E112-3 Parole Life Expand

C106-2 My experience at a Pennsylvania monastery and men’s retreat and how it relates to my present day affairs

While my story is filled with all sorts of issues and elements, this particular article will discuss a time in my life where I was in the “Parole System”.

When I was “retired” from three decades in the MAJ (which is a branch of the ONI) under the United States department of the Navy, I was placed under the control of the Arkansas state prison system. Also known as “the ADC”.
And under that system, I was accused, tried, convicted, and sent off to be a “sex offender” working at hard labor.

I spent roughly two years in the hot Arkansas sun and then was granted parole. This is the story of that brief period of time. Roughly two years in duration, before I returned back to the ADC to finish my sentence

In my darkest days while I was still in the Prison system, I was granted parole under very rigid limitations on everything that I could do. Parole is a good thing. We all wanted it. It was the “rehabilitation” portion of our prison sentence.
While “hard labor” was the punishment phase.

Parole can ONLY be granted to a relative or a close friend (with no criminal background). Barring that, you can be sent to a “half way” house. That is, as long as you are not a “sex offender”.

I had one option. My father.

And he gladly took on that role, and welcomed me into his house. He did so under the objections of my step-mother who grudgingly went along with the arrangement.

Under parole my freedom was severely curtailed.

I couldn’t have a cell phone, or be near one. I couldn’t go to a restaurant that served alcohol, nor could I apply for a job that had access to a telephone, computer, printer, or camera. And I couldn’t watch any movies unless it was “G” rated.
Any violations would cause me to go right back to prison.

It’s very difficult as a “sex offender” because not only are you a undesirable felon, but the non-stop anti sex offender barrage on the media turned you into a shunned leper.

After about four months living at my long-retired father’s house (He was in his late 70’s at the time.), his wife (my step mother) decided that I was a “grown adult” and kicked me out of the house. I tried to explain that my parole was contingent on living with my father.
But she didn’t care. She no longer wanted me there.

I was part of his “old life” and his “old wife” and I was a constant reminder of that.

She would have no part of it.

My father, and you know I must give him credit, put up a cursory defense on my behalf. But the situation was unstable, and I was escorted out of the house with my meager belongings in a small suitcase.

I was kicked out on Christmas eve. (Again, long time MM readers will recognize the significance of this event.) And that is how I spent my Christmas in 2007.

Not just losing my jobs on Christmas eve, over and over, and over again, but also getting kicked out of the house as well. Sigh.

Aside from being a total dick about the entire thing, she made pronouncements that she wanted me to rot in prison, get raped in prison, and have my life totally and utterly destroyed. And that she hoped that she could make this happen personally.

I well remember telling her that “Oh, you are just angry. You don’t mean what you are saying.”

To which she replied. “Oh, yes I do. I know exactly what I am saying and exactly what I want.”

(To make a long story short) I ended up in a “flop house” for until after Christmas when the Parole staff could deal with my case.

The entire staff at the parole office were all celebrating the holidays, don’t you know.

So I had to wait in a limbo state. Locked in a room. I called the 1-800 hot line which instructed me to go to the designated address and stay inside the room and do not leave for any reason until they would get back to work after the holiday.

Eventually they came back from holiday. Picked me up in a van, and hauled me off to a monastery to live.

Actually, it was a really good thing. But at the time I knew nothing about it and was petrified.

Anyways, my father came to visit me while I sat alone in that bare hotel room. All the light bulbs were burnt out, so I opened the blinds to let the street light illuminate the room.It was a pretty dismal hotel room.
It had a very tiny commode in the corner with a beaded curtain separating it from the room, and a old black and white television with “rabbit ears” on the top that didn’t work.

My father sat down on the lumpy bed while I sat on the low 1940’s style chair with mattress springs that jut up from below. He tried to explain his situation, while acknowledging (all the time repeatedly) that his wife was being a horrible bitch to me.
But really, he was old and really wasn’t able to handle all the discord.

I understood his situation.

I really did.

This was his life, his family, and I was not wanted by his wife, and he (at his age) did not need the strife and aggravation.

But, I did tell him the truth. I told him what the parole officers told me. that he was incapable of being a “guardian” for me during parole. That he was not behaving like a father.
That they were not behaving like a functional family, and there was no way that that environment was healthy for me.

