No one can quite grasp the specifics of my situation. This scares me. Each person I share my story with serves as proxy for a potential juror, eventually to be culled from my bank of peers, whoever they are. And as their eyes inevitably glaze over when I try to explain the nuances–critical to my defense!–of ghost email accounts and temporary I.P. addresses, the task of telling a cohesive narrative–a persuasive cohesive narrative–seems to be currently beyond my grasp.
I give up for the day. Today. Sunday. My third Sunday here. It’s late afternoon, maybe early evening here in Del Valle, Texas. We’re just beyond the east border of Austin proper, near the airport. Austin-Bergstrom International. Trips to and from court pass the airport each way and the freedom that place represents is a painful reminder of my current situation. Incarcerated.
Sundays are normally difficult for me anyway. They have been as long as I can remember. And in my memory Sundays always play out at dusk–not quite darkness–and its reflections always tainted with a vague, unnamed melancholy. In here, of course, that sensation is realized exponentially and manifests now in a heavy-hearted silence. I can hear myself breathing.
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Del Valle
No one can quite grasp the specifics of my situation. This scares me. Each person I share my story with serves as proxy for a potential juror, eventually to be culled from my bank of peers, whoever they are. And as their eyes inevitably glaze over when I try to explain the nuances–critical to my defense!–of ghost email accounts and temporary I.P. addresses, the task of telling a cohesive narrative–a persuasive cohesive narrative–seems to be currently beyond my grasp.
I give up for the day. Today. Sunday. My third Sunday here. It’s late afternoon, maybe early evening here in Del Valle, Texas. We’re just beyond the east border of Austin proper, near the airport. Austin-Bergstrom International. Trips to and from court pass the airport each way and the freedom that place represents is a painful reminder of my current situation. Incarcerated.
Sundays are normally difficult for me anyway. They have been as long as I can remember. And in my memory Sundays always play out at dusk–not quite darkness–and its reflections always tainted with a vague, unnamed melancholy. In here, of course, that sensation is realized exponentially and manifests now in a heavy-hearted silence. I can hear myself breathing.