Three days ago an op ed by John S. D. Eisenhower in the New York Times revealed that he’d agreed to commit suicide if he was in danger of being captured during the time he was deployed in the Korean Conflict. His father, almost president at the time they had the conversation where this agreement took place, said he’d accept the risk of his son being wounded or killed, but the prospect of his capture brought visions of presidential blackmail.
Eisenhower, now 86, wrote that he didn’t believe the children of world leaders should serve in war zones. “No matter what the young person’s desires or career needs are, they are of little importance compared with ensuring that our leaders are able to stay focused on the important business of the nation — and not worrying about the fate of a child a world away.” I don’t object to the thrust of the piece – it’s true that soldiers with politically powerful parents can be used as pawns. I agree that Prince Harry put his unit in danger while serving in Afghanistan, and that’s why he had to be pulled out the moment his presence became public.
What I find almost sensationally odd was the agreement the Eisenhowers – father and son – made with one another. If something bad is about to happen to you, kill yourself. That’s strange enough. But how can a person possibly predict how he will react in that situation? Even a soldier, trained to do as he’s ordered? The possibility of capture won’t come in a calm moment, nor will there be much time to contemplate what’s happening. And what if he’s with his men? Will he announce, like a Roman soldier, that all is lost, whip his blade from his toga, and make a dramatic exit leaving his soldiers stunned and wondering what just happened…and how they’re supposed to deal with the Korean troops advancing on their position? The entire setup is fraught with insane pitfalls.
A fascinating revelation from a grown presidential child as both vice presidential candidate's sons prepare to ship out to war. Of course the Vice Presidency is not really a positions of political power.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
hiring
We’ve seen four candidates for vice head of upper middle management. The look-for-it committee brought these four in, although I hear they really wanted not all of them. After sessions with all of them we met as a group to make recommendations. One candidate presented as totally unacceptable and we voted to tell head honcho that in no uncertain terms (“we will not work for him”). But I’m betting that’s who he wants..and I’ll bet that’s who he hires. Will he flout our recommendations and show total disrespect and disregard. Will he? We shall see.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
drummers are musicians
I’m listening to a Michael Daugherty composition called UFO. Daugherty is a contemporary American composer and the piece was written for Evelyn Glennie, an astounding percussionist. (That’s Dame Evelyn Glennie to us.) I saw the BSO perform the piece last week at the opening concert of this season. Glennie played more percussion instruments than I even knew existed, thirty feet of the downstage area was taken up by the wide variety of her musical equipment. Her speed and precision seemed beyond human dexterity. Her musical mastery evinced total control and glorious passion.
During intermission I overheard one woman say to another “I wonder if it’s the same every night.” The clear implication, that percussion is always improvised, revealed a common misconception about musicians who play instruments you pound on. It felt so terribly ignorant a comment to hear at the symphony – I always hope that those people are generally more educated about music, but apparently not. How, I wondered, could it be a piece played by orchestra and soloist if it is not “the same every night”? Would she have thought that a violin concerto was improvised? A piano sonata played on the fly? It seemed a perfect example of that old boorish question: who hangs out with musicians? Drummers.
During intermission I overheard one woman say to another “I wonder if it’s the same every night.” The clear implication, that percussion is always improvised, revealed a common misconception about musicians who play instruments you pound on. It felt so terribly ignorant a comment to hear at the symphony – I always hope that those people are generally more educated about music, but apparently not. How, I wondered, could it be a piece played by orchestra and soloist if it is not “the same every night”? Would she have thought that a violin concerto was improvised? A piano sonata played on the fly? It seemed a perfect example of that old boorish question: who hangs out with musicians? Drummers.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
work, explained (in full...ha ha)
At work: ridiculous revolving sets of orders – use your department copy machine for all your needs and send nothing to the copy center, use your department copy machine only for single sheet copies and send anything longer to the copy center, use your department copy machine for half your copies, use your department copy machine for none of your copies, use your department copy machine everything in the world you want to copy, use your department copy machine for students to copy their papers, use your copy machine as a doorstop, use your copy machine to lure small animals into the office. Just one thing.
Workload requirements: you must teach 18.3 classes every semester. It doesn’t matter that you cannot technically teach three tenths of a class – you must teach three tenths regardless. Oh, but that’s not a precise enough way for us to measure how much you teach. You must have 47 students per class (860.1 students per semester), or…you must aggregate 47 students per class between all the faculty in your department. But…only courses taught by regular faculty count. No courses taught by adjuncts count toward your aggregate of 47 hundred students per class (or 860.1 students per faculty member per semester). You’re not allowed to hire more faculty because you’re not aggregating 47 thousand students per class. But you can’t aggregate 47 hundred thousand students per class because you don’t have enough faculty. And on and on and on.
Adjunct tautology thinking: You don’t have enough regular faculty to cover all the courses you offer. They won’t give you money to hire more regular faculty (because your regular faculty aren’t making their workload numbers). You can’t cover the courses you offer without hiring adjuncts. They want you to stop hiring adjuncts.
More workload theatre of the absurd: you are required to teach 18.3 classes every semester with 47 million students per class (that’s 860.1 students per faculty person per semester, remember). You can aggregate those students if you like. For instance, if you have 17 regular faculty, 14,621.7 students need to be in classes taught by regular faculty every semester (that’s 17 x 860.1 per semester). But say some of those faculty have decreased teaching loads for doing things like taking care of the department copier and attracting small animals. Even though they have decreased loads, the required aggregate still doesn’t change – they’re still (the department actually) responsible for their quota of 860.1 students per semester. This means that enrollments increase in other courses. So you might have an Advanced Chinese seminar, enrollment supposed to be 15, with 136.6 students to make up for that person with a reduced load because the copier requires petting.
The copier must be cared for and small animals attracted. If no one does that, the entire department falls to tiny pieces. It’s true. But rather than figure out how to make this work so that no one is overloaded with teaching or copier work, lower middle and upper middle management just tell departments to manage it. So they manage it by driving the faculty crazy and making them totally miserable. I won’t even go into the copier manager problems – it’s just a constant stream of betrayal.
Workload requirements: you must teach 18.3 classes every semester. It doesn’t matter that you cannot technically teach three tenths of a class – you must teach three tenths regardless. Oh, but that’s not a precise enough way for us to measure how much you teach. You must have 47 students per class (860.1 students per semester), or…you must aggregate 47 students per class between all the faculty in your department. But…only courses taught by regular faculty count. No courses taught by adjuncts count toward your aggregate of 47 hundred students per class (or 860.1 students per faculty member per semester). You’re not allowed to hire more faculty because you’re not aggregating 47 thousand students per class. But you can’t aggregate 47 hundred thousand students per class because you don’t have enough faculty. And on and on and on.
Adjunct tautology thinking: You don’t have enough regular faculty to cover all the courses you offer. They won’t give you money to hire more regular faculty (because your regular faculty aren’t making their workload numbers). You can’t cover the courses you offer without hiring adjuncts. They want you to stop hiring adjuncts.
