"One of the Most Illuminating and Successful Times of the Last Five Years"
I'm not one to put much stock in horoscopes. The only one I read regularly is Rob Breszny's Free Will Astrology - since it only comes out once a week, I like the author's way of thinking and frequent use of literary allusions, and his words always have an uncanny way of fitting whatever is going on in my life (far more than any other "horoscope" I've read).
Here's an example. As you know, this week marks the fifth anniversary of my release from prison (7 June 2004). Here's Rob's horoscope for Virgo (which I am), as it appeared on his site on 7 June 2009:
I've been "free" five years now! But I always find it difficult to celebrate these anniversaries. First, they remind me that I was in prison - and for a heinous charge of which I was innocent. Second, it's the time of my legally mandated annual registration at the local sheriff's office. For two or three days prior to my visit, my blood pressure rises, I have difficulty sleeping, lose my appetite and become more crabby around the house. Yesterday I walked into the office dressed nicely, in blue pants I rarely wear (because they're the same color as the pants I had to wear in prison), a crisp light charcoal dress shirt, and a Goodwill tie that looks a whole lot more expensive than what we paid for it. The receptionist smiled and asked what I was there for — so I handed her my driver's license and said something about my annual registration. Her whole demeanor changed then. She looked down, away, seemingly anywhere she could to avoid catching my eye. It's a good thing I knew from past experience that after I check in I am supposed to sit and wait in the lobby until someone calls me, because the sheriff's receptionist said nothing more to me as I stood before her, separated by bulletproof glass and the small metal voice hole in it, awaiting further instructions. When it became obvious that she'd moved on to another task, I slowly turned and walked away from the window, half expecting her to interrupt me with an "I'm not finished with you yet." But she didn't, and I crept to the back row of seats, behind all the other folks who were waiting to visit their loved ones in the county jail, waiting to get their concealed weapon permits processed, or maybe even waiting for Godot, for all I know. I stayed behind them so I could see everybody in the room without having to turn my head - you can never be too careful in places like that - and so they'd be less likely to notice me or realize why I was there. Maybe with my tie and paperwork they'd think I was a lawyer anyway, I surmised. Of course the sheriff's staff knew the truth about why I was there - the truth, that is, except for the part about me not being guilty. Police types generally assume that if you were convicted, you were guilty - and if you weren't convicted you were probably still guilty but lucky.
I began to write in my journal. But this time I didn't have to wait as long as expected, and I was interrupted by a female voice yelling "Burroughs!" A deputy (I believe that's her title) called me into the "media room" - a cubby hole, almost, with two seats, a mini desk, a camera, computer, and fingerprint paraphernalia. I thought for probably the hundredth time in the past week that I should have gotten a hair cut first, since they will plaster my new photo onto their website - but it was too late now. "I don't want folks who see it to think I'm a lunatic," I thought. In last year's photo, I looked a lot more clean cut - with short, preppy hair and a bit of a tan. "Too bad they couldn't keep last year's photo online." And the deputy (if that's what she was) who "processed" me looked like someone I went to church with when I was a teenager, someone who'd once looked up to me as the "preacher boy." I knew it was her. It had to be her. She wore a tag displaying her last name. But she stayed professional, polite, said no more than was necessary, and pretended not to recognize me. I wasn't about to draw her attention to it. But she had to have recognized me. She was looking at my driver's license and a computer screen with much of my personal information on it. She used to come over to my parents' house - and had been good friends with my step-sister. At least she didn't fingerprint me this time. I remembered thinking last year, when a different deputy fingerprinted me, "How many sets of my prints do they need?" I remembered in the mid nineties in prison when they called me down to the library to take a DNA sample. Humiliating? Yes. An invasion of privacy? I suppose. But it was a good thing, too. Thank goodness they took my DNA. Next time some woman falsely accuses me of rape they can test the semen and prove it wasn't me - as long as the guy cums in her, or at least leaves some hair behind or some flesh in her fingernails. "I hope he does cum in her - so I can be exonerated." Then I felt horrible for hoping that, even for a second. I shouldn't hope that. But maybe spending 11 years in prison for a crime you didn't commit can make you think things people who haven't might never think.
