Monday, March 10, 2014

5157. MY UNCLE JOHN

MY UNCLE JOHN
My Uncle John was a prisoner in chains for so
many of his years. I used to visit him in Dannemora.
The guard would mispronouce my name each time.
My uncle was in serious sentence : he'd killed three
men over a quarrel about prostitution. Or was it three
prostitutes in a quarrel over men? I forget; never got
it straight. Little mattered. He was in; I was young.
He said they had him working in the kitchen. Spitting
in bowls of gruel. He like to shave the carrots thin,
after, I'm afraid, sticking them where they shouldn't
have been. A real character actor, this guy was.
-
He never got out  - died of a cancerous tumor on his
face after 14 years. Seems like prison medicine could 
have done more. I always thought anyway. They have
a captive audience for their own ways of experimental
medicine. Why not give it a try? I know my Uncle John
sure did. He could have been in star in any prison movie
ever made : I'd have gone to watch, for sure. Over and
over again; I always thought he was the best.
-
As I got older, every visit became more and more
difficult  -  what do you say to a man down on his luck in 
this way? Not destitute, mind you  -  everything was
takken care of; he was well-fed, well-rested, and all that.
Yes. But the conversations always lagged, nowhere to go 
with words, no sense of what to say. I think back - maybe
now, I realize, it would have been better if that film had
been a silent movie, the kind they used to make, before
the days of sound, and before the burden of words.

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