Prison Mike Quotes

Irony and cynicism were just what the U.S. hypocrisy of the fifties and sixties called for. That’s what made the early postmodernists great artists. The great thing about irony is that it splits things apart, gets up above them so we can see the flaws and hypocrisies and duplicates. The virtuous always triumph? Ward Cleaver is the prototypical fifties father? "Sure." Sarcasm, parody, absurdism and irony are great ways to strip off stuff’s mask and show the unpleasant reality behind it. The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, "then" what do we do? Irony’s useful for debunking illusions, but most of the illusion-debunking in the U.S. has now been done and redone. Once everybody knows that equality of opportunity is bunk and Mike Brady’s bunk and Just Say No is bunk, now what do we do? All we seem to want to do is keep ridiculing the stuff. Postmodern irony and cynicism’s become an end in itself, a measure of hip sophistication and literary savvy. Few artists dare to try to talk about ways of working toward redeeming what’s wrong, because they’ll look sentimental and naive to all the weary ironists. Irony’s gone from liberating to enslaving. There’s some great essay somewhere that has a line about irony being the song of the prisoner who’s come to love his cage.

There is nothing exceptional about today, except that today can be a day of new beginnings, of crossing lines in the sand, of deciding that you are sick of prison, and you want freedom.

However confused I become, I will always hold close the notion that I could find freedom. I could leave this prison if I liked, if I wanted to … or if I didn’t see any other way. And if I did, I would not give you the satisfaction of burying me under a priest.

When I was in prison, I was wrapped up in all those deep books. That Tolstoy crap - people shouldn't read that stuff.

The fear of psychiatry is one of the hardest ideas to shake when you escape from the mind-prison.

As Mike Roberts watched Tommy enter the building, he could not imagine that the boy was taking his last steps in the free world. The rest of his life would be behind prison walls.

Although it costs taxpayers more than twice as much to send an 18-year-old to prison as to university, politicians reap greater rewards from lobbyists and conservative voters for building cells than for building classrooms.

rogue state: a country that violates international law by committing armed aggression, torturing prisoners, assassinating opponents, and possessing weapons of mass destruction.

The real function of the prison system, indeed, is not to safeguard communities, but to warehouse hatred for the day when it returns to the street.

Life ascends; matter descends. Matter is the mountain that offers resistance to the climber. Matter, just as the Gnostics said, is a trap, a prison for the life force. The soul is forever striving to break free and express itself fully in its own terms, unrestricted by material constraints.

Mr S. got angry. ‘Yes, I do have a son. He’s a good-for-nothing. A dead loss.’ I couldn’t ask which prison he was in, so I put it more tactfully: ‘What is he doing?’ He sighed deeply: ‘He’s a professor of mathematics at London University.

What packages we were allowed to receive from our families often contained handkerchiefs, scarves, and other clothing items. For some time, Mike had been taking little scraps of red and white cloth, and with a needle he had fashioned from a piece of bamboo he laboriously sewed an American flag onto the inside of his blue prisoner's shirt. Every afternoon, before we ate our soup, we would hang Mike's flag on the wall of our cell and together recite the Pledge of Allegiance. No other event of the day had as much meaning to us. "The guards discovered Mike's flag one afternoon during a routine inspection and confiscated it. They returned that evening and took Mike outside. For our benefit as much as Mike's they beat him severely, just outside our cell, puncturing his eardrum and breaking several of his ribs. When they had finished, they dragged him bleeding and nearly senseless back into our cell, and we helped him crawl to his place on the sleeping platform. After things quieted down, we all lay down to go to sleep. Before drifting off, I happened to look toward a corner of the room, where one of the four naked lightbulbs that were always illuminated in our cell cast a dim light on Mike Christian. He had crawled there quietly when he thought the rest of us were sleeping. With his eyes nearly swollen shut from the beating, he had quietly picked up his needle and begun sewing a new flag.

Friendship is an intercourse of world. Mike Tyson became a friend of “Cus” D’Amato, and it took him from fighting on the street and going to prison to fighting in a ring for money.

