3 a.m. came at her house “in the country.”
Her house in the country was 4 miles out in the country and was a museum for mason jars of pickled foods; artwork, and dolls. It seemed like everything was from a certain time period; even her piano was probably circa 1800’s.
She had all kinds of pictures that basically depicted women and girls from at least 100 years ago.
Dolls stared out from everywhere. She had made some of them and some looked very pretty; especially to a man who had spend 70 days with little more than the Miss Universe Pageant, and Hailey on American Idol the time she wore the shorts, in an otherwise barren desert. But that is a story for another time.
Oh, and to put the icing on the cake, she told me that there had been a murder in her house. Of course there had been a murder at her house! What self respecting ex hippie lady that has a hobby of pickling foods hasn’t had a murder at her house?!?
She pointed to where the couch had been where the person that was murdered was murdered. She didn’t elaborate much more. Becky, as that was her name, gave me an enormous amount of food. A lot of it pickled, but some of it super sweet, like the candied figs. I wound up sleeping there pretty soundly. She got up in the early morning to go to a funeral. I slept more. It was afternoon before she returned from the funeral. She then gave me a ride to Mobile.
I wondered at the coincidence of a lady who pickles food coming into my life at that exact time. I had left a perfectly good cup full of pickled vegetables in my jail cell. I was planning upon a quiet evening, curled up with a good book and lukewarm coffee, after eating Ramen-with-pickled-veggies-and-essence-of-shrimp. They ruined a pretty good evening, did the jail with their piss-poor timing of a man’s release.
Becky got me back to Mobile.
Well, I just wanted to say hi to everyone. I have good news for you. Your sentences are just flying by now. It seems like time is just flying by, too, now that I am out of jail. So, you guys will be out in no time, I figure.
My attorney is actually an acquaintance of the editor of the Press-Register, and is going to make him aware of what happened to me in court, so that they may print a follow up article, bringing my case to a conclusion, in the media at least. It will go right into Dee’s shoebox, and be rarely seen in C block, I imagine.
Then, I had been out only three days.
My friend, Jennie, wife of Jeff, The Potter, was to bring my stuff by and drop it off to me. My stuff would be one guitar, one backpack, and the little change holder thing, which had my Mr. Nola Diamond botanical incense in it.
She had to make it Sunday. Sunday, it was and by that night, I was in my graveyard spot, reading a book by the light of an old whale oil lamp which Becky had put in with the pickled things.
I ate pretty well that week. I now stir peanut butter into my Ramen noodles without hesitation, nor fear of alienating myself from society.
I have a renewed interest in reading books, and I picked up a copy of The DaVinci Code at the Wings of Life thrift store for 50 cents. Gosh, that’s less than one soup!
Ironically, Becky threw a six pack of Ramen noodles (beef flavor) into the bag of pickled and sweetened foods. And just for you lovers of the bizarre; there was a mason jar of jalapeño jelly snuggled amongst the newspaper in the bag. Jalapeño jelly, honest to God.
Well, this is going into 5 sheets; at 10 cents per sheet, plus the envelope; damn; this is going to cost me an item before it’s through.
The botanical incense has been good for the laying in the sun, reading and sipping on gin and juice part of life (with my mind on candied figs and candied figs on my mind…) It has made me a little bit slothful.
I am not in a big hurry to perform music in public, I have the luxury of working my fingers into shape gradually; taking a good week to warm up.
I hope Ray got a good cellmate after I left.
I’m thinking of either, getting a good bike, and then being able to visit Becky in the country, as well as get around to Fairhope and other places where the clubs will let a guy play for tips.
The other option would be to get a huge duffel bag and go on the road, working my way towards the general vicinity of Charlottesville, Virginia.

There I sat, under the branches of the tree of which I was told about.

I saw a bright shooting star, with a fiery tail. Then, I saw another, smaller shooting star. I figured that a meteor shower may have been going on. I have yet to confirm this, but the event was the evening of 5/23, a Friday.


But then, the mosquitoes started eating me up. I went back to the relative safety from getting bitten of the parking lot.


