Having just completed a well-deserved and long-deferred vacation, I am now questioning the wisdom and efficacy of that course of action, weighing the relief of stress against the loss of momentum and comforting allure of inertia.
I can see I'm confusing you. Isn't he in prison? They're letting them take vacations now? Excuse me while I beef up external security and load my guns.
Relax, good citizens, I am still safely nestled in the state's nurturing bosom. I just took a break from writing for a wee, my mind being thoroughly occupied with my impending release and general future considerations, and therefore unable to devote any resources to wit or cleverness. So, I thought that instead of submitting some flavorless, workaday chunk of lackluster prose, I'd take a little R&R in the interest of recharging the batteries and reaffirming my commitment to the kind of quality output you've come to expect from Your Humble Stony Lonesome Correspondent.
I still put in my daily eight at my official, CDCR-sanctioned and lavishly compensated (24¢/hour) situation, Chaplain's Clerk First Class (with oak leaf cluster). I have recently come under attack at that position from some of our more pious and Christlike congregants who assert that it is "sinful" to have a "self-admitted atheist" performing ecclesiastical duties and I'll tell you what I told them. I am not an atheist. Placing an ‘a' in front of 'theist' would suggest that I have allocated heads ace to considering and am actively antagonistic toward theism. Rather, I have chosen to divorce myself entirely from any kind of supernatural speculation and instead focus on problems with actual solutions and efforts that produce tangible benefits. Call me a realist, if you must assign me an ism.
Furthermore, I told them, isn't the fact that I consider all your various propositions, doctrine, and dogma equally baseless make me less apt to display favoritism toward any particular sect? And there is a passel of 'em, believe you me.
You might be forgiven for thinking that the standard slate of canonical monotheistic religions would suffice to satisfy the spiritual needs of your average prison population, and you couldn't be more wrong. Schismatic division and fringe theology crowd our calendar as evidenced by services for not only the previously stated standard fare but their various offshoots,
I.e., Reformed Protestants, New Light Presbyterians, Foot-washers, Anabaptists, Schwenkfelders, Universalists, and Ethical Culturists. Then there's the portmanteau religions like Messianic and Nazarene Jews, followed by a number of adherents to belief systems that might, outside of prison, be classified under the blanket term "crazy": Odinists, Druids, Wiccans, Luciferians, Zoroastrians and Voodoo.
It is my job to organize and oversee these devotees, to mete out time and resources and ensure that certain oppositional groups don't intersect and spark off a holy war. I have tried to propound among my flocks Gandhi's notion of “one God, many voices,” but they are utterly disdainful of such softness. Prisoners do religion like the zealots of bygone ages did, wielding it like a weapon and guided by vengeful, angry gods. I assure you I earn every one of those 24¢.
While removing deadline stress from my week may have eased my daily burden somewhat, ultimately it just made me feel like a lazy shirker and I shan't be engaging in such slothful behavior anymore.
There are pursuits which absolutely require periodic restments, one prime example being my erstwhile avocation of ampheta-monster. Required, that is, if you care to maintain a degree of health and sanity. Plenty don't, and it is those crumbling specimens you see on the streets cursing unintelligibly as they bat at invisible swarming pests. I recall once being at the very threshold of that unfortunate condition, at what would have to be the tail end of an epic run. I'd lost, mostly, my powers of speech and ambulation and the simplest actions had taken on a fearsome degree of difficulty.
For example, say I needed something from my pants pocket. I'd go over the various steps required to get there and the pain and effort associated with each one — lifting my hips from the seat, getting my raw, torn cuticles past the cruelly rigid denim pocket seam, interpreting sensory data from my fingertips as I sorted through all the garbage in there, extracting my hand — and ultimately decide it just wasn't worth it and I'd be happier to simply sit and slowly decompose. I could breathe, blink, and swallow, just; when I closed my eyes I heard, or imagined I heard, my inner workings wheezing and misfiring like an overheated Model T.
I began a process of mental loin-girding in anticipation of the heroic effort I was about to undertake and addressed Will Hawk, my faithful aide-de-camp and heterosexual life partner. "Will," I croaked. "I'm all in. Dunzo. Callin' it a night, dog."
Will looked confused, cocking his head like a terrier as he struggled to grasp my intent. "What do you mean? We still got plenty of dope left. Let's roll a bowl, dog," he said.
I took a deep breath. "Will. There comes a time in every tweaker's journey when he must put down the pipe and tend to the demands of body and soul. Too long have I obeyed the dictates of Mr. Jones as he totes and tugs me hither and thither, extracting from every exploit his deadly portion until I become the dissipated husk you see before you now. To Albion I must needs fly, to the nurturing bosom of solitude which awaits me, and bathe in the balm of rest and recuperation. I must surfeit my constitution with food and sleep. Find my center and realign my essence. Then, and only then, can I return to the pipe, tanned, rested, and ready for further punishment. I bid thee adieu, Will, and as I depart the village of the damned (Fort Bragg), I bestow my blessings on you and impart my remaining strength that you may survive its perils. Farewell, my young friend."
That's what I thought, anyway. There is a curious consequence of extended meth usage in which perfectly coherent thought becomes, on its journey to being comprehensible speech, hopelessly tangled and what actually emerged sounded more like a drunken Serb reading a soggy, fifth-generation copy of Hoyle's rules for contract bridge written in phonetic Cherokee with a mouthful of peanut butter, or something equally unintelligible. Nevertheless, I believe my tone and eloquent gesticulations managed to get the point across.
I skedaddled south and spent ten days sleeping and eating, and I firmly believe that that (bare modicum of) good sense is what has enabled me to survive to my (comparatively, for a lifelong speedfreak) advanced age with my faculties mostly intact and my processes still processing: intermittent periods of forced abstention and regeneration, both self-imposed and state-mandated.
However, I maintain that under normal circumstances, vacations are for suckers and loss of momentum is not worth whatever stress relief wiggling your toes in the sand for a week or so will get you. Besides, I figure I'll have to work 18 hours a day, seven days a week, right up until the time they plant me, to even begin to make up for all the slacking I've already done. Fine with me. The problem of applying oneself during youth is that there are so many fun and interesting distractions; the divertissements available to the post-prime predeceased set are just so much lamer. May as well work.
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