The Birds and the Bees Behind These Stone Walls
. . . Sometimes I receive letters from readers who tell me they're hesitant to write of their vacations and travels, their celebrations and family gatherings, their liberties. They write that they fear making me depressed by reminding me of places I cannot see, things I cannot have, and freedoms I can no longer embrace. Please don't ever feel this way. I do not see most things in terms of myself. I don't think there is anyone who revels in your freedom more than I do. Hebrews 13:3 tells us to "Remember those who are in prison as though in prison with them." I much appreciate that so many of you fulfill this admirably. But I can also remember freedom, and I can celebrate yours. Perhaps there are things you can also learn about appreciating life and liberty from someone in prison. On this Independence Day, if you can log off These Stone Walls with some new appreciation for freedom, I will be the happiest blogger in cyberspace. . . .
Jack Bauer Lost The Unit on Caprica
. . . I wrote that life in prison revolves around television. The prison commissary sells a small twelve-inch flat screen TV, and the profits from prisoners' weekly purchases go toward a recreation fund that pays for basic cable. So prisoner access to television costs taxpayers nothing, and is an essential link to the outside world. In fact, TV in prison actually saves a lot of money. Most prisons would have to double their staffs if not for TV. There are only four television shows that I never miss. You already know what they are if you looked closely at the title of this post. The problem is, it's summer, and they're all gone now. "24" and "LOST" have come to an end and are gone for good. I will never again get to see Jack Bauer accomplish his most mind-boggling feat - driving anywhere he wants to go in Los Angeles or New York in less than a minute. . . .
A Prisoner, A Professor, A Prelate, Two Priests, and a Poet!
. . . In the corner of my cell where I type sitting on an empty bucket, my head is just six inches from the barred cell window. The window doesn't open - a fact that I deeply resent - but there is a little security grate with a knob that opens a small section of the grate for a little - very little - air. As I sat here early yesterday morning thinking of a title, I heard something unusual through the open grate. It was a song, and it came from a red-breasted robin perched atop the spirals of razor wire on the twenty-foot wall that has been my view of the outside world for sixteen years. I watched the robin for a long time, and listened as he sang. It instantly made me think of . . .