He failed.

He lied to the parole board.

He promoted himself as a good father, and a loving and nurturing home for me to recover and start the long road towards rehabilitation. But the parole office disagreed.
Real functional families do not kick family members out of the house, and they most certainly do not do so under the conditions and situation that I was in. Frankly, I was a “basket case”.
You don’t go from white-collar professional to slave laborer in the deep South surrounded with urban blacks, SA’s and other misfits of society.

And he didn’t like to hear it, and told me that he was going to have a “word with them on my behalf”.

I told him not to bother. The decision was already made.

And then the next day, he visited me crestfallen. And he just repeated what they told me. In fact, they suggested that he and his wife go to couples counseling, and see a sociologist to straighten out their dysfunction.

All of which was a major slap in his face.

Anyways, both he and his wife passed on. (They died. My father in late December 2008) and my step-mother sometime in 2010. All I really want to do is to give some background to the situation at hand.

For me, it was a dark night of soul. And I sat there awaiting my next form of incarceration. I went from Jail to Prison, to Parole, and now was facing some kind of rehabilitation camp in the deep forests of Pennsylvania.

I didn’t know what to expect.

I was very down and pretty gloomy and my father tried to cheer me up. He said that he was never in my shoes, and did not know what it was like to lose everything, go to a hard labor prison, and then be scorned and rejected by family…

…but he said, that he knew that eventually all this would end. I would will exit it stronger and a better person.

But you know, I didn’t want to hear any platitudes. I didn’t want to hear any excuses. He failed me. And nothing he could say could comfort my crumpled and broken heart.
And I certainly didn’t want the sympathy from a person who offered words instead of physical and tangible assistance.

But he was right.

It took a long time. A damn long time.

It took some time to adjust to, and I had to really adapt and configure things, but eventually I thrived inside the monastery. And then when I exited it and was able to live inside a joint men’s home as part of my parole I was doing better, and I was stronger.

Other parolees, that were “sex offenders” were not doing so well. They tried to adapt to their life before prison, and were having problems. They just couldn’t do it.

I knew their stories because state law mandated that I attend a three hour long counseling session every week to help us readjust back to society as fourth-rate citizens. You know; the “slave class”. Or better yet; “The destitute class”.

Work

They tried to find work as accountants, plumbers, doctors, dentists, managers and other white-collar professions. And simply couldn’t find work. No one would hire them. But they still kept at it, day in and day out.
As far as I know (from the circle that I communicated with) no one was ever able to return to their former professions.

But, I was a little different. I knew that I couldn’t work as an engineer or a manager. We used computers, all the time. No one would hire me with that kind of limitation. So, I applied for the jobs that no one wanted.
I scrubbed bathrooms. Cleaned up murder crime scenes, I cleaned toilets, I scrubbed up vomit, dug out sewers and hauled trash. I did the dirty and grimy work that no one wanted to do.

Transportation

They (the other parolee “sex offenders”) tried to get a car to get around in, but being a “sex offender”, and parolee, the best they could do is get a “junker”, a “clunker” and pay in cash.
And as a result it was like riding in a ratty old junk yard that was forever breaking down.

But I was different. I bought a used bicycle, and rode it everywhere. It was good exercise, healthy, and fun. And cost nothing to drive, and never broke down. And because it was old, and ugly, no one wanted it. So it was never stolen.

Loneliness

Right off the bat just everyone got a girlfriend, but I have always been choosy. Much to my personal lament (when I look back in my memories).
And while I had opportunity to make some new friends, and started to get involved with some of them, I quickly realized that there was some kind of quanta “stuff” that was sticking to me that attracted all kinds of negative people to me.
Most of which were double and triple trouble. And in our weekly counseling sessions, the other parolees would lament their relationship complexities.

I shied away from women. I got a cat. His name was Coco. He was black. And he was easy to take care of, was there when I was lonely. And was so very happy to see me.

Food

Many of my fellow parolees were living with a girlfriend, and this involved all sorts of drama. For meals, most tended to eat out more than their meager budgets would allow, and when they did eat out, they would eat cheap and fast food.
Often burgers, fried chicken, or what ever cheap food could be bought in bulk. All heavily laden in sugar, super-processed, and often deep fried.

