But in the later rehashing of this story to his sister, Gary does not feel stylish. Not one single solitary bit.
He is defeated. Disappointed. Disheartened. "I try. Every time, I plan to do good. And then it gets near," I can hear the brokenness in his voice, "And I f-ck it all up! Every time!" This isn't true, but he loses sight of the smaller successes in the viewfinder, unable to zoom in on them. In my fatigue, I give in to a personal rant on all of it. “You must like it on some level, because you give in!” I struggle for breath, releasing the need to fix him, and allow myself to feel something just for me, “You’ve got people who love you. In the past two weeks, you’ve had yourself more visits than most of your fellow patients will ever receive in years, if not their lives. People gave up on them a long time ago!” This is not new to him. There’s not too much I could say that he would not instantly recognize as truth. It’s the putting it all into play that trips him up. We are both silent for a long moment. The dialogue to the final half hour of “Slumdog Millionaire” is rolling across the TV screen, some previous hotel inhabitant having selected the closed caption option during their viewing.
Finally, he blurts out that deep fear he can no longer contain, “It’s YOU!” he yells across the wires or satellite signals or whatever modern gadgetry conveys his sounds to my ear over the distance between us, “It’s you! I don’t care much of the time. I want to but I don’t. I don’t know how to change all that. But you . . . you care. You always care. If I mess up, it don’t matter to me. I do it all the time. But it hurts you. I can’t live with that burden, that responsibility. It’s too f-cking much!” He’s crying now. I take a deep breath. One breath at a time is good advice for anybody.
I sigh, “Gary. You can’t worry about that. My caring is a part of my opening myself up to you. It goes with relationships. It goes with love. If one opens up to another, exposing the mess and the muck along with the charming and cheery, then yes, hurt can get in. Most times, hurt WILL get in. But I accept that. I’m okay with that. I make that decision!” I’ve hit my stride now, “You hurt yourself much more than you ever hurt me when these things happen. When I hurt, I can run to one of the many lovely and accessible people in my life, spill it out, gush it forth, let her rip. I’m comfortable. I’m free. I have a husband and children and a home at the end of the day. That’s some pretty cushy hurting I do. I’m not discounting it. Just qualifying it against your situation.”
It was then that the new image was borne.
The new love. My epiphany on the plane over Nevada. The deeper love set apart from my personal emotion and its interpretation of the fact. This previously unknown-to-me love attached to a larger body, a creator with a vastly greater grasp of the underlying issues which snake through every situation, each motivating factor, all inducements to give and surrender and confuse. How could I find fault in the fallout of my connections with those around me when fallout is exactly what we should expect from one another when we actively choose to love? I’d always known this on a semi-conscious plane, but I hadn’t yet pinned it to my fridge or pressed it between the pages of my scrapbook or enlarged it for framing.
Before moving on to more trivial subject matter lest we both went blind in the searing light of such openness, I gave it one last try, “Gary, you so hate to be like everyone else. But it’s fear. And we all have it. We all act on it. You fear what might be, unable to see that far ahead, too acquainted with the failures of the past, so you nip it in the bud before it begins. You say you plan to do it but duck out in the end. I say you NEVER planned to do it, only gave it lip service, because . . . " he needs to see it. Before we hang up, he's got to understand this one thing, ". . . you love me, but you don’t love yourself. You don't value yourself. Not enough to truly plan and execute. Deep down, you believe you don't deserve it, so things turn out that way. You've got to figure that out. Unravel the twisted maze of self-hate. I can’t do that for you. Can’t give it to you. There you walk alone. And try. Just like THE REST OF US!” And then we did move on. There will be more of this. It's what we do.
Focus is not automatic. Not if the most artistic rendering is desired. Any good photographer knows that. Adjustments are made. Lenses are switched. F-stops come and F-stops go. There is an experimentation of light and shadow, color and line, depth and sharpness. And, out of every hundred or so attempts, there emerges, victorious and exultant, the perfect shot. I’m grateful for this one, found as it was among the discards of past days, weeks, and months. There will arrive in Gary's life a moment where he shuffles through the discards at his feet and draws out the one worthy of tucking in his album. He'll stick it somewhere between the shots from his visit to Africa with mom and the candids of us kids as little cuties living in Alaska back in the 70's.
