Rec was at 8:00am. About 8:45, perhaps I am told I have legal mail. I change to my "full" uniform and head down the hall. I had written to the Federal Courthouse and they replied some packet of information. The mailroom guy wipes the envelope and paperwork with little testing wipes. Tiny pieces of some sort of paper that look like a cloudy piece of Scotch tape. It tests positive for heroin. I see the screen on the machine that scans the test wipe turn red. The guard says he will call the courthouse to verify they sent the packet, implying they aren't going to throw me in the hole if they can verify the mail actually came from the court. I am just thinking that if mail from the Federal Courthouse tests positive for heroin, then how many inmates are wrongfully accused and punished where drugs are not really being smuggled into prison but the trace amounts that can create a test suggesting the possibility enable the guards to respond like it is valid.

At rec, another inmate two cells down from me says when they called him out of his cell last night for a urine analysis that the guard required to "see the stream" while he filled the cup. They already strip search you so you cannot have anything on you. He is an addict, admittedly, but I think needing to see the stream is going too far. Also at rec I definitely tweak my back doing the pull-down on the cable column and it hurts really bad. I am dreading the impending whiplash.

​7:27pm, the guys, as well as an inmate worker called "Seeto" are talking about "PRC" which is the evaluation once per year to be reclassified to go to a different prison. Guys really want to go to a medium security from here. "Seeto" says he has been locked up since 1997 and was accused of stabbing a guard 19 times in 2015. Because he hasn't gotten a disciplinary ticket in three years and works a job, the point system will allow him to transfer to a medium security joint at his next evaluation. All inmates cannot work a job, so making that a pre-requisite has to be depraved indifference. It is becoming more and more clear why they refused to dismiss the charges from Dodge. The penalties go beyond the presumed punishment. I can't apply for the vocational program or get a job for three years so my evaluation at three years will not allow me to be eligible to go to a medium security joint for at least four years. My neighbor in cell 109 says he has been in and out of prison since before he was a teenager and has never experienced anything so restrictive as what Boscobel does. That sentiment is echoed by a lot of inmates on the range who have done other prison time. Career criminals or career inmates consider this extreme deprivation. Their version of behavior that warrants acclaim is much different than mine. Acceptance seems to be at the root of every inmates circumstances, in one way or another. Even addicts get started by peer pressure or some risk seeking behavior which might award them attention. Maybe further ostracizing and further counter-culturing people is actually the worst thing you can do to people who will eventually be reintegrated to society. The hyper-restrictions and micro aggressive treatment doesn't seem to fix anything. I am surprised more healthcare, and mental health, and developmental health professionals don't make a more involved effort in justice reformation. Prison; where two... million wrongs still haven't made it right.

Best day in over three and a half years. I got to hug and speak with a family member. We talked for hours.

This morning the property guy, Finnell, delivered to me some envelopes and paper but told me he did not unpack a TV that was sent to me because he thought I had one already. He told me he would unpack it, program it, and engrave it, then bring it me later. At 2:50pm he returns to my cell and says screws were missing inside the TV so I cannot have it. I ask, and he tells me all the exterior screws and security tape were in place but missing parts inside the TV are an issue. They intentionally do not install speakers in the TVS now, so there are always missing parts. The claim seems preposterous considering the security tape is still in place. 

The postal scale here must be off. Sometimes five sheets of paper is satisfied by a stamped envelope and other times it requires additional postage and I then need to fill out a disbursement form. Envelopes are only allowed to weigh 1 ounce and it appears their scale rounds to the tenth of an ounce as my last overage was 1.1 ounces.

​I found something and I am not sure what it is. If I lay on my stomach, I usually prop my right shoulder up with a pillow to try to find relief from my back pain. This has been my normal for years now. Today I propped my left shoulder up while laying on my stomach. With my head turned left, I then pulled my left knee up and under me to my right which imposes a twist. Then, stuck my right arm out perpendicular to the direction I lay and opposite the direction I faced. Then, I lifted my right arm up, vertical, in a sort of row/reverse fly. Immediate fire. The muscles that are affected by my injury are targeted in a way I have never felt before. It doesn't create the painful prick that other physical therapy prescriptions cause and I am now curious to see if implementing that movement with some water bottles will antagonize whiplash or if it will allow me to build up the muscle or condition it. It feels so "right" that I think "Zach's thoracic row" should be shown to every spine specialist and fitness publication. 

Today I reviewed the food that my family sent me for the Christmas special order. I am looking forward to rationing that against the worst options on the menu.

Something is clicking while I breathe while laying on my left side. I can feel one of my ribs responding with it. Sneezing sent a sharp pain on top of the usual ache I have been intentionally avoiding in my journal, but feel compelled to document now.

I had found myself positioned up against a door that lead between two housing units when the guards called us to be shackled and loaded onto multiple large shiny buses. I wasn't sure where we would be transported but tried to pick a spot for an old acquaintance to sit next to me toward the rear where a guard keeps a seat on reserve which tends to deter other inmates from preferring to sit near. The bus leaves without filling with inmates and the driver accelerates to an alarming speed. The smooth plastic seats are uncomfortable and slippery as we pass through an intersection with directional lights clearly indicating not to. The driver and the bus are heading for an inevitable disaster. When the bus jumps the curb and strikes the large stone wall I am already braced for the impact as well as I can be but wished I wasn't shackled and definitely wished there was more cushion or padding. It would be nice to have... a sleeping bag? I see the glass from the windshield shatter into its spider web of tiny rectangles as the impact simultaneously turns the bus over sideways. The moment of weightlessness visits for a split second while everything orients itself in a spin that drops the speeding bus on its side with a tremendous crash that erupts all of the windows of the side that impacted the ground into a blizzard of glass. Standing in the now tipped over bus I manage to slip the waist restraint down and off but it remains attached to the cuffs on my waist. I use it to hook the window frame above me and climb out of the side of the bus now facing the sky. A crowd of people is gathering and I lay on the steel panel of the bus and look at the sky. It feels like they must call them the Heavens because when they take them away from you then your prayers won't make it there. The guards are yelling to account for all the inmates and I slide off the bus. We are directed into the nearest building in an attempt to contain us but the crowd has taken such interest that an overwhelming number of people has followed us in. People are trying to help by tending to our cuts and scrapes. While we wait I ask a few female inmates how long they will be locked up. Their inability to tend their wild hair is the first thing that clues me in. "I know this is a dream." "What are you talking about?" one replies. Just because you disguise yourself does not mean I don't recognize my witches. The people start to take on fanciful old style clothing like a large masquerade ball. Okay ladies. want to see what fancy looks like in my dream? They laugh in delight. Although inside, the light of the sun becomes brilliant and perfect. Bouquets of flowers swell into massive dense monuments. The walls, furniture, and architecture become elaborately complex and stenciled with gold and silver that shine in the sun. A man seated at the counter to welcome visitors looks at me in surprise as he realizes it is me. This is my doing. This is my dream. The expansive marbled floors echo with my steps as the clack of the guards baton snaps my attention. 

That damn painfully white light of the guard pointing his light in my cell is what instantly dissolves my vision. 11:30pm. Count was at 9:30. Less than two hours of sleep. I was reading an old book that said that remembering dreams is the byproduct of failing to sleep soundly. The sound sleep I get is minimal. I am always so so tired and with nothing better to do can not ever "finish" sleeping. If my back didn't hurt? If the guards would let me? If other inmates would be quiet? I have been working on letters and not journal entries the last few days. Dreamt of making food with my kids the other day. I managed to not cry after it. That was good.