Zen and the Art of Moving On

We Are All Connected (Introduction Post for Charlie Crews)

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 20:51:55 GMT

Hello. My name is Charlie Crews. And I am powerless.

That's a funny word, really. Powerless. Because, in the end, aren't we all? Which I guess is the point. But, I mean, we all like to think we have power. Some kind of control. But really, isn't it the universe that makes fun of us all? That takes our lives and makes connections we don't even realize are there?

When I breathe in, I breathe in the air of my friend and my enemy alike.

We are all here, in this moment. In this moment, we are all connected.

And we are all powerless.

I think we say we can control our lives. Ourselves. Our impulses. But, in the end, all we can do is try. Breathe in, breathe out; live every moment in itself.

We all have addictions.

Drugs. Sex. Control. Distance. Work. Power. Fruit. Money. Life.

We all have prisons.

All of us - all of us - are in prison. Anger is a prison. Hate. Fear.

Love.

Love can be the worst one of all. Sometimes. Because it makes you blind. It is a battlefield.

...That's actually kind of Zen.

My partner would say that was Zen.

But love is a prison you can live in. It doesn't have bars - that's what makes it so scary. It doesn't trap you in, ten steps across, twelve steps forward. It isn't lines and dull colors and endless days spent inside your own head. Love's bigger than that, and it's realizing that you're trapped and free at the same time - that's when you really get to live. When you're really out. Love is the one prison you choose to stay in.

My head can be a prison. Is a prison. My head has bars, though. And guards. And the silence of a hundred people breathing around you and not one of them knowing who you are. Not one second of yourself being real. No connection at all.

Real prison has bars.

But that's not quite as Zen.

My partner would tell you I'm rambling. I do that a lot. Forget things, forget where I am, forget there's anyone else to talk to. She'd tell me to stick to the facts.

My name is Detective Charlie Crews.

I spent twelve years in a maximum security prison for a crime I didn't commit.

I am not a murderer.

I am not a con.

I'm a cop.

I like fruit.

And I own an orange grove.

My name is Charlie Crews.

And I am powerless.

Headlines

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 02:58:37 GMT

I like being a cop.

Cops deal in truth. In justice. Superheros, only without capes. Well, kind of capes. Badges. Those are the cop equivalents of capes, I guess; the thing that lets you know you're dealing with someone who knows. Someone who can come bounding in and answer the questions and save the day.

So, yeah. A cop. With a badge slash cape and a gun instead of a super sonic shield or something. I liked being a cop. I liked coming in and saving the day.

A weird kind of an expression, isn't it? Saving the day. Never think about it when you're on the job, that's for sure. Not until the newspapers get a hold of the story the next day.

Like a monster that gobbles up the facts that you were just sitting in your car, that you were just working your shift, that you were just doing what you were supposed to do. Gobbles it up and repackages it and suddenly you're a hero. You're saving someone.

They don't tell you the truth, though.

No one can save you.

The headlines, the stories, they turn and change and twist with every day. Not the facts, not the truth, just the repackaging.

I never really read the newspaper during the trial. My lawyer told me not to. He was a good guy.

There was just all this proof.

Hell, sometimes, late at night, while I laid in my cell and stared up at the ceiling, while the noises around me ebbed and faded and rose and slapped against my ears, sometimes I wondered.

There was all this proof.

The newspapers said I was guilty. Gobbled up the fact that he was my best friend, that that was my family. Swallowed up whole and spat back out in all this proof.

I didn't read the newspapers in prison. Twelve years and I didn't because by the time I got a copy it was months old. Was yellowed with the nicotine smoke from the yard, was torn at the corners, was meaningless. News was now and it changed on a dime.

One day you're an Uncle. You're a husband. One day you're a son and a cop and someone. Someone. And then all this proof, all this noise, and you're a headline.

My first day out, I bought a newspaper. One. Fresh, clean, the ink stained my hands.

I used it to slice a watermelon open on.

The red juice ran down and stained the pages, covered the block type with something real. Something immediate. Covered the headlines and blurred them into nothing.

I like watermelon. Out of season, now. The stuff flown in just isn't as good. You need it fresh. Something right then, something real, something that was just grown, right in that moment.

It's better if it's all in the moment.

I like to don my badge and go to work. I like to have something solid to hold onto.

Hi, I'm Detective Crews.

I like to have proof.

Voicemail

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 08:07:46 GMT

"Um, hi. Hello. You've reached Detective Charlie Crews. Thank you for thinking of me today. If you would like to leave a message after the beep, I will try to return your call in a prompt manner. Thank you."

[If you need OOC communication with Charlie for RP, this is the place!))