Let’s say that you and I are close friends, but after an argument one night, you stole my car and drove it into a lake. This is a serious crime with a serious penalty—let’s say $10,000 in damages and three years spent in prison. Now imagine you came to me and apologized, expressing sincere regret and grief over your actions. What if I responded by telling you I could forgive you, but only if my daughter took your place in prison and paid the fine on your behalf, because I am a merciful and just friend. My mercy compels me to forgive you, but my justice demands that the crime be punished. This is the exact picture that most Christians paint of God: a God who offers no choice but to demand punishment for sins. But if a good friend of mine wrecked my car, I could simply forgive that friend without anyone’s being punished. I’m a nice guy but certainly not the embodiment of perfect love—so why can I forgive with no strings attached but God can’t?

MIKE Nash glanced anxiously at his watch and then eyed the twin flat-screen monitors. Both prisoners were sleeping soundly. If all went according to plan, their slumber wouldn’t last much longer. The prisoners had been picked up seven days earlier on a routine patrol. At the time, the young GI’s had no idea whom they had stumbled upon. That revelation came later, and by accident. The brass at the Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan quickly separated the two men from the other 396 enemy

Mindless punishment and super-incarceration have been societal disasters: locking away tens of thousands of young people in hyper-violent prisons, dominated by institutionalized race wars, without any semblance of education, rehabilitation or hope. The real function of the prison system, indeed, is not to safeguard communities, but to warehouse hatred for the day when it returns to the street.

It was a time when just being suspected of cooperating with the government was enough to get you killed. And even if you didn’t cooperate and got a long stretch in prison, you could still be in danger, because now you could be perceived as far more vulnerable to the government’s sweet deals. “I’ve heard them go around a room,” Cullotta said. “‘Joe, whadda you think of Mike?’ ‘Mike’s great. Balls like iron.’ ‘Larry, whadda you think of Mike?’ ‘Mike? A fuckin’ marine. To the end.’ ‘Frankie, whadda do you think of Mike?’ ‘Mike? You kidding? Mike’d put his arm in fire for ya.’ ‘Charlie, whadda you think of Mike?’ ‘Why take a chance?’ And that’s the end of Mike. That’s the way it happens.

I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly. My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ‘SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door. He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors. Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened. And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor. “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched. “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug. “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him. It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that.

Once a person gets outside, he gets all these ideas of being free, and that plays merry hell for a government.” He nodded firmly. “Keep a man inside behind steel walls and thick windows, tell him that what you do, it’s for his own protection. Make him think he relies on you, let him think the prison is his home, and he’ll thank you for it.

Mine eyes had beheld the quintessence of beauty, and memory ensured that I would then remain a prisoner to the vanity of vision.

Key Apache Warriors Cochise—one of the great Chiricahua (Chokonen) chiefs. Born c. 1805. No known pictures exist but he was said to be very tall and imposing, over six feet and very muscular. Son-in-law to Mangas Coloradas. Died in 1874, probably from stomach cancer. Chihuahua—chief of the Warm Springs band (Red Paint people) of the Chiricahua. Fought alongside Geronimo in the resistance. Died in 1901. Fun—probably a cousin to Geronimo and among his best, most trusted warriors. Fun committed suicide in captivity in 1892, after becoming jealous over his young wife, whom he also shot. Only slightly wounded, she recovered. Juh—pronounced “Whoa,” “Ho,” or sometimes “Who.” Chief of the Nedhni band of the Apache, he married Ishton, Geronimo’s “favorite” sister. Juh and Geronimo were lifelong friends and battle brothers. Juh died in 1883. Loco—chief of the Warm Springs band. Born in 1823, the same year as Geronimo. Once was mauled by a bear and killed it single-handedly with a knife, but his face was clawed and his left eye was blinded and disfigured. Known as the “Apache Peacemaker,” he preferred peace to war and tried to live under reservation rules. Died as a prisoner of war from “causes unknown” in 1905, at age eighty-two. Lozen—warrior woman and Chief Victorio’s sister. She was a medicine woman and frequent messenger for Geronimo. She fought alongside Geronimo in his long resistance. Mangas Coloradas—Born in 1790, he was the most noted chief of the Bedonkohe Apache. A massive man for his era, at 6'6” and 250 pounds, he was Geronimo’s central mentor and influence. He was betrayed and murdered by the U.S. military in 1863. Geronimo called his murder “the greatest wrong ever done to the Indians.” Mangas—son of the great chief Mangas Coloradas, but did not succeed his father as chief because of his youth and lack of leadership. Died as a prisoner of war in 1901. Naiche—Cochise’s youngest son. Succeeded older brother Taza after he died, becoming the last chief of the free Chiricahua Apache. Nana—brother-in-law to Geronimo and chief of the Warm Springs band. Sometimes referred to as “Old Nana.” Died as a prisoner of war in 1896. Victorio—chief of the Warm Springs band. Noted and courageous leader and a brilliant military strategist. Brother and mentor to warrior woman Lozen. Slain by Mexicans in the massacre of Tres Castillos in 1880.

