Tuesday, August 9, 2016

William Myrl; Letters to No One (62)

Dear No One, 

Let me tell you of Quixote, he of the cleft chin and heavy brows. Dark with spanish blood, attenuated by cynicism, he holds court in the chow hall like a deaf sophist, having ears only for his own philosophy. Our first meeting was in passing, someone pointed me out to him as being of a character rich with words. He proceeded to test me in the entryway, asking me to define "puissant" and "bedight". Afterwards, I referred to him as "old fantasy novels guy" for several weeks instead of learning his name, because only in such novels are those words found. As it happens, his philology is greater than mine, extending into obscure medical terminology, where I am weak. At the time, however, flush with victory, I did not know this.

We began talking on the rec yard, arguing over religion until the horn would sound. It was enjoyable, though quickly did it become apparent that there were some things about which he could not reason effectively. Everyone I spoke to about him insisted he was a sociopath, but I disagreed. Its too easy to label people that way, there was something wrong with the way Quixote interacted with other humans, that does not a sociopath make. The realm of disorders is rich with variety, and Quixote was proud owner of more than a few. 

Never in the same pod, our interactions were generally brief. In the chow hall, his conversation was an endless font of bad puns and unasked for anecdotes, he could fill any gap in any discourse with the ease of lunacy. After a time, the direction of his intentions and plots, which were multifarious and many, crystallized into an emotional seduction of a woman he should not have been pursuing. Social boundaries and the perception of risk not being his greatest powers, he wrote her love letters, thinly concealed. Much to my amazement and the amazement of everyone who knew him, nothing went terribly wrong for quite a while. His unprofessional though admittedly nonphysical relationship with this woman, whom he referred to as "M'lady" in all our talks, became apparent to other inmates and some COs. We knew that it would come to this. 

Quixote has been in segregation now for over a month, "under investigation". He hasn't received any charges, but he may be transferred off of the compound anyway. He recently wrote a request to the tailor shop complaining that the scrubs in "jail" were not designed to fit "proportional HUMAN BEINGS" but rather someone who "had been "stretched upon some medieval torture device". It was addressed to the "great and mighty tailor shop" and his occupation was listed as "freedom fighter". He signed it "oleogyniphiliacly yours".

I hope that I see him again.

William Myrl 

Letters to No One 62

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