Thursday, March 19, 2009

Pictures of Eli

The police are on their way to pick up these two pictures - the most recent I have of Eli, my missing-person schizophrenic brother (I've also heard schizoaffective, which is when you're schizophrenic and bipolar all at once). The top one shows his new haircut, which actually makes him look sort of spiffy (ok, also a little bit pimpy).

The second one was taken at Chanukah time and actually makes him look pretty good, if slightly deranged.

There's a police station around the corner from here, but apparently, this officer has to come all the way up from Front Street. They don't have email. Or fax. Or interoffice mail deliveries, either, apparently.

Bit of a flaw in the system, methinks.

1 comment:

  1. Jennifer, I am so sorry to hear that Eli passed away, and doubly sorry that there is so much that is unknown about his last days.
    I met Eli a few times when I was in Toronto decades ago, at your mother's home, but I had my best time with him in a ditch, somewhere in Saskatchewan.
    At least, he was in a ditch. I couldn't determine why and there was little I could do about whatever it was he needed help with, if there was anything he needed help with --he was unclear about it all.
    I know he was riding a bicycle, perhaps across Canada? He didn't say. But there he was in a ditch, and he decided to give me a call.
    I was in Calgary, and how he got my number I will never know, I guess. He called not to ask for help or explain why he was in a ditch, but rather to chat about some esoteric ideas. I wish I could recall which ideas they were, but I do very clearly recall how much I enjoyed just chatting with him and feeling very special only for the fact he wanted to chat with me for no reason either of us really cared about, I guess. We just chatted and I enjoyed his wonderfully soft, innocent, but strangely-not-naive voice and tones.
    Then, of a sudden, his corner of the universe twisted a bit and he simply said goodbye as, I guess, he was whisked away.
    I know he made it to Toronto, but that was the last I ever heard of him, until now.
    I can still hear his voice, though, calm and enthusiastic and traversing pathways he invited me on for but a few minutes, long distance.
    Jerre

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