Drive

I know I should use the brake more often when I am driving down the mountain. Yet, I don’t. I wade into the turns with full abandon; I move from the yellow line to white line to match the curves of the road. My body is flush with adrenaline. My hands tremble has they lightly grasp the wheel. The Dropkick Murphy’s blare through the speakers of my car. It does nothing to abate my recklessness. While I am attempting to catch my nadir with my car, I can see out of the corner of my eye that the mid-day sun is causing the water falling off the jagged rocks to glisten.

Why I have not been writing about work lately. . . .

Ambimb at PD Stuff wrote an article entitled, “Blogging PDs: A dying art?” where he (as an aside, I don’t know if ambimb is a guy or a gal, but I am just using the generic “he” pronoun here) writes about the decline in Public Defenders that blog about their daily experiences both in and out of the courtroom.

I know that I have not written any real entries about my experiences at work recently. One reason is that the District Attorney in my circuit found out about my journal and has been reading it on a somewhat regular basis. I wondered about how this revelation would affect my ability to write about what happens in my little corner of the world. However, a more pressing reason has prompted me to give pause as to whether it is even safe for me to write about my experiences in the criminal justice system.

A Public Defender in Illinois faces disciplinary problems with the Illinois State Bar for the blog that she maintained. You can read the article here. It does pose an interesting ethical problem. Scott H. Greenfield at Simple Justice maintains the position that this is a no-brainer: Don’t blog about cases, clients, judges, et cetera. While I understand Mr. Greenfield’s position, I do agree with ambimb’s lament that the Public Defender community would lose a great resource if we were not able to communicate any meaningful aspect of our experiences with each other and the general populace. I will not opine what is the right answer or if there is one in this situation. Furthermore, it does not address the real reason why I haven’t been writing about work lately.

To be blunt, I have lost my “voice.”  This year has brought a number of upheavals to my world to where I feel like a termite in a wooden yo-yo. I don’t know if I am coming or going. It has brought my paradigm of the world tumbling down like a house of cards. So, I have been sorting through the rubble and trying to find what is worth salvaging and what I need to leave behind. Nevertheless, I do know one thing, and it is that I like to write. I will have to get back into the habit of it someday.

A Lament

You have been here before. It is the point where your humanity shattered into a number of pieces like that of a broken vanity mirror. In fact, you have been here a number of times. Let’s see there was the loss of your grandfather, the loss of your innocence, the loss of your mind, the loss of your grandmother, the loss of your niece, the loss of your idealism, the loss of true love, and the loss of your sense of immortality. Until now, you have reformed the pieces of your broken psyche in the forge of hate, anger, and rage. Yet, you know that you can only go to that well only so often, and this time, the well is dry or is it that the furnace has only a few smoldering embers left? Either way, you cannot utilize it anymore. You are too old; your body is worn and has born a heavy toll from the abuse that others and you have imposed on it. So, where do you go from here? Everything on Earth goes somewhere. Your place is not here. However, I am curious. Why did it take the loss of a childhood friend, and not the loss of your own flesh & blood that finally caused you to face the reality that you cannot rely on the promises of an illusory redeemer?

I know that I have been here before. The smell of failure, disappointment, and disillusionment are strong here, and I am fully familiar with them. They have been embedded in my mind from an early age. You are right. I cannot go on like this anymore. To quote a tune from years ago, “Master, Master, where’s the dreams that I’ve been after? Master, Master, you promised only lies.” I have believed in that false prophet for too long. I have seen death of acquaintances, family, and friends over the last few years. I cannot give you a good reason why the death of this person has affected me so much more than the loss of my grandmother, my kin, and my baby niece. I am ashamed to admit that there is only one that comes to my mind. It is selfish, and childish, especially when I try to cultivate the idea and the image that I am a man. I am scared. I am scared of dying. It reminds me of the terror that I felt when my humanity first broke back many moons ago, during that nightmare at my grandmother’s home when Papa Partain died. Also, I am scared that “Death and destruction is all in your mind; Could hell be the place for the peace you must find.”

Okay, you are scared of dying. Big deal. Everyone is scared of dying. Despite of what everyone tries to tell you, no one knows what happens to us when we die. That is no excuse why you have relied so long on anger & hatred, and it does not explain why now you have decided to forsake it to find a new path. Quit rambling. You do it too much. While it may be endearing to some, it rather quite annoying in this culture of instant gratification. Defend yourself.

Okay. I will try to be brief. “I always knew what the right path was. Without exception, I knew. But I never took it. You know why? It was too damn hard.” To blame others, to be angry at the world, to engender hatred at others was the easier path. I have known this for a number of years. However, I did not want to believe it. To do so, would require me to admit something that I really do not like to do: That I am wrong, and that I do not know what the hell I am doing. How is that for brevity?

Wow. Not quite pithy, but I am impressed. So, you have not answered my question of why now and where do you go from here?

