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Letter dated August 15, 1983 from Long Beach, CA

House painting accident

Monday August 15, 83

Dear dear Daralee--

Guess who? I mean would you believe--
me? Well, that's who it is--me.
And in front of me as I type is your
very beautiful card from May with its even
more beautiful message and letter.
I have been thinking of you, wondering about
your summer, your summer on [roller]skates, shall
we say? Your summer of signs, your
summer of symbols. You are already
in touch. Me--I have to take workshops?
But I have been channeling. I am a medium
of sorts, but I am not sure I want to
put too much energy into being that passive.
I mean, perhaps, that there has always been
a war between mystics and psychics. The
psychics don't feel it as much as the mystics,
who say avoid the psychic like the plague.
So I am more mystically inclined, more,
perhaps, sceptical [sic]. And to channel well
one must be open, an open flower, an open heart.
No mind games, no doubts, no hesitations.
I have been reasonably successful at doing it,
but I am even more interested in going into
the depths of myself, where I am I. The
Kingdom of God is within. So....
Now the strange news from me. I am typing
at the living room table because I can't
climb the stairs to my study. My right leg is in
a cast and it is propped up on a pillow beside me.
My right hand, elbow and shoulder are not in a cast
but feel as if they should be. In short I had
an accident, a stupid, strange accident. I fell
from a ladder painting the house. Or rather the ladder
slid out from under me and I went down with it.
A mess. I am a mess. But getting better. A better
mess probably. And school starts in a couple of weeks.
Imagine if you can me coming into class on crutches!
That is what it is going to be. Me. Crippled.
And yet it has forced me into myself, has made me
stop playing games as if I were merely a householder
and house painter. The last couple of weeks have
been very meditative. And that is good. And
that is why I had the fall, why someone or
something pulled the rug out from under me
and down I went. Even so--a strange experience.
And that is about all the news I have this
time. I have wanted to write you, but was
always too busy working on the house, trying to
make up for years and years of letting things
slide. But too much fury is as bad as too little.
Now I have time to write, to read, to meditate,
to channel, to be. I hope and feel that you
may be doing the same. I know it. After all
you are a poet, on skates. An Angel   fan as I am a   Dodger.

Love, richard

[Read "In A Dream" for Richard's poetic rendition of the accident scenario.]