Then, along came the pickling lady.


Pickling lady, spraying the parking lot; telling me that she was into pickling and telling me about some of the fine pickled foods that she would give me if I would accompany her to her abode in the country.


The pickled foods were amazingly therapeutic.


Her house was done in turn of the century little girl, with dolls and paintings and other porcelain renderings, amidst an Old Curiosity Shop backdrop of interesting sundries.


She had a gumball machine, one from like, the 60's.


When she left in the morning to go to a funeral, I walked around and looked at her artwork. There was a photograph in a frame that looked like it was Becky, at an earlier age. Maybe about 25 years old. The woman in the picture looked like a lioness, crouching in the tall grass.


I liked the dolls. They were small in size, yet, depicted adults, for the most part.


I have emptied some of the Mason jars' contents, by now. The beans I will waste, as I fear that the "soybean" allergy is not discriminative of other types of beans, and I want to be careful and do my experiments using beans another time. I want to enjoy a bean free body for now.


My food card being wiped out (and not only that; fleeced) I am faced with the now more valid option of fasting for a few days. There will have to be a move to New Orleans considered, but not before taking care of some business.

Getting my data stick back, with all the songs and memories on it.


Getting my local newspaper to recant the allegations against my person made in their newspaper, subsequent to my arrest.


The data stick has stuff on it which I would never recall knowing, stuff that would be lost forever, should I not recover the data stick. There are songs which might be valuable to me in the future, especially in a bawdy place, like New Orleans.

The most shattering occurance was when the entire balance of my food card was apparently stolen; and not hard at all it is to surmise that the only people that I have ever given my pin to in my life, had gotten my pin just hours before the account, which was never robbed in 4 years, was robbed.



I was so full, still from the grains that I had slammed, along with sweets the past night, that I actually had heartburn. It came and went.


I had just a little bit of oatmeal with not even raisins or apple sauce, even though both were available.


I have no money on the food card. The appointment which will be set and the notification thereof which will be mailed to 15 Place, is a small concern. If they wanted to be total assholes, they could refuse to accept mail for me "We're not even supposed to; we could get in a whole bunch of shit for doing it.."


I have no food money. Will become a adept at squeezing under the gate at the Save-A-Lot, and using my fine flashlight to best advantage. There was so much ground beef last night, that if one would have cooked it up and refrigerated it, one would have at least 4 months worth of sundry meals, all containing beef.


So, then, I woke up and "baked" with the Mr Nola Diamond botanical insence.


It had the typical affect of causing me to suddenly realise that, if I were to go out in public, I would immediately be identifiable as someone who spent the night sleeping in the graveyard.
Bicylcle Sought
I am seeking to get a bycycle for the immediate future.
The next fork in the road seems to be splitting the path between entering the rehab type place, which is free and which will keep me sober for months; and not entering it.
The bicycle will help me to live somewhere out in the country, where I will not have to worry about a human raccoon rooting through my stuff most frequently.
Food Stamps Rooted
Yesterday, I found someone who would help me sell my $325 worth of food, or at least 200 of it; for cash of half the value of the food. This has never been a good idea in my mind, due to some general principles, but, in the situation that I found myself; ie. having spent 70 days collecting food money, while having no means of spending that food money.
I decided to sell "them" 200 bucks worth of food for 100 bucks cash. To make a long story short: I got the 100 bucks. This left a balance of 125 bucks on my card. I was relatively satisfied with having 100 bucks and 125 worth of food on my card, to last me until God knows when.
But then, this morning, I discovered that I had only 32 cents on my food card. I suspect that I have been robbed by the very same people who arranged for me to sell 200, but only that much, off of my food card.

