Always Together,

And then she let go of my arm, got into her car, and drove off to deliver the hope of something normal for her son.

I sat down on the curb, my legs not able to withhold the weight I'd just been struck with. I sat and I quickly fell into a mess. I felt as though, piece by piece, I was breaking apart, right there in the parking lot of Clark's One-Stop.

I looked up to the skies and began to rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. As if it were the only glue holding me together. I wanted to leave my body. Leave the pain behind. Float out into the atmosphere and never return. I wanted to return to prison where there was nothing to make sense of. Where everything was nothing. I rocked. And I rocked. There was nothing else I could do.

It was over. With her words, it was over. An official end to this momentary stop in 'pretend it didn't happen land.' And the end was too much to bare. I rocked. And rocked. And felt as though I were melting into the curb. As if reality was smothering my existence. But the end never quite came. And I continued to feel pain.. And feel. And feel. And I wanted it to be over. All of it. Any of it.

I stood and began to walk. To the apartment. To leave this all behind. Still rocking in my head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wondering why. Always why. Where was God? And why did it have to be this way?

Why?

But there were no answers. Not from God. Not from the world. Not from myself. And Clarity had not given the answers. Where could they be found? And why did this have to happen to me? I did not understand the pain. Why I was fated to carry it.

I looked at all of the cars driving past as I rocked down the sidewalk. Thought of all of the people in them, going about their tasks, living their lives in taskful purpose. Making it work. And I wanted to be any one of them. I thought of the thousands of people that had come and gone through the store. I wanted to be them. The lady with the screaming children. The man who hated his wife. The woman looking for her turkey in Walmart. Any of them. Let me be any of them. I thought of Cal. Let me be Cal. Let me look back and see the past, not the present. Let me look forward and see the future, not the past. I thought of Jacob. And how he just....existed. Not talking much. Not expressing much. He was just...there. And let me be there. Let me exist. Let me be numb! Apart from all of this. And I thought of that old woman who had to go home and see her son without an arm. And a whole bag full of horror. Let me be that woman. Let me have her burden. Let me be her son. Take my arm. Let me see the blood and gore and injustice.

LET ME HAVE SOMETHING NORMAL! ANYTHING! LET ME HAVE A MOTHER!

And there it was. There she was. My mother's face. Faint in my mind. There she was. The only place she remained. And why did I have to lose her? WHY!? Take it back! Take the whole ruined thing back! Come on God! Where are you!? Take it back!

But nothing would take it back. Or bring her back. Nothing could change what was done. There was only now. And the ghosts. And the pain. And the loneliness. And the foresaken hughe of each day. And it was all just too much. Too much to come to terms with. To much to forget. To much to hold on to.

I tore at my hair, ripped at my skin. I collapsed to the ground, in the middle of the sidewalk. I punched the cement, instantly taking off their skin. I punched at my thighs below. I punched at my own face. I screamed and I screamed. I screamed up to God and asked him to take me away.
I dug and I dug at the pain, trying to make it be something else. Anything else. I cursed at time, begging it to leave me alone. But the pain just stayed inside. And burned. Burned all the way to my soul. And I was burning alive.

And the whole weight of hell, it was right there on my shoulders.
--*--

I want to go back to prison. I want to go back and watch time take me apart. I want to go back and know nothing of this place, on the other side of it all.

I looked out across the urban sprawl of San Bernardino. At the brown layer of smog hanging above the buildings for as far as the eye could see. At the mountains hardly visible through the pollution. A truly wretched place, I thought. And the damn place mirrored perfectly the way I saw myself.

I was sick. In the head. For the past hour, I had been standing on the roof of our apartment building, thinking of all the ways that I could return to prison. I could rob a bank. I could take a hostage. I could do a lot of really terrible things. And the worst part was not thinking such things. The worst part was knowing that I would never be able to do any of them. I would never be able to get myself back on the inside. I was stuck out here. I was stuck with my feelings. With my past. And I wasn't traveling anywhere down the road of time. I was watching the same stretch go by, time after time after time.

I wanted to jump. It was six stories. I probably wouldn't die, but the pain would go somewhere else. But who would pay my medical bills? Not Clark's One-Stop. Not the government. And then I'd be trapped even more. I wanted a long nip of whiskey. Or any alcohol. Any numbing agent. But I hadn't stuck around long enough to pick up my paycheck. No money.

What the hell was going to happen to me? I couldn't watch this torture take hold forever. It was just too much for any human to walk with.

"Not as pretty as Michigan, is it?"

I was dreaming, of course. Of everything I'd always wondered. I wasn't on top of this building, looking East, out across the southwestern wastelands of America. Not really. I was in bed. Fast asleep. And this was a dream. The dream I'd dreamt of having, the dream I'd hoped and feared of having. So I found myself continuing to stare out into the pollution, and the congestion, and all of the waste America created. Because this was a dream. And if I turned around and found something good, surely, the dream would be over.

Only this was not a dream. And I was not asleep. From the farthest reaches of possibility, this moment had arrived. Here and now. And I did turn around, ever so slowly, for if it was a dream, the most vivid of dreams, I did not want to stir myself from it.

And there she was. In a different time now, she was not as I remembered, of course. But there she was. With tears in her eyes, and down her cheeks. With a strained smile pursed on her lips. Her hands clenching the waist of her pants. On her tip-toes. Long brown hair, dancing in the wind, there she was. Skin glowing in the late light of the day, there she was. Eyes enchanting green, that told of all the majesty she saw, there she was. Perfect, in every way, forever, there she was.

Here she was.

I sunk, unoticeably to my heart-lost self, my back sliding down the smooth cement of the raised rooftop ledge, until there was as much solid ground beneath me as possible. The well of emotions within me came fluttering up in waves, carried by the nerve-wrecked butterflies now flying about, having been trapped within for so long. Breathing was not of air, only suffocating and intoxicating emotion, in and out. Her tears turned to fluttering emotion as well, and I watched in great agony that was not all agony, as she took large gasps of feeling. And it was infinitely surreal to see her, feeling.

She began to walk toward me. And my heart broke in uncountable directions. In pain. In suffering. In relief. In great joy. In love. In hate. In the past. In the future. In this, the greatest and worst moments of my short and scarred life.

And she arrived at me, coming to her knees, teary to teary eye, for the first time in more than eight years. And I looked into to her eyes, and I knew the pain of all the lifetimes. I knew the suffering of all the Earth's creatures. I knew the death of all that was innocent in this one life we are given. And it was all more than I could bare. She put her forehead to mine, and her hands to my temples. And I felt her skin against mine. Felt her life against mine. And my tears turned to rivers. And my emotions churned to a roaring sea. And my heart broke the dam, and I felt more than I knew possible. And it was too much.

"It's too much, Clarity. It's just too much. It's too much."

And her dam broke and she became a river and a roaring sea and we weathered together, in the moment.

"Not any longer, Ansel."

And she brought me into her chest. And she wrapped tightly around me. And I wrapped tightly around her. And we were together, in what way I did not know. And it did not matter. And for a very long time, everything else melted away, and we breathed one another's life.

--*--

"How did you find me? How are you here?"

"None of that matters, for now. All that matters, is that you are here. And I am here."

