January 30, 2011 – The only night I ever spent in prison scared me, just not exactly straight. You see, it wasn’t the kind of scared where you change your life for fear of suffering bad consequences. It was the kind where you scream and run and flail your arms around like Kermit the Frog on the hand of a puppeteer with Parkinson’s.
This was a few years back, sometime in early 2006, if all the meta-information in that pic of me in the prison cell is correct. I can’t trust my own memory in the matter because every previous year in my mind is 1989. The prison where I served my micro-term was West Virginia State Penitentiary in Moundsville, West Virginia, also known as Moundsville Penitentiary.
Every once in a while I’d stumble on visitors who were actually there to hunt ghosts and not just run around screaming like kindergartners at recess. They’d be in the areas of the prison with the darkest history, gathered around a glowing screen or waving some bit of electronica. I do miss the days when spirit contact was all about Ouija boards and séances instead of infrared digital cameras and EMF detectors. Simpler times.