Too Much Stuff

Last night, I ate a lot of sweet stuff. I had some candied figs, and I was pouring syrups on whatever I could think of pouring it on. There was some maple syrup to be had, along with honey. Whatever was sweetening the figs was pretty sweet, but not cloying.
The day being Sunday, I woke up with the sun was shining full opon me, in the graveyard. Going to the spigot, I washed out the tee shirt that I was wearing in the photo to the left, and upon this glorious Sunday morning.
I went to the Fellowship on Dauphin, where the others were friendly and conspicuously avoiding the subject of Federal incarceration, and whatever gossip had flown, while I was a way.
I drank coffee and listened to the gospel.
One lady, who normally hugs me and encourages me, did neither. She was standing with some guy by the coffee maker. She told the guy that she had something to tell him, "out front,"  after she had given me a dirty look. She must have been brimming over with God's love this morning.
I was at the graveyard spot before the sun went down. I had met Jennie, Jeff the Potter's wife, and she had dropped off the stuff which I had left in Save-A-Lot on the day that I was arrested the second time. She also had some clothing and some food, along with a printout from a "Men's Recovery" program of some sort. It seems like an incarceration, but it is free incarceration, and I don't suppose they are passing around any joints and strumming too many guitars, though. For those who can't help them selves (only God can) it is nice to have available programs such as the one described. It was months long, but a chance to get out of Mobile for a while.
"Chicago," who is this guy from Chicago, supposedly, who wears a camoflage jacket and is rumored to talk badly about white people behind the backs of white people, came into the Dauphin Market, when I was there early Sunday afternoon, before meeting Jennie at the library, where she gave me my stuff back.
He started saying "Hey, child pornographer," and telling me that I should leave town. I told him that I was never charged, for lack of child pornography. He kept on talking, as if I had never spoken.
I want to see if the local paper will run an article about my charges being dropped, and include a nice picture, like they did for me when I was first arrested...
It was all about eating,  tried after that. I tried  to soak some grits and prepare them for being doctored up with a little salt and a  lot of sweet things, like candied figs.
I had the wrong kind of grits; the "slow" ones. It was futile trying to get them to soften, even after an hour of soaking. Julian at Save-A-Lot had been  right about the grits being "not instant," and thus, not the right kind.

Back On The Street And Moralising

To Answer My Comments

Hi, Gloria. I start my uphill climb to catch up after another 40? days in jail; this time in the Federal lockup..



Couldn't really post because my cell only had a stainless steel toilet/sink and a Pakistani guy who got caught trying to arrange to have sex with a 45 year old Corporal on the police force, who likes to pretend that he is a liberal minded underaged girl; but I digress; -no computer and only a slit of a window to the outside world.


What happened was; I was on State property, hanging some laundry which I had washed using the state's water. I was drunk and not thinking about the fact that the place hadn't closed yet. I was stopped by the "Port Authority" police, after I had walked a ways down the railroad tracks and was out of their jurisdiction and not under their authority. I was searched and they found a little bit of a green leafy substance; then, since it was federal property, the FBI stepped in and searched my 1 gig data traveller drive and, lo and behold found 3 images of a nude beach in Vermont, wherein was depicted minors, amongst their families, splashing in the water and enjoying nature au natural..


I was charged with possession of child pornography and placed in the cell with the Pakistani guy.


It took Mobile county 31 days to drop the charges because the photos, (which had actually been deleted off the drive, but subsequently recovered using sophisticated FBI software) were not technically "child pornography" (no focus on genitals, no touching, no sexually suggestive poses, no signs of sexual arrousal; just people who voluntarily shed their clothing in public to be around like minded people, some of whom had cameras).

I was released. (see May 14 post)


Then, 4 days later, I was re-arrested by the feds, who picked up the charges, though hadn't even seen the "evidence" yet. It took them another 40 days or so to release me for the same (see above) reasons.


The moral is: if you find a data storage drive abandoned and nobody claims it and you use it; beware that stuff that is on it which is deleted and you will have no idea exists unless you have the FBI recovery program, could land you in federal prison with a Pakistani guy, who will pray 5 times a day, facing Mecca...
 