"But why are you here? Why did you come back for me? How can you stand the sight of me? The touch of me?"

She began to cry more tears. I cried more tears. And there were only more tears, for many moments.

"A promise is a promise, Ansel. Forever."

A promise had always been a promise for Clarity and I. I was sure, however, that had all changed on the night. But here she was, staying true to everything we'd ever held onto. And I could not come to terms with how this all had happened. How it was that she could be here. Not in this life. Humans were not this strong. Not in these times.

And I cried for awhile longer. For everything I'd missed for eight years. For everything I'd caused for eight years. For everything I did not yet understand. And I was afraid. To know more.

The night began to set in, chasing the day out of our moment. And the air grew brisk. We both shuddered, still in one anothers arms, still looking endlessly into the others eyes, trying to find the place we left off in, so long ago.

"Let's get back down to your apartment."

"You've been there before?"

"A couple of times."

"How?"

"Cal."

"But how?"

"We're old friends."

That could not be true.

"Wait. Cal's been in prison for the last thirty nine years."

"Well, not exactly. Do me a favor Ansel. Give your questions time. The answers will come when they're ready to come. Be patient."

"Alright."

At this point, surreal as it all was, tormenting and perplexing as this new reality was, I would do whatever she asked. She was here. With me. Some impossible way.

"From what I understand, Cal and Jacob have a Thanksgiving Dinner prepared for us. And I think we all sit down and eat. So that you can say goodbye."

"Say goodbye? What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, we are leaving, Ansel. Tonight."

"Where are we going? Where could we possibly need to go tonight?"

"In time."

Time. Eight years without her. Eight years of knowing nothing of her, of having no idea if I had ruined her. Time, I could give.

We walked into the building, back to the apartment, and I wondered like hell, how this whole bizarre thing was going to turn out.
--*--

Recent Photographs

A few scenes in nature I recently witnessed and did my best in capturing. Big Sur and Yosemite, Fall 2009.

Outside the Store

The first non-bagging task of the morning came about two hours in, when an elderly woman had forgotten to get a bag of peanuts for her Thanksgiving Dinner. Happy to get away from the dreadful monotony of bagging groceries, I returned with a container of shelled peanuts and a smile.

"Here you are, ma'm."

"Ohh dear. Did I forget to mention that I needed the ones still in the shells? Oh my. I'm so sorry. I'll go get them myself."

She had failed to mention that detail. And no, she would not be going to get them herself. The line behind her was already long enough.

"Oh, my mistake ma'm. Let me go. I'll be right back."
I rememered doing this before, waiting on people, all day, every day. Making up for their mistakes or their lack of knowledge, keeping it convenient. Keeping them pacified. Maintaining the orderly environment of a shopping center. It was a good thing, this being my last day.

"Here you go, ma'm. One bag of peanuts with shells."

"Thank you, young man."
And when she was finished checking out, and I had loaded her groceries into the trunk of her classy Chrystler, she grabbed my arm as I was about to roll the cart back into the store and cater to the next customer.

"What's your name, young man?"

"Ansel."

"Well, Ansel, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out with those peanuts."

"My pleasure, ma'm. Glad I could help."
But she did not let go of arm at this.

"You see, my son, he just got back from serving in Iraq two days ago. He was supposed to be home two months ago, actually, but he'd been in the Army hospital over there. A road side bomb took a bit of his face off, but thank God, the doctors were able fix that up. He just has a scar on his forehead now. But that roadside bomb also took off his right arm. Blew it clear off. And the doctor's, well they couldn't fix that. And so now he's home, with one arm, and a whole lot of bad memories. First Thanksgiving home and away from that war in three years.

Well, we've always had a big bowl of peanuts in the shells at the dinner table. Something for the family members to occupy themselves with before and after the meal, I'm sure you know how it can be, catching up with relatives and all. This year though, I figured, with him only having one arm, I shouldn't put any peanuts out. Didn't want to draw any attention to his situation. You know how it is with peanuts, takes two hands to break them open with any ease.

So I set the table really early this morning, so I could focus on all the cooking until the rest of my kids and their families arrived. James, that's my son, he came into the kitchen and asked where the bowl of peanuts was. And I says, 'oh honey, we don't need to have peanuts this year.' And he told me that we most certainly did. That everything had to be just like it always was.

So I says, 'Alright, I'll run out and get them for you, James.' And I was planning on getting shelled peanuts, you know, so he wouldn't have to feel awkward.

Well, right as I was walking out the door, he must have sensed it, and he says, 'Mom, make sure they have shells.' He says it with this brave and certain look on his face.

So I says, 'Sure thing, honey. Just like always.'

And then he says, 'Thanks, Mom.' And it wasn't what he said. It was the look on his face. He wasn't brave or certain anymore. As he looked at me, he had big eyes full of sadness, and a silent cry in them. And I saw that he was just thankful to have peanuts. To have something normal. To not be tramping around Iraq, watching children die, watching his friends die, day after day, year after year.

So, Ansel, I just wanted to thank you for helping me get those peanuts. Because you were'nt just helping another old bag get what she wanted. You were helping to make things right in the world. You were helping a mother help her son when he needed it the most. And every son, now and then, needs their mother more than anything else.
So thank you."

And then she let go of my arm, got into her car, and drove off to deliver the hope of a return to normal for her son.

And I pushed the cart back into the store, and started bagging the next bunch of groceries, and felt very, very numb.

A portion of Chapter 11

I should have gone to prison for killing him. Though, I had never wished for such a thing. In fact, this was the first time I'd gone back to that night in many years. Initially, I had dreamt the night over again often after it had happenend. For awhile, it haunted my nights. Mostly because I didn't understand it. But its imposing relevance had faded with time. In fact, I reached a point in high school where I no longer cared that it had happened at all, almost no longer believed that it had happened.

But it did happen. And my mind had brought it back to me, from whatever rotting corner of my head it had been locked away in. And I knew exactly why.

I had avoided this for too long. I grabbed for the satchel that sat beneath my bed and pulled out the next eldest letter from Clarity. It was postmarked January 2nd, 2002.

I did not wish to read it. I feared in what state I would find her in the words she'd put down for me. I feared to know what a full year had done to her. Another year to let the devestation cloud her over. Another year to watch her world grow darker and more confusing. What I feared, more than anything, was to find how far it was that I had forced her from all of the perfect beauty that she once had been.

I did not wish to read it at all. But I had to.

From the moment I'd understood that I had once again had that infinitely horrifying dream, I understood why it had recurred, now, after such a stretch of absence.

That night, fourteen years ago, with Alan, that moment that had changed me forever, it had been the start of a series of events that would ultimately destroy me. And that was one thing. That, I could live with. I'd made it through eight years of prison. I'd made it through the first two weeks of bagging groceries from nine to five Tuesday thru Sunday in the year 2008. I could survive ruined. What I could not deal with, was the possibility that I had destroyed Clarity all the way. 'All the way' meaning her death.

When I had read her first letter. When I had finally found the courage to open up the past, literally, and let it in, I had read something that didn't fit in with logic. A clue that something, somewhere between the years 2003 and 2008, had gone terribly wrong for Clarity.
She wrote: "I will write you eight letters over the course of the next eight years, Ansel, ending on the day you are once again free. I will fix myself during this time. And when you are out, I ask that you fix yourself."

