À l'aide d'une pince, j'ai arraché toutes les aphtes sous ma langue. J'ai recraché le sang, mais j'me suis lassée bien vite. J'ai arraché tout les petits poils qui étaient retournés dans ma peau. Les petits boutons près des mollets. Demain, mes jambes recréeront l'ombre d'un champ de bataille mais qu'importe. Il ne voit pas les couleurs.
Je prends des putains de somnifères; pourquoi j'suis toujours réveillée? Cinq heures du mat'. Cinq heures et quart. Et merde ils saboteront ma journée en se moquant de mes cils encore collés ensemble par le sommeil quand je ferai surface vers l'heure du souper.
- En quelle honneur on se lève si tôt? (Il était près de deux heures. On se foutait de ma gueule. Des fois je me dis, et si je rêvais à l'insomnie? Et si ce n'était que la folie? (Évidemment?)
Si j'avais les veines bourrées d'héro, essaieraient-ils de mieux comprendre?
dimanche 31 janvier 2010
samedi 30 janvier 2010
I'll Not Go Quietly #2
J'ai trouvé ce texte sur un site d'archives, ça dit venir du Christian Radical. En fait, j'sais même pas ce que c'est, The Christian Radical, mais je connais très bien l'auteur de cette lettre. C'est un peu long, c'est vrai, mais ça vaut la peine.
I'll not Go Quietly #2
Steven Woods
Polunsky Death Camp
So, I was just sitting there on the grass, not doing anything really. Just kind of laid back hanging out with some friends; people I've never really met before, but know as if they were as close as family . The sun was shining high up in the sky, no clouds marred the great expanse of blue hanging above our heads. The world was all right and I was at peace. I was so caught up in my visions of paradise that I failed to notice at first the rays of light probing my home. It was the banging, and the 'request' for my identification that finally managed to snag my attention. Well, back to reality . I know the easiest course is to just give them what they want, and they '11 leave me alone. But, I feel so . . . violated? Yeah, that's the word. So why should I cooperate? I don't. A simple thing, but I love this little game.
'Woods, what's your number?'
'Shto?' (Russian What)
'Woods, what's your number?'
' Ya Ne Ponemaiyou' (I don't understand)
I suppose that you could call me a bit of a troublemaker. What, with my Mohawk hairstyle (totally against grooming standards!), the little games I play with the security guards at times, and my adamant refusal to adhere to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Death Row policy and procedure. I refuse to allow myself to be lead into the complacent, subjugated existence the majorityof my 'peers' resign themselves to. I have always been a non-conforming,rebellious individual. It's who I am. I outgrew the naive assumption I once held early on in my stay here; that if I behave myself and follow all of their rules, then maybe they won't kill me. How did that fatuous notion enter my mind in the first place? It isn't much of a mystery; who ever wants to die? But I am a hostage. My freedom was stolen. My humanity and my life are next. And Ishould just lie down and submit to my captors? I realize that my actions feed the machine and help it speed along it's path. I've had so many arguments with myself about it. In the end, it all comes down to: How much injustice am I willing to stand? It's not just that I've been treated unfairly in court. That's a small concern when it's compared to the oppressive treatment I receive just
being on Death Row.
So many people are under the misconception that we lead a relatively good lifein prison up until the time of our State sanctioned extermination. Throughcorrespondence with various people throughout the world, I've come to knowthat most picture us walking around a prison complex freely, unrestrained anddangerous, co-mingling with the other prisoners. They see us watching television, working and doing various other activities. The truth of our situationis, at first, often unfathomable to most of them. The truth is that Death Row isone of the most restrictive and inhumane prison environments that the worldoffers. Prisoners of war (at least, those not held by Bush) are afforded the protective of the Geneva Convention. Here in U.S. Death Row, we're not even protected by our country's constitution.