This year, the registration was over fairly quickly. I'm tempted to quip that I was in and out — but when I think about it, that's not so funny. In many ways, it's not a joking matter. Yet sometimes laughing at it makes it a bit easier to bear (and write about). Anyway, once it was over, my mood lightened appreciably, my appetite returned, and I was no longer as crabby. I came home and cleaned out the dog kennel, added Dante's Inferno to the Online Library, ate chicken parmesan Geri made, and watched Bruce Almighty.
What does any of this have to do with my Free Will horoscope? I'm not so sure. But the registration gets easier on me each time - and I'm glad I only have to do it four more times now, unless I move (7 June 2013 will be the last). Rob says the "weeks ahead could be one of the most illuminating and successful times of the last five years." But define "illuminating and successful." There was a time when certain folks I know would have considered my becoming a Southern Baptist pastor or assembly line worker at the Chevy plant "illuminating and successful." Really.... And of course Rob qualifies it with "could be." Any week COULD be illuminating and successful - any week COULD be the week someone wins the lottery (if he buys a ticket) or peace comes to Iraq or I finally make myself read Tolstoy's War and Peace. It could be - but it probably won't be.
But maybe if I define "illuminating and successful" a bit more creatively... hmmm... let me give this some thought. Meanwhile, I might have to pick up that book.
Here's an example. As you know, this week marks the fifth anniversary of my release from prison (7 June 2004). Here's Rob's horoscope for Virgo (which I am), as it appeared on his site on 7 June 2009:
"When I was 19 years old, a so-called psychic predicted I would die when I was 24. As much as I scoffed at his careless quackery, his words subliminally worried me for years. On the day I turned 25 I celebrated extra hard. Partly because of that experience, I've always tried to be impeccably conscientious about how I conduct myself as a fortune-teller. I've vowed never to manipulate you with melodramatic prophecies that could distort your free will. So it's with a cautious sense of responsibility that I offer the following augury: The weeks ahead could be one of the most illuminating and successful times of the last five years."
The specific mention of "five years" is interesting, don't you think? Yeah, yeah, I "know" it's a coincidence, but still.... And that it bears striking good news might make me put a bit more stock in it than I might otherwise. Ha!I've been "free" five years now! But I always find it difficult to celebrate these anniversaries. First, they remind me that I was in prison - and for a heinous charge of which I was innocent. Second, it's the time of my legally mandated annual registration at the local sheriff's office. For two or three days prior to my visit, my blood pressure rises, I have difficulty sleeping, lose my appetite and become more crabby around the house. Yesterday I walked into the office dressed nicely, in blue pants I rarely wear (because they're the same color as the pants I had to wear in prison), a crisp light charcoal dress shirt, and a Goodwill tie that looks a whole lot more expensive than what we paid for it. The receptionist smiled and asked what I was there for — so I handed her my driver's license and said something about my annual registration. Her whole demeanor changed then. She looked down, away, seemingly anywhere she could to avoid catching my eye. It's a good thing I knew from past experience that after I check in I am supposed to sit and wait in the lobby until someone calls me, because the sheriff's receptionist said nothing more to me as I stood before her, separated by bulletproof glass and the small metal voice hole in it, awaiting further instructions. When it became obvious that she'd moved on to another task, I slowly turned and walked away from the window, half expecting her to interrupt me with an "I'm not finished with you yet." But she didn't, and I crept to the back row of seats, behind all the other folks who were waiting to visit their loved ones in the county jail, waiting to get their concealed weapon permits processed, or maybe even waiting for Godot, for all I know. I stayed behind them so I could see everybody in the room without having to turn my head - you can never be too careful in places like that - and so they'd be less likely to notice me or realize why I was there. Maybe with my tie and paperwork they'd think I was a lawyer anyway, I surmised. Of course the sheriff's staff knew the truth about why I was there - the truth, that is, except for the part about me not being guilty. Police types generally assume that if you were convicted, you were guilty - and if you weren't convicted you were probably still guilty but lucky.
