This is a letter from my good friend St. James Harris woods, although he is really no saint, and is currently incarcerated in California Men's Colony for bank robbery, he is a writer of short stories and poems that have been published in numerous high brow Marxist publications. His website is darklyabsurd.com and the man is a fucking genius, except for chess in which I routinely thrashed him on the yard. This is his last letter to me, which is partly a "rabble" letter which he sends to everyone else.

Young Rye!

What's up buttercup?!?!? I don't really have time for a full fledged letter, but here's the latest one for the rabble, though you're not really the rabble. YOU are the elite. Ex-convict/fool. I'll write a real one as soon as I think of something-real. It might interest you to know that I have a weary team of psychiatrists and psychologists at my disposal and they have determined that I am not mentally ill. What am I then? I ask, and they only mutter. I've had a number of cellies more easily diagnosed. The latest in a long line of troubled convicts is named Scooter. It's certain that his problem has been found because he takes anti-psychotic medications (plural!). These pills cause him to occasionally jerk around like a cartoon character doing a double-take. Scooter and I didn't last long together because he calmly, dispassionately told me a few stories about his past misdeeds that raised the hair on my neck. The day I realized he had to go was the day he started trying to get his doctors to make his meds "on call", ordinarily set up for people on pain medication. I theorized that if you suddenly feel the need for anti-psychotic medications, well...it's too late. Scooter didn't agree and I asked him to move./ /// // We need to observe a moment of silence for my beloved Brother ML300 Typewriter which finally gave up the electronic ghost. A brave and capable machine, it served me well here in the hellhole. It's near miraculous that ML300 survived even half of the seven years and 17,500 hours (I did the math) of my relentless pummeling and pounding. Asking for nothing except small amounts of electricity and lubricant my typewriter faithfully followed me from prison to prison and was bold on command. Although it ate more ribbon than was healthy (or I could afford), it checked the spelling of every single word, and comically argued that the words fuck and protocol didn't exist. In a noisy ceremony my friends and I smashed the elderly typewriter into a thousand pieces and flushed them down the toilet where ML300 will presumably end up at sea where it will hopefully provide one last service by choking the seagulls who travel miles in order to fly over our yard and crap on us. / / // // / / I'm asking friends and other interested parties to send my fairly lovable sister Terri an email (saintjameswood@hotmail.com) so that she can email you and let you know when I move, like I did earlier last month. If you haven't noticed yet, please note that I am now in cell #6233. Let's suppose I move again or end up in the hole thanks to some sort of penitentiary hi-jinks, Terri will email all interested parties with the news. I'm actually still getting letters, refection notices, magazines, postcards and other stuff from Tehachapi where I last dwelt six years ago. Convicts aren't allowed computers under any circumstances.

Oh yeah, here's something strange. We have had no summer. It's almost August and every day starts out with fog all the way up to nine in the morning and then the hottest it gets is like 80 degrees, and usually not that. Today in Portland, Oregon it was 105and here it was 78 . what's up Al Gore?!?!?!

Go into the light,

Saint James

P.S The library has fallen into the hands of rank idiots

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