More workload theatre of the absurd: you are required to teach 18.3 classes every semester with 47 million students per class (that’s 860.1 students per faculty person per semester, remember). You can aggregate those students if you like. For instance, if you have 17 regular faculty, 14,621.7 students need to be in classes taught by regular faculty every semester (that’s 17 x 860.1 per semester). But say some of those faculty have decreased teaching loads for doing things like taking care of the department copier and attracting small animals. Even though they have decreased loads, the required aggregate still doesn’t change – they’re still (the department actually) responsible for their quota of 860.1 students per semester. This means that enrollments increase in other courses. So you might have an Advanced Chinese seminar, enrollment supposed to be 15, with 136.6 students to make up for that person with a reduced load because the copier requires petting.
The copier must be cared for and small animals attracted. If no one does that, the entire department falls to tiny pieces. It’s true. But rather than figure out how to make this work so that no one is overloaded with teaching or copier work, lower middle and upper middle management just tell departments to manage it. So they manage it by driving the faculty crazy and making them totally miserable. I won’t even go into the copier manager problems – it’s just a constant stream of betrayal.
Friday, September 26, 2008
work
Work just sucks. I’m too infuriated about it to explain it right now. I hope I can make it make sense tomorrow. We’ll see.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
job complaints
I’m beginning to hate my job again. All those of you out there reading this who are intimately acquainted with my job are sworn to secrecy about any mention I make here. But things are going from bad to particularly annoying. All kinds of demands coming down from on high and I get no feeling that the folks who are supposed to be the representatives of us peons in the chambers of power are doing so. Each person whose job it is to be a peon advocate caves easily to the pressure, and often in a way I think particularly betrayal-like.
My favorite example: The factory bosses want to produce more. So they want the workers currently employed to increase their hours to show that more can actually be produced and higher needs met. When the factory bosses see that output can actually be increased, they’ll let us hire more workers. I think that’s the stupidest approach in the book, especially for the workers. My take is that if the bosses cannot fill all their orders with the current number of workers working their current number of hours, they should hire more workers. If the factory bosses don’t hire more workers, they don’t get to fill all their orders. If they hire more workers they can fill the orders and no one has to work overtime. Just the fact that I’m using a factory metaphor should tell any readers here how nutso this all is. It’s demoralizing.
My favorite example: The factory bosses want to produce more. So they want the workers currently employed to increase their hours to show that more can actually be produced and higher needs met. When the factory bosses see that output can actually be increased, they’ll let us hire more workers. I think that’s the stupidest approach in the book, especially for the workers. My take is that if the bosses cannot fill all their orders with the current number of workers working their current number of hours, they should hire more workers. If the factory bosses don’t hire more workers, they don’t get to fill all their orders. If they hire more workers they can fill the orders and no one has to work overtime. Just the fact that I’m using a factory metaphor should tell any readers here how nutso this all is. It’s demoralizing.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Commission hearing
The concluding day of testimony, on Monday, for the Death Penalty Commission in Annapolis was a good day, although not as eventful as some of the other four days. An air of winding down settled over the room. Obnoxiously contentious Scott Shellenberger was a little less so, although he did attack a few people as if he were in a courtroom. As usual, he seemed most interested in defending against any hint of anything that might impugn the reputation of his office (“have you ever known the Baltimore County State’s Attorney’s office to make any decisions based on race?”). Sounding exactly like a geek economist, Dr. Ken Stanton explained in the mildest possible tones why the Urban Institute cost study is an excellently done piece of work and why what it shows is an underestimation of what we spend to continue this useless bit of public policy. “You’re spending thousands of dollars to implement something that’s not working, that’s what we economists call a complete waste,” raised a soft chuckle in the room.
Joseph D. Tydings, former Maryland Senator and federal prosecutor, and James Abbott, police chief from West Orange, NJ, both talked about how they could philosophically favor the death penalty and yet vigorously support its repeal as a public policy that is simply unworkable. Patrick Kent, chief of the forensic division of Maryland’s Public Defender’s Office, gave one of the most poorly put together power point demonstrations I’ve ever seen that said, essentially, all the work done by any forensic division anywhere is suspect. It seemed an odd, yet oddly compelling, thing for him to insist on. Calvin Lightfoot, former correctional officer, and Robert Johnson, researcher at American University, delivered a fantastic one-two punch about what really makes correctional officers safe and how lifers behave in prison: correctional officers need proper staffing and lifers are usually the best behaved prisoners.
After the experts, the citizen witnesses took turns explaining their reasons for wanting the death penalty repealed. People who support the death penalty are welcome, but except for the daughter of one murder victim in the second hearing – who was an expert witness, not a citizen witness – none show up. The mainstay of retention: Harford County State’s Attorney, who always shows up to make his case (we need to have some serious sentences for serious crimes) – he lies as a matter of course, I’ve personally witnessed it.
The biggest surprise was Rick Prothero – Commissioner and the brother of a murdered police officer. He considers himself to be strongly in favor of retaining the death penalty. But on Monday we learned some interesting things about him. He revealed he'd voted against the death penalty for his brother's killer in the initial family meeting. He's not the sharpest tool in the box; when he asks questions they are usually impossible to follow and the witness usually winds up trying to answer some odd version of what she thinks Rick is asking. But his questions today made it obvious now that he experienced at least some minor family turmoil over this issue. At the murder of his brother, became the head of the family and they were split down the middle. After four sessions of listening to him ask unintelligible questions I’ve been able to determine that his main concern is for the law. He’s primarily concerned about people who have jobs that require they execute (no pun intended) the penalty but who are personally opposed to it. “Didn’t you know this was the law when you took the job?” His family finally decided to accept the seeking of the death penalty because it was the most severe sanction permitted by law. Could it be so simple that he doesn’t really recognize that the law can be changed, thus relieving all those people, and families like his, of being in this terrible position? The most surprising thing I heard him say yesterday was that he thought his family "shouldn't have been put in this position" (of making that decision). If the death penalty is repealed, families will never be put in that position again.
Now the Commission turns to their discussions about what to recommend. Those hearings are public too and I’m looking forward to hearing where they all land on the issue after five days of testimony.
Joseph D. Tydings, former Maryland Senator and federal prosecutor, and James Abbott, police chief from West Orange, NJ, both talked about how they could philosophically favor the death penalty and yet vigorously support its repeal as a public policy that is simply unworkable. Patrick Kent, chief of the forensic division of Maryland’s Public Defender’s Office, gave one of the most poorly put together power point demonstrations I’ve ever seen that said, essentially, all the work done by any forensic division anywhere is suspect. It seemed an odd, yet oddly compelling, thing for him to insist on. Calvin Lightfoot, former correctional officer, and Robert Johnson, researcher at American University, delivered a fantastic one-two punch about what really makes correctional officers safe and how lifers behave in prison: correctional officers need proper staffing and lifers are usually the best behaved prisoners.