while I raced around town scoring as many

At least we’re not going through this alone. We have each other.” It reminded me of when we were kids and did everything together except, you know, this time, it was prison instead of a taekwondo tournament.

Once you meet failure, it simply means you’ve found a way that didn’t work. Use that knowledge to find another way.

Life doesn’t get easier you just get stronger

the California case, the rhythms of tax reduction are strong indicators of structural change and, as table 3 demonstrates, show how the Keynesian state’s delegitimation accumulated in waves, culminating, rather than originating, in Tom Bradley’s 1982 and 1986 gubernatorial defeats. The first wave, or capital’s wave, is indicated by the 50 percent decline in the ratio of bank and corporation taxes to personal income taxes between 1967 and 1986 (California State Public Works Board 1987). Starting as early as 1968, voters had agitated for tax relief commensurate with the relief capital had won after putting Ronald Reagan in the governor’s mansion (Mike Davis 1990). But Sacramento’s efforts were continually disappointing under both Republican and Democratic administrations (Kirlin and Chapman 1994). This set in motion the second, or labor’s, wave, in which actual (and aspiring) homeowner-voters reduced their own taxes via Proposition 13 (1978).25 The third, or federal wave, indicates the devolution of responsibility from the federal government onto the state and local levels, as evidenced by declines of 12.5 percent (state) to 60 percent (local) in revenues derived from federal aid. The third wave can be traced to several deep tax cuts the Reagan presidential administration conferred on capital and the wealthiest of workers in 1982 and again in 1986 (David Gordon 1996; Krugman 1994). The sum of these waves produced state and local fiscal crises following in the path of federal crisis that James O’Connor ([1973] 2000) had analyzed early in the period under review when he advanced the “welfare-warfare” concept. As late as 1977–78, California state and local coffers were full (CDF-CEI 1978; Gramlich 1991). By 1983, Sacramento was borrowing to meet its budgetary goals, while county and city governments reached crisis at different times, depending on how replete their reserves had been prior to Proposition 13. Voters wanted services and infrastructure at lowered costs; and when they paid, they tried not to share. Indeed, voters were quite willing to pay for amenities that would stick in place, and between 1977–78 and 1988–89, they actually increased property-based taxes going to special assessment districts by 45 percent (Chapman 1991: 19).

Despite his business woes, Steve did have reasons to smile. If he was adrift professionally, he was starting to settle personally, in a way that gave him great satisfaction. His daughter Lisa had just come to live with him and Laurene. This was a complicated kind of atonement on his part, given the way he had immaturely and irresponsibly tried to deny his paternity. And the impending arrival of his son, Reed, excited this very untypical man in a deeply normal way. Reed, of course, was the first child he had planned for, and when he arrived in October, Steve reacted as so many fathers do—he became a know-it-all, in that deadly serious way that’s deeply amusing to parents who have been through the exercise. “They were classic new parents,” remembers Mike Slade. “They did everything wrong. They were both hippies, right? So the kid was in their bed the whole time, the kid was only breastfed. So what did the kid do? Let’s see, he screamed all the time and he was hungry all the time ’cause, duh, right? So within a week they looked like prison camp survivors.

