On Beards

I didn't tell you that I grew a beard! It is very exciting. I am saving many dollars on razors, shaving foam, and aftershave. People grow beards for a lot of reasons. For me, there is the financial one, sure, and it is also helpful in keeping my face warm when I go outside. It is funny to look in the mirror and see yourself with a crazy beard and wonder, for a split second, who is that crazy bearded guy? But it is just me, the same old Curt.

My beard is very gray, which makes me feel a little old. I had thoughts of dyeing it, but of course that would negate the financial benefits. The other day a small girl thought I was Santa Claus, but I pointed to my sad butter-deprived belly and told her Santa could never be so skinny. Suddenly realizing I was a stranger, she ran.

I would like to find a way to dye it, if it wasn't cross prohibitive. Maybe red, or blue, or jet black, People could call me "Redbeard", or whatever's appropriate. I think I would like that.

Dear Homes,

Hi, it's me, Curt. I don't know why I didn't think of writing this letter sooner. Life outside of prison seems to move a lot faster than it does inside of prison. It's been over a year since my release. Can you believe it? Remember when we had dish duty together? Those were the days. Those were the days you spoke and I listened to what you were speaking. And how much I learned! And how much you spoke! All the wisdom you imparted unto me and how you encouraged me to write. Rock and a hard place. That's where I was. I was so angry. I was so sad. You took away the rock, or the hard place, and I entered into another world, one in which all the rocks and hard places were supple mounds and soft slabs of butter! Butter, butter, butter!

So much has happened. And so little, too. I don't know if you would be proud, or disappointed with the progress I've made. It seems like progress is but a circular path. I hope I'm wrong. You would tell me that I was wrong. You would say, "Curt, even the planets do not travel the same path around the sun, and around and around they go. Around." And I would think about that in my cell, late at night, of the planets moving around and around the sun.

One thing I didn't expect, Homes, was to hurt so much once I'd left prison. That was silly of me, wasn't it? The death of Stella, my beautiful dog. My life coach, Rick, and former chess buddy, Bailey. The jobs I've had and lost and regained again. Warden. Regrette.

I miss you, Homes. But I know I won't be able to see you for a very long time. I hope you are teaching someone else, speaking, and I hope this someone is listening. Always listening and thinking about what was said in his prison cell, late at night, when it is quietest. I want to help people, Homes. I want to be a Homes outside of prison. A Curt.

What do you think about that?
I think you would say, "Curt, I think you understand. Turn on the faucet. Let the water run."

Best,
Curt G. Jimenez

Save Yourself

I went down to the drugstore down the street to get some aspirin and to try to warm up a bit (my apartment is brrrrr cold!) when I saw this magazine, with a picture of a young man just getting out of prison. Of course, it reminded me of when I got out of prison, and the things I wished I had known back then. If only present day Curt Jimenez could warn fresh-out-of-prison Curt Jimenez of the mistakes he would soon be making in rapid succession. I know that's impossible, but it led me to thinking that maybe I have an obligation to help others who are being dumped out into society with a serious mountain to climb. Think about it--who will employ this Lil' Wayne? Especially now that his face is on the cover of a major magazine, and now everyone will know he is a convict. I know, I have my own problems, but I empathize. Could there be work for me, helping ease convicts back into society? Of course, I would have to overcome my communication deficits. And it might be a difficult sell that I should serve as a role model of success after prison.

But what if?

I shouldn't not try, right?

It's an idea, anyways.

Homes gave me the best advice I got from anybody about what my life would be after prison. "It's a dog-eat-dog world out there for everybody," he told me, "and an ex-con ain't even a dog." Then he gave me one of his I'm-so-serious-you-don't-even-know stares.

I guess he was right.

How a Logger Gives a Gift

Guy found a place to live. He packed his things and moved down the street. Before he returned the copy of keys I'd given to him earlier, he handed me this book. It wasn't wrapped up or anything--Guy is not that kind of person. I'm not going to lie. I teared up just a bit and Guy might have too.

"It's clear to me that you're pretty serious about butter," he said.

"Very serious," I said.

After Guy left, the apartment was very still. I miss Guy and Regrette and Warden. But, it has been a very long time since I've been in a room, alone. "A room to myself," Homes would say. "That's what I want the most and want not the most."

I flipped through the book.
I heard every page.

Where have I been? What have I been doing?

Despite the rumors, I am not dead. I am not sad nor am I lonely. I am not mad. I am not even very busy.

This is what I've been contemplating:

When you start on a long journey, trees are trees, water is water, and mountains are mountains. After you have gone some distance, trees are no longer trees, water no longer water, mountains no longer mountains. But after you have travelled a great distance, trees are once again trees, water is once again water, mountains are once again mountains.

This was said to me by someone who was studying the Zen teachings. It reminded me of: "The past and the future. The future. The past. The future and the past."

I am here. I have not left you. Guy is here too. He says Hello.