After the experts, the citizen witnesses took turns explaining their reasons for wanting the death penalty repealed. People who support the death penalty are welcome, but except for the daughter of one murder victim in the second hearing – who was an expert witness, not a citizen witness – none show up. The mainstay of retention: Harford County State’s Attorney, who always shows up to make his case (we need to have some serious sentences for serious crimes) – he lies as a matter of course, I’ve personally witnessed it.
The biggest surprise was Rick Prothero – Commissioner and the brother of a murdered police officer. He considers himself to be strongly in favor of retaining the death penalty. But on Monday we learned some interesting things about him. He revealed he'd voted against the death penalty for his brother's killer in the initial family meeting. He's not the sharpest tool in the box; when he asks questions they are usually impossible to follow and the witness usually winds up trying to answer some odd version of what she thinks Rick is asking. But his questions today made it obvious now that he experienced at least some minor family turmoil over this issue. At the murder of his brother, became the head of the family and they were split down the middle. After four sessions of listening to him ask unintelligible questions I’ve been able to determine that his main concern is for the law. He’s primarily concerned about people who have jobs that require they execute (no pun intended) the penalty but who are personally opposed to it. “Didn’t you know this was the law when you took the job?” His family finally decided to accept the seeking of the death penalty because it was the most severe sanction permitted by law. Could it be so simple that he doesn’t really recognize that the law can be changed, thus relieving all those people, and families like his, of being in this terrible position? The most surprising thing I heard him say yesterday was that he thought his family "shouldn't have been put in this position" (of making that decision). If the death penalty is repealed, families will never be put in that position again.
Now the Commission turns to their discussions about what to recommend. Those hearings are public too and I’m looking forward to hearing where they all land on the issue after five days of testimony.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
bailout, still
I wish I could get away from this bailout thing, but my rant yesterday was far too disorganized to stand as my only exploration of this issue. So let me try again (although I’m not in any way sure I can keep the ranting tendency in check). Let me name the figure again: seven hundred billion dollars. That’s a seven followed by eleven zeros: 700,000,000,000. Even the number of zeros is beyond a single digit. Eleven zeros. With no oversight. Paulson and Bernanke were before congress today using the standard Bush administration tactic – fear and panic. “If you don’t give us this power right now the entire world will come apart, the global financial system will disintegrate, the American economy will come crashing down taking with it small businesses, home owners, major financial corporations, the entire credit system, and the terrorists will win.” “Now. We need this power now.”
When some congresspeople – dems and republicans alike – balked, suggested that this be tied to, for example, a limitation on the compensation company executives can receive, or some help to the struggling homeowner, the guys now in charge of the government say not on your life “that would be a disincentive.” A fucking disincentive?! They won’t take free money from the government because they’d have to limit their own income? Actually, and tragically, I believe it. I believe those people would let the economy descend into the black abyss of mammoth bankruptcy and deep irredeemable fiscal depression because they don’t want to give up their 10 million dollar packages.
People in the administration now will soon enough be back on Wall Street, wanting to take advantage of whatever package is finally passed. Once again, the idiot president is insisting threateningly that we must act now and act dramatically or all is lost. The constitutional violations embedded in the package proposal – total power with no oversight to the treasury secretary, conflicts of both interest and interests.
Republican Senator Jim Bunning called it financial socialism – “Unamerican.” (Only the NYTimes reproduces that word as “un-American” because American must always take a capital letter.) Hard to believe that he’d be objecting if it weren’t an election year. They’re desperate to get help for these guys, what other industry could be melting down and demand so much attention? Every day people die from going without health care. Every day children sit in overcrowded classrooms, suffer violence in schools, drop out and fall between the cracks of an educational system that ignores real needs and focuses its slim moment of attention on the administrative farce of “accountability.”
I guess that’s my rant for today. Tomorrow, a few interesting moments from Monday’s Death Penalty Commission hearing.
When some congresspeople – dems and republicans alike – balked, suggested that this be tied to, for example, a limitation on the compensation company executives can receive, or some help to the struggling homeowner, the guys now in charge of the government say not on your life “that would be a disincentive.” A fucking disincentive?! They won’t take free money from the government because they’d have to limit their own income? Actually, and tragically, I believe it. I believe those people would let the economy descend into the black abyss of mammoth bankruptcy and deep irredeemable fiscal depression because they don’t want to give up their 10 million dollar packages.
People in the administration now will soon enough be back on Wall Street, wanting to take advantage of whatever package is finally passed. Once again, the idiot president is insisting threateningly that we must act now and act dramatically or all is lost. The constitutional violations embedded in the package proposal – total power with no oversight to the treasury secretary, conflicts of both interest and interests.
Republican Senator Jim Bunning called it financial socialism – “Unamerican.” (Only the NYTimes reproduces that word as “un-American” because American must always take a capital letter.) Hard to believe that he’d be objecting if it weren’t an election year. They’re desperate to get help for these guys, what other industry could be melting down and demand so much attention? Every day people die from going without health care. Every day children sit in overcrowded classrooms, suffer violence in schools, drop out and fall between the cracks of an educational system that ignores real needs and focuses its slim moment of attention on the administrative farce of “accountability.”
I guess that’s my rant for today. Tomorrow, a few interesting moments from Monday’s Death Penalty Commission hearing.
Monday, September 22, 2008
bailout
I don’t know whether to write about my outrage about the Wall Street bailout – 700 billion dollars, total power to the administration’s guy (Secretary of the Treasury, Hank), trashing of the constitution, and now they’re worried about giving total power to someone. It was apparently fine to trash the constitution and give total power to someone back in 2001. And now we have socialized business: seven hundred billion dollars to bail out businesses that have been irresponsible. What if someone had suggested setting aside seven hundred billion dollars for education…or health care? What if? Imagine the screeching on Wall Street about socialized medicine. Just imagine. And now Hank wants congress to give him 700 billion dollars with no oversight. None. Just to do with whatever he pleases. Yeah. When financial institutions are in trouble congress answers. When the financial sector has made bad decision after bad decision, brought upon itself a disaster that could dwarf the crash of 1929, and then paid off the guys who made the bad decisions with huge severance packages…when republicans cry foul when the slightest regulation is even waved in the wind. When all this converges in a perfect storm, congress comes to the rescue. It’s true what they say: if you owe ten thousand dollars it’s your problem, but if you owe a hundred million dollars it’s someone else’s problem. So I could either write about that...or the Death Penalty Commission hearings I just came from. I guess I'll do the hearings tomorrow.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
NBI
Now driving myself and my shooting partner crazy trying to find ways to get to North Brother Island to take pictures of the place my father lived when he was in college years ago. I wonder if we will drown in the process. We must go in the spring or summer for a long day and I must practice my kayaking. I’m excited for such an adventure.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Lonaconing IV
We painfully tore ourselves away from our final photos, trying to get every shot we wanted before we could shoot no more. The outside world began to reassert itself and we became aware of the sounds of children’s voices. They seemed nearby, almost in the same room with us. We arrived on the second floor and started for the window where our escape ladder lay in a heap on the floor. But the kid’s voices seemed too close. Approaching the window I swiftly ducked down, even though I knew they almost certainly could not see inside the building. But they were right outside. On the road just past the thin line of trees, three or four young teenagers were riding their bikes in circles: directly in front of us. Beyond the road a few younger kids tossed a softball around the diamond. Trapped.