And since the moment I'd first read those lines, I'd been trying, with everything I had in me, to fix myself. I had crammed bag after bag full of groceries. I had said my words with a smile, every time. I'd retrieved cart after cart. I'd shown the way for bread, milk, beef, pork, ice, beer, tampons, condoms, movies, carrots, apples, cider, doughnuts, diapers, Hallmark cards, and every other little thing you might ever need aside from clothing and a roof.
I had come home to our bare apartment night after night. I had played with the little guy. I had made small talk with Jacob and Cal as they played cards on the couch. I had gone to bed every night and closed my eyes and battled visions of the past that wouldn't stop knocking on the door.
I had woke every morning and thought of nothing. Not of the day to come, not of the next day, not of Clarity.

But just as they always have, the things that wanted out, they got out.

After finishing the rest of the letter, that night on the cliffs, I went to put it back in the bag. And I noticed something that I only allowed myself to take note of for the most ephemeral of instants.

In the bag, there were only two other letters. Three in all.

I will write you eight letters

And then, I had pushed everything and anything that was implicated by the six missing years out of my mind. I had done what she had asked. I had lived, and in doing so, tried to fix things.
But I was not doing it honestly. And as is naturally the case when one does not allow the truth to show throughout in one's self, the truth unearths it's own course to the surface. So once more came the night where I'd first lost my innocence. Where any whimsical notion of having myself apart from the rest of the world had been stolen away by my own bloodline.

And the oh so palpable truth was, I hadn't a clue of how to go about fixing myself. Never had. The fixing, I was never shown the blueprint for.

It had always been Clarity to lead me back into the world, to root me, to fix me. Until the one time that she couldn't. And now, after everything, where was she?
eight letters.

I opened the second of letters, the second to last letter, with hands that once again trembled at the foot of the past, and hoped, that the words would not take Clarity any further away than she already was.
--*--
January 2, 2002

I spent a lot of time at the house last winter. Keeping it warm. Yours sat empty and cold, across the way. I saw it every morning, through the ice, and snow, and naked trees. I'd never seen a house look so lonely. I wanted to go warm it up, keep it alive for you. But I couldn't.
I spent a lot of time inside of myself. Doing my best impression of you. Couldn't get out. Couldn't see out. There was a period of time that found me as nothing at all. You know how I used to be, seeing myself in all of the things around me.

So much died so quickly. And it caused me to feel scornful. Everything I'd watched die before, including you, everything had died...patiently. As if, in each case, that was just the way things intended to go. And it always fit in with my idea of life, of living things. Of the cycle. Everything comes, and everything goes. I'd never really thought about the cycle being interrupted. I just assumed, when it was time, it was time. But in our case, it was not time. And nothing made sense anymore.

It was a long winter, Ansel.

Spring came, eventually. I watched as your house was slowly lost to the budding trees that root between. I watched as grass grew atop the graves for the very first time. The magic of spring, the rejuvenation of growth, that we had wrapped our winter-worn bodies in all those years, it all seemed as nothing more than....inevitable. The cycle. The endless cycle that could be torn apart at any time, for no good reason. And I started to think of my own life in such a way. Inevitable. There was no meaning, not even in the proliferating life abound. Everything became relative to circumstance.

And then something happened that I did not foresee. Something that was not relative to the circumstances surrounding my outlook. Wildflowers began to sprout atop the graves. Wildflowers! You always see graves in the movies as being topped with perfectly green grassy patches that are always trimmed to give of a 'devotedly cared for' aura. But these graves, as you know, were not in a cemetary. They were in the countryside, where lawnmowers were never popular, and grass is, more often than not, accompanied by trees and clovers and other forms of unchecked growth. And I saw spontanaiety in the cycle again. Beautiful unpredictability, resiliency, diversity. And I saw that no matter what, the cycle does go on, even when it is interrupted. And the most beautiful part about the cycle being interrupted, I witnessed, is the new possibilities it creates in consequence.

And I was, again. Seeing. Feeling. Understanding. Alive. It all happened very quickly, just as the death had. And I saw that as the balancing act of the whole catastrophe. They were gone. You were gone. And I would never be the same as I used to be before that. But nonetheless, I was still something. And I had the power to make it as beautiful as I wished.

So quickly, I saw that I was still alive. And that I needed to live. Needed to see more of the world.

I went to a week of college in the fall, Ansel. I was going to be a teacher. For five days, I walked across the same campus that you so recently left behind, watching the masses of hopeful students hurry to and fro, trying to find their way in the new school year. I saw the girls in the summer skirts, each of them hoping to make a remarkable impression, even if only they were the ones who were impressed. I watched the boys with long hair and tight jeans push boards on wheels over the endless cracked sidewalks, all the while struggling to find their groove. I saw the football players rush in and out of class, always with a stride of arrogance, never apart from their embroidered, endorsed, egoistic selves. I watched the professors come and go, some of who's presence was nothing more than a requisite, others who's whole purpose was clearly shining through, radiating amongst their newly aquired neophytes. I watched the structured delirium unfold for that week, and very transparent, became the sources that ate away at your stability when you were amongst the mindless assimilation.

Yet for all of the flawed devises in that stage of society, there was one thing that could never be taken away from those people. Hope. A hope that was infectious, a hope that created the entire atmosphere. Hope for a successful semester. Hope for a new identity. Hope for new connections. Hope for happiness. Hope for a new chance at life. And as I saw that hope swirl through the masses around me, I began to see it within myself. For as helpless as so much of the hope was, for as misguided as so much of it was, I felt it to be helpful within me. And, for the briefest of moments, I felt as though anything might be possible. I felt as though the cycle of life were once again flowing through me, just as it was through all of those people. Finding their place in life, chasing dreams, making their way the best they could figure out though it all would eventually end. And I thought, perhaps I too could find the best way for me. Perhaps I could find my place in the cycle. And there was again a hope deep within. And life was going to be whatever I made it into.

And then, once again, the cycle was abruptly interrupted.

I didn't have classes on Tuesdays. I was at the house, heating a kettle of tea, watching an autumn wind speak whispers of the coming winter as it cooled the air and shook the leaves that would soon fall to the forest floor. The kettle screamed, and I poured in reply. I took my tea and sat in Mother's chair, looking out the window that, come winter, would show through the forest to your house. I watched time pass by as I sipped my tea, and as it went, I became uneasy. It may have been the drear of the storm, or the thought of your house hidden by the leaves, just as you were hidden by the hand of justice, or so many other inequalities that existed in my head. Just the same as so many mornings before, I could not find a place for the discomfort to rest because I did not know from where it came.

I turned on the television that sat across the room, as I often did when alone and feeling less than comfortable with my own company, and turned back to the window, and the storm, and the loss of the things that could not be retrieved. I do not know for how long I sat there, with the news playing on the television in the background (I was not actively listening), but I do know when I turned my attention away from the window, and to the television.

It was 8:51 in the morning.