I don't know about the conditions of most States, but I assume they're all vaguely the same, with Arizona and Texas being the worst. Here in Texas, we're 'Housed' in what's termed a 'control unit prison'. Super Maximum Security Segregation the same type of prisons with the same type of programs in place used by the CIA and KGB during the Cold War to 'break' a prisoner. Conditions proved over the years to be psychologically devastating to those subjected to them. This one, on the Polunsky Unit in Livingston, Texas, holds more then 400 condemned in complete isolation. And despite the steady flow of executions and suicides, we're kept at nearly full capacity. We are held in these cages throughout the six to ten years it takes to complete the appeals process, our spirits so severely crushed that death is often a blessing. I don't know how many men I've watched over the years being lead to the death house, eager to finally be done with it all. The laws against cruel and unusual punishment not withstanding, we are solitarily confined to concrete and steel tombs no bigger than a large bathroom. In 'Normal' Death Row segregation, the best we can get in Texas (that is, not disciplinary segregation), we're locked into these cells, our homes, 23 hours our of every 24. We're let out for one-hour recreation and shower, visitation once a week, medical (when they deem it necessary) or to go to disciplinary court. We're allow an AM/FM radio, hot pot, typewriter (if we can afford them), all purchasable from unit commissary. We're also allowed and purchase personal hygiene supplies, limited food stuffs and TDC.T approved publications, all of which mush be stored at all times in a 2 foot by 2 foot storage space (or risk a disciplinary case and confiscation) under our steel bunks. Our 'homes' are set up in sections of 14 cell, 7 on tier one and 7 above them. They overlook the day room and guards' picket, affording no privacy what so ever. Unlike Arizona, we do have windows in the back of our cells. Whether this is a blessing or a curse depends on our state of mind on any given day. For me, it's too hard, too painful to look outside into the world, so I normally keep it covered with paper.
We suffer much at the hands of the guards, these men and women who we must rely on for hygiene, health and safety. To say that they don't like us is putting it rather mildly. There are some guards who are only concerned with doing their jobs, the majority feel it is their job to make our lives hell. They swagger around, secure in their minds that they are the only human beings around. They degrade us constantly, spit in our food and face, and do their best to provoke us into confrontations that can potentially destroy our appeals. These people take pleasure in denying us our sleep, our food, our recreation and showers. Any protest is met with ignorance, some with bogus disciplinary cases that remove what little privilege we have. And that's when we're not just out right ignored.
I'm somewhat ambivalent about recreation. I mentioned that the dayroom, where we recreate normally is situated directly between the guards' picket and the cells in our section. It's nearly a 20 foot by 40 foot cage with nothing but a toilet, table and pull up bar. After a strip search shows we're not carrying anything with us (we can't take anything out of our cells) we're place in hand
restraints to be lead the 15 feet to this cage. We recreate alone, because contact with other human beings is not permitted. Most of us spend our hour walking in circles, working out or talking to the other cells. I don't like recreation much, as it generally makes me feel like something of a caged animal at a zoo, inmates and guards alike staring at me. I rarely spend much of this time talking to the other inmates either. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that bonding with someone about to die is hard on the psyche. Another bit tumoff to recreation is that, in a lot of places, there are those wretches who have been completely broken by the psychological trauma of the isolation and the dehumanization tactics used daily. They throw urine and feces at those in the dayroom, stand at the door and masturbate. It's very disquieting.
We are allowed
to go 'outside' for recreation each week, which is when I normally take my rec. time. It's not much, but it's quiet and bigger than my cage. All it is a concreteroom with bars in place of a roof. A partition of Iron bars runs through the center making it the 'rooms', and another inmate is placed into the second one. This is really the only chance a person here has to feel a little like a human being. I've been on the row for three years now, fighting for my life and my right to be treated like a human being. I spend the majority of my life in disciplinary segregation, as do the precious few others who share my views of our situation.