We certainly couldn’t lower the metal-runged escape ladder down now. Its awkward clattering would announce we were in the building. I wasn’t even sure we could use it on the other side of the building without them hearing it. As silently as we could we gathered up all our equipment from where we’d left it there near the window and moved it across the building to the window originally used by the man in the picture we saw. Now we had to figure out how to make the escape ladder work on a window with no inner lip, nothing to hook the thing onto. We let it down ever so slowly, a single rung at a time. Once again our intrepid leader held the ladder as we made our descent. She tossed the ladder off the ledge then she lowered all our equipment out on the rope. When our stuff was once again sitting on the muddy ground she went back to her original entry point and shimmied down the tree like a fireman. Except she is not a fireman and the tree was significantly wider and rougher than a fireman’s pole. It must have hurt like the devil.
I was certain she’d kill herself, or at least hurt herself getting out that window and I wanted to get there fast. But by the time our third and I had figured out how we were going to carry all the equipment and gathered it all up, our leader was coming around the corner to see what we were doing. She made it. Just as we did at the beginning we moved all the equipment to a spot in front in a small pile behind the tree line. I walked out of the trees alone with my backpack on as if I’d been hiking. Nothing suspicious about that. The kids glanced in my direction but the most attention they paid me was when I tried to back my car out. They were riding like wheeled wasps around the front of the vehicle and had a hard time negotiating themselves out of my way. I pulled up to where my partners in B&E were waiting and popped the trunk. In about 30 seconds all our equipment was in the trunk and they were in the car. We were out, we’d had a good day shooting, and we hadn’t been caught. That’s about all you can ask.
We certainly couldn’t lower the metal-runged escape ladder down now. Its awkward clattering would announce we were in the building. I wasn’t even sure we could use it on the other side of the building without them hearing it. As silently as we could we gathered up all our equipment from where we’d left it there near the window and moved it across the building to the window originally used by the man in the picture we saw. Now we had to figure out how to make the escape ladder work on a window with no inner lip, nothing to hook the thing onto. We let it down ever so slowly, a single rung at a time. Once again our intrepid leader held the ladder as we made our descent. She tossed the ladder off the ledge then she lowered all our equipment out on the rope. When our stuff was once again sitting on the muddy ground she went back to her original entry point and shimmied down the tree like a fireman. Except she is not a fireman and the tree was significantly wider and rougher than a fireman’s pole. It must have hurt like the devil.
I was certain she’d kill herself, or at least hurt herself getting out that window and I wanted to get there fast. But by the time our third and I had figured out how we were going to carry all the equipment and gathered it all up, our leader was coming around the corner to see what we were doing. She made it. Just as we did at the beginning we moved all the equipment to a spot in front in a small pile behind the tree line. I walked out of the trees alone with my backpack on as if I’d been hiking. Nothing suspicious about that. The kids glanced in my direction but the most attention they paid me was when I tried to back my car out. They were riding like wheeled wasps around the front of the vehicle and had a hard time negotiating themselves out of my way. I pulled up to where my partners in B&E were waiting and popped the trunk. In about 30 seconds all our equipment was in the trunk and they were in the car. We were out, we’d had a good day shooting, and we hadn’t been caught. That’s about all you can ask.
Mets game
A day’s break from the Lonaconing adventure (we’re return to the silk mill tomorrow). Last night I caught a Mets/Nationals game at National Park in the nation’s capitol. You can only see the capitol from a small corner of the upper deck, but the ballpark is advertised to have a view of the great building. Last night, September 17, was half-Patty’s day: halfway between St. Patrick’s days. Miller Lite provided Kelly green baseball caps with the Nationals “W” – although to me it looks like the Walgreens “W.” The Mets scored two homeruns in the first inning and never gave up the lead. I love seeing games with my friend Kate because her former boss is usually there too and he is also a Mets fan. We cheer delightedly together, DC seems to attract a lot of Mets fans. I only had to leave a tiny bit early (saw the first out of the bottom of the ninth) to catch my MARC train home. In NY we call bad fans – for instance those who leave a game early, behave badly, or get publicly drunk – Yankee fans. A good fan always stays till the final out. Because in baseball, as we all know, it ain’t over till it’s over.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Lonaconing III
Inside the mill equipment had withstood a lot of wind and rain coming in the windows. The paint was peeling, but not too badly; only the top floor had bad roof damage. Someone had been keeping watch, though, because fairly new bracing beams kept the roof from collapsing. Spools about five inches high, some metal but mostly wood, were stacked everywhere. The place still looked surprisingly orderly.
The spinning equipment looked in decent shape for having been walked away from over half a century ago. Calendars on every floor told us it was 1957. A sign on one wall advised workers to “call at the office of the social security board to inquire about your old-age insurance benefits” when they reached 65. The politeness and complete sentences of the language alone summon another era.
I was surprised at how small the mill really was. A sign outside said it was the only silk mill in the US, but we couldn’t tell from the equipment exactly what they manufactured out of silk. Silk thread – lots of spools. Silk fabric – unlikely, no fabric bolts anywhere. Silk ribbons – could be, the spools were large. We found a large stash of labels announcing the fabric “Rayon,” but didn’t know what they were intended for. And we found what we assumed to be raw silk – locks looking like blonde wigs, one was even braided.
In the basement workshop brightly colored powders had eaten through their large rectangular tins. Dye, we guessed. Confusingly we noticed a few magazines and newspapers from the 1960s, not a clue how they came to be in the building. It felt terribly sad that they place and everything in it was being allowed to rot. The equipment was still in good shape, with hundreds, maybe thousands, of pristine spools and spindles that would have fetched a fortune at antiques markets.
We went to work taking photos, amazed again and again at what we were seeing. We chased the light across the building, a continual timing challenge, until we began to lose light even on the top floor.
The spinning equipment looked in decent shape for having been walked away from over half a century ago. Calendars on every floor told us it was 1957. A sign on one wall advised workers to “call at the office of the social security board to inquire about your old-age insurance benefits” when they reached 65. The politeness and complete sentences of the language alone summon another era.
I was surprised at how small the mill really was. A sign outside said it was the only silk mill in the US, but we couldn’t tell from the equipment exactly what they manufactured out of silk. Silk thread – lots of spools. Silk fabric – unlikely, no fabric bolts anywhere. Silk ribbons – could be, the spools were large. We found a large stash of labels announcing the fabric “Rayon,” but didn’t know what they were intended for. And we found what we assumed to be raw silk – locks looking like blonde wigs, one was even braided.
In the basement workshop brightly colored powders had eaten through their large rectangular tins. Dye, we guessed. Confusingly we noticed a few magazines and newspapers from the 1960s, not a clue how they came to be in the building. It felt terribly sad that they place and everything in it was being allowed to rot. The equipment was still in good shape, with hundreds, maybe thousands, of pristine spools and spindles that would have fetched a fortune at antiques markets.