I sponsored a formal sit-down meal in our jointly shared home. Everyone contributed to the pantry, and we all took turns making dinner.
The rule was simple, the person would choose the meal, but it had to have a main dish, and two sides, and that we would all sit down and eat it together. Lunches were on our own, as were breakfasts, and for me, I frequently obtained “subway sandwiches” for lunch.

And all, in all, I did much better than my parolee peers.

This article / podcast is for people who are having trouble coping with their situation in life. And (of course) everyone is different, and I can offer no hard direction.
I can tell you all that how you deal with the situation that you are in, will determine how successful you will be in moving out of that situation.

Keep in mind that the situation that you are in now is TRANSITIONAL.

You are moving from one OLD LIFE to a NEW LIFE.

Much like a caterpillar goes into chrysalis to be come a butterfly. This period of time in your life is that chrysalis.

It is not a passive time.

It is a time of activity.

So STOP thinking about what you were before. And stop thinking about what your life is now. Look forward to what you will become. And I gave you all the tools. You WILL become it. I fucking promise you.

How you handle and deal though this transitional period will define what your new life will become.

This is an example. This is a true example, it’s the real deal, but many people will not be able to relate to it because it is so personal.

After I left the monastery I was living in a shared men’s house, and working as a midnight to 4am housekeeper / janitor.

I had enough money to make rent, pay for meals, and utilities and a lot of time on my hands in the daytime. In fact, I only worked four hours a night, and everything was taken cared for. No one bothered me. So I scrubbed toilets, and showers. Big deal.
It was an easy life and no one bothered me.

During the day time I would ride my bicycle along the city streets of Erie, Pennsylvania, check out and visit the beaches and just go home and paint. I read a lot. I practiced my art. I wrote poetry, learned Chinese and enjoyed life.

Many of my other fellow parolees were constantly embroiled in relationship issues, substance issues, and going in and out with the seedier and bad groups of people that frequented our neighborhood.

I just kept focused.

Anyways, everyday I had a routine where I would ride my bicycle to the library, and read for a spell, then grab a “subway sandwich” (which is a long sandwich full of cold-cuts and vegetables) and then ride back home.

While I did this, I had a iPod full of music that I would listen to. Most of which were Korean, Japanese and Chinese with a healthy mix of 70’s rock, Country and Western, and Reggie.

And this is the song that I listened to the most, when I was riding my bike at that time. It set the pace for my life-transition. I purposely filled my life with happy up-beat music. Even if I didn’t speak the language.
And you can well imagine the looks of the passersby as I sang in Japanese as I rode my bicycle through town.

And doing so…

I filled myself with upbeat, positive music.

And sometimes I rode with tears running down my face. It was not always easy. In fact, it was often very, very difficult.

Obviously the song is in Japanese. But here is what it is all about. It’s about taking on the world with a good, and great attitude. And this is what I filled myself day in and day out was I went through this transitional period.
And as I have said, imagine me, an older guy in his 50’s, pedaling around on a bicycle with ear buds and singing in Japanese along the empty residential streets…

And I would ride to my house, and my cat Coco would run up to me. So very happy to see me.

What kind of new day is waiting for me…

…I’ve shown you all what my life is like.

Have faith. Grit and hold on. Adapt and cope. YOU WILL MAKE IT.

I believe in you.

If you are experiencing hardship, that MEANS that you are in transition.

The size of the discomfort is equal to the magnitude of change. If you are a MM follower and you are experiencing discomfort, then recognize that you are in chrysalis. This is a good thing.

What you will eventually become…

…is determined how you adapt to the chrysalis phase.

I made up a podcast and placed it here. My app that links the podcast to the articles suddenly became a for-profit venture (after my “free trial”) and will delete all my existing podcasts unless I pay them healthy piles of money every month.
Meanwhile, they were never able to really host the videos. They never were able to stream to MM as promised.

Never the less, here’ my podcast. Please watch and download. Then check out the rest of this article below.

Well, that job that I had being a janitor eventually ended.

A new person was put in charge of the program (that employed us felons in transition), and she would not have any “sex offenders” working for her.It was her decision, and she had the power to implement her desires.