I began to write in my journal. But this time I didn't have to wait as long as expected, and I was interrupted by a female voice yelling "Burroughs!" A deputy (I believe that's her title) called me into the "media room" - a cubby hole, almost, with two seats, a mini desk, a camera, computer, and fingerprint paraphernalia. I thought for probably the hundredth time in the past week that I should have gotten a hair cut first, since they will plaster my new photo onto their website - but it was too late now. "I don't want folks who see it to think I'm a lunatic," I thought. In last year's photo, I looked a lot more clean cut - with short, preppy hair and a bit of a tan. "Too bad they couldn't keep last year's photo online." And the deputy (if that's what she was) who "processed" me looked like someone I went to church with when I was a teenager, someone who'd once looked up to me as the "preacher boy." I knew it was her. It had to be her. She wore a tag displaying her last name. But she stayed professional, polite, said no more than was necessary, and pretended not to recognize me. I wasn't about to draw her attention to it. But she had to have recognized me. She was looking at my driver's license and a computer screen with much of my personal information on it. She used to come over to my parents' house - and had been good friends with my step-sister. At least she didn't fingerprint me this time. I remembered thinking last year, when a different deputy fingerprinted me, "How many sets of my prints do they need?" I remembered in the mid nineties in prison when they called me down to the library to take a DNA sample. Humiliating? Yes. An invasion of privacy? I suppose. But it was a good thing, too. Thank goodness they took my DNA. Next time some woman falsely accuses me of rape they can test the semen and prove it wasn't me - as long as the guy cums in her, or at least leaves some hair behind or some flesh in her fingernails. "I hope he does cum in her - so I can be exonerated." Then I felt horrible for hoping that, even for a second. I shouldn't hope that. But maybe spending 11 years in prison for a crime you didn't commit can make you think things people who haven't might never think.
This year, the registration was over fairly quickly. I'm tempted to quip that I was in and out — but when I think about it, that's not so funny. In many ways, it's not a joking matter. Yet sometimes laughing at it makes it a bit easier to bear (and write about). Anyway, once it was over, my mood lightened appreciably, my appetite returned, and I was no longer as crabby. I came home and cleaned out the dog kennel, added Dante's Inferno to the Online Library, ate chicken parmesan Geri made, and watched Bruce Almighty.
What does any of this have to do with my Free Will horoscope? I'm not so sure. But the registration gets easier on me each time - and I'm glad I only have to do it four more times now, unless I move (7 June 2013 will be the last). Rob says the "weeks ahead could be one of the most illuminating and successful times of the last five years." But define "illuminating and successful." There was a time when certain folks I know would have considered my becoming a Southern Baptist pastor or assembly line worker at the Chevy plant "illuminating and successful." Really.... And of course Rob qualifies it with "could be." Any week COULD be illuminating and successful - any week COULD be the week someone wins the lottery (if he buys a ticket) or peace comes to Iraq or I finally make myself read Tolstoy's War and Peace. It could be - but it probably won't be.
But maybe if I define "illuminating and successful" a bit more creatively... hmmm... let me give this some thought. Meanwhile, I might have to pick up that book.
Posted by Jesus Crisis at 6/9/2009 10:57 AM 
Categories: Prison, Dreams and Supernatural
Tags: Registration Sex Offender Free Will Astrology
Categories: Prison, Dreams and Supernatural
Tags: Registration Sex Offender Free Will Astrology
The Cuban poet José Martí once wrote that if Dante had ever been in prison, he wouldn't have had to create the Inferno.
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Thanks, Andrew! I'd not heard that before, but I must say I tend to agree.
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i believe horoscopes as much as i believe CEOs, priests, cops, politicians, pathological liars and the rich.
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This little vignette of what you have to go through every year again makes me sad.
Yes free but still on the books. I hope that the coming year brings you still more success with your writing. Peace!!