It's a completely different atmosphere than 'Normal' seg. all together. We rarely receive visitors, only allowed one or two a month (depending on disciplinary status). Recreation is limited to one hour a week in most cases. None of us are allowed to purchase from unit commissary, except stamps and hygiene every two weeks. All of our electrical appliances, and the majority of our other property, is removed and often lost somewhere in the property room. But down here, it's more real, we feel more alive, healthier of mind and more able to fight. This may seem a little obtuse, considering that we're rebelling agamst our inhumane treatment; why make it worse on ourselves? We desensitize ourselves to their punishments. A cause is only worth as much as we're willing to sacrifice for it. We're showing that we will disrupt and disobey their system as much as we can; that they can't take anything from us that we aren't willing to give up. Pulling the fangs from the serpent's mouth, so to speak. Besides our lives, we're not really asking for much. Nothing more than any other prisoners m the State, even non-Death Row Capital murderers, are allowed to have: To be able to work, attend contact visits with friends and family, walk around unrestrained, go to church, and interact with other inmates; maybe an educational program or a bit of television. All of these things (besides contact visits and our lives) we're even supposed to have, according to the United States Supreme Court. But I doubt it will ever happen.
Unfortunately, my unwillingness to submit might have disastrous affects to myappeal. Should I win a reversal, the State will argue that my actions have 'proved' that I'd be a danger to society. Because I don't follow their rules, they'll avow that I won't be able to follow the rules of society in prison or the world. I can only hope that they, especially my jurors, will see my actions for what they are: A struggle against losing my spirit and life to an antiquated and barbaric practice. How could you handle the fact that the system wants you dead; not only dead, but gibbering like a mandrill, all semblance of humanity systematically shorn form your being? How do you beat a machine that's built on fear and hatred, whose cogs and gears grind the highest laws of God and our land into dust between them? All I can do is stand in the middle of the road and throw stones as the juggernaut bearing down upon me. But I'll stand in it's path, hoping for a lucky hit. I'll not be moved. I may lose the battle against this machine, but I'll fight it at every step. My life may be taken, but never my will or my humanity .
"At the bottom of the heart of every human being from earliest infancy to the tomb there is something that goes on indomitably expecting - in the teeth of all crimes committed, suffered, witnessed - that good and not evil will be done to him. It is this above all that is sacred in every human being." - Simone Weil
I am a human
being.
In Solidarity,
Steven Woods
I'll not Go Quietly #2
Steven Woods
Polunsky Death Camp
So, I was just sitting there on the grass, not doing anything really. Just kind of laid back hanging out with some friends; people I've never really met before, but know as if they were as close as family . The sun was shining high up in the sky, no clouds marred the great expanse of blue hanging above our heads. The world was all right and I was at peace. I was so caught up in my visions of paradise that I failed to notice at first the rays of light probing my home. It was the banging, and the 'request' for my identification that finally managed to snag my attention. Well, back to reality . I know the easiest course is to just give them what they want, and they '11 leave me alone. But, I feel so . . . violated? Yeah, that's the word. So why should I cooperate? I don't. A simple thing, but I love this little game.
'Woods, what's your number?'
'Shto?' (Russian What)
'Woods, what's your number?'
' Ya Ne Ponemaiyou' (I don't understand)
I suppose that you could call me a bit of a troublemaker. What, with my Mohawk hairstyle (totally against grooming standards!), the little games I play with the security guards at times, and my adamant refusal to adhere to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice Death Row policy and procedure. I refuse to allow myself to be lead into the complacent, subjugated existence the majorityof my 'peers' resign themselves to. I have always been a non-conforming,rebellious individual. It's who I am. I outgrew the naive assumption I once held early on in my stay here; that if I behave myself and follow all of their rules, then maybe they won't kill me. How did that fatuous notion enter my mind in the first place? It isn't much of a mystery; who ever wants to die? But I am a hostage. My freedom was stolen. My humanity and my life are next. And Ishould just lie down and submit to my captors? I realize that my actions feed the machine and help it speed along it's path. I've had so many arguments with myself about it. In the end, it all comes down to: How much injustice am I willing to stand? It's not just that I've been treated unfairly in court. That's a small concern when it's compared to the oppressive treatment I receive just
being on Death Row.
