Letter 2

James’ Onion Tales

Part I

      This “story” is untitled. It could easily and fittingly be called “The Times of a Guy,” yet—still remains untitled. I’ll compromise, and leave it to you to decide. After all, I may have erred. Anyway, it goes here. . .

      Born—10/30/1965* (a clue to who this is about)

      Died—10/30/1965

(This death was merely physical and not an actual one, so there’s no misunderstanding or cause for alarm) Came into the world of death by the usual method. Crying, screaming, and sloppy—but with an important difference: The umbilical cord was wound tightly around the neck of the newborn, causing death while supplying life. Due to this development, the medical profession as an entity didn’t know if it should even be a live-birth recording. Mystery #1, and not even old enough to know a mystery yet.

      The medical technology of today had much to do with the continued growth of the child. There are some astonishing facts for which NO state of technology currently known is able to account for. I will do my best to recount them for you here. You already know of the birth and first death of the child, so I’ll fill in the subsequent blanks and mysteries.

      As an infant, he discovered he could easily get more than adequate attention by becoming, well, call it distant even though that doesn’t quite fit. He began playing people in imagined situations, for at this time he still possessed a nimble and adhesive imagination. Reality dealt a crushing blow though, when he contracted most of the lethal childhood diseases, because of his unique lifestyle. Again, death (physical only) was his constant companion. Mystery #2. Maybe it would be better if I noted it like it was instead of how I fancy it. I ought to call it death # instead of mystery #, even if it is more of a mystery than a death.

      By the third birthday of his first birth/death, already a budding sociopath, he relentlessly fed the drama surrounding him more fuel—until a day when he realized how giant the forces he’d previously thought controlled, were. It was this fact dawning on him, not any other as is still thought, that caused so much distress to him. He completely shut down. Becoming unresponsive to any external stimulus, he regarded this newly-discovered information/data about his place in the world of people he was obligated to feel for. He was no longer in denial about the need to change, to be an easier blend in society, to be even better camouflaged (!) than he’d even thought possible. He discovered a distinct ability to connect walking and thinking.

On returning home, he found all were concerned for his welfare, unreservedly. Excellent, said the spider to the fly, pretending illness. This stuff is going to take him places, doing much harm in the process, he thought. So he began staying home from school, a lot. After perfecting a method by which it was sure he wouldn’t be missed from school (he deliberately became such a pain to work with, no one wanted him at school), and not having any siblings, all he needed to do was make a call to his mom, and he’d be off the hook for the whole week. A different type of sickness was manifesting in him though. Only some of the most debilitating symptoms are known of it yet, as it is a “new” one.

      Mystery/death #3. A seeming inability to leave people/situations be. Feeding on drama he feeds. Ability to manifest symptoms of any widespread illness. Abruptly. Turning them on/off at will.

      *Better stop now, for eating to occur. More later.

Part 11 of “Tryin’ People”

      Now for part II of my earlier treatise “Tryin’ People.” First, I’ll include something about my circumstance as I write. I’ve been tried repeatedly and abused illegally at another prison. Yes, I’m in a prison in prison—because I’ve shown a quote inability to adjust to a life in prison. So, at the place I refer to, their response was to put me in a confinement cell, where no one could hear me complain! Logical, totally wrong—but logical. So, here I sit—for at least the next five months. It’s not so bad—as long as I’m able to have a peaceful coexistence whith my celly, that is. That will likely remain the status quo as long as I am mindful of that most important fact; and with that being declared—I return now to my extemporaneous musings.

      As I cannot accurately recall where the first bit of this left off, I’ll begin anew this aimless wandering through the forgotten dusty corners my mind has. Not that I’m afflicted by pride—far from it. Actually it was an attempt at self-deprecation that should’ve been left in the shop until released by the mechanic instead of taking it for a ride like I did. Eagerness overrode patience/common sense.

      For an aside as the author, I’m fading fast toward death’s 3^rd cousin (twice removed), known commonly as sleep. Sorry I didn’t get more of my mental wanderings in, but I don’t get time too often, with my busy schedule. ‘Till next time, then.

Part III

     Although this is actually Part III of my evidently ongoing expansive series of thoughts and events, it really is written over a 4-day period of time. I am sedated daily soon after eating the third meal of the day, and given the position I occupy on the local food chain, I wouldn’t be smart to refuse. So, all that being true, I’m usually in another world by the time I’m organizing myself for the next morning (I developed this habit as I’m not very functional at 4 a.m.).
     By reason of the above, it came to pass last night that I had some forms that needed to be sent out in the appropriate sequence. I’d arranged them in the order I’d be sending them—and had to be sedated while my celly was yet out of the cell. The way I send out any mail or form is to put them on the top of the cell door, so it wouldn’t have made sense to put them up twice. My celly comes in, and recognizing my predicament, puts my mail and two forms out to be picked up. They were the wrong two forms, and I’m unsure as to how to proceed at this point. Shooting blindly here, but what I think the way I need to recover from this is to use up another of my dwindling supply of those forms to explain to the Col. what’s happening, and put the other forms out tonight as well. In a perfect world, this would work out nicely, in theory. It’s all I’ve got to work with though, so guess that’s got to be my plan. Maybe it’s not the way I ought to follow through this, but it’s the best way I can come up with.
     Enough futile discussion! On with a meaningful subject. The problem with that is, all of the meaningful subjects are out of my grasp, so I’ll need to resort to fantasyland (just so you know). Fantasy is more of a military style incursion than anything else, lately, as far as practicality goes. Life is so mundane and predictable, I could do all I’m required to do and never gain full consciousness; so, a very real danger exists for me that I won’t want to return from a visit to fantasyland. Therefore, I set time limits on myself so as not to drift even further from reality.
     Now I’ve had the final meal of the day and taken care of what needs it. As it turned out, my anxiety was for nothing—I got both forms back, stapled together. Now begins the countdown to oblivion that I don’t even need to seek out anymore.