already been judged . . .
Maybe we should leave judging people to God
On Substack
Substack is a pretty cool place to write. And to read. And listen. And appreciate. And explore. And experience differences that you may not be exposed to in your daily life-bubble. It’s ok to be ignorant. Not ok to be willfully so.
If you have ever dreamed of becoming a writer, an artist or a podcaster, consider doing it here. Creators maintain control and ownership of their creations and email lists. Substack does not do ads or algorithms. Now they have an app. Just for Apple/iOS for now. Android soon.
Please download their app, which will make your life way easier. You can read all these words within your device. Now I can be in your pocket as well as your head. That is as weird as it sounds!
One of my favorite writers on Substack is Matt Taibbi
He wrote for Rolling Stone Magazine for many many years. I pretty much hated him that whole time. Not him. His opinions: No acceptance or humility of thought. Wow. Things change right? He wrote this today
Substack founders Hamish McKenzie and Chris Best wrote an introductory post touching on the app, but added interesting passages about the thinking behind the company in general that I thought were worth quoting. They started talking about broad problems in the media landscape that developed in the years before they launched:
We started Substack because we believe that what you read matters, and that great writing is valuable. Great writing influences how you think and shapes how you see the world. It can change a policy, save lives, and start a movement. The cultural value of writing has always been clear, but in recent years writers have been given the impression that their work has little economic value.
The last couple of decades of the internet have eroded the media business and stripped writers – and other culture makers – of their financial dignity. Craigslist delivered the first blow, depriving the press of revenue from classifieds, and then Google and Facebook came along and sucked up the vast majority of online ad spend. As media businesses became more and more anemic, writers were relegated to content-production roles and playing attention games on social media, where “engagement” is prized above all else, including quality and truth.
It is clear to us that these problems can’t be solved with a tweak to an algorithm or a just-so regulation. Instead, the entire system needs to change. With Substack, we have set out to build an alternative media ecosystem based on different laws of physics, where writers are rewarded with direct payments from readers, and where readers have total control over what they read. In this world, writers are rewarded for serving readers well, and Substack gets rewarded for serving writers well. The power is tipped in favor of the people, not the platform.
The Substack app represents an important piece of this puzzle. The Substack framework has been flourishing based on email and the web, but now new things are possible.
The app helps bring together Substack as an ecosystem, giving you an icon to tap on your home screen that opens up a treasury of quality work by the writers you most trust. It is an app for deep relationships, an alternative to the mindless scrolling and cheap dopamine hits that lie behind other home screen icons. It offers a quiet space to read, where the work itself is given the spotlight and you’re not pulled into status games or trivial diversions. And it amplifies the network effects that already exist on Substack (did you know that if a reader is already a paid subscriber to a Substack, they’re 2.5x more likely to pay for yours?), making it easier for writers to get new subscribers, and for readers to explore and sample Substacks they might otherwise not have found.
You can expect new features and functions to become available as we continue to develop the app and improve the experience for readers, writers, podcasters, videomakers, community leaders, and more.
and now your musical companion . . .
Complicated by unintended consequences
I read this letter today. It moved me to tears. I have the great honor and humble duty of mentoring students of Crossroads Prison Ministry. It is a worthy cause.
I promised myself in prison that when released I would give back by mentoring. It took over a decade of freedom to make good on that promise. It gives me a sense of peace and joy that I had not known in my heart. God works right? You can read about that journey here.
I don't write about this to bring attention to myself, rather to focus on the human beings behind walls. Whether one realizes it or not, these are our brothers and sisters in prison. Make no mistake, there are monsters in prison. I know it very well.
I lived and breathed and ate with some. I worked three months for eight hours a day, seven days a week, with a black dude who described his crime thusly
Some N***a fucking my bitch. So I shot’em both.
After stumbling upon the shank he’d hidden in the file cabinet, his response to me was equally chilling
You do that again you gonna find it in your back.
Other than that, he was a pretty normal guy. We talked about all kinds of stuff. He was a smart dude. We were clerks in the Lieutenant’s office. But he was, in fact, a stone-cold killer. A lifer.
He explained things to me. Crazy things that now made sense. Mostly, just how to survive in prison. It’s not like a whole different world in there. It simply is. He called me Professor.
Blacks and Whites mix on the down-low in prison. Blacks and Mexicans don’t mix at all in prison. Asians are made to run with the blacks no matter what they believe. Mexicans are split into three groups that occasionally war with each other.
