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.