I only remember bits of what I first heard. Explosion. World Trade Center. Plane. Unconfirmed.
And when I turned to look at the television, I imagined some sort of small hole in the side of a skyscraper. What I saw, was something that noone who saw it will ever forget.

I sudennly felt as though I was watching a movie. The billows of smoke. The confused reporting. The unsteady shots taken in panic.

For a long time, I flipped through the channels, seeing the same thing over and over, momentary sound bites with the same image of the smoking tower. Watching the same scene of a movie I did not know the title of, over and over.

And then a second large plane came cutting across the screen, disappearing behind the towers, a fiery plume of smoke and debris exploding out the other side.

And the reporters said 'oh my God.' Again and again. 'Oh my God.' And they didn't know what else to say.

This was no longer the news. This was something more. It was a movie. One of those big budget, epic movies with amazing special effects and a distant storyline. One of those movies that just goes for shock and awe.

The reporters stopped saying 'oh my god.' And they said nothing at all. It was something that you don't see. Ever. Everything stopped.

And I watched the movie for awhile, in quiet disbelief, alone in the house.

And then the reporters began to say words like 'planned,' and 'contrived,' and then the President came on, and he said the two words that changed everything. 'Terrorist Attack.'

And then, it was no longer a movie that I was watching.

I watched the people jump from the burning towers, falling forever, careening past their paperwork.

I saw the Pentagon with a hole in it's side.

I watched a tower go crashing to the ground, and smoke fill the streets of Manhattan.

I watched the death expand into Pennsylvania.

And then I watched the second tower fall. And there was only smoke.

And then there was nothing more to watch, so the television decided to crash the planes again.
And to collapse the towers again. And to make the people and the papers fall again.

And the reporters said 'oh my God,' again.

And I did not understand how that could be the world that we lived in. How humans, just the same as I was human, had turned the world into that.

And so I ran. From the television. From the house. Down the hill. Through the trees. Over the leaves.

I ran. And I ran. And then I was deep within the woods. Where I could not see anything of humans.

And I looked around at the trees as they breathed. As they danced in the autumn wind. I looked at the ferns as they crept from the darkness of the ground, to the light of the sky. I listened to the birds as they spoke of the coming migration. I watched the squirrel, as it carried an acorn high into a tree. I watched as life went about its cycle. Living and dying. Living for death. Dying for life. Keeping the balance. And everything made good sense.

And that is when I realized that we, humans, are not a part of the cycle. At a certain point, we all break away from it. And rarely will anyone rejoin it before death. We make the choice to be something else.

And in that moment, I did not like what we were. What I, inevitably, was a part of. I did not like the choices that we had made.

And, in that moment, I could no longer see the trees breathing. Nor their dance. Nor any life. For a moment, Ansel, I understood what it was to be those terrorists. Blinded by the choices they had made. I understood what it was like to be a human that had seperated themselves from the cycle. And I realized, that I was no better than the terrorists. That I too had been blinded by my choices.

And I did not know what to be.

That night, the president would proclaim that we humans were again 'at war.' That the choices of some were wrong, and that we could not allow that to be the case. I had started the morning with a kettle of tea and hope. And now I was at war. Against terrorism. I was at war against an idea. The president said that those responsible for the attacks had to be brought to justice. I was at war for an idea.

In the following months, we would watch things fall and people die on the television once again. But the reporters would no longer say 'oh my god.' Nor would they be silent. In fact, the reporters would always have something to say. Day and night. And America would become emboldened. America would be more secure than ever. As long as the bombs continued to fall.

And nobody stopped to ask, 'why did this happen?' It was much too late for that. America was blind in her scars. Making decisions that were no longer her own.

And as I write these words, Ansel, I finally understand what it's like to be you.

Always,
Clarity

First Letter From Clarity (Chapter 7)

These words are ten years into the past as your eyes cross over them, yet I would venture to assume they could be as new as the sunrise was on this morning that you are only now reading them. Take what you will from them, dear Ansel, for I write them in hopes of somehow giving back to you some small piece of everything you've been stripped of for so long.

You went to prison today, Ansel. For many months before this day, you were somewhere between the free world, and the one you are just now being abruptly introducted into. For each and every one of those days, I am quite certain, we have both been in hell. This day does not signify our exit from such a place. Today, you are no longer your own person. A concept true of every person ever stripped of their freedom, but for you, a certainty running much deeper within then most might experience. For that, I feel myself to be at least in part at fault. And for that, I am not sorry.

Only hours ago, I watched an everyday man in the middle of his life, wearing his Sunday best, with an anxiety that ran through my bones like cold and harsh electricity. I watched that man, most likely with a family of his own, a love of his own, read the decision of ten other everyday people also dressed in their sharpest of garments. A decision that not one of them had volunteered to make. A decision that, before this particular case, not one of them had ever even considered. A decision that took you, or rather the possibility of you that is, away from me.

I did not watch your face as fate was handed down unto you.

I could not bare such a thing.

I was not there, in that moment, with you, Ansel.

And for that, I am sorry.

I did not watch as they escorted you past me from my place in the first row of attendees.

I saw only your shined shoes go sluggishly by, the same that you wore to Senior Prom as my other half not so long ago.

And for that, I am sorry.

Since the day this whole nightmare began, I have not looked you in the eyes. Not on that first moment we existed together in the courtroom. Not during a single moment of your trial, though I was present for them all.

Not once, have I allowed the harrowing reality we now find ourselves in, to be dissolved by the love we've known for all of these years.

And for that, I am sorry. And regretful. And saddened. And all of the emotions that humans hate to know, on the deepest of levels.

You see, Ansel, I do not hate you. Though most would, it is not in my nature to hate you. When you love somebody in the way that I have loved you, you cannot possibly hate them, even after what you've done. You can pretend with all of your imagination that it is so, but underneath it all, the love prevails.

And for that, I hate love. I would love to hate you. I would love to put all of my energy into hating you, insteading of being consumed by the loss. And I am consumed by the loss, Ansel. Of her: Yours and Mine. Of you. Of us. Of everything good in each day. Of all the broken hearts.

You see, the days do not hold the good in them anymore. They simply hold nothing. They are just...days. They come, they go. That is all. And what's the fucking point of that?

You, better than anyone, know that it is not characteristic of me to look upon life in such a devoid light. You, better than anyone, could fix this.

There is something that I must admit to you, that you deserve to know, though you will not for nine years. And perhaps that is just the way it should be. I cannot say who deserves what in a matter like this. Regardless, you should know that I feel responsible for what happened. Those last few hours that we spent, they were perfect, you know. That is, until that last moment. You turned into that other side of you, Ansel. That side that you never wanted to admit existed. That side that you've never revealed the origins of. You became another person. And it scared the living hell out of me.

And so I walked away. And now here we are. Worlds apart. Both of us imprisoned.

I do not know what I am these days. I do know that it is not anything I've ever been before. I do not know what you are these days either. This breaks my heart.

You see, I fear that I created the side of you that came out on that night. You know, because of the way I kept us so out of reach of destruction. Did it all start because of that?

For the longest time, I thought I was keeping safe something so sacred to me, to us. It was only today, when you were taken away, that I thought: what if I've been taking the very thing I love away this whole time?