Focus.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Focus Part 2
By the time 3:30PM rolled around -- I had arrived almost on the dot of the 10:30AM starting time for weekday visiting hours -- only the two of us remained in the naturally lit room of round tables with four chairs apiece, two microwave stations complete with the standard bathroom-grade brown paper towels this recycling queen went through in the tens for use as plates, napkins, and ‘rags’ for spills on the floor and table, and the four soda/water/Gatorade/snacks vending machines hawking their contents at $1.25 a pop. Today seemed to be a day for fathers and sons. Namely ageing fathers coming to see their adult sons. The strange dad who regaled his boy with meandering murmurs about the Soviet Union’s missile capacity in the 80’s and the budget of Afghanistan’s country versus its army and the reasons a trust fund must be handled by someone other than a nebulous female figure neither Gary or myself could accurately pin down, was the last to leave other than us. (As with a few other ‘stand-out’ paternal figures we’d witnessed over the days and hours of our extended visits, we hypothesized that this man may, indeed, be a large part of the reason for his son's stay at the psychiatric hospital, or perhaps the reason the young man wasn’t trying harder to effect a departure from the institution.)
The kindly Three Stooges in non-armed police officer uniforms behind the glass, ensconced in their all-knowing kiosk of security cameras, key rings, latex gloves, and mounds of paperwork and manuals, allowed us five extra minutes past the prescribed cut-off point before opening the doors to our separate exit points. Me to my locker, punching in CLEAR 1121 KEY to free my purse and iPhone, and on to the heavy gates capped in barbed-wire which would escort me back to the outside world; him to the waiting pat-down from Moe or Curly – he forgot to mouth the special toothpicks I slipped him (my one small act of rebellion against ‘the man’) they were confiscated from their lodging place above his left ear – before returning to the fenced-in compound where clients generally mill about their days.
The final visit is not given a full voice. Much like the way in which Harry Potter is discouraged from speaking the name of Lord Voldemort by those around him (I hope you understand this literary reference to some degree), speaking too loudly the exact occasion of the visit is not desired. Instead, furtive glances at the clock high on the front wall, the slow packing of the significantly lighter food bag, and wide smiles, bordering on grimaces, hide sighs of surrender to the truth creeping ever closer, frame by frame, to the forefront. Promises to call, followed by promises to answer, reminded us both of the phone contact we are now allowed in quantity on a daily basis.
Though he’s working on mastering his reactions to situations which stir his anger, Gary often stumbles after family visits. They are too bright with emotion in the viewfinder. Memory snapshots held to the light are too vivid a reminder of what he has not had in over seventeen years. They work in a negative manner on a brain yet in need of retraining. He desires desperately to act as he wishes as opposed to how he often does. So on this evening of the day of our last visit, as I lay on my hotel bed basking in the cool air emanating from the window AC unit, he called to discuss the downward spiral of his afternoon.
Wards Q3 and Q4 were expecting important legal system bigwig visitors later in the week, so janitorial staffers were mopping and waxing the normally scuffed and scuzzy floors for appearances’ sake. The clients, as they are called at this hospital, were ordered outside for the duration of the cleaning. At some point, Gary, who for the last few days has been unusually tired, even after a rare full night’s sleep, hoped to sneak back in to his room. “NO!” said staffers as they themselves walked across the now gleaming surface, “Remain outside.” The inner anarchist within him rose. He questioned the reasoning behind why their feet would not sully the floor but his feet and the feet of his peers would. I know he’s most likely screaming in colorful sentences punctuated by profanity by now, past the point of reason, engulfed in his distrust of authority, and awash in the despair which has colored his entire adult existence. This is not entirely unique in a forensic psychiatric ward of sixty-five males. Nor is it very effective.