So many people are under the misconception that we lead a relatively good lifein prison up until the time of our State sanctioned extermination. Throughcorrespondence with various people throughout the world, I've come to knowthat most picture us walking around a prison complex freely, unrestrained anddangerous, co-mingling with the other prisoners. They see us watching television, working and doing various other activities. The truth of our situationis, at first, often unfathomable to most of them. The truth is that Death Row isone of the most restrictive and inhumane prison environments that the worldoffers. Prisoners of war (at least, those not held by Bush) are afforded the protective of the Geneva Convention. Here in U.S. Death Row, we're not even protected by our country's constitution.
I don't know about the conditions of most States, but I assume they're all vaguely the same, with Arizona and Texas being the worst. Here in Texas, we're 'Housed' in what's termed a 'control unit prison'. Super Maximum Security Segregation the same type of prisons with the same type of programs in place used by the CIA and KGB during the Cold War to 'break' a prisoner. Conditions proved over the years to be psychologically devastating to those subjected to them. This one, on the Polunsky Unit in Livingston, Texas, holds more then 400 condemned in complete isolation. And despite the steady flow of executions and suicides, we're kept at nearly full capacity. We are held in these cages throughout the six to ten years it takes to complete the appeals process, our spirits so severely crushed that death is often a blessing. I don't know how many men I've watched over the years being lead to the death house, eager to finally be done with it all. The laws against cruel and unusual punishment not withstanding, we are solitarily confined to concrete and steel tombs no bigger than a large bathroom. In 'Normal' Death Row segregation, the best we can get in Texas (that is, not disciplinary segregation), we're locked into these cells, our homes, 23 hours our of every 24. We're let out for one-hour recreation and shower, visitation once a week, medical (when they deem it necessary) or to go to disciplinary court. We're allow an AM/FM radio, hot pot, typewriter (if we can afford them), all purchasable from unit commissary. We're also allowed and purchase personal hygiene supplies, limited food stuffs and TDC.T approved publications, all of which mush be stored at all times in a 2 foot by 2 foot storage space (or risk a disciplinary case and confiscation) under our steel bunks. Our 'homes' are set up in sections of 14 cell, 7 on tier one and 7 above them. They overlook the day room and guards' picket, affording no privacy what so ever. Unlike Arizona, we do have windows in the back of our cells. Whether this is a blessing or a curse depends on our state of mind on any given day. For me, it's too hard, too painful to look outside into the world, so I normally keep it covered with paper.
We suffer much at the hands of the guards, these men and women who we must rely on for hygiene, health and safety. To say that they don't like us is putting it rather mildly. There are some guards who are only concerned with doing their jobs, the majority feel it is their job to make our lives hell. They swagger around, secure in their minds that they are the only human beings around. They degrade us constantly, spit in our food and face, and do their best to provoke us into confrontations that can potentially destroy our appeals. These people take pleasure in denying us our sleep, our food, our recreation and showers. Any protest is met with ignorance, some with bogus disciplinary cases that remove what little privilege we have. And that's when we're not just out right ignored.
I'm somewhat ambivalent about recreation. I mentioned that the dayroom, where we recreate normally is situated directly between the guards' picket and the cells in our section. It's nearly a 20 foot by 40 foot cage with nothing but a toilet, table and pull up bar. After a strip search shows we're not carrying anything with us (we can't take anything out of our cells) we're place in hand
restraints to be lead the 15 feet to this cage. We recreate alone, because contact with other human beings is not permitted. Most of us spend our hour walking in circles, working out or talking to the other cells. I don't like recreation much, as it generally makes me feel like something of a caged animal at a zoo, inmates and guards alike staring at me. I rarely spend much of this time talking to the other inmates either. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that bonding with someone about to die is hard on the psyche. Another bit tumoff to recreation is that, in a lot of places, there are those wretches who have been completely broken by the psychological trauma of the isolation and the dehumanization tactics used daily. They throw urine and feces at those in the dayroom, stand at the door and masturbate. It's very disquieting.