We went to work taking photos, amazed again and again at what we were seeing. We chased the light across the building, a continual timing challenge, until we began to lose light even on the top floor.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Lonaconing II
The night before, I’d had a restless sleep trying to think of ways we could attain the height we’d need. Carrying a ladder up to the side of the building was out of the question; we couldn’t be seen carrying construction equipment up to a no-trespassing site. As we drove away from home in the morning we’d stopped at Home Despot and bought two things: a fire escape ladder and a length of rope. Now we used them both.
I longed for a bat-utility belt with a little bat-boomerang I could shoot up to the window and have it wrap around some upright conveniently located just inside the window. Using the fire escape ladder was a good idea, but we’d still need to get it up there. How?
Nothing about the entry was easy. Not one thing. Straining to get up the tree, muscles seized and limbs trembled. Finally at the window’s height, there was nothing to grab onto – the sill too smooth and deep with no lip on the inside. I handed the ladder up to her, hoping she could hook it on the window, but the ledge’s depth made it almost impossible. Her determination won out, though, and somehow she made the ladder work for her top two steps away from the tree and into the building.
The window was too small, she couldn’t fit through, but she was kneeling on the very wide ledge. Finally. A little more space made and she was inside.
I climbed up as she held the escape ladder in place then we used the rope to pull up all our equipment. Our third person made it up the ladder, although she definitely was not amused. Finally we were all inside. We pulled the ladder up after us and erased all outward evidence of our entry.
I longed for a bat-utility belt with a little bat-boomerang I could shoot up to the window and have it wrap around some upright conveniently located just inside the window. Using the fire escape ladder was a good idea, but we’d still need to get it up there. How?
Nothing about the entry was easy. Not one thing. Straining to get up the tree, muscles seized and limbs trembled. Finally at the window’s height, there was nothing to grab onto – the sill too smooth and deep with no lip on the inside. I handed the ladder up to her, hoping she could hook it on the window, but the ledge’s depth made it almost impossible. Her determination won out, though, and somehow she made the ladder work for her top two steps away from the tree and into the building.
The window was too small, she couldn’t fit through, but she was kneeling on the very wide ledge. Finally. A little more space made and she was inside.
I climbed up as she held the escape ladder in place then we used the rope to pull up all our equipment. Our third person made it up the ladder, although she definitely was not amused. Finally we were all inside. We pulled the ladder up after us and erased all outward evidence of our entry.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Lonaconing I
Yesterday, Lonaconing Silk Mill in western Maryland. It was a very dicey entry. From a photo we’d been sent, I could see a faceless guy climbing in a very high window that looked fairly tiny. But I had faith that we could get up there and in. So far we’ve always been able to find a way, and once a place is abandoned – all kinds of things force entry. We had a third person with us who doesn’t really like the dicey entry. She’s a walk-right-in, go-back-out-to-the-car-and-get-something-to-drink kind of gal.
After a little driving around we stumbled upon the mill on a neighborhood street between a yappy dog in a yard and an SUV parked in a gravel driveway. Only about ten feet back from the street, a thin strip of trees had grown up between the broken building and the street. Across from the mill a small baseball diamond stood empty. The street was hushed, not one person outside.
Our consternation about how to approach and where to park was irrelevant – no one was watching the building, no one seemed to care what happened to it. And there was no easy way in. Every first floor window was barred, all doors were padlocked. The building was small, not at all like the Delaware mill complex of buildings we’d done in August. The only reason it took ten minutes to circle its tiny circumference was that the terrain was a soggy steep incline of mud, broken glass, plastic sheeting, dead trees, and damp boulders.
Many of the broken second floor windows were boarded up, but a few remained open to the elements. We always prefer not to break anything if at all possible, and we located the window the man in the photo had used. The waterlogged cardboard he’d laid down to protect himself from any glass still on the thick concrete sill remained half out of the small opening. But there was no way for us to climb up. It was clear his purchase on the building came from his strength and height – we had neither. The rusted iron gate fronting the windows below his entry was topped with pointed pikes and the brick wall of the building was smooth – no place to grab until you got to the sill, too high up for any of us.
The only other possibility was a window around on the front side. A thin tree grew only a foot away from the building and the master explorer was certain she could use the trunk for an ascent. I was doubtful, but it seemed our only option after all other ideas fizzled.
After a little driving around we stumbled upon the mill on a neighborhood street between a yappy dog in a yard and an SUV parked in a gravel driveway. Only about ten feet back from the street, a thin strip of trees had grown up between the broken building and the street. Across from the mill a small baseball diamond stood empty. The street was hushed, not one person outside.
Our consternation about how to approach and where to park was irrelevant – no one was watching the building, no one seemed to care what happened to it. And there was no easy way in. Every first floor window was barred, all doors were padlocked. The building was small, not at all like the Delaware mill complex of buildings we’d done in August. The only reason it took ten minutes to circle its tiny circumference was that the terrain was a soggy steep incline of mud, broken glass, plastic sheeting, dead trees, and damp boulders.
Many of the broken second floor windows were boarded up, but a few remained open to the elements. We always prefer not to break anything if at all possible, and we located the window the man in the photo had used. The waterlogged cardboard he’d laid down to protect himself from any glass still on the thick concrete sill remained half out of the small opening. But there was no way for us to climb up. It was clear his purchase on the building came from his strength and height – we had neither. The rusted iron gate fronting the windows below his entry was topped with pointed pikes and the brick wall of the building was smooth – no place to grab until you got to the sill, too high up for any of us.
The only other possibility was a window around on the front side. A thin tree grew only a foot away from the building and the master explorer was certain she could use the trunk for an ascent. I was doubtful, but it seemed our only option after all other ideas fizzled.
civil rights at home II
It's late, but I must finish the story. Tut wrote...
“I know you must be angry with me by now for not writing, but there is so much happening here in Mississippi at present that I hardly have or find time to sleep. I haven’t had five minutes to myself since I’ve been back to Mississippi. I have been taking pictures of the march during the day and on guard duty during the night. I hope your mother received my letters it is so hard to get a letter out now, people are always watching for us to mail a letter so they could stop the mail.”
Later she asks me if I’m still “doing some of the things we used to do. (smile)” And I search my brain to remember what those things were but all that swims forward is the wonderful feeling I had when I was with her.
As I carefully return the letter to its place I am remembering the fear my parents felt when she returned to Mississippi after her training in New York. When we didn’t hear from her for lengthy periods my mother would hope out loud that she was still alive. Even though I knew people had been killed I couldn’t believe it could actually happen and I would say “oh Mom.”
As I grew up through the rest of that decade reading the news and becoming increasingly aware of what was happening, I still don’t think I ever quite understood, until I read this letter to the young me all these years later, how terribly dangerous her life had been. And what enormous courage she had.