By the end of it, he has grabbed a heavy chair and dragged it up and down the halls, scraping the tiles and ruining the newly waxed finish. He leaves destruction in his wake. Once he returns to his room, an alarm is sounded by an anxious staffer. No less than twenty employees, his psychiatrist among them, arrive at his door. They request that he come with them to the solitude room. He refuses to exit with that many bodies flanking him. The good doctor begs to know the exact nature of the episode. When informed, by Gary, I suppose, he turns on his heels and departs, fuming that this was a complete waste of his time and NOT the reason he thought his presence was requested. Gary's ‘green’ card, the highly coveted Grounds Card, the card to outside and the gym and the library, was pulled. Until Monday, he learned this morning, thank the Lord. It could have been much worse. Later in the evening, during the monthly celebration of multiple birthdays with a shared cake, one of my brother’s friends – Atticus, a handsome muscled young man with a chiseled face sporting a precisely manicured beard who obsessively exercises each and every day for almost the entire day – stops by to laugh and commiserate, commenting, “Man, you’ve got STYLE!” Atticus has nutted up a few times, himself, once losing his privilege card for over a month. That’s a whole lot of running in place!
(Third Installment Tomorrow)
The kindly Three Stooges in non-armed police officer uniforms behind the glass, ensconced in their all-knowing kiosk of security cameras, key rings, latex gloves, and mounds of paperwork and manuals, allowed us five extra minutes past the prescribed cut-off point before opening the doors to our separate exit points. Me to my locker, punching in CLEAR 1121 KEY to free my purse and iPhone, and on to the heavy gates capped in barbed-wire which would escort me back to the outside world; him to the waiting pat-down from Moe or Curly – he forgot to mouth the special toothpicks I slipped him (my one small act of rebellion against ‘the man’) they were confiscated from their lodging place above his left ear – before returning to the fenced-in compound where clients generally mill about their days.
The final visit is not given a full voice. Much like the way in which Harry Potter is discouraged from speaking the name of Lord Voldemort by those around him (I hope you understand this literary reference to some degree), speaking too loudly the exact occasion of the visit is not desired. Instead, furtive glances at the clock high on the front wall, the slow packing of the significantly lighter food bag, and wide smiles, bordering on grimaces, hide sighs of surrender to the truth creeping ever closer, frame by frame, to the forefront. Promises to call, followed by promises to answer, reminded us both of the phone contact we are now allowed in quantity on a daily basis.
Though he’s working on mastering his reactions to situations which stir his anger, Gary often stumbles after family visits. They are too bright with emotion in the viewfinder. Memory snapshots held to the light are too vivid a reminder of what he has not had in over seventeen years. They work in a negative manner on a brain yet in need of retraining. He desires desperately to act as he wishes as opposed to how he often does. So on this evening of the day of our last visit, as I lay on my hotel bed basking in the cool air emanating from the window AC unit, he called to discuss the downward spiral of his afternoon.
Wards Q3 and Q4 were expecting important legal system bigwig visitors later in the week, so janitorial staffers were mopping and waxing the normally scuffed and scuzzy floors for appearances’ sake. The clients, as they are called at this hospital, were ordered outside for the duration of the cleaning. At some point, Gary, who for the last few days has been unusually tired, even after a rare full night’s sleep, hoped to sneak back in to his room. “NO!” said staffers as they themselves walked across the now gleaming surface, “Remain outside.” The inner anarchist within him rose. He questioned the reasoning behind why their feet would not sully the floor but his feet and the feet of his peers would. I know he’s most likely screaming in colorful sentences punctuated by profanity by now, past the point of reason, engulfed in his distrust of authority, and awash in the despair which has colored his entire adult existence. This is not entirely unique in a forensic psychiatric ward of sixty-five males. Nor is it very effective.
By the end of it, he has grabbed a heavy chair and dragged it up and down the halls, scraping the tiles and ruining the newly waxed finish. He leaves destruction in his wake. Once he returns to his room, an alarm is sounded by an anxious staffer. No less than twenty employees, his psychiatrist among them, arrive at his door. They request that he come with them to the solitude room. He refuses to exit with that many bodies flanking him. The good doctor begs to know the exact nature of the episode. When informed, by Gary, I suppose, he turns on his heels and departs, fuming that this was a complete waste of his time and NOT the reason he thought his presence was requested. Gary's ‘green’ card, the highly coveted Grounds Card, the card to outside and the gym and the library, was pulled. Until Monday, he learned this morning, thank the Lord. It could have been much worse. Later in the evening, during the monthly celebration of multiple birthdays with a shared cake, one of my brother’s friends – Atticus, a handsome muscled young man with a chiseled face sporting a precisely manicured beard who obsessively exercises each and every day for almost the entire day – stops by to laugh and commiserate, commenting, “Man, you’ve got STYLE!” Atticus has nutted up a few times, himself, once losing his privilege card for over a month. That’s a whole lot of running in place!