Why now? With the loss of my childhood friend, I have hit this “brick wall” once too many times, and I am tired of hurting myself. Furthermore, it reminds me that the connections that matter the most to me have been crumbling down like the walls of Jericho. I want to spend the remaining days, months or years of my life in the company of the people that know me and that cared about me when I had nothing to offer other than myself. Where I do go from here? I do not know. I would hope that my path will lead me to an eternal reward is with that of Papa Partain, Granny, Papa Jones, Kim, and Maddie, but I do not know. While I have felt the rapture of salvation, and I have smelt the stench of brimstone and sulfur, I know that the love and the blood have worked for me, but my faith is smaller than that of a mustard seed. Nevertheless, I believe, and I hope that it is enough. Isn’t that what faith is made of, which is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen?

Great, you are worried about your immortal soul. So that makes you better than the most of America and the world. But to paraphrase Master Yoda, all your life have you looked away… to the future, to the horizon. Never was your mind on where you were. Answer my question. Where do you go from here?

I do not know.

A satisfactory answer, but just barely.

Why haven’t you gone into private practice?

With the mania of college football gone, these are dull days until the baseball seasons starts anew. These are days where I start to think about the things that are important in life. One such matter is whether I should remain a Public Defender.

Last night, a local at Loco’s was amazed that I was working at a job that paid me less than he paid his drivers. This sentiment is nothing new to me. I have been told a number of times by family & friends that I should go into private practice.

Yet, after I gave the matter much thought, I came to the same conclusion as I have done before. I like being a public defender. A reason why I like being a PD goes back to my high school days when I met Ms. Melvin.

I was in the 10th grade. I was in 2nd semester typing class. I realized on the first day that I was not able to get over 35 wpm. Since I had plans to go to college, I could not have a poor grade or a failing one in this class. Thus, I made the decision to withdraw from the class. I went to my counselor, and she told me only class that was “Street Justice.” While she had concerns about me being in the class, she approved my transfer into the class.

Now, just a little aside is needed here. It is 1989. I had a mullet. I was into metal music. I had the act down pat or as much as a poor-boy / dork could have it down. I look back on those days with a sense of humor & WTF? Nevertheless, back on that fateful day, I was wearing my Metallica “…And Justice For All” t-shirt.

Mrs. Melvin was the teacher of this class. To describe her to y’all, will require me to invoke an image from an old Warner Bros. Cartoon. Mrs. Melvin reminded me of “Prissy,” the skinny hen that was in love with Foghorn Leghorn. However, Mrs. Melvin had more personality & more nerve than that cartoon hen.

Anyhow, here I come into her class with more attitude than sense. She took one look at me, and sighed as if she was thinking, “not another knucklehead for me to set straight.” Plus, the only seat left in her class was in front of her podium. So, she had to see my mug everyday for the remainder of the semester. Yet, over the semester, I found my passion in life in that class, the law. However, only now, do I realize that my calling to be a PD had its genesis in that class.

I don’t know what Mrs. Melvin was paid as a teacher, but Lord knows that it was not enough to put up with unruly, arrogant, and self-righteous children like me. Yet, she did do it. She provided guidance, love, and insight to a number of children as if they were her own. Her devotion to us has rubbed off on me to be devoted to those less fortunate, even if it does not provide a great monetary reward.

I will not lie to you and claim that I’m a PD for life. I subscribe to the ideal that the future is not set, and that I’m open to new opportunities. However, I feel and believe that I’m where I belong.

The Last 48 hours in Vegas

To be honest, a good portion of the last forty-eight hours of my trip in Vegas is kind of a blur. I am doing my best to piece it together from the fragments of my mind. So, here goes nothing.

First off, let’s talk about the “THE DARK KNIGHT.” With only a few foibles, this is what a comic book superhero movie should be. I will not reveal any of the plot to y’all, but I will tell you this, Heath Ledger’s deception of the Joker clearly shows why the Joker is such a dangerous psychopath. M, J and I had to go to Red Rock Casino near the mountains to see the movie. It was utter insanity to get into the movie, even with pre-purchased tickets off the internet. The only seats that were left in the theatre were done in front. Even at this crappy angle, the movie was a miracle to behold. This movie will win some Oscars for the cinematography and stunts alone, and you can take that to the bank.

One of the allures of Las Vegas is gambling. Gambling is everywhere in this town from the gas stations, the grocery stores, the bars, and anywhere else you can think of people. I did not want to gamble while I was in Vegas because I did not want to become one of the mindless tourist drones that would sit at a machine or a table for minutes, hours, and days on end. And trust me bojack, there were quite of few of these characters at Red Rock Casino when we got there for “THE DARK KNIGHT” and when we left. To be honest, it was damn scary seeing people exist like that while I was on vacation.

Saturday was “X-Mas in July” at a bar near where M & J lived. Women in bikinis, cheep beer, and house prizes. From my cell phone pics, and the account from J was that I did the following: a.) I drank about five beer steins (22 oz to 32 oz) full of beer and five jello shots, b.) was talking and hitting on most of the women that worked at this bar, and c.) talked a lot in general. My memory of that night is fragmented, at best, and at worst, shot.

I would not recommend being hung over and taking a four hour airplane flight, especially with very little on your stomach and five hours of sleep. AirTran is a great airline with some beautiful flight attendants. I think if it was not for them and the five Sprites that I drank on the way home, I would have vomited on the plane and made a spectacle of myself.

I have some other random observations about Vegas, but I will save them for a later time. Fast Times at Ridgemont High is coming on. “What are you, people? On dope?” – God, I love me some Mr. Hand and Jeff Spicoli.