Frank Fiorini, better known as Frank Sturgis, had an interesting career that started when he quit high school during his senior year to join the United States Marine Corps as an enlisted man. During World War II he served in the Pacific Theater of Operations with Edson’s Raiders, of the First Marine Raiders Battalion under Colonel “Red Mike.” In 1945 at the end of World War II, he received an honorable discharge and the following year joined the Norfolk, Virginia Police Department. Getting involved in an altercation with his sergeant, he resigned and found employment as the manager of the local Havana-Madrid Tavern, known to have had a clientele consisting primarily of Cuban seamen. In 1947 while still working at the tavern, he joined the U.S. Navy’s Flight Program. A year later, he received an honorable discharge and joined the U.S. Army as an Intelligence Officer. Again, in 1949, he received an honorable discharge, this time from the U.S. Army. Then in 1957, he moved to Miami where he met former Cuban President Carlos Prío, following which he joined a Cuban group opposing the Cuban dictator Batista. After this, Frank Sturgis went to Cuba and set up a training camp in the Sierra Maestra Mountains, teaching guerrilla warfare to Castro’s forces. He was appointed a Captain in Castro’s M 26 7 Brigade, and as such, he made use of some CIA connections that he apparently had cultivated, to supply Castro with weapons and ammunition. After they entered Havana as victors of the revolution, Sturgis was appointed to a high security, intelligence position within the reorganized Cuban air force. Strangely, Frank Sturgis returned to the United States after the Cuban Revolution, and mysteriously turned up as one of the Watergate burglars who were caught installing listening devices in the National Democratic Campaign offices. In 1973 Frank A. Sturgis, E. Howard Hunt, Eugenio R. Martínez, G. Gordon Liddy, Virgilio R. “Villo” González, Bernard L. Barker and James W. McCord, Jr. were convicted of conspiracy. While in prison, Sturgis feared for his life if anything he had done, regarding his associations and contacts, became public knowledge. In 1975, Sturgis admitted to being a spy, stating that he was involved in assassinations and plots to overthrow undisclosed foreign governments. However, at the Rockefeller Commission hearings in 1975, their concluding report stated that he was never a part of the CIA…. Go figure! In 1979, Sturgis surfaced in Angola where he trained and helped the rebels fight the Cuban-supported communists. Following this, he went to Honduras to train the Contras in their fight against the communist-supported Sandinista government. He also met with Yasser Arafat in Tunis, following which he was debriefed by the CIA. Furthermore, it is documented that he met and talked to the Venezuelan terrorist Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, or Carlos the Jackal, who is now serving a life sentence for murdering two French counter intelligence agents. On December 4, 1993, Sturgis suddenly died of lung cancer at the Veterans Hospital in Miami, Florida. He was buried in an unmarked grave south of Miami…. Or was he? In this murky underworld, anything is possible.

The list of those who told me they had been physically assaulted by David Miscavige: Mike Rinder, Gale Irwin, Marty Rathbun, Jefferson Hawkins, Tom De Vocht, Mark Fisher, Bruce Hines, Bill Dendiu, Guy White, Marc Headley, and Stefan Castle. Those who said they had witnessed such abuse: John Axel, Marty Rathbun, Janela Webster, Tom De Vocht, Marc Headley, Eric Knutson, Amy Scobee, Dan Koon, Steve Hall, Claire Headley, Mariette Lindstein, John Peeler, Andre Tabayoyan, Vicki Aznaran, Jesse Prince, Mark Fisher, Bill Dendiu, Mike Rinder, David Lingerfelter, Denise (Larry) Brennan, Debbie Cook, and Lana Mitchell.

Yet very likely, if they’ve strayed too far from truth, this lifetime will not nearly be long enough for them to find balance and clarity. They won’t be safe, either for themselves or for others who similarly believe the world is an evil place. They’ll need rehabilitation, ideally in a nurturing, supportive environment, yet if society believes this is out of reach, emotionally or financially, prisons and institutions will have to suffice.

They were classic new parents,” remembers Mike Slade. “They did everything wrong. They were both hippies, right? So the kid was in their bed the whole time, the kid was only breastfed. So what did the kid do? Let’s see, he screamed all the time and he was hungry all the time ’cause, duh, right? So within a week they looked like prison camp survivors.