(Third Installment Tomorrow)
Focus Part 1
(**A 3-part entry written during the flight home on Friday July 16, 2010.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I headed for California that last week in June with an eager heart. I was positively brimming with tender love for my husband and children and friends, my mother, those I was leaving behind for the next eighteen days. The love I housed for my two younger brothers awaiting my arrival on fertile Western soil was more fierce and protective. All of it familiar but enhanced. The act of travel, of my physical self moving from one place to another, had sharpened my senses. As if the focus on a camera had suddenly shifted from a blurry image to a perfect view of lines, curves, and colors. The noisy background fell away, and a clear foreground revealed details previously naked to the human eye.
Thus, the petty concerns between man and wife, the weight of daily drudge and toil, lost their grip as the very bond which propels earnest married couples through these minutiae became visible. The countless moments of irritation and exasperation, of confusion and allusion, of yin chasing the tail of yang, ceased to incite my ire: maternal links merged together in perfect artful thirds – Ashley, Sarah, Zachary -- comprising a harmonious picture. The measured minutes of repetitive chores, the humble hours of cooking and exercise and garden and church and state, they transformed from solitary pixels to a cumulative cohesive image. I was able to step back and realize the panoramic shot which is the sum of my past, present, and future.
So, it is surprising -- and yet not, given the continuing revelations this life opens up to me like a new envelope of freshly developed photos -- that as this miraculous metal bird lifted up and over the sand and stone of the Nevada landscape, I would discover a brand new intensity of affection for my people, for people in general, for the beauty and pain I contemplate each and every day. Below me, the texture of earth shifted from drab, tan, and relatively flat, to layers of painted browns rising in craggy waves which resembled an enormous colony of oysters jutting from their metamorphic bed. Inside, it felt much the same. In an instant, I went from comprehending the level of love beneath my emotional surface, to reveling in the epiphany that it had magnified into something not instantly recognizable but immediately welcomed. It was invited in to stay. And it became me. Again. My comfortable, wide open, fully encompassing, messy-at-the-borders, Kodachrome, hold-the-phone, I-wanna-go-home, never-want-to-be-alone love.
If I can be so bold as to trace this heightened wellspring of feeling back to its origin of evolution, the moment when the lens caught the image and held it within the bowels of the camera, awaiting either a digital signal of interpretation or a tray of developing chemicals ready to convey negative results, I peg it at roughly 10:45 last night. I was holed up in room 226 of the Quality Inn & Suites in the California valley burg of Vacaville. Yes, you read right: cow town.
Girlfriend, my fantastically wonderful 3Gs iPhone, was performing her nightly duties, namely facilitating a call between me and Napa’s most colorful new citizen, my little brother, Gary. Her capacity for multi-tasking continued to impress me as I plowed my way through a virtual pile of downloaded e-mails on two accounts AND perused the endless walls and pages of that vast Internet social village also known as Facebook.
Our seventh and final visit had gone down earlier in the day. We filled our bellies with Mountain Jim’s combination pizza with extra cheese and loads of yellow banana pepper slices, and a freshly baked cherry pie, complete with decorative heart cutouts in the top crust, from Jantz’s Bakery and Restaurant in Merced. I evaded total domination by such foods with a decent Raley’s Grocery on-site prepared tray of sushi rolls -- a food item which grossed out my brother. Gary’s request for a two-pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes, a long-John cream-filled donut, along with my own addition of an apple-laden bear claw, rounded out the moderate gluttony. We ambled our way through another slow but enjoyable game of Scrabble: I won, though that does not contribute to the storyline in any way. My brother points out that spouting off that one has emerged triumphant in a competition over a mentally ill opponent is not altogether worthy of boasting. Yeah, says he on the losing end! Unless the patient exists in a lithium- or Seroquel-induced stupor, he or she is often heads-and-shoulders above the rest of us in the intelligence category. So, as I was modestly stating before Gary interrupted . . . I WON!