She let me and a few other sex offenders go as well. Of course, not with the excuse that we were “sex offenders”. No. That would be illegal.

She came up with other excuses.

Each one of us were fired with a different excuse.

One “sex offender” was fired for “stealing the trash bags” that we used when emptying the trash. She claimed that of the 1000 bags that we used, there were ten or fifteen missing and she blamed him.

One “sex offender” was let go for taking too long a break at 2am. Apparently she called his work location at 2:25am and they answered the phone from the office instead of being on the floor mopping.

And I was let go because I allowed my crew to finish early.

Loss of the job violated my parole. I mean just how hard is it to get in trouble working scrubbing toilets at 3am in the morning? But, that was what happened, and by losing my job, I violated my parole.

And guess when this happened?

Yup. You guessed right. Yet another Christmas eve. And that is how I spent my Christmas in 2009.

And eventually after a bunch of nonsense that really isn’t necessary to get into now, I ended up being hauled back to Arkansas and finished the rest of my sentence.

In regards to my mother in law that kicked me out of the house; she died while I was in prison. I knew that she was dying, when I went back to the ADC.
I also knew that she wanted to die and elected not to undergo any type of treatment for her cancer, just to die with pain medicine to control the pain.

And I was in prison, while she elected to die in comfort without strife and pain.

And you know, being entangled like I am (provides me with insight and events that most people do not get a chance to experience. And so I experienced “an event.”

You all probably do not want to hear this, but when a person dies, they tend to review their life with other entities.

These other entities, well I call them Mantids, but others refer to them as Angels.

And sure enough, an Ebenezer_ _Scrooge event took place. It’s a tour of her life by her mantid. When she was exposed to the consequences of her life, the past the future and the present.

And in the present she came to me.

And I was in prison.

Yeah. And she could see that I fully saw her, heard her, and knew what was going on. And she was not surprised, though she was happy to see it occur.

Anyways, to make a long story short; she said that she was sorry and wanted me to forgive her. She was remorseful from the point of view of a person who is in a disembodied spirit and can feel no pain, nor worry.
To me, at that point in time, and knowing what I knew, seemed like “cheating”. No. There was no easy way out.

And I said no.

I said FUCKING NO!

I told her (thought to her, but you all know what I mean) that she was a real “dick” to me and caused me all sorts of grief that was undeserving, and that I would not forgive her.

I specifically told her that our karma has ended.

I will neither bless or condemn her, but that from that moment on-wards, I did not want anything to do with her in any way.
And I do not care about what centuries of entanglements and relationships that we may or may not have had in the past. Our relationship was OVER, and the karma that is due her (in whatever form or shape) must be handled by another different consciousness, and another soul.
Not by me. And if it cannot be resolved, then she will have to correct the damage to her soul manually.

And I know that will NOT be easy.

And at that the Mantid let her away and I was back in the prison barracks lying in my rack.

And I just lay there pondering my experience.

Prison is full of stories. Some are lies. Some are half-truths and some are truths that add insight to the human condition.

When you are in prison, you adjust. You adapt. You make friends and alliances. You survive.

You get to know other people; other inmates. And you hear their stories. And you learn from them.

Here is one such story…

He wasn’t a rich man, but he was making a good living. He had about fifteen steady customers and a small crew that helped him mow lawns and trim hedges.
He had a truck (new) that pulled a trailer that held the tools of his trade, and emblazoned on the side of the truck was his landscape businesses name and his logo.

He lived in a modest middle class house in a nice neighborhood. He was making mortgage payments, but they would be paid off in five years and then the home would be his completely.

His life was easy. It was relaxed and very low stress. He would get up in the morning, eat a nice breakfast and coffee at the local diner, and pick up his crew at 9 am, so that they could start work on the lawns while his clients were working at their regular 9-5 jobs in town.

He described the work as easy.

The crew would do the hard boring tasks and he would supervise and do the tasks that he wanted to do. Like, perhaps, planting flowers, or arranging bushes, or trimming moss. He told me that he would just enjoy the day. Do the job. (Take a) Break for lunch.
Take a nap in the truck, and then resume work.

Then he would come home on time and his wife would make the dinner while the kids would be off doing kid stuff.

