Letter 58

June 24, 2011


Dear Renelle,

It may seem that I'm prolific at this, and if true, for a very sound couple of reasons. At least. First, letters keep what grip I've got on reality strong. Second, I consider you one of the few that have the ability to make it safely through my "mental mine-field." 

So, how are you? I feel, not being ill with anything more than a case of terminal height-deficiency, that we are as happy generally as we make our minds up to be When a situation starts to bind on me too much, I do what I need to get it resolved--or take it off like I would a coat that no longer fit me. 

Don't know if you can truly understand the significance of those words--I can't emphasize without drawing the attention of a censor--but, yes! You're able to understand without any flowery additional adjectives. Please forgive my forays into/out of the world within. I had a rough day so far. I don't feel it's right to unload on you--the kind of situation where the least I'm reminded of it, the sooner it will recede from me.

For some reason, I'm reminded of a time when I chose homelessness (home-a-phobic) around the Bradenton area. The people I was around were an interesting lot, too, the most vocal of them being a self-proclaimed ex-boxer (that gegularly delivered K.O. punches to himself), but I stayed with the more peaceable ones, even though there was a language barrier firmly in place. 

If I came into a large enough (over $10) amount of money, I divided it between the three of us. Odd jobs, etc., provided for this lifestyle. One evening I was deciding what would be fair to divide the $20 bill I had in my pocket between three. It was getting dark, and if the police saw anyone holding a sign for money, they'd roust them and take the money they'd collected. I was crossing a major road that ran between two highways, so I had to wait for the light to change. Across from me was a guy everyone called Dammit-man, though I've no idea why.

Screeching tires snapped me out of my reverie and in time to see Dammit-man's lifeless body hit the pavement. The car struck him so hard, it knocked both of his boots off! The driver stated he was driving along normally when the guy stepped out in front of him. It's hard for me to be sure, as I was so shocked by what I'd just witnessed, about whether the guy was in full control and it was unavoidable, or if he got distracted, or what--but none of that mattered much to Dammit-man. Being as it was a sports car that hit him (Fiat XI-9), it clipped him at mid-shin height first, taking him out of his boots--then somehow moving the impact to his entire body before stopping--the car, I mean. His broken body was flung some 75 feet through the air. 

Shocked by the horror of it, I stepped into traffic myself, nearly being hit in the bargain. It would be relatively easy to understand if either the driver or the victim were drunk, or obviously influenced by some other drug. It's kind of stuck in my throat like a bone that refuses to go down (into acceptance) or be coughed up. I'm still unsurewhat being coughed up would represent. One thing is for certain, though, he won't be putting his two cents in anymore.

Why I'm recalling that especially is beyond my ken. Nothing good came of it. The experience was horrifying to all the witnesses, because of mainly being so violence-intensive and time-compressed, as well as being inconvenient to thousands who didn't see anything, but were re-routed to let police onto the scene. Maybe it's because of the way it happened, without any obvious explanation, that I continue to struggle with accepting it, I don't know.

Please forgive my using this letter as a staging-table during lunch; it's the cleanest thing within easy reach. J. says hi. I'll let the sugar-rush take me away for the (hopefully) rest of today. Sorry for this letter being on a gloomy and dismal note. Occasionally I run into a difficult spot to process. Anyhow,

Your realistic friend,

James