(Second Installment Tomorrow)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I headed for California that last week in June with an eager heart. I was positively brimming with tender love for my husband and children and friends, my mother, those I was leaving behind for the next eighteen days. The love I housed for my two younger brothers awaiting my arrival on fertile Western soil was more fierce and protective. All of it familiar but enhanced. The act of travel, of my physical self moving from one place to another, had sharpened my senses. As if the focus on a camera had suddenly shifted from a blurry image to a perfect view of lines, curves, and colors. The noisy background fell away, and a clear foreground revealed details previously naked to the human eye.
Thus, the petty concerns between man and wife, the weight of daily drudge and toil, lost their grip as the very bond which propels earnest married couples through these minutiae became visible. The countless moments of irritation and exasperation, of confusion and allusion, of yin chasing the tail of yang, ceased to incite my ire: maternal links merged together in perfect artful thirds – Ashley, Sarah, Zachary -- comprising a harmonious picture. The measured minutes of repetitive chores, the humble hours of cooking and exercise and garden and church and state, they transformed from solitary pixels to a cumulative cohesive image. I was able to step back and realize the panoramic shot which is the sum of my past, present, and future.
So, it is surprising -- and yet not, given the continuing revelations this life opens up to me like a new envelope of freshly developed photos -- that as this miraculous metal bird lifted up and over the sand and stone of the Nevada landscape, I would discover a brand new intensity of affection for my people, for people in general, for the beauty and pain I contemplate each and every day. Below me, the texture of earth shifted from drab, tan, and relatively flat, to layers of painted browns rising in craggy waves which resembled an enormous colony of oysters jutting from their metamorphic bed. Inside, it felt much the same. In an instant, I went from comprehending the level of love beneath my emotional surface, to reveling in the epiphany that it had magnified into something not instantly recognizable but immediately welcomed. It was invited in to stay. And it became me. Again. My comfortable, wide open, fully encompassing, messy-at-the-borders, Kodachrome, hold-the-phone, I-wanna-go-home, never-want-to-be-alone love.
If I can be so bold as to trace this heightened wellspring of feeling back to its origin of evolution, the moment when the lens caught the image and held it within the bowels of the camera, awaiting either a digital signal of interpretation or a tray of developing chemicals ready to convey negative results, I peg it at roughly 10:45 last night. I was holed up in room 226 of the Quality Inn & Suites in the California valley burg of Vacaville. Yes, you read right: cow town.
Girlfriend, my fantastically wonderful 3Gs iPhone, was performing her nightly duties, namely facilitating a call between me and Napa’s most colorful new citizen, my little brother, Gary. Her capacity for multi-tasking continued to impress me as I plowed my way through a virtual pile of downloaded e-mails on two accounts AND perused the endless walls and pages of that vast Internet social village also known as Facebook.
Our seventh and final visit had gone down earlier in the day. We filled our bellies with Mountain Jim’s combination pizza with extra cheese and loads of yellow banana pepper slices, and a freshly baked cherry pie, complete with decorative heart cutouts in the top crust, from Jantz’s Bakery and Restaurant in Merced. I evaded total domination by such foods with a decent Raley’s Grocery on-site prepared tray of sushi rolls -- a food item which grossed out my brother. Gary’s request for a two-pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes, a long-John cream-filled donut, along with my own addition of an apple-laden bear claw, rounded out the moderate gluttony. We ambled our way through another slow but enjoyable game of Scrabble: I won, though that does not contribute to the storyline in any way. My brother points out that spouting off that one has emerged triumphant in a competition over a mentally ill opponent is not altogether worthy of boasting. Yeah, says he on the losing end! Unless the patient exists in a lithium- or Seroquel-induced stupor, he or she is often heads-and-shoulders above the rest of us in the intelligence category. So, as I was modestly stating before Gary interrupted . . . I WON!