It is only now that I wonder if this whole thing was my fault. And I find the blame feeling much closer to me than to you.

The guilt that I feel has become the meaning in my life, Ansel. The purpose. And when you went away today, for the final time, I felt more guilt than I thought any human might ever bare. Guilt for the fact that I will go on in this world of possibility, though I do not see it on this day, while you enter a world controlled by someone other than yourself. Guilt for my suffering, and for yours.

I've made arrangements with the prison guard in charge of the mail. You will recieve this, along with eight other letters, on the day you are freed.

I will write you once a year, Ansel. I will tell you of each year. Of the progression of the world. Of the possibilities of the next three hundred and sixty five days. I will paint for you the history that you are no longer complicit in the making of. I will do this so that you might find meaning in the world when you come back into it. So that you might feel something other than lost.

I will do this for some semblance of meaning in my own life.

I will do this for hope. Hope that you will do what I ask next.

Live, now that you are out, Ansel. Live in whatever way you can.

I will write you nine letters over the course of nine years, Ansel, ending on the day you are once again free. I will fix myself during this time. And when you are out, I ask that you fix yourself. I cannot be by your side for this one. You must do it for yourself. We came into each others lives at a time when we needed each other in ways bigger than either of us could understand. We did our best for the other, and we loved for it. The next time I see you, I would like for it to be on no other terms than that love. I will wait for the day that we can, together, live for our love.

We must first find ourselves in this changed world.

And we must do it honestly.

We parted ways on the day you killed ______, Ansel. But you were not Ansel on that day. You were not being true to yourself. You were afraid of yourself. And this, Ansel, is why I do not blame you.

Always together,

Clarity

Chapter 9 - The most recently written!

Chapter 9
It was difficult to think of Clarity after reading the letter. I couldn't imagine in what manner it was that she now existed, nine years later. She was broken, confused in her words. Her mind clearly drifted to and fro, concerning her state of being, her future, me, my future, and the inextricable maze of grief and eternal change that had been woven into our lives the night it all came crashing down.

I could not find it in myself to venture into imagining what nine years of fermenting grief had caused her to become. And so my mind went to the time and place when I had first seen her at her best. I of course didn't know it at the time, but the grace with which she watched life unfold before her eyes, the grace with which she carried out her own story, it would be something that would continually save me from myself.

You see, she had it all wrong when placing blame upon herself. Nothing, could be further from the truth. It was only I that was to blame, in the end.

"Did you find what you hoped to find?"

I looked up from my own little maze-of-a-world, in anguish, to find that Cal had returned. And with food. He stood above me now, looking down in a genuinely curious way.

"I didn't have any idea what I was going to find in those letters, Cal. So, no."

It was true. And the letter had changed nothing about that for future endeavors of the like.

"So you did find what you were looking for! That's great news, Ansel."

"What the hell are you talking about, Cal?"

The letter had been emotionally draining, to say the least. It had taken me back first to the day I had gone to prison, and then beyond, to the day this whole thing had first started. Cal's playful semantics were the last thing I had energy for at this point.

"You read the letter, Ansel. You weren't hoping to find anything on the pages, that much was clear. You feared their contents, obviously, and when you fear something, Ansel, you can in no way find the hope concerning it. You had hoped for the courage only to open the letters. You had hoped to look your fear in the face. And judging by the shredded top of that envelope right there, and the unfolded papers in your hand, I'd say you found what you had hoped for! It was more of a rhetorical question, I suppose."

He sure had a way. Not that I was used to it yet. That's what nine years in prison will do to a guy. Dull down his once sharpened ability to keenly pick up on the styles of different folks. Out here, we were all in different realities. On the inside, there was either one or none, depending on how you looked at the predicament. Nonetheless, he was right, I had found what I was looking for. The problem now was, it had only left me looking for other things, things that I didn't necessarily hope to find. Things that I feared, the same as I had in opening that first envelope, that Pandora of the past.

"Got us some grub. Claaaaam chowda! One of the richest pleasures of being at the foot of the Pacific. And you best be getting some of it in ya. You're shakin', Ansel."

That was the nice thing about Cal, I was finding. He could sense when I wasn't going to carry on the conversation. He could sense when it was time to stir things up, and when to lay them down.
As for the shaking, I looked down upon my trembling hands, the papers jittering excitedly in them, and I could not be sure why they were doing so. The long lack of food and proper rest could certainly have something to do with it. But as I looked upon them, both the letters and my hands, that is, I thought the shaking to be caused by something far worse than an impoverished body. I thought it to be fear as the cause. Fear of nothing in particular. And that was the point. Fear of what might come next. In the next of letters. With tomorrow's sunrise. With the rest of my days in this god-forsaken reality.

So I folded fear up. Folded up Clarity's fragmented past just as nice and neat as it'd been when I unfolded it, gently put it back in the envelope, put the envelope in the satchel with the rest.

"Get some of that in ya. Hell of a good meal. Hell of a lot better than that horse shit they were feeding us. And marginal horse shit at that!"

He handed me a to-go bowl and a plastic spoon, and immediately, the wafting scent of clams and spices and potatoes and all of the other wonderful ingredients in that bowl put the fear straight out of my mind. For how long? I did not know. Nor did I care, in that particular moment.
I took a big bite of the chowder, or 'chowda' as Cal's roughneck accent would have it, and held it on my tongue for quite a long moment. There was salt, and spice, and sweetness, and an obviously honest effort to combine them all in an enjoyable way. And, oh! How enjoyable it was.
I swallowed and quickly refilled my mouth with another generous bite. This one was filled of potatoes. Hearty potatoes. Steamed down long enough so that they'd mush with minimal effort. The combination of the potato mushing and the clam chewing and the thick broth slushing, it was all a rather incredible experience for my mouth.

As I consumed bite after bite, I thought back to the prison food. And oddly enough, I could not readily recall the tastes or the textures or the composition of the foods I had eaten. But it wasn't just the food. I could see myself eating in the cafeteria, but I could not recall the details of the cafeteria. There were fellow prisoners all around me, eating as well, but I could not recall any of their faces or names.

I tried to think back on prison in general, to that time of my life that had began nine years prior, and only ended just the morning before. I looked for my cell. For my three walls. For my barred doorway. For my bed. But I could not so clearly see the walls that I'd stared at hour after hour, day after day. And the between the bars of my cell door, I could not so quickly reconstruct the scene beyond. And as for the bed, the bed that I knew I'd spent 3285 nights struggling to sleep in, I could not feel the way my body had felt upon it.

Nine years I had spent in that place, though it now seemed as if it's entire existence had been a fuzzy dream. It wasn't like the way I could go back to that first time Clarity and I had crossed paths and relive the entire scene, as if it were happening just then. And then I realized something, that quite honestly, stirred up one of the most uncomfortable feelings I can imagine knowing. Those bites of chowda, those moments of taste and excitement, that memory of Clarity and the deer and that day, these were the first moments I'd really felt much of anything since that night. For nine unknown years, I hadn't really been much of anything at all. The world, hadn't been much of anything at all.

Worst of it all was, upon realizing this, I suddenly felt fairly certain that I wasn't ready for the world to be much of anything at all.