To Those Whom I Wrote
To those whom I wrote from the Federal Lockup, which correspondence I mailed three days before they summarily released me to "the street," please, don't send money to the Bay Minette jail.
The library is closing soon, much to do to catch up on things.
Tonight, I will probably spend in the graveyard, eating oatmeal with honey and jam which was made by Becky, the lady who let me crash at her home in Bay Minette after I met her at a gas station after I had walked 5 miles from the jail, looking for a Wal-Mart but not finding one.

These Are Some Messy People In Missouri!

Pineapple Juice Today??

I drank a lot of apple juice last night.

Today, I will drink more juice. I am thinking about pineapple, even though it is a little absorbantly priced at $2.78 per half gallon.

This morning I woke up and set myself to the task of gathering up all the clothes which I intend to wash, down at Cooper's Park. I will wear them damp, as it will be in the 70's this evening; they will dry.

I have been sleeping in the graveyard, these first three nights of freedom.

The first day out, I ate a lot of plums.

The second day, I had some mixed nuts, a pickle and some salsa, all mixed together. I needed that.

Today, it has been juice so far. I started a batch of honey mead, by placing spring water with a measure of honey, along with raisins, inside a bottle. I will allow it to ferment and will have a healthy alternative to cheap beer in about two weeks.

Parcel Arrives

Upon being released from jail, and retrieving my guitar and pack, I made my way to the Dauphin Market. On my way there, I found a dollar laying on the sidewalk, near a tattoo shop. I bought one beer and drank it in Bienville Park.

Then, upon impulse, I called Jeff the Potter, who informed me that a package had arrived from London in general, and the Lidgeleys more specifically.

The package was right on time, with cigarettes, and some cash; and the mosquito repellant became necessary, as it seems that the mosquitos chose some time in April to come out of hibernation.

Hangout Music Festival

There is a music festival coming to Gulf Shores, which is about 35 miles away, next week.

It starts on May 20th and goes for three days.

I plan upon being there and getting there by hitch hiking.

And so it came to pass that there was an artwalk, and that the event produced a little bit of fruit, as a result of my laboring with the rust, which I acquired while sitting for 32 days in the Metro Jail.
I have been released, all charges dropped, and should I sue someone??

Quest For Gold

...And so it came to pass that the sun did rise; raising along with it the temperature of the air. There was humidity, hanging like a ghost, which had just exurted itself, and was sweaty.
The Wilson Thing
My mind was immediately put to the task of dealing with business matters. There was the "Wilson" thing.
The Wilson thing is a thing whereby I send money into the jail to be deposited into the account of a friend of mine. This friend will make a deal with Mr. Wilson, whereby that worthy will reimburse me, upon his being released from jail, with an amount somewhere around 200 percent of the value of the money sent into the jail.
I could not send the money dirctly to Mr. Wilson, as it would be severely taxed by tlhe institution as payment for services rendered to Mr. Wilson by the medical staff of the jail. Mr. W. had a lot of ointments, creams, pills and snake oils in his drawer, all at an expense which set the poor man into arrears with the first cent charged to him.
Mr. Wilson recieves money from the Social Security Administration, to the sum of 958 good American dollars each month. He is going to get about 27,000 dollars upon being released this coming June from his 30+ month long confinement.
It would be easy for the man to pay me for providing him with the means to buy coffee and Moon Pies, when otherwise there would be no way for him to buy coffee and Moon Pies. He could reward me hansomely in my eyes, while hardly denting his stash, in his.
And so, this is the first business plan.
The other involves the sum of food stamp money which had accrued in my own account as I sat for 32 days, reading the scriptures and watching Everyone Loves Raymond on the television.
I have an "extra" 200 bucks to throw around, and, though the market is rough, with people offering only 130 dollars for 200 dollars worth of food, I have made arrangements to liquidate some food, in exchange for the cash to get the duffel bag, which I have been wanting to get, and to try to purchase a bicycle, which I may even ride to Gulf Shores for the music festival, this coming 20th of May.

Free To Play An E Major 7th Chord...

This is myself, 39 days before being thrown in jail for 32 days.

I am out now, charges dismissed, all one great misunderstanding; which is ironic since one of my goals is to promote "Greater Understanding."