Dakota

This is an semi-recent writing that I started in the library at about 3:00 AM one morning. Should I continue to work on it, or leave it be?

Some people are blessed with certain gifts, some with others. Dakota Turner was blessed with gifts unusual from most. He was the child who enjoyed company of friends more than family, the teen who enjoyed selflessness for the reward of a clean conscious, the man who enjoyed a simple life of a brooder. He was his best friend and being alone was the pastime he dreamt about. He was burned out on analyzing the fake