By mix I mean trade commodities. No eating or recreating. I could hustle ink pens and other tattoo supplies and trade them to Blacks for unopened packages of food. That food became the rent I paid to the Whites. Ironic. Lots of irony in prison.
That office had a Black, a Brown and a White convict. For equity and diversity I guess. In reality, we had a deal to fight each other when something cracked off. Not a fake fight, but a real race fight. But at least we would be fighting a dude we knew. Thank God that never happened.
In Lancaster, the white shot caller in Block C5-1490 was Cowboy. Never asked why. We ate together at the same table for about three months. His crime: Quadruple Murder.
I watched him tattoo a Dallas Cowboys star on another dude’s butthole one day. Pretty disgusting but all Whites had to circle around to shield the illicit activity. Sometimes the choices we get blamed for making are actually the best-worst option we’ve cornered ourselves into. Still our fault, but complications exist.
Unintended consequences of an armed robbery are stiff and unforgiving. He was an LWOP. Life without Parole. Certain things and events have a way of putting into perspective the choices we all make. Or don’t. Even non-choices are choices.
The only details about my students come from them. Students are sent Bible study lessons that are then sent to me to review and comment upon. Some are incomplete. Some are over-complete.
Some have art. Some poems. A letter now and again like above. Some love God. Some hate God. Some are believers. Some are players. A skill I learned inside and make every effort to employ outside is to reserve judgment of people.
Because of Covid and a million other reasons, prison mentors are in short supply. This is an extremely rewarding and life-changing mission for a person to embark upon. If you have any interest, you can explore the effort here.
Easier said than done, or course. For a while I was on a triple-bunk in the day-room due to overcrowding. A cell block with 40 cells now housed 240 dudes. All alone in a sea of humanity. Sort of.
The black OG that offered 20 soups for my bottom bunk put it this way
These dumb motherfuckers already been judged. They just waiting to meet their maker and go to hell.
He looked every bit of 80. He said he was 60. I gave him the bunk for free. Least I could do, right? He couldn’t climb to the top bunk. Or rather, climb off in the dark to take a piss at midnight. We all got problems.
My new section 1st TAKE/2nd LOOK is still being tinkered with. An initial goal is to use that space to present random thoughts and crazy ideas in a list. First off, it gets them out of my head. Second, it gets rid of all my scattered post-its, napkins and the like.
Lastly, it gets me past writer’s block that inflicts each of us at one point or another.
The most important thing is that I get out of my head and into the world. The way I can do that right now is to share that world I am in with all of you. I come across the most breath-taking sights and sounds in my daily travels.
The third element in my Cinco Elementos de Vida is ART. My particular kind right now is photographic. I guess I fancy myself a DTLA Photo-Journalist.
But the treasure is great and wonderful and out-of-the car and often shared with others marveling at the discovery. I have not named my DTLA photo experiment yet, and this might be a cry for help.
The DTLA skyline here is from Druid Street in El Sereno, Los Angeles California.
I have also happened upon a truly magnificent revelation, known to me but never stopped to take in the symbolism and grace of these.
Market Murals. The ones here are from Boyle Heights, 4th and Lorena St and Wellington Heights, Cesar Chavez and Ditman and a bunch others. They are amazing and so flavorful.
I am working on Geo-tracking my photos when I do this, and also wanting to give credit to these artists. If any of my readers have any familiarity with these types of pursuits, this is the best number one time to make that known to me.
DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES
Much like human beings, the skyline offers multiple perspectives to enjoy its unique beauty. Talk about intersectional identity. Is a million dollar view of this collection of skyscrapers from Hollywood Hills any less valuable than the same collection of buildings from El Sereno?
Seems like we judge people from the Hills to be more valuable than the ones from the opposite side of LA. Maybe we shouldn’t do that anymore. Can that be the lesson here?
Besides the affection for religious iconography, which I developed at Great-Grandma Waelbrock’s massive alter in her house, compete with a Two-Foot Jesus, I love the artistic creativity of Market Murals.
I particularly like the welder dude. You know he wasn’t that yoked-up on the first draft the painter put down!
My other favorite is the historical mural, with the college grad holding his degree front and center. Gazing out over the washer and dryers for sale. Uh, American Dream anyone?
We can live the dream while we pursue the passion,
Ric
