Houston (3)

Tuesday, 10 June 2003. [Continued]… Nothing changes the reality of my new life in Houston. I know what my reputation must be like here already. Therefore I hold no hope for making a smooth, seamless transition.

As I have learned to do whenever I arrive at a new location, a practice which came about through repetition in Amarillo, El Paso, Brownsville, and my recent travels in Central America and Mexico, I habitually listen in on police band broadcasts via shortwave scanner to find out what “things” must be like out there.

“This is a big city!” Much larger than Seattle and Washington, D.C. combined; I have acquired some idea concerning the attitude of this place towards me: Life is cheap and I’m a dead man.

“I could not have picked a more dangerous place east of Los Angeles, south of Chicago and west of New Orleans! I will not deceive myself: The first chance, the first opportunity, the merest pretext or slightest justification will suffice and be cause enough for the police to use deadly force against me.

“It isn’t an issue of me taking an aggressive stance but that that stance will be a matter of perception, as in: ‘It looked as if… and that was enough to justify the use of deadly force.’ The FEDS will make it their primary objective to bring that desired stance about.”

Writing in this journal each day makes me feel as though I’m communicating my final words in prelude to the inevitable execution: A man on deathrow asked to leave behind a few words for posterity before lethal-injection is administered.

“What could be the [true] cause of these feelings? That I’m under police surveillance 24-7 with FBI agents not even trying to conceal the fact!”

Reply: “Actually it’s because you’ve become suicidal and you keep a loaded .380-auto. We all know suicidal men are dangerous men.”

This ignores the fact that any rational human-being would be, or would soon become, suicidal if faced with my terrible reality: The constant threat of impending doom [a la MLK].

“It’s only a matter of a few days (hours perhaps) before police snipers decide my broomstick looks like a rifle and shots ring out!”

Whenever I step outside I am aware of the “crosshairs” on my scalp and very little else. “Hey,” the vigilantes reason, “If you’re really suicidal, then let us make your seemingly difficult leap into the abyss so much easier for you.” A pause, then suppressed laughter, “Stick yo’ ass out, motherfucker! Evildoer!” I force myself to think rationally and realize, “Shit, I’m not that suicidal after all.”