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I'm usually right there with you, Smith. I visited a psychic in 1993 before my trial and she told me it would "all be over in six months."
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Thank you much, Elena!
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Sometimes our karma runs in strange ways, doesn't it? If you hadn't gone to prison and written me from there I would have lost track of you after you graduated from LCCC. And if you hadn't spent so many years there you probably wouldn't have read so many books and wouldn't have the Crisis Chronicles library. Also you wouldn't have gone on to study for a four year degree and wouldn't have been involved with the spirituality of the Horizon Program. Furthermore you probably wouldn't have created so much poetry and music as you have and learned how to play the piano, act, write music, lyrics and be so creative. You learned how to survive with others who were convicted of crimes when you knew you were innocent. This made you what you are today, educated, intelligent, a good writer and poet, a musician and a wonderful friend to know. Kudos to you for writing this. It tells a lot about what you think and feel about your past and the effect it is still having on your present life.
Peace and poetry to you from Elena, your old "profesora."
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Some how this sound so much more hopeful to me.. And I can't put my finger on quite why. But I think it is more that I sense your attitude has changed a great deal in the last year.
If you think about it.. it closely coincides with when you got back into poetry last year and when you made a commitment to pursuing it full time... or more or less full time. I think it might also coincide with when you decided to not live in the past... trying to overturn the conviction. You put your energies in a new direction... the future. I think all those small changes add up. At least that is what I see.. You living it, of course, see so much more.
Some times illumination doesn't mean an significant change in circumstances but in the perception of them. Often big changes start with small moments of momentum...
Wishing you sunny skies and clear sailing ahead, John... much success..
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Thank you very much, Chris!
Of course I can't help but recall, coincidentally enough, how thoroughly committed I was to poetry in 1992 (though not necessarily out in the public eye) when I was charged.
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I agree that everything happens for a reason...if nothing else, your karma account is most certainly well into the black and that is a very good thing.
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This has got to be hard to share. Very interesting read.
I'm thinking it's interesting that you were thinking so much about the reactions of the people in the station--yet you boldly share this on the Internet. Different groups of people, I guess?
I'll have to write more about my fears, my breakdown last year. I've held back too much. I post blogs & then delete them, anxious that people will drop me for being to unstable, too difficult to deal with.
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I guess I was equally concerned about the reactions by people on the Internet - at first at least. The previous day, I couldn't bring myself to write about it - so I posted nothing but that Grateful Dead video. Then sometime yesterday afternoon it just started pouring out. I've been thinking a lot lately about why I even blog. For pretty much two decades I kept a handwritten journal. When I came home in 2004, I stopped writing in it. Sartre said something like "you can either live life or write about it." So I decided to live it. But now I wish I had a written record of the last five years. What I have is scattershot at best. In 2007 I started blogging - which was similar to a return to journaling. But the difference is I don't always feel I can write what I want when I want to write it. Gone is the liberty of writing only for myself, and not having to worry if it's well-written or how people might respond. The same sort of writer's block is interfering with me finishing my memoirs - plus, reading and processing all that old history can be depressing. But if I can't write what I want or need to write for myself - then why the hell write at all? Paradoxically, writing for a response can be addicting - and I'm no longer satisfied to write solely for the boxes in my attic. But I don't want to be saccharine - more show than substance. Lately, I'm thinking f I can't feel free to write my best story - which is reality - or if I'm gonna just iron out all the wrinkles - then why bother? Folks can get a freshly laundered starched shirt at any number of corner laundries.
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Recently read David Sedaris's latest book. He's one of my favorite authors. Each time I read a book of his I wonder how hard it is for him. He's constantly writing about his family, his significant other. I don't know how one can write an account of what's going on without stomping on the feelings of those who are closest.
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I read Sedaris' Barrel Fever and Naked when I was in prison (when Martin was my cellie - he had the books - so it was 2000 or before) and liked his style. I'm sad to say I've not read any of his more recent works.
The only way to write an account freely for me would be to keep it to myself till later - but I find that hard to do, and don't feel it's right to do, so I often end up not writing at all.
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