“I know you must be angry with me by now for not writing, but there is so much happening here in Mississippi at present that I hardly have or find time to sleep. I haven’t had five minutes to myself since I’ve been back to Mississippi. I have been taking pictures of the march during the day and on guard duty during the night. I hope your mother received my letters it is so hard to get a letter out now, people are always watching for us to mail a letter so they could stop the mail.”
Later she asks me if I’m still “doing some of the things we used to do. (smile)” And I search my brain to remember what those things were but all that swims forward is the wonderful feeling I had when I was with her.
As I carefully return the letter to its place I am remembering the fear my parents felt when she returned to Mississippi after her training in New York. When we didn’t hear from her for lengthy periods my mother would hope out loud that she was still alive. Even though I knew people had been killed I couldn’t believe it could actually happen and I would say “oh Mom.”
As I grew up through the rest of that decade reading the news and becoming increasingly aware of what was happening, I still don’t think I ever quite understood, until I read this letter to the young me all these years later, how terribly dangerous her life had been. And what enormous courage she had.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
civil rights at home I
Deeply involved in the civil rights movement of the 60s, my parents opened our home to SNCC volunteers who were coming to New York City for training seminars. Two people had, one at a time, stayed with us. One was a dark brown man, I think his name was Greg. The other was a small slim woman with the unlikely name of Tut Tate. Tut has lived in my memory all these years and a little while ago when I was getting ready to take seven kids of various ages on a civil rights trip south, I looked her up on the Web.
It was no surprise to find she’d remained involved in the civil rights movement all her life, moving from voter registration drives in the 60s to union work in the next decades. I was able to recover all this information in her obituary. She’d died young, at only 49, from lung cancer. Although I’d missed her death by several years, I felt a hole open up in my universe.
Reading the obit through carefully it slowly dawned on me that she’d been a mere six years my senior. As I was attending elementary school in Manhattan, she was risking her life registering voters in Mississippi. She was only 18.
I couldn’t remember the games we used to play together, but I had a clear sense memory of our lives intertwining deeply for those few weeks she spent living with us. After learning of her abbreviated life, I went searching through some boxes where I was sure I had a physical memento from her. I sat very still on the bed as I opened the folded letter dated June 17, 1966.
It was no surprise to find she’d remained involved in the civil rights movement all her life, moving from voter registration drives in the 60s to union work in the next decades. I was able to recover all this information in her obituary. She’d died young, at only 49, from lung cancer. Although I’d missed her death by several years, I felt a hole open up in my universe.
Reading the obit through carefully it slowly dawned on me that she’d been a mere six years my senior. As I was attending elementary school in Manhattan, she was risking her life registering voters in Mississippi. She was only 18.
I couldn’t remember the games we used to play together, but I had a clear sense memory of our lives intertwining deeply for those few weeks she spent living with us. After learning of her abbreviated life, I went searching through some boxes where I was sure I had a physical memento from her. I sat very still on the bed as I opened the folded letter dated June 17, 1966.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Morty
Morton Sobel, 91 years old, has finally admitted that he did, indeed engage in spying. He was convicted in 1951 with the Rosenbergs and maintained his innocence until just a few days ago. He admitted to the charges of which he was found guilty because the National Archives was about to release the previously sealed grand jury testimony that he tried to stop from coming out.
To me the interesting part of the article was about what the government was willing to do in order to get a conviction against Julius Rosenberg. It’s not clear what role Ethel Rosenberg, Julius’s wife, had in the entire affair. Some believe that she typed up notes her brother, David Greenglass, brought to the house. Some believe she did nothing. But it’s generally acknowledged that she did not engage in actual espionage. She may have known some of what was going on, she may not. But the government used her in an effort to get Julius to implicate others in the conspiracy with which they were charged. She never talked and neither did Julius. They were both executed in 1953, the only Americans ever executed in peace time for espionage. They left behind two young sons.
They used her as a pawn in a game they were playing with her husband. William P. Rogers, the deputy attorney general at the time is quoted in the Times article: “That strategy failed…she called our bluff.” This is what happens when the death penalty is used as a tool, a ploy for getting people to do what you want them to do: innocent people are executed.
To me the interesting part of the article was about what the government was willing to do in order to get a conviction against Julius Rosenberg. It’s not clear what role Ethel Rosenberg, Julius’s wife, had in the entire affair. Some believe that she typed up notes her brother, David Greenglass, brought to the house. Some believe she did nothing. But it’s generally acknowledged that she did not engage in actual espionage. She may have known some of what was going on, she may not. But the government used her in an effort to get Julius to implicate others in the conspiracy with which they were charged. She never talked and neither did Julius. They were both executed in 1953, the only Americans ever executed in peace time for espionage. They left behind two young sons.
They used her as a pawn in a game they were playing with her husband. William P. Rogers, the deputy attorney general at the time is quoted in the Times article: “That strategy failed…she called our bluff.” This is what happens when the death penalty is used as a tool, a ploy for getting people to do what you want them to do: innocent people are executed.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
post 9/11
A while after the terrorist events of 2001 I became aware that many of my acquaintances had altered their behavior ever so slightly. So I began to inquire about the changes. Some people said they would never now leave their cell phones at home. Now, that seems quaint, but then cell phones were not as ubiquitous. The attacks turned us all into that woman on a dark road at night with a flat tire – living in fear of being caught incommunicado. Some people said they avoid tall buildings, others that they avoid elevators. Some, who’d not heard the news for hours, said they now always keep a radio on softly tuned to the news to avoid that state of not-knowing. As instructed by Homeland Security (the agency that brought us color coded states of alert) many began to keep cash and non-perishable food on hand at all times. For others, the car’s gas tank is never allowed to skip below half full. Or half empty. We face east. Or west. These are the small concessions to the world that 9/11 has wrought. But the survey I took was years ago, just months after the attacks. I wonder now, what habits remain? What vestigial behaviors do we keep not even remembering their origin?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
where a cat walks
When my mother had her hip replacement part of the preparation material suggested that she train her animal not to walk in front of her. She has a cat. But even if she had a dog… It’s not just the idea that a cat can be trained to do (or not do) such a thing, but that you might be able to train an animal to do something within that tiny time period between receiving your list of instructions and having the surgery. No freaking way. And anyway. A cat cannot be trained not to walk in front of you. Walking in front of you is what a cat does. That’s a cat’s job. A cat’s profession is to walk slowly underfoot so that you must weave and dance to your destination. Go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Returning to bed is a circuitous route around waving tail as the butt slowly sways from side to side. The animal might be seated in the doorway as you head into the kitchen but as you pass by it arises majestically and takes its spot between your feet. A cat wants to arrive with you and before you. Therein lies the rub.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
back in session
Classes ramping up, schedule settling into cramped regularity, weather shifting with every breeze, throat’s getting sore.