(Second Installment Tomorrow)
Friday, July 9, 2010
Nutting Up
My youngest brother and I are writing a book. It's based on the years of relationship between us since he began his interminable stint in California county jails and state prisons. Between us are more than ten years of back-and-forth letters. They provide invaluable quotes and emotional background, as well as timeline information. Now that he's made the transition to the State Hospital system, additional chapters will chronicle the progress and pitfalls of his transitory life there. Transitory because the plan is to see him through successful treatment so that a societal integration is possible for him. Those that love him and understand his entire story want to see him on the outside. Permanently. And, in good mental and emotional health. We shared a broken childhood; I have faith in the shared whole adulthood which will one day soon be ours.
One of the steps in putting together a non-fiction book is the query letter. The contents of this succinct missive must include such things as why I'm best suited to spearhead this project; the uniqueness and necessity of the niche it fills; and any qualifications which bolster the assumption that I can actually put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and create a cohesive document. Attached with this letter, an initial outline of the book, plus a researched market analysis of sorts, and a few sample chapters must also be included. Ah. No problem. My summer project. And my summer almost gone!
Thus far what we have is a storage container of organized-by-year letters, highlighted in parts, and a random collection of partial chapters. And the endless information and ideas circling in this foggy but active brain of mine. While it's time for me to knuckle down and get this query letter package out in an effort to secure an agent/publisher figure, it's also time for Gary to move ahead with one of his assignments in this huge endeavor of ours. It's a doozy but necessary for the content and flow of our shared writing: a glossary or dictionary or an actual chapter of definitions regarding the expressive vocabulary he constantly uses in his conversation and writings. And I don't mean the liberal F-bombs which often drop with resounding splendor in the middle of particularly passionate moments in his speech.
Street life, jail, prison. They have a language all their own. The same as specialized vocations, workplaces, regions of a country, close families. Words and descriptions which make sense to those engaged in similar lives, in like efforts, but can leave the outsider scratching their head as they attempt to string the familiar with the unfamiliar in an effort to follow the thread of conversation. Being a lover of words, both written and verbalized, I find it all endlessly interesting. And I believe readers will feel the same way as their new knowledge allows them deeper access into a world desperately in need of being understood.
Case in point. 'Nutting up.' Take a reasonably calm guy. At least one who's somewhat in control most of the time. In prison. Or in a psychiatric facility. He may or may not have an actual mental illness or disorder. Put him under an inordinate amount of pressure in a situation he's tried to handle repeatedly which continually seems to end on a low note. Failure. Or plain old exacerbation -- a continued irritation of the area, so to speak. An endless scratching of an infected mosquito bite. At some point, it all becomes too much to shoulder: the dude 'nuts up.' Irritation turned temper. Disquiet morphed into rage. He loses his grip on what would be the best thing to do and, instead, goes on a rampage. Decides to rip the arms off a common room chair and take on a squad of police officers without regard to the obvious outcome. Run around a room full of fellow patients, angry because there were no chips with your lunch, and wrench the air conditioning vent, and the yards of metallic duct work behind it, from the ceiling. Often, the losing of one's mind for a quick minute results in the loss of a significant privilege. Isolation from others. The inability to leave the confines of the cell or room for the airspace of the yard or grounds. Generally, by the next day, maybe even the next hour, regret fills the hollow space left in the wake of the incident. An enhanced blowing off of steam.
These examples aren't Gary's. But he's definitely had his own experience in this arena. I've seen him through more than a few. Life in a pressure cooker ain't easy. As if I even have to say it. Just look at the news. Pretty sure 'nutting up' crosses institutional lines. Ironically, I sit in MY corner of the Starbucks in Napa, California off of Soscol Avenue, mere blocks from the state-sponsored room-and-board facility which is the present home of my brother. During my visits, I sleep in an old building in which married nurses once lived. Ladies who tended the needs of the patients of the hospital set on the sprawling tree-dotted grounds which encompass the Napa State Hospital. Right this very moment, on the other side of the large bank of windows to my right, sits a casual group of men and women. A close-knit group of Filipino's, some sporting ID badges clipped to colorful scrubs, who now fill that role for my brother and others in his situation. It's clear they have agreed to meet on this balmy Friday evening after work. Sharing cigarettes. Sipping iced coffee drinks. Swapping stories. Slipping back into regular life among the basically emotionally balanced folks out here on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Could I do what they do?
