My brother got a new typewriter, and now I can read his postcards.

[prog]

Up early this morning.
Pay day activities scheduled.
I think I've figured out most
of the scope. Fish heads,
fish heads; rolly polly fish
heads. Mom was giving me Hell
on wearing shoes and I'm not
sure if my fish is cooked I
ate. Eat them up um. I like
this type writter that my social
worker sold me for $20. Be
good and if you are, be better.
Love- Ricky.

Comments

[prog.livejournal.com]

The thing is, his speech is far more frayed and disjointed than this, but when he writes postcards to me (once or twice a week for the last year or so, but which until now have been in a tiny, often hard-to-decipher scrawl) he succeeds in cleaning and tightening up what he wants to say, even if the jumbled nature of his thoughts still come through. It makes for short, sometimes strangely profound little text pieces. I like his postcards.

footnote

[prog.livejournal.com]

(Ah... while writing that comment I had thought the original poster was a local I know well (due to misreading subject lines in my email box), making a rather out-of-character and rather socially clumsy comment about my brother's illness, so I sought to deflect any embarrassment levied at him through an unfazed response. Now of course, seeing it was some anonymous stranger, I feel bad, suddenly thinking that I am exhibiting Ricky's mind for the delight of the crowd. Enh... we'll see how I feel tomorrow morning.)