Monday, September 08, 2008
order
A writer friend of mine used to tie herself to her chair to make herself write. I can certainly relate to that impulse because as I sit here trying to start writing I’m staring at the untidy piles on my desk and dreaming of the fun I will have organizing them into neater piles. A blizzard of little pieces of paper dusts my desk, each one an important note. I know precisely where each piece of information is and if anything is moved chaos will ensue. This storage style seems to be creeping from the desk to invade the entire room and I must walk gingerly around the perimeter so I don’t disturb sorted piles of books, carefully ordered file boxes, various pieces of equipment in need of maintenance. And dust. Dust has settled over everything. I can’t dust the room because that might disturb the fragile organization I believe exists. But my belief, I believe, is illusory. Beneath the settled snow of paper might be a once-searchable small stack of once-useful information. But as the room shrinks with each new layer of precariously ordered stuff, I fear order has flown.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Fall
Having a three year old here today was strenuous. He’s cute as heck, but a bundle of unintelligible energy. Even though he’s a far more calm child than his older sisters, he still rouses a cloud of what’s-going-on-here. Football is back, tennis is almost over, Mets & Cubs are still in first place (sadly, I missed my last chance to see Shea because of a game-time change), Fall’s on the way.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
death penalty commission hearing
The joint hearing room in Annapolis was frigid yesterday. When I left, after only three hours of testimony, my feet felt like small blocks of ice and my fingers would not straighten out. I sat a few seats away from the daughter of a murder victim. Her parents were horribly murdered over 25 years ago and she’s been waiting this long quarter century, attending every hearing and court session, for the murderers to be executed. She’s in her 80s now and she will say, if asked, that she is waiting for justice. I don’t fault her for framing the death penalty that way, she occupies a unique and terrible position. But the death penalty is justice for no one – not the victim, not the survivors, not the killer, not the community. It was an exercise in respect to sit near her and her husband, ever reminding me to be respectful in my treatment of the issue. It must be terribly painful for them to attend these hearings as most of the expert, and even citizen, witnesses speak eloquently against what she so fervently wants. She knows that she has several supporters in the room. But, although they are outnumbered, they remain current practice – even if in name only. Repealing existing law is always far more difficult than not putting it there in the first place.
Friday, September 05, 2008
sarah palin
The election is two months from yesterday. We will soon be rid of the jackass who came into the presidency appointed by five supreme court justices. They made a mockery of the democratic system – stopped the recount and then ruled that it could have gone forward but alas, the deadline had passed.
This Palin woman makes me very nervous. Her picture with him on the official McCain website is the photo from her governor website – they didn’t even get a picture taken together. Leaning into the camera, she wears a beehive hairdo, tailored suits with cinched waists, rimless glasses with dark arms, and yes, she looks like a Tina Fey parody of someone. Her five children all under 19 are supposed to be attended to only on her terms (look, I have a big happy family) and not in any sense of reality (17 year old pregnant daughter not exactly a poster child for abstinence only sex ed in school). Her record is malicious – she fires, or has fired, anyone who gets in her way (including a state trooper who used to be married to her sister). She lies and twists facts, as do they all, about the things she brags about – yes she turned down the bridge to nowhere, but she kept the funding. She is a barracuda. But one problem is that in this misogynistic world it remains difficult to debate a woman. And Joe Biden has a big mouth. He will need special training and have to be exceptionally careful. It’s so easy to look like a bully, and she will milk that for everything she can. She is almost more frightening than McCain, if only because of her severely limited experience. No foreign policy experience, even though she is governor of the state closest to Russia – and you cannot run the state department like a small town in Alaska. I have, yes – literally , been having nightmares about her.
This Palin woman makes me very nervous. Her picture with him on the official McCain website is the photo from her governor website – they didn’t even get a picture taken together. Leaning into the camera, she wears a beehive hairdo, tailored suits with cinched waists, rimless glasses with dark arms, and yes, she looks like a Tina Fey parody of someone. Her five children all under 19 are supposed to be attended to only on her terms (look, I have a big happy family) and not in any sense of reality (17 year old pregnant daughter not exactly a poster child for abstinence only sex ed in school). Her record is malicious – she fires, or has fired, anyone who gets in her way (including a state trooper who used to be married to her sister). She lies and twists facts, as do they all, about the things she brags about – yes she turned down the bridge to nowhere, but she kept the funding. She is a barracuda. But one problem is that in this misogynistic world it remains difficult to debate a woman. And Joe Biden has a big mouth. He will need special training and have to be exceptionally careful. It’s so easy to look like a bully, and she will milk that for everything she can. She is almost more frightening than McCain, if only because of her severely limited experience. No foreign policy experience, even though she is governor of the state closest to Russia – and you cannot run the state department like a small town in Alaska. I have, yes – literally , been having nightmares about her.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
prison break-in, part IV
After five hours of shooting I was exhausted. There was still so much to shoot, but my judgment was failing and my knees would no longer go up and down as requested. Although it didn’t really seem like it from where we were, daylight would soon be gone. And we still wanted some outside shots (always taken last in case of discovery). We wound our way back out through the tunnels, past Phantom’s threat, and stepped out into the fresher air. By the time we headed back into the woods dusk was creeping. If not for my companion’s expert sense of direction in the bush, I think we might we wandering around still. I led us in the opposite direction – apparently my interior compass works only on city streets. Finally we emerged right back where we’d entered the forest, and within 15 minutes it was dark. It was kind of a big “phew.”
It’s a great feeling – you imagine that you’ve really pulled off a secret mission, getting into and out of a complex without detection, especially when security monitors the grounds. The wait to see the pictures is almost unbearable and we usually pull out our cameras at some point on the way home to look. Although we’re filthy and exhausted, we always feel satisfied and excited.
Next mission in two weeks. I don't know why, but blogger keeps blowing out the color in the photos (any help appreciated!). But you can see them here.
(Tomorrow: Sarah Palin, she’s been giving me nightmares.)
It’s a great feeling – you imagine that you’ve really pulled off a secret mission, getting into and out of a complex without detection, especially when security monitors the grounds. The wait to see the pictures is almost unbearable and we usually pull out our cameras at some point on the way home to look. Although we’re filthy and exhausted, we always feel satisfied and excited.
Next mission in two weeks. I don't know why, but blogger keeps blowing out the color in the photos (any help appreciated!). But you can see them here.
(Tomorrow: Sarah Palin, she’s been giving me nightmares.)
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
prison break-in, part III
We went to work doing recon on the buildings. My companion is a much more diligent scout than I and she went deep into the buildings. I’m trying to learn to be a better explorer, but I’m so eager to start shooting I can barely contain myself. The main hall in which we found ourselves was filled with interesting things to photograph: a guard box was flanked by two low rows of visiting stools – the windows between the sides boarded up, seven or eight doors lead from the hall – at least three of them permanently locked, the others wide open, the mess hall faced the box, an observation room one floor up looked out on both rooms. I wanted to eat our lunch sandwiches in the mess hall, but it was too filthy – coated with dust, grime, and rust.