I looked over to Cal, he enjoyed his clam chowda, that much was certain. He had finished, his bowl sitting empty next to him, as he gazed out across the Pacific, the last of the surfers looking for one last wave to ride back toward solid ground. He was content. It was all over his face. He was alive. It was in his posture. Kicked back and at ease, his legs spreading out their full length on the rocks. By his account, he'd been locked away for over thirty-nine years. Thirty-nine. He was responsible for the death of two people. Two lives. Two lives. And he'd had nothing to do other than think about that, for thirty-nine years. I'd been in for a quarter of that time, and I was finding out that I no longer had any idea who or what I or the world was.

How could he be so pleasant, so sure of himself and the world around him? Did he not have a conscience? Was he not weighed down by the lasting consequences of his actions?

"How can you live with yourself?"

He continued to stare out to the endless west, seemingly unaffected by my question. There was a long pause, during which I angered slightly. Angered with his presence. His existence.

"Did you happen to catch the sunset, Ansel?"
He smiled as he spoke, which angered me further. Here we go. The Cal Run-Around. Only this time, I couldn't handle his bullshit.

"What? No, Cal, I didn't watch the fucking sunset. I was reading a letter. Now, I asked you a question, and a pretty damn important one at that."

Angry, I certainly was. And no longer in a slight fashion. It was the first time I'd actually gotten vulgar with Cal. And he didn't seem to care, which angered me further.

"I watched the sunset from the beach, over there just below those cliffs. I climbed down to it and found myself a nice and right soft spot on the sand just above the area where it was hard and wet from the breakin' waves. I sat there and I watched as this little corner of the world slowly turned its face away from that big ball'a fire. Same thing that happens once a day, everyday since there ever was a day. And I felt good, as I watched the sky turn from blue to yellow to orange to flaming red. It felt good, just watchin' time do it's thing to this place."

That was it. I wasn't going to spend my time with some callous old man that wasn't sorry at all. He disgusted me, still sitting there and grinning out into the void as if he never did have anything more desperate to fill his mind with than simple pleasantries. I stood, and began to leave, quickly walking east with purpose.

"Where are you going, Ansel?"

Now, of course now, there was some sign of concern in his voice. I didn't need to turn back to let it be known that me and Cal would be having nothing further to do with one another.

"I'm not going to sit around with some old fool, who's done the things you've done, and still thinks the world is all cake and ice cream."

"Well, what about these here letters? You're just going to leave them?"

I'd left the satchel next to my half eaten bowl of clam chowda, unintentionally. Damn.
I stopped walking and turned to see Cal now standing and facing my direction, the bag of letters dangling in the air below his grip on the strap.

I started back to get them, not planning to say a word during the exchange.

As I approached, Cal extended the bag in my direction, what his face was showing about his demeanor in the whole situation, I did not know as I intentionally avoided any unnecessary contact with him.

I arrived and hastily grabbed a low part of the shoulder strap, but Cal did not let go. I looked over into torridly intense eyes, just as he spoke with an equally intense tone seething out.

"Where are you going to go, boy?"

I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't, which I suspect he knew would happen all along.

"That's right. Who else is going to bring you a hot bowl'a clam chowda? Who else is going to understand you're more than a damn conviction? Who else is going to help you out, Ansel?"

Again, I had nothing to offer, because he was right, there was nothing else.

"Do not judge me, Ansel. You do not know me, just as I do not know you. Do not mistake our little exchange here for more than it has been. You don't see me firing off about the way your handlin' things, do you? Now for everything you seem to have assumed, I am not a bad man. Do you consider yourself to be a bad man, Ansel?"

I'd never really given it thought before. Truth was, I didn't know what the hell I thought of myself.

"I'm not sure what I'd consider myself to be."

"Well you wouldn't want someone makin' up their own opinion on what you are without proper consideration, and treatin' you so, would ya?"

"No, I suppose not."

I suddenly felt the difference in our ages. It was as if I were receiving a lecture. As if I had been wrong all along.

"Then get a hold of yourself and have a seat. You remember what I said yesterday? There isn't any place out there for people like us. We have to stick together."

He continued to burn right through me with his stone-hearted stare long after speaking, until I finally sunk to the ground. I no longer had any sort of take on Cal. This was the side of him I had not yet seen. A rough and tumble, 'don't mess with me' streak. I was suddenly a tad afraid of the man. But then he spoke, still in a direct manner, none of the curved prattle, but without the fiery tone.

"Now, here's the rest of what I was going to say, before you aimed at storming off into things you can't control. There have been a hell of a lot of nights in my life where I wasn't so happy about time just doin' its thing. There have been a hell of a lot of nights that found me and time the worst of enemies, matter'a fact.

So tonight when it was time, for time to do one of the things it does best, aesthetically speaking that is, when I had the freedom, the choice to sit back and enjoy time's company for once, you can bet your firecracker ass I did so. Does that mean I don't put in my time with the devil? Figurin' out just how ugly I am? Nah. I'll always put my time in. What you have to wrap your steamy little head around, Ansel, is that we've all got a past. Even all those folks who aint ever seen the bars. And the thing about havin' a past is, you can't have one without also havin' a bag full'a mistakes. And the thing about havin' a life, bein' a person, is, you can't do any of it without a past.

So everyone's made mistakes, Ansel. Everyone has regrets. Even those fool-roosters who'll tell you they have no regrets, nothing they'd like to go back and do differently, they're not weighing the whole lot of things.

Now, you've made a mistake or two. Some, you know, where the devil caught up with ya. And he said, 'you and me, we're gonna have a nice long talk about this.' And sure as the moon is comin' up just now, that's a conversation that you'll be hard pressed to ever find an end to. Sometimes, you see, we'll talk it out enough so as to find an end to the conversation. Once in awhile, we'll forget about the conversation altogether as time withers its relevance. More often than not, however, we just find a way to put the demons to rest each night, knowin' full well that one or two of 'em will stir up again, as likely as not, before the sun finds its way into the next day."

I found myself staring out into the darkening sky, to the low and deep red aura filling the smallest of portions of the black void on the western horizon. Listening to the crash of the swaying waters against the cliffs, chiseling them a new face fleck by fleck, moment by moment. By talking of the very demons that incessantly clawed at my surface, Cal had magically suppressed them back to the depths of my awareness.

Gradually, I came down out of the 'it all will make sense in time' cloud Cal had wrapped me into with his sensible, lyrical swaddling, and I took note of the chill of the nighttime November air, which in turn reminded me of the complicated mess life on the outside offered forth.

Where would we sleep?

How would we stay warm?

For what, would we rise with the sun on the next of mornings?

Conversations that, despite the topical unavailability of my psyche due to the devil's relentless calling, needed to be hashed out.

"You know, Cal, we can't stay here."

I hoped not to come off as too 'devil-may-care,' but indeed, he did care, very much so in fact, and we needed a place more to our own suiting than Sunset Cliffs in order to have it out with him.

"I know. But it was a destination that needed to be arrived at. For us both."

Always stoic, he seemed to know what was coming before I did.

"Where will we go?"

Clearly, there was no longer a need to play the game of 'who's in control here.' I was on Cal's terms, for now.