Prisoners of hope describes salespeople who have, for the most part, stopped working the sales process and ceased pursuing new opportunities because they are so hopeful the precious few deals in their pipeline are going to close. They spend (waste) most of their time talking about, worrying about, wondering about, that good-size contract that was predicted to close last month but didn’t. Instead of doing the wise and responsible thing—spreading their effort across target accounts and opportunities in various stages of the sales cycle—they lock up, becoming prisoners to deals in the pipeline that are now getting stale and starting to grow mold.

When prisoners of hope are confronted about their lack of activity and overly optimistic projections, they usually respond in a nonchalant manner. I’ve even heard people say with a straight face, “I’m not worried. I’ll get a bluebird. A deal will fly in; I’ll get lucky and make my numbers. It always works out for me.” Friends, a few moldy deals, passivity, and luck are not a winning formula for developing new business.

They Are “Prisoners of Hope

Mike says the district attorney knows Vincent will be out in thirty, and his tough talk is theater for the voters of Rankin County. He says county officials are in a bind. Their conservative constituents have two demands: (1) Lock ’em away and throw away the key, and (2) don’t raise taxes. So officials go through the show of being arch-conservative, then, when faced with paying the prison bill, they release prisoners early. In fact, Mike says, this is why Vincent was out of prison early and able to kill Richard.

Joey Fist Pumps got selected for the show but declined because he was offered a union job in construction.

What I wasn’t considering was the reality that most people aren’t successful in their first attempts at recovery. In the recipe of success, one of the main ingredients is failure. The key is to not give up on yourself. When you come across an obstacle, you have to understand it’s nothing more than a brilliantly disguised opportunity. Keep moving forward, don’t give up, and eventually you’ll find success. Too many people face failure and treat it like a finality. Once you meet failure, it simply means you’ve found a way that didn’t work. Use that knowledge to find another way.

Although it might often seem that we are living in the worst possible world – a prison planet or cosmic lunatic asylum, ruled over by Satan himself, or by Satanic forces – it is in fact the best possible world in the end. Why? Because it’s the only one that can deliver perfection – divinity. It’s the only one that transforms us into Gods. It does so via the most brutal and imperfect of all processes – the dialectic. The dialectic is the supreme “atom smasher”. It launches dialectical opposites at each other to generate the biggest explosions and bloodbaths possible. Over time, the cosmic carnage turns into something wondrously unexpected – conscious reason, which can then set about rationally resolving all conflicts, all dialectical differences, and thereby create an Omega Point of perfection. The dialectic involves unconscious reason struggling to become conscious, and it does so through the most brute force of means: the opposition of logical opposites, which is of course a highly rational process, if you rationally reflect upon it!

After serving 3 years in prison for rape, the American boxer Mike Tyson, was released from prison today in 1995

We are all prisoners of our personalities, but some personalities are much more useful than others for apprehending the truth of existence.

Dear Sara, First I want to apologize for everything that I have done. I am so sorry for hurting you. I was just so angry with Tom; I had no right to take it out on you. I thought it would be best if I moved out of the house for a while. I started attending AA meetings on Monday nights. I have also been talking to a counselor. He has helped me to face a lot of the problems that I couldn’t deal with on my own. A lot of the drinking and the violence was from the fact that I miss my mother. I never got a chance to see her or even get to hear her voice. My dad hated me for all these years because he blamed me for her death. Sara, I had no one. No one to talk to. No one to hug me. No one to tuck me in at night. I never had a father/son talk. I envied you. You grew up on a farm with people that loved you. I think a part of me was jealous. For once in my life, I have someone to love and I don’t know how to handle it. The problem is not you, Sara. It never was. The problem is me. I need to learn how to love, so that I can be a husband for you and a father for my children. I don’t know how long it’s gonna take and if you want to divorce me, then I’ll understand. The court hearing is in two weeks. I know that you have to testify. When I turned myself in, I told the police that I hit you and you fell on the floor, causing your cuts and bruises. I know that I lied to them, but I really need some help, Sara. If I’m locked up in prison, I can’t get the help that I need. The prison system doesn’t help those guys. They come out of prison doing the same things that they got locked up for. I want to change and be a better man. The only way I can do that is if you testify that I only hit you once since we’ve been married. I hate to put you in this position, and if you want to tell the truth, then I understand. You do what you feel that you have to do. I just feel positive about our future. With the counselor and the AA meetings, I know that we can finally be that perfect couple that you always wanted us to be. I love you and our beautiful children. Give them a big kiss for me, baby. I want to hold you in my arms so bad, but I know I can’t, not until I get the help I need. Love, Mike

