Some fiction is true.

Truth, however, is a matter of perspective.




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LEST I BE JUDGED FOR THIS
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Dear Reader/Listener/Viewer/Participator:

Lest I be judged for it, I inform you now that this project continues to be a scratch pad, a space for experimentation. In other words, enjoy what you find here, and feel free to participate -- but try not to take anything personal, and don't believe that this project presents an accurate view of me or my life. This is a window, certainly, but one that hasn't been cleaned in quite some time. Your view may be foggy, obscure...you may see things that aren't really there...

--Harold

Want some background music? Please consider tuning in to my Internet radio station VoyagerRadio, which is currently and illegally podcasting Tempo of the Down.

All my respect to the best storyteller I've ever listened to:

Joe Frank

And yes, I love my mom and my dad; they were always good to me, no matter what impression you may have received here. They never locked me in a cellar or anything.
 
Audio you may download, or something that happened to your ears:

Here's a link to one of my past audio recordings, which you may download:

Dream Job (Pt. 2)

There once were more links to audio listed here. Perhaps I will make them available again someday; otherwise, you'll find links to the audio by perusing the Archive. (See below.)

Archived stories, or something that happened in the past:

December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 February 2007 March 2007



this is...

something that happened

stories by harold j. johnson, in various formats - including text, audio, video, and podcasts
 

 
Thursday, February 22, 2007  

(Not autobiographical:) What It's Like to Read Poetry in Prison

2/22/2007 03:39:00 PM (0) comments





Friday, February 16, 2007  

One thing you gather when you spend more than half a week in jail is a renewed sense of perspective.

(Quick aside: I just Googled around for a good prison adage to apply here, but I wasn't able to find one relevant enough to insert in my post without it seeming forced. In fact, at the time of this posting, a search for "prison adage" returns only about 29 results. I find it somewhat remarkable that only 29 web documents contain the phrase...Perhaps more prisoners need to blog?)

Obviously, incarceration is not intended to be a fun experience; prisoners are, after all, being confined in order to punish them or, at the very least, curtail their unlawful behavior. But fun is a relative concept; what's floats one fellow's boat may instead choke another bloke's goat.

A nuclear blast: flood of light, scorched eyes, scritch-scratch on vinyl, a shout in the chaos, it's the jailer's commands, Everybody Up, scritch-scratch, scritch (Oh, the mattresses), people are moving (I think I'll just sleep in), a jostled leg, an inmate's voice It's breakfast, getupman followed by the jailer I said ev-err-ee-bah-dee up!!! Scritch-scratch-zlit, Line up single file, anyone's still on a mattress noh-bah-dee gets breakfast...

I'm in the top bunk, for a few seconds I look down unclear about my circumstance, the concrete below seems perilously distant. Noh-bah-dee gets breakfast. Nobody wants to be the one who screws it up for everyone else. Not here, not in Dangerland. I take an unsteady leap (Where are my shoes?), I stumble into the line (Am I cutting in front of someone?), my head is caving in, too much rum, I'm collapsing in dizziness and nausea, suspicious of my stomach. Urine on the floor soaks through my socks. (Where are my damn shoes?)

Later I find, some of the inmates seem to think this is all some kind of fun, an amusing diversion, a Festival of Humiliating Delights. A "vacation", one fellow described it. Others seemed (acted?) proud of their incarceration, the time they'd end up serving in Twin Towers. It's hard to tell who's real, who's bullshitting. Facing real time, what else you gonna do? Cry about it? Probably too dangerous for that in here. Act tough. Be tough. Or suffer, more than you can imagine. What's not to like about life in Hell? I want to cry but I'm too afraid.

2/16/2007 09:30:00 PM (0) comments





Thursday, February 15, 2007  

I never would have expected I'd spend time in jail. Ever. Not me. Yet there I was, for four days and nights, through President Lincoln's holiday weekend.

It happened at a Chili's, of all places. Not some seedy dive, a backalley bar. It didn't happen in a strip joint, or in a Red Light District. It happened in a friggin' Chili's, which makes it all the more humiliating.

A weekend of hell. Then a full day in court, a release without explanation. When inquired, the officer showed me the red stamp on my paperwork: Rejected, all charges.

2/15/2007 05:05:00 PM (0) comments





 
 

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