We are allowed
to go 'outside' for recreation each week, which is when I normally take my rec. time. It's not much, but it's quiet and bigger than my cage. All it is a concreteroom with bars in place of a roof. A partition of Iron bars runs through the center making it the 'rooms', and another inmate is placed into the second one. This is really the only chance a person here has to feel a little like a human being. I've been on the row for three years now, fighting for my life and my right to be treated like a human being. I spend the majority of my life in disciplinary segregation, as do the precious few others who share my views of our situation.
It's a completely different atmosphere than 'Normal' seg. all together. We rarely receive visitors, only allowed one or two a month (depending on disciplinary status). Recreation is limited to one hour a week in most cases. None of us are allowed to purchase from unit commissary, except stamps and hygiene every two weeks. All of our electrical appliances, and the majority of our other property, is removed and often lost somewhere in the property room. But down here, it's more real, we feel more alive, healthier of mind and more able to fight. This may seem a little obtuse, considering that we're rebelling agamst our inhumane treatment; why make it worse on ourselves? We desensitize ourselves to their punishments. A cause is only worth as much as we're willing to sacrifice for it. We're showing that we will disrupt and disobey their system as much as we can; that they can't take anything from us that we aren't willing to give up. Pulling the fangs from the serpent's mouth, so to speak. Besides our lives, we're not really asking for much. Nothing more than any other prisoners m the State, even non-Death Row Capital murderers, are allowed to have: To be able to work, attend contact visits with friends and family, walk around unrestrained, go to church, and interact with other inmates; maybe an educational program or a bit of television. All of these things (besides contact visits and our lives) we're even supposed to have, according to the United States Supreme Court. But I doubt it will ever happen.
Unfortunately, my unwillingness to submit might have disastrous affects to myappeal. Should I win a reversal, the State will argue that my actions have 'proved' that I'd be a danger to society. Because I don't follow their rules, they'll avow that I won't be able to follow the rules of society in prison or the world. I can only hope that they, especially my jurors, will see my actions for what they are: A struggle against losing my spirit and life to an antiquated and barbaric practice. How could you handle the fact that the system wants you dead; not only dead, but gibbering like a mandrill, all semblance of humanity systematically shorn form your being? How do you beat a machine that's built on fear and hatred, whose cogs and gears grind the highest laws of God and our land into dust between them? All I can do is stand in the middle of the road and throw stones as the juggernaut bearing down upon me. But I'll stand in it's path, hoping for a lucky hit. I'll not be moved. I may lose the battle against this machine, but I'll fight it at every step. My life may be taken, but never my will or my humanity .
"At the bottom of the heart of every human being from earliest infancy to the tomb there is something that goes on indomitably expecting - in the teeth of all crimes committed, suffered, witnessed - that good and not evil will be done to him. It is this above all that is sacred in every human being." - Simone Weil
I am a human
being.
In Solidarity,
Steven Woods
jeudi 21 janvier 2010
Montrer les dents
La goutte qui a fait déborder le vase, c'est quand j'suis devenue jolie. À l'époque, j'pouvais compter sur les standards de beauté et mes 50 livres de trop. Mon double menton et mes restants d'acné adolescente. On ne me dérangeait pas tant que ça.