The tears came rolling down my face. He was trying to get some help to save our marriage. What should I do? If I testifed against him, then he would go to prison. But could I lie and say that he had only hit me once since we’d been married? What if the judge found out that I was lying and tried to take my kids from me? Mike, why are you putting me in this situation? I just didn’t know what to do. I tore up the letter so no one would ever see it. I just couldn’t think about this right now. I decided to do some cleaning like I planned and maybe in a few days, I would decide what to do.

Finally a free man, the feeling could not end even as the days passed by. The breath of fresh air after prison life had become a valuable thing; I could not think of anything else as pure as freedom. Every time I remember the guard who let me go free my eyes run down with tears. It was the highest form of grace I have ever been given. Life in Prison was tough, and it was not to be envied by anyone.

My younger self had believed fiercely in the idea that we can never truly know another human being, that we are solipsistic creatures doomed to brief, lonely existences. Experience had taught me that we can only escape our private prisons by trusting and giving ourselves to others. Now, for the first time in years, I found myself seeing the face of someone I loved in my mind's eye and wondering about the stranger behind the mask.

In fact, Mike was thrilled about the whole thing. “We’re springing a prisoner from maximum security!” he exclaimed. “This is so cool!” “It’s a felony,” I pointed out to him. “To save you,” he said. “Man, this school is amazing! The most exciting thing we ever got to do at our old school was dissect a frog. And mine had some kind of frog fungus.

Reason allows you to be more than human, superhuman, hyperhuman... a God. You can step out of your limited, flawed human prison. You can transcend the human condition, and see reality for what it actually is... a living mathematical organism relentlessly optimising and solving itself.

Their platform, strongly influenced by Skidmore, called for a ten-hour day, free public education, an end to debtors’ prisons, and ways for workers to recover wages when firms went into bankruptcy. Skidmore successfully pushed to get two additional planks added to the Working Men’s Party: a denouncement of private property in wealth and an end to its hereditary inheritance.13

There are no evil people, just lost people who do evil things. There are also sick people. Warped people. Deranged people. Lots of different people, yet all of them once set out just like you did, a “God Particle,” to find their way through the jungles of time and space. Every single one of them of good intent yet some so fundamentally confused or new to time and space that they behave horrifically. The difference between you and them might boil down to you having lived thousands or tens of thousands more lifetimes, whereas they may be true babes, utterly terrified, with no defense mechanisms developed yet but hatred, anger, contempt, manipulation, coercion, and violence. It’s not as if in life, between two people, all other things remain equal. Nothing else is ever equal. More than everyone else, even, those who are lost need love. Help. Guidance. Patience. Yet very likely, if they’ve strayed too far from truth, this lifetime will not nearly be long enough for them to find balance and clarity. They won’t be safe, either for themselves or for others who similarly believe the world is an evil place. They’ll need rehabilitation, ideally in a nurturing, supportive environment, yet if society believes this is out of reach, emotionally or financially, prisons and institutions will have to suffice.

Mike Fisher had extradited Bundy to Aspen in January from the Utah state prison in Draper, where the personable former law student was serving up to 15 years for the 1975 aggravated kidnap of a 19-year-old telephone operator. Bundy already had been caught in an escape attempt from the penitentiary print shop, “a miserable little plot that I hatched,” as he’d later describe it to me. At the time, I agreed with Mike Fisher and others that he’d probably try again. Since his arrival in Aspen, Ted had become a celebrity to many of the mountain resort’s young and irreverent fun seekers, who reacted to his dramatic courthouse leap with amusement.

hate makes you a prisoner, not just of them but of yourself.