Could they do what I do?
I'm certain one or two of them may make it into our book.
Until I get to that chapter, I'm open to any suggestions or ideas concerning the letter or timeline . . . or even your descriptions of my qualification for this major undertaking.
One of the steps in putting together a non-fiction book is the query letter. The contents of this succinct missive must include such things as why I'm best suited to spearhead this project; the uniqueness and necessity of the niche it fills; and any qualifications which bolster the assumption that I can actually put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and create a cohesive document. Attached with this letter, an initial outline of the book, plus a researched market analysis of sorts, and a few sample chapters must also be included. Ah. No problem. My summer project. And my summer almost gone!
Thus far what we have is a storage container of organized-by-year letters, highlighted in parts, and a random collection of partial chapters. And the endless information and ideas circling in this foggy but active brain of mine. While it's time for me to knuckle down and get this query letter package out in an effort to secure an agent/publisher figure, it's also time for Gary to move ahead with one of his assignments in this huge endeavor of ours. It's a doozy but necessary for the content and flow of our shared writing: a glossary or dictionary or an actual chapter of definitions regarding the expressive vocabulary he constantly uses in his conversation and writings. And I don't mean the liberal F-bombs which often drop with resounding splendor in the middle of particularly passionate moments in his speech.
Street life, jail, prison. They have a language all their own. The same as specialized vocations, workplaces, regions of a country, close families. Words and descriptions which make sense to those engaged in similar lives, in like efforts, but can leave the outsider scratching their head as they attempt to string the familiar with the unfamiliar in an effort to follow the thread of conversation. Being a lover of words, both written and verbalized, I find it all endlessly interesting. And I believe readers will feel the same way as their new knowledge allows them deeper access into a world desperately in need of being understood.
Case in point. 'Nutting up.' Take a reasonably calm guy. At least one who's somewhat in control most of the time. In prison. Or in a psychiatric facility. He may or may not have an actual mental illness or disorder. Put him under an inordinate amount of pressure in a situation he's tried to handle repeatedly which continually seems to end on a low note. Failure. Or plain old exacerbation -- a continued irritation of the area, so to speak. An endless scratching of an infected mosquito bite. At some point, it all becomes too much to shoulder: the dude 'nuts up.' Irritation turned temper. Disquiet morphed into rage. He loses his grip on what would be the best thing to do and, instead, goes on a rampage. Decides to rip the arms off a common room chair and take on a squad of police officers without regard to the obvious outcome. Run around a room full of fellow patients, angry because there were no chips with your lunch, and wrench the air conditioning vent, and the yards of metallic duct work behind it, from the ceiling. Often, the losing of one's mind for a quick minute results in the loss of a significant privilege. Isolation from others. The inability to leave the confines of the cell or room for the airspace of the yard or grounds. Generally, by the next day, maybe even the next hour, regret fills the hollow space left in the wake of the incident. An enhanced blowing off of steam.
These examples aren't Gary's. But he's definitely had his own experience in this arena. I've seen him through more than a few. Life in a pressure cooker ain't easy. As if I even have to say it. Just look at the news. Pretty sure 'nutting up' crosses institutional lines. Ironically, I sit in MY corner of the Starbucks in Napa, California off of Soscol Avenue, mere blocks from the state-sponsored room-and-board facility which is the present home of my brother. During my visits, I sleep in an old building in which married nurses once lived. Ladies who tended the needs of the patients of the hospital set on the sprawling tree-dotted grounds which encompass the Napa State Hospital. Right this very moment, on the other side of the large bank of windows to my right, sits a casual group of men and women. A close-knit group of Filipino's, some sporting ID badges clipped to colorful scrubs, who now fill that role for my brother and others in his situation. It's clear they have agreed to meet on this balmy Friday evening after work. Sharing cigarettes. Sipping iced coffee drinks. Swapping stories. Slipping back into regular life among the basically emotionally balanced folks out here on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Could I do what they do?
Could they do what I do?
I'm certain one or two of them may make it into our book.
Until I get to that chapter, I'm open to any suggestions or ideas concerning the letter or timeline . . . or even your descriptions of my qualification for this major undertaking.
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