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The Man in The Hat 907
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Operation Sonic Somatics

TMiTH

Posse up.

Operation Sonic Somatics. Sound for the 3am body that's still redlining, the one that won't shut the fuck off.

The door opened. The perimeter didn't disappear. That's the part the tidy little story skips. Walk out of the cage, sign the fucking paper, go live your life. Like the nervous system reads the release date and packs up its tools.

Yeah. No.

The eyes keep running the room. The shoulders wait for the hit. Everybody else sees a quiet place to sit. The body is still calculating what the fuck happens if that door moves.

I write from that place. Complex PTSD. Generational trauma. Emotional abuse. The shit that follows you home, even when home is finally somewhere safe. You can know who's in the room and still have a body checking the goddamn perimeter.

Old Max is in the songs. Cañon City stone. The sally port slam. Number 62927. This is my life, my 'M.F.A.'

Time don't move in straight lines, it pools upon the floor
Listening to the rhythm of the heavy iron door

That's from my music. The record doesn't sit politely in the past because somebody filed the fucking paperwork. It shows up in posture. In the exits. In the room you keep reading while somebody tells you to stop overthinking shit.

Operation Sonic Somatics puts words and sound in that space. Outlaw country, goth, rap, swamp. Not a clean little version with the ugly parts bleeped out so nobody spills their fucking coffee.

I know I may not be your taste, your style, your vibe. We all need to find what works. For some, this shit hits home. For others, it won't. You don't owe me a performance of liking it.

And I'm not going to sell you some bullshit about a song fixing your nervous system. It's music. It's my record put into sound. Maybe somebody listening at three in the fucking morning hears something they recognize and doesn't have to explain their whole life to be in the room.

Read the full drop on the Ledger: Operation Sonic Somatics.

You don't gotta buy shit to sit here. Listen. Read. Hang in the shadow and take some heat from the campfire.

If you deal with complex PTSD, generational trauma, or emotional abuse, I swear you are not alone.

Seriously. You. Are. Not. Fucking. Alone.

Re-read that shit.

Reach out: tmith@themaninthehat907.media

~TMiTH

Cell BlockTMiTH 907

Door's shut. You're good.News and links

CO's walkin' the tier. Keep your voice down and set a spell.What's new and where to find me.

These walls

Old Max went up in 1871, before Colorado was even a state. Prisoners cut the stone out of the hill behind it and stacked their own cells. Forty-two of them. Four years later they built the wall, because men kept walking off.

In 1889 the state moved its killing inside these walls, out of public view. First a gallows that jerked a man up instead of dropping him. Then in 1934 the gas chamber, second state in the country to try it. The warden built the first one with three chairs so he could do three at once. The last man sat in that chair in 1967. On the tier, that chair is Old Sparky. It sits in the prison museum next door now, beside the electric shock machine they used to control the problem prisoners.

Stone holds the cold. The windows sit so deep that daylight barely crawls down to the lower tiers, and the gray shadow never leaves the bunks.

Nineteen-eighty-seven. Cañon City, Colorado. Old fucking Max.
Home of Old Sparky. Yeah, the chair. Yeah. That one.
The sally port closes with a metal cough and a full-body clang.
They strip you. Delouse you. Shave you down to the stubble.
No more crosses. No more "Live, Love, Learn" bullshit.
Just stone, steel, and honesty.
They stamp the paper and speak my new name: 62927.

TMiTH

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