Vision Quest

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That's one of many things I remember learning in high school... which later came to be revealed as bullshit.

Okay, so it's true and accurate in the realm of Newtonian physics, the context in which it was taught. What I'm saying, though, is that the ratio of effort to outcome is almost never one-to-one.

We could strive for years and years, investing perhaps time, perhaps money, perhaps blood, sweat, and tears, and nevertheless meet meager rewards in the end. This is why I can't get behind the concept of "manifesting," which says a person must only visualize and focus sufficiently in order to realize their dreams. If you wind up with underwhelming results, the manifesting metaphysician will say that you just didn't want it enough.

But let's try something. Consider the failures, those who go to their deaths without realizing their lifelong dream: the father who works his ass off to leave a legacy for his kids, the restaurateur who labors night and day to keep her little bistro afloat, the writer who spends decades trying to get her novel published. Could you look any of these strivers in the eye, in their final moments, and tell them they just didn't want it enough? If so, you're not just naïve, you're also heartless. I suspect that the rest of us—even the manifesters—recognize a fundamental flaw in this logic of sufficient desire.

Venturing to achieve something, we ignore other necessary factors at our peril. Timing, some say, is everything. But obviously, you need more than just favorable moments. There's also means to consider. You've got to possess the mental, physical, economic, or spiritual capacity to achieve the goal. Motivation, ability, and circumstances have to coincide in that beautiful dance we call serendipity. Without all three elements, you're left flailing alone in a corner somewhere, likely the target of disapproving stares.

I've visualized my exoneration in dreams, in idle moments of mundane afternoons, in fraught periods of prison nonsense, and at a thousand other times, in almost as many different ways. I've envisioned innumerable variations of the moment when I exit the facility. I've pictured the countless potential lives into which I move afterward. I've thought about what I might wear. I've wondered whether I should abstain from drinking alcohol. I've imagined an altar in a home where a future me sits zazen every morning. I've ruminated over the feasibility of a modern life without a cellphone (or at least a smartphone). I have an active imagination. Still, I'm sure I haven't thought of everything.

Have I focused hard enough? Are my visualizations worthy of the dreams materializing? Is this what manifesting freedom looks like? Out of a purely contrarian spirit, I'm inclined to say I haven't, they aren't, and it isn't. I haven't even taken time to construct a vision board. Maybe the Missouri court system will overlook that and base its ruling on the facts of the case.

Resignation

Joining the Speak Easy Gavel Club (Toastmasters club number 622676) six years ago, I wasn't interested in public speaking or enhancing my leadership skills. I was just looking to get out of the house at a new prison and maybe meet some other people inclined to self-improvement.

What I got was a rich reward. I found a friend, I landed a great job, and yes, I developed the handy ability to engage an audience through speechcraft. As valuable as these benefits may be, though, the well of riches had to run dry eventually.

I served as the club's Vice President Education twice, its President once. After that term ended, I announced my disinterest in running for another office. I wanted to set aside the organizing and delegating awhile and just do some speechifying—something that had taken a backseat to "higher duty" in the last couple of years. Nevertheless, at the next election I was nominated for multiple offices. It seems they didn't want to let me go. The position of Vice President Public Relations didn't seem like it would put an inordinate amount of work on my already heaping plate, so I reluctantly accepted a VPPR nomination and won it. Overwhelm, in retrospect, seems like it was inevitable.

As work ramped up its demands on my time, I started missing as many meetings as I got to attend. (I am living proof that, even in prison, time can get away from you.) None of the other members complained; nevertheless, I felt the distinct guilt of letting people down. I was not upholding my duty as an officer of the club. It was time to face facts: I was standing in the way of someone else who actually wanted to hold the position.

The resignation speech I gave to the assembled members at their last meeting was declared "eloquently straightforward." Then I was thanked for what I've done for the club and continue to do for the prison community. The Vice President Membership floated a motion to make me an honorary member—only the second in the Speak Easy's twenty-one-year history. As I left the lectern, the veteran Gaveliers led the room in a standing ovation. It was nice.

More than anything, though, it felt like a relief. I hadn't had to write and deliver a speech in almost a year, but there were member evaluations, committee efforts, mentoring duties, contest organizations, special event coordinations, fundraiser efforts, board meetings, and other responsibilities to tend to. Taking that away felt good. I had to wonder why I waited so long.

The Real Killer

Season Three of iHeart Media's The Real Killer podcast began last month, and everyone I know seems to be listening. This season of the podcast focuses exclusively on my case, digging into the archives for never-before-released audio and playing new interviews with both outliers and those closely involved. Four episodes have dropped so far, with each one drawing listeners a few more steps into the gnarled travesty that the case quickly became.

Even though there's been other media coverage brought to bear, The Real Killer seems to offer the most in-depth examination of the circumstances leading to my arrest and conviction. Listening to reports and interviews from my case has been an object lesson in past life regression. My own young voice—lighter and with intonations I no longer recognize—speaks on tape about people I've known, places I've gone, and memory sweeps over me, cold and brackish as high tide.

I know this story, it occurs to me, but not this particular telling. The host, Leah Rothman, presents fact upon fact, and even though I know it all, I have to keep listening. (Is this how Cassandra felt, in the ancient myth?) Because Leah conducted her own independent interviews in preparation for the podcast, there are plenty of new tidbits that strike me. Because the prosecution was unforthcoming as I prepared for trial, there are also lots of crackly old recordings that I'm now hearing for the first time. I don't know which feels stranger.

I can say definitively that I dislike the voice of Young Byron. It's not his tone but his enunciation that's hard to get past. Now I understand why so many people found me insufferably pompous; in those early interviews, I somehow manage to mouth plummy vowels while simultaneously losing a battle with lockjaw. All that's missing is a moment when I propose the lead investigator meet me for tea and finger sandwiches.

I don't know what direction the podcast is going to go. We're already almost halfway through the season, and today's is the episode when Leah and I sit down for an interview. I think I know how that went, but as those recordings from half a lifetime ago show, I'm not an especially good judge of my performance during such things.