Ouais, c'est vrai, il m'est arrivée, en public, de me faire agripper la minette par derrière, alors que je discutais avec j'sais plus qui. Oh, j'ai gueulé, et le doorman s'est pointé, mais on ne l'a pas foutu à la porte, cet inconnu, non. Il m'est arrivée d'me faire jeter sur un matelas gonflable par un colombien qui ne voulait rien entendre. N'ai rien dit, et puis merde, ma propre mère ne s'en rappelle même plus. Ne me croyais pas la première fois que j'lui ai racontée.
Il m'est arrivée si souvent de gueuler et qu'on ne m'entends pas comme je souhaite. Qu'on se fout de moi. Ah non, une autre écervelée qui s'énerve, qui s'essouffle, elle a du trop boire et lui montrer ses courbes!
Mes yeux plus grands, mes cheveux plus longs, 50 livres de moins et mes seins, pourtant, sont toujours aussi gros. Les regards se font plus insistants. Les hommes se font plus dégueulasses. Sourire? Faut surtout pas. C'est se jeter à quatre pattes devant le loup en érection. Alors j'me suis mise à frapper. Ça les surprends toujours, c'est pour ça que c'est efficace. Pas une claque, féminine, farouche, non! Un rapide coup de poing avec jointures pointues, claw! sur la gueule du connard qui a osé m'attraper un sein. S'ensuit un silence délicieux.
Mon bras se développe, à mesure d'haïr. Mais ça ne m'empêche pas de trainer un couteau dans mon sac à main. Du poivre de Cayenne dans ma manche. Ouvrir la cuisse, faire saigner, asperger de piquanto.
J'y ai déjà pensé.
Ils me regardent et je montre les dents. Je mordille l'intérieur de ma gueule, j'arrache la peau qui tente d'adoucir ma plaie sur la lèvre. Simple morsure que j'empêche de guérir. Ils me regardent et je mordille, le goutte qui viendra bientôt tacher mes dents, mon menton, peut-être qu'un jour ils me laisseront.
Ouais, c'est vrai, il m'est arrivée, en public, de me faire agripper la minette par derrière, alors que je discutais avec j'sais plus qui. Oh, j'ai gueulé, et le doorman s'est pointé, mais on ne l'a pas foutu à la porte, cet inconnu, non. Il m'est arrivée d'me faire jeter sur un matelas gonflable par un colombien qui ne voulait rien entendre. N'ai rien dit, et puis merde, ma propre mère ne s'en rappelle même plus. Ne me croyais pas la première fois que j'lui ai racontée.
Il m'est arrivée si souvent de gueuler et qu'on ne m'entends pas comme je souhaite. Qu'on se fout de moi. Ah non, une autre écervelée qui s'énerve, qui s'essouffle, elle a du trop boire et lui montrer ses courbes!
Mes yeux plus grands, mes cheveux plus longs, 50 livres de moins et mes seins, pourtant, sont toujours aussi gros. Les regards se font plus insistants. Les hommes se font plus dégueulasses. Sourire? Faut surtout pas. C'est se jeter à quatre pattes devant le loup en érection. Alors j'me suis mise à frapper. Ça les surprends toujours, c'est pour ça que c'est efficace. Pas une claque, féminine, farouche, non! Un rapide coup de poing avec jointures pointues, claw! sur la gueule du connard qui a osé m'attraper un sein. S'ensuit un silence délicieux.
Mon bras se développe, à mesure d'haïr. Mais ça ne m'empêche pas de trainer un couteau dans mon sac à main. Du poivre de Cayenne dans ma manche. Ouvrir la cuisse, faire saigner, asperger de piquanto.
J'y ai déjà pensé.
Ils me regardent et je montre les dents. Je mordille l'intérieur de ma gueule, j'arrache la peau qui tente d'adoucir ma plaie sur la lèvre. Simple morsure que j'empêche de guérir. Ils me regardent et je mordille, le goutte qui viendra bientôt tacher mes dents, mon menton, peut-être qu'un jour ils me laisseront.
vendredi 15 janvier 2010
mercredi 13 janvier 2010
Inscription à :
Messages (Atom)