"To the Inland Empire. San Bernardino. There's a program there, that will set us up with jobs and temporary housing. Freedom is not, and will never be, free, Ansel."

On this, I had to disagree with Cal. Though I would say nothing, for I assumed that whatever it was he had done in 1969 that was more important to see through than to chase after the love of his life, must have been in the name of freedom. I had decided some time ago, some time before finding myself in prison, that I had never been free. That freedom was an illusion. We were all trapped, and always would be.

Tonight, it looked as though we would be heading back to prison.

It did not occur to me, at the time, to question how Cal had acquired our clam chowda dinners, or how it was that he had charmed a girl thirty years his younger into believing he'd lost two tickets for the Amtrack to San Diego, without any record of said tickets.

It was certainly true, right then as we stood to leave Sunset Cliffs, that I had handed control of my own fate over to Cal with two eyes closed. But what other choice had I been given?

Chapter 5 of the still untitled story. Enjoy!

Chapter 5
Southern California had never been a region I could claim to call home. At least not until it was forced upon me. For the entirety of my life, I had lived in a very different part of the country.

Not that it mattered. Once on the inside, I could have been anywhere in the world. Once on the inside, I was nowhere in the world.

The structures that hold our nation's offenders are of perfect design. The architecture is simple, with straight-edged corners, bare floors, perfectly smooth, uniform walls. Walls that trap sound, emotion, memory. Walls that haunt. Walls that muffle hope, dream, prosperity. Walls that negate. And so, once companioned with such a place, it is increasingly felt, day by day, the perfection of prison construct.

I would have very much enjoyed to never again visit a place of such misery.

Fate would ensure I did.
--*--
Where would I go from here? What would I do? Where would I sleep? How would I eat? What was supposed to happen next?

I knew not where the answers could be found. There was a place that might know. A place that might show me the way. I was not yet ready to enter that place.

The prison yard had been of a common set up. Square in shape, it provided the sharpest of corners and four perfectly straight border walls, three of which were formed from the high cement walls of the cell corridors, the other a woven tangle of sleek aluminum fencing topped of with a spiraling formation of the sharpest damn barbs one might ever come across. In the yard, there was nowhere to escape to, not even from the fellow do-wrongers. Through the fence, the only sight to be seen was another yard, full of light grey cement, and a final cement wall on the far side that formed a seemingly mocking reminder of my own personal entrapment. From time to time, I would catch myself yearning to dream of what lay beyond that final cement wall. Of what possibilities the world was entertaining at that particular moment. I never got around to dreaming, however. And it wasn't that final thick wall that got in my way, I could easily see through it, I could easily construct a setting for the world beyond. It was the barbs that hindered possibility. Each of the thousands of barbs had a sleek razor edge that faced up on the spiraling wire atop the high fence, a razor edge that met the bottom edge of the bard in the sharpest of points, with the point, quite presumably, looking straight back into the yard. And so every time I had that itch to think of something bigger, something better than the reality of prison, I arrived at the same end point each time. I would see myself setting free. Letting go of any and all weariness. Unraveling into a heated sprint across the prison yard, the entire time looking between the weaves of the aluminim fencing, past the expanse of cement yard, through the thick cement wall, and into the unknown, into infinite possibility. I would then see myself scaling the first fence with grace and ease, like a spider ascending the trunk of a tree. And finally, I would arrive at the barbs. And the barbs first slice open those spaces between my finers. And then my wrists, my forearms, my face, my torso. And I would lay atop the high aluminum fence in a horrificly tangled mess of blood and razor and pain and slow coming death. And I would look upon my shredded flesh and see the shredded possibilities of life. And just like that, the dream would be over. With each time this would occur, a violent shudder would run through my body in the aftermath, as if to shake out the wretchedly grotesque visions, and with the end of the visions always came the end of dreams. No place to escape in the yard, indeed, not even in the mind could one find their own terrain. The yard, as the entirety of the prison was, consisted of a simple design that served out a complex function. And that function was to keep every part of a criminal contained, including their mind.

--*--

From my place in the grass, I gazed out into the world, far beyond everything I had become familiar with over the course of the past five years. There were no longer any razor barbs to tear through my vision, through my interpretation of what I saw. And what I saw first were the colors. The clown-lip-red roof of a Mcdonalds that sat atop the hill up the east end of the street running parellel to the north end of the prison. The golden arches suspended high in the sky, shimmering bright in the high sun of mid-day. The flourescent pink of a plastic flamingo sitting in the miniscule yard of a house at the bottom of the hill, it's wings spinning round in wild fashion as the winds gusted through. The navy blue shutters and door trim of a house over to my west. The lush green of the grass beneath me.

My vision grew saturated with the colors, as if my eyes had lost the ability to filter incoming light, letting it instead burn my vision with radiant intensity. It had been so long since I'd seen anything so rich, so beautiful.

"Never did see a blade of grass such a green in the all of my life."

Cal. Still present. The bastard couldn't let a moment be a moment. I chose to ignore him, to no avail.

"Funny how things look different right about now. Who'da thought a damn yard flamingo could ever go and look so slick. Odd that people still actually put those tasteless things in their yards. One thing I didn't plan fixin' my sight on here in world of the new millenium."
How irritating! The geezer didn't seem to get it. I continued to ignore, instead focusing on the colors. The deep purple of a custom paint job on an old camaro sitting in one of the drives across the way. The browning of a dying palm next to the muscle car. Even the faded pale yellow of a seemingly abandoned house off to the west was gave off a cheerful feeling.

"Hope none of 'em have kids." He chuckled out the last few words, struggling to annunciate in his apparent amusement.

"What?" The question cut the air, coming out of me almost as sharp as the prison barbs.

"You know, hope none of those people across the street are payin' too much in rent. Being next to a prison and all. Next to all the 'danger.'"

Cal grinned wide while putting danger in finger quotes, his tone clearly sarcastic. I didn't bite on the humor.

"It's Southern California, Cal. One of the densest populations in the world. Where else are the people going to live?" I tried to brush him off, stating the facts plainly but something he had said was stricking a disturbing chord inside of me.

"You're right on that one, my boy. But it's fitting you know? If it wasn't odd, it wouldn't have a place here. I mean come on. They condemn people like us. Label us. Stereotype us. Fear us. Lock us up all nice and heavy. And yet, here they are, those same people, getting burgers from McDonalds a couple hundred feet away from a few thousand of us dangerous folk. It's straight silly. Makes no sense.

People like us.

"What do you mean by 'people like us.'" I asked, although I already knew the answer. It was not something I wanted to accept.

"Come on, Ansel. You're a criminal. You're a convict. And now, you're an ex-con. And I have some rough news for you, friend. People who have never been a criminal consider it far worse to be an ex-con, rather than just a criminal, or even a con. Because now that you're an ex-con, you're out there with them, eating with them, walking with them, and hell, god forbid, interacting with them! Face it, there's no place out here for people like us."

People like us.

People like Cal?

People like me?

I'd never considered the implications of reentering the world as something other than just...whatever it was that I was. Something other than the person I identified with on the inside. I found it hard to comprehend the consequences of such a complexity. No matter what I did from here on out, no matter where I went, or how I felt about myself, no matter what it was I thought I was from now on, I would always be something more, something....issued. More than anything, the most important part of who I was, until the day I died, and perhaps even beyond that day, would be the record that told of my time served.