Then one day…

As he was leaving the house in the morning, getting ready for his normal routine… (two eggs, over medium, whole wheat toast, chicken fried steak with gravy and grits with coffee)…

…two police cars pulled up.

One blocked the truck in. The other pulled behind the truck.

“Friendly officer” Dan came out and asked him if he was Mr XXXXXXX. Well, of course he was. He knew the officers himself. Everyone knew everyone else.

His neighborhood was small enough that it would fit within a Norman Rockwell painting.

They told him to turn around, put his hands behind his back, and they loaded him into the squad car to take to the office.

Once he was handcuffed, they informed him that he was arrested for forgery, creating false documents and accessory to crimes valued at the hundreds of thousands of dollars.

What?

He was 46 years old. Running a laid-back landscape business, that had been in operation for at least 15 years. His greatest crime that he could recall was being late paying his water bill.

What was going on?

Well, as it turned out the anti-terror legislation passed in the wake of 9-11, eliminated the statute of limitations for anything that could be used by terrorists.
So an entire swath of crimes, which normally had a seven year statue of limitations now were open-ended and had no “sunset date”.

Any law can be twisted to serve a purpose…

Further, certain states had agreed to match the requirements of the Federal statutes and his (our) state was one of them.

Which meant that he was being dragged into the “system” by federal anti-terror legislation for crimes committed a long time ago, and was being charged on both the federal and the state level. Two sets of charges for one singular crime.

How is this even possible?

Well, it seemed that over twenty five years ago, when he was in college, he set up a small operation making fake driver’s licenses.
In America, they have minimum drinking ages, and you cannot buy alcohol or cigarettes or even enter a restaurant, bar or club unless you were over that minimum age requirement.

What he would do is make a fake ID.

With a fake ID the kids could get around that legal requirement. They could enter bars, clubs and restaurants that served alcohol. They could also go into liquor stores and buy beer, wine, and hard alcohol.

The client would give him a name, and he would make an ID for them that resembled a state driver’s license in every detail. He had worked out a system where he got original blanks for the ID’s, and used the same machines that the state used.
Thus producing a genuine appearing, but fake ID.

He did this for his friends.

And then, as his reputation expanded, for others in other schools as well.

He did this for a few years, and then about two years after he graduated, he shut the business down. He no longer associated with the younger set of “kids” and moved on to bigger and better things.

Yet…

Yet…

His cards were still out there. Still being used. Not just thrown into a cluttered drawer of old socks and brick-a-brack. Not just forgotten. Not just discarded when the clients got older.

Some were no longer being used to buy alcohol…

Well it turned out, that of the thousands of cards that he sold to students, one was sold to a girl…

…who was now a grown woman.

And who used that fake identification to procure an entire slew of bank credit cards. And she used those card to purchase all kinds of things.

When she was caught, she had racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars in fraudulent purchases.

And while under investigation, the FBI and the DHS were able to ascertain her system and method. They were able to track down everything back to a lone fake ID that was made some 25 years previously.

She of course, was looking at state and federal charges for wire fraud, and an entire slew of interstate commerce violations.

But…

But…

She used a fake identification. And fake identification, the generation and creation of it, is now a federal issue that involves terrorism and the Department of Homeland Security.

Thus the arrest, and imprisonment.

He was facing both State and Federal charges. He was threatened with everything from Gitmo, to twenty five years in a Federal prison, to life at hard labor in a State Prison.

He accepted a plea bargain.

He got two years of prison in a State Prison (Brickeys – North Arkansas Regional Unit) at hard labor. And that is where I met him.

One of the first things that you realize when you hit prison is that the idea of what a Right is, and what it actually is do not match. We are told that we have “Rights” and a “Rule of Law”. But that is not true.

The laws in America, at both the States and Federal levels are capricious.

They are whatever those with the guns say they are.

They are in constant change; in flux, and anyone can get snared in them.

Anyone.

Including you.

If the American Federal and State constitution were being followed, this entire event sequence would be avoided.

But none of that matters now.

I am sure that he is out and back to living life.

Last I heard, his wife took over the business and ran it while he was absent. When he got out, I’m sure that after he was able to readjust, he went back to work. And his life went on and continued.

He fared better than others that I have met. Their stories are also quite interesting and illustrative. I’ll discuss some of them in further posts.