We stayed in the buildings for about five hours altogether. Stacks of file drawers filled with old records were piled by a window in the recreation hall. X-rays littered the infirmary wing. The kitchen freezers were marked supplies, milk box, juice box, and meat box. Too close to the end we discovered the main tiers in what was probably the oldest building on the campus. The cells were tiny, far too small to house a human being. I could reach out my arms and touch both walls, one floor had two beds to a cell. Much had been removed already from the prison, it was to be torn down. But much still remained. The sun moved across our canvas as we went from floor to floor.
More than once we felt as though we weren’t alone. Both of us were certain we heard footfalls and voices. We found a crowbar in the entry hall and carried it with us for a little while. Afterward we figured that whoever was in the building had heard us, thought we belonged, and fled before being discovered by us. On the way in through the dank tunnels, and in many other rooms, we’d seen a tag by someone named “phantom.” In the underground darkness he’d spray painted on an electrical cabinet “in here, you’re prey.” Neither of us mentioned until we were out and away how creepy it was, but we were both thinking of it as we strained to identify noises in the distance.
We stayed in the buildings for about five hours altogether. Stacks of file drawers filled with old records were piled by a window in the recreation hall. X-rays littered the infirmary wing. The kitchen freezers were marked supplies, milk box, juice box, and meat box. Too close to the end we discovered the main tiers in what was probably the oldest building on the campus. The cells were tiny, far too small to house a human being. I could reach out my arms and touch both walls, one floor had two beds to a cell. Much had been removed already from the prison, it was to be torn down. But much still remained. The sun moved across our canvas as we went from floor to floor.
More than once we felt as though we weren’t alone. Both of us were certain we heard footfalls and voices. We found a crowbar in the entry hall and carried it with us for a little while. Afterward we figured that whoever was in the building had heard us, thought we belonged, and fled before being discovered by us. On the way in through the dank tunnels, and in many other rooms, we’d seen a tag by someone named “phantom.” In the underground darkness he’d spray painted on an electrical cabinet “in here, you’re prey.” Neither of us mentioned until we were out and away how creepy it was, but we were both thinking of it as we strained to identify noises in the distance.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
prison break-in, part II
Getting into the buildings was a more difficult challenge. Not only was every door we tried locked, but we kept going down passageways between buildings that dead-ended in imposing stone walls topped, also, with razor wire. A close maze of trailers had been laid out next to one of the main buildings. At first I thought we were looking at construction trailers, but quickly it became evident that they’d been there a long time and were built to house inmates. We extricated ourselves from the labyrinth and made our way in a large arc around the building complex. We’d need another point of attack. I think we walked through what had once been an exercise yard, the vegetation was high, and found what was left of a road leading around and down. More locked doors, and windows – a usual point of attack for break-ins – were all barred. It was, after all, a prison. Finally, in what looked like the hospital building, a door leading downstairs off its hinges. We descended into the bowels of the building, pipes, dirt floors, cut off from any outside light. Just keep walking, we knew, and usually such tunnels would emerge into some part of the building. And it did. Coming up out of Alice’s rabbit hole, we found ourselves in what looked like the administration building. It, as we suspected, was connected to a prison building, and it, as we hoped, was connected to other prison buildings. We were inside.
Most interior doors stood ajar, many removed from their hinges or with the locking mechanism cut out. The doors to our prison were thrown open.
A building unattended deteriorates swiftly. Many think that no activity would be good for a building, nobody to cause any damage. But just the opposite is true. Once a window is broken – and a window will always be broken – wind and rain wreck havoc. Water is the enemy of order. Paint peels quickly, leaving an expanding layer of chips on the walls and floors. Papers are blown around, wood and even metal begin to decay, animals get in the building and live and die, vandals rip out anything that was left and tag the walls with territory marking graffiti, furniture is rifled through, plant life takes hold. Rust, mold, dirt, even sunlight rapidly eat away the thin veneer of order that contains our lives.
Most interior doors stood ajar, many removed from their hinges or with the locking mechanism cut out. The doors to our prison were thrown open.
A building unattended deteriorates swiftly. Many think that no activity would be good for a building, nobody to cause any damage. But just the opposite is true. Once a window is broken – and a window will always be broken – wind and rain wreck havoc. Water is the enemy of order. Paint peels quickly, leaving an expanding layer of chips on the walls and floors. Papers are blown around, wood and even metal begin to decay, animals get in the building and live and die, vandals rip out anything that was left and tag the walls with territory marking graffiti, furniture is rifled through, plant life takes hold. Rust, mold, dirt, even sunlight rapidly eat away the thin veneer of order that contains our lives.
Monday, September 01, 2008
prison break-in, part I
Yesterday we broke into a prison. We had advice from others who’d been there on the best places to enter. But when we arrived in the manicured community we found a Labor Day Weekend block party just exactly at the intersection we needed to depart from for the short trek back into the woods to the prison fence. Children were hopping round everywhere like crickets. Adults were glaring at us as though illegal aliens might shortly invade their picture perfect day and require escorting off the premises. We drove around looking for another entry point; none was visible, but we did find a park that backed up onto the woods about a quarter mile up the road. The park’s lot, and all the surrounding dead end streets (that’s how you can tell an exclusive community) had temporary no parking signs tacked to naked birch stakes and pounded forcefully into the ground. They did not want anyone who didn’t belong taking part in their local festivities. What had we been thinking that a holiday weekend would be good for an adventure because people would be away? What?
We changed into our exploring clothes in the park’s completely empty lot and left the car in front of a house where we hoped the inhabitants would not summon the police to investigate our out of state tag. Then we walked back into the woods. As we trudged I had the nagging feeling that making our way back might be difficult; there were no landmarks and it was impossible to tell what direction we were going. Eventually we encountered the first layer of fencing, but the prison was still beyond our sight. That first fence was high, at least 20 feet, the links were small and it was topped with razor wire that still looked as though it’d been put up yesterday. We knew that somewhere there was a hole in the fence, but the grounds map was in the car. We walked a length in one direction and then in the opposite direction. Finally, around a corner, was the large enough for a hippopotamus hole. Great. Second layer, we were sure there had to be a simple way in. This fencing was temporary, put up to protect the construction site. The uprights anchored in concrete blocks, the links the standard larger size. And off to the left was an open gate. We were on the prison grounds.
We changed into our exploring clothes in the park’s completely empty lot and left the car in front of a house where we hoped the inhabitants would not summon the police to investigate our out of state tag. Then we walked back into the woods. As we trudged I had the nagging feeling that making our way back might be difficult; there were no landmarks and it was impossible to tell what direction we were going. Eventually we encountered the first layer of fencing, but the prison was still beyond our sight. That first fence was high, at least 20 feet, the links were small and it was topped with razor wire that still looked as though it’d been put up yesterday. We knew that somewhere there was a hole in the fence, but the grounds map was in the car. We walked a length in one direction and then in the opposite direction. Finally, around a corner, was the large enough for a hippopotamus hole. Great. Second layer, we were sure there had to be a simple way in. This fencing was temporary, put up to protect the construction site. The uprights anchored in concrete blocks, the links the standard larger size. And off to the left was an open gate. We were on the prison grounds.
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