What was the point of being freed?

Why should I desire to reenter a world no longer my own?

He must have sensed my perplexion.

"A long time ago, I was thinking many of the same things I suspect your turning over in your head right about now. It was fairly early on in my sentence. Probably a couple years in. One night, I got to thinking about the things that would be buried with my body when I was laid to rest. You know, all that time on your hands, in that place, it'll get you considering things that would otherwise be far off in the back of your head. Anyways, I thought of some nice things that I hoped would end up with me. Maybe the engagement ring I'd purchased but never presented to the love of my life. Obviously a forever-lost opportunity once I'd been thrown the book. Maybe she'd show up to say goodbye one last time. A picture of me and my Ma. You know, a final momento of the woman, long laid to rest herself, that gave me life. Some other things from my active years. And then at the end of this whole sequence, I was picturing my casket in the hollow grave, nicely finished wood, shiny brass handles, curved trim; and it actually looked a hint beautiful as the first shovels of dirt slid off the smooth surface of my final resting spot, which is kind of pathetic I suppose, but you can sympathize I'm sure. A fitting, well-executed end doesn't sound so dark when your locked away with nothing else to really imagine for life."

He paused and looked intently in my direction, as if watching the depth of his self-described end sink into me. In that moment, as I looked back at him with softened eyes, I actually felt half bad for the fella. It seemed as though he were nothing more than a sad and guilty old man.

"I'm sorry, Cal, but that really has nothing to do with what I've been thinking."

"Well that's because I'm not quite finished just yet. You see, as I watched those first shovels of dirt fall away, as I watched the backs of the people who'd decided to attend my final tribute receed away from the grave site, a shadowy figure dropped a final belonging down into the grave. A piece of paper came to rest atop the casket, and I recognized it as a copy of my criminal record. A detailed description of my conviction, my time served, and my release. And there was only that single conviction, no more. But that one mistake, that specific moment of my life that lead to thirty eight plus years in prison, came back to haunt me one final time, for eternity. And I realized, right then and there on that night, in that cell of mine, that even if I did live to see my sentence through, I'd never be just me for the rest of my days. I'd be a piece of paper that told so much more about who I was than I could ever convey otherwise. And that is why, my friend, there is no place out here for people like us. No matter who you think you are. No matter how you feel about yourself and your life. No matter who you come across, you will always be an ex-con first. That is why I so readily took purpose in you and your situation. It's us. Me and you. And that's it. The rest of the world, it's no longer ours."

I understood the meaning in his words. I felt the meaning in his words.

As I sat there on that grass, no longer confined to the perfectly functioning do-wrongers body trap and mind bomb, not yet anywhere beyond it, I understood that I was between worlds, perhaps forever. It was not the physical matter that trapped me between places. It was a state of existence. Something deeper than feeling, deeper than description. A place entirely new to me.
As I started to see myself in this new light of being, I, for the first time, actually saw Cal. He'd been there all along, from the moment I'd stepped foot into this new place free of metal and cement bondage, but I had, in some way, chosen not to embrace his presence. He was present now, however. He'd found a way to connect with me. To help me. To force me to accept things for what they were, and more importantly, what they were going to be. I looked upon him as his own existence for the first time, and saw the deep history within. He was withered, as a flower in the bone-dry heat of a mid-summer's afternoon. His skin was rough, and permanently stained a darker shade of human by, presumably, many years exposure to the unforgiving rays of the sun. Wrinkles found there way into all of the smooth spots of the body a much younger and more fortunate soul might take for granted. His face was at ease as he stared off in blankness, most likely still taken back to that life defining night in his cell, yet the wrinkles of his forehead, and at the outer corners of his eyes, and his lower cheeks, and his neck, they all remained quite noticeable. His eyes were a dark shade of green, hardly visible as their lids lay low in the intense afternoon light. Long and flowing dark brown hair, streaked with silver, complemented his self-imposed label of ' The Last Hippy.' He was tall with a thin yet solid stature. Greying eyebrows went well with his greying beard, which had gone untrimmed for quite some time. It too, flowed, ever so slightly, in the winds of the day. Although weathered, if not weary, he held a radiance about him, perhaps a product of his seemingly confident understanding of the world's understanding of him. He looked, I just then realized, like a man you'd find it a pleasantry to hold a conversation with. He looked like a man who had seen things. Big things. Important things. He looked a man that had some knowing that needed to be known.

As I sat next to this new presence in my life, this man going by the name of Cal, I found myself to be glad to have him with me. Quite a comfort it was, I thought, to be anything but alone in a place of existence reserved for those deemed deserving of a lonesome one.

"Cal..."

"Yeah, friend?"

"I'm sorry for the way I was earlier."

"Nothing to be sore at, Ansel. Nobody said it was going to be an easy ride. And if they did, I am sure and certain that they were severly mistaken."

"Cal, do you think we were meant to go through this together?" I wasn't certain I believed in destiny or fate or that type of thing at all, but a small part of me, in this particular moment, hoped it to be the case.

"I think that we're here now, you and me. And I'm thinking you don't want to go through this alone. So then, I suppose my answer ought to be: does it even matter?"

He was right. Whether it were predetermined, or a random situation of luck, we had started out on this thing together. And the reality of it all was, it was a damn good thing. Perhaps the best damn thing.

"So, where do we go from here, Cal?"

"You, my friend, can't go anywhere without doing something about those there envelopes. Pretty sure you need to figure that out more than just about anything right now."

I had forgotten, for a moment, of the envelopes. Of everything, both wonderful and terrible in nature, they might embody. I had forgotten of the reasons for my current situation in life. And of who I was because of it. Of who I might be forever. I had forgotten, that the answers to all of my questions, the solutions to all of my problems, may or may not be right there with me. I had forgotten just how terrified I was of opening them. Of reopening that part of my life. Of opening up into her.

"Not here."

"Why not? We have nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. Why don't you just go on and get it over with, Ansel?"

The reasons were complex, some of them selfish on my part. But one stood out as being for reasons other than my own interests. And that was the only reason that really mattered.

"Because. She wouldn't have wanted it to be this way. In this place."

I thought of her, right then and there. Of the way she liked things to be. Of her tastes for life, for her own reality. Of her desire to take me with her, along for her spectacular ride. It was the least I could do after all that I had already done, I thought, to open her letters in a setting she'd have been happy in.

"I know of a place we can go. A place you can be alone. A place far better than this one here.
What do you say?"

What choice did I have?

"I say, how will we get there?"

"Are you ready, Ansel, to once again break the law?"

I was fairly certain that I caught his drift. It was the only option we had. Just like they say in the studies and the papers and on the news. Offenders are much more likely to repeat if they have nothing positive to focus on when reintroduced to society. And I was quite certain, then and there in those last moments on the grassy patch outside of the prison, outside of my haunting home of the past five years, in those last moments between such contrasting worlds, such contrasting realms of possibility and eternity, I was quite certain that life had nothing good in mind for me.

"Let's get on with it." I was blunt and let Cal know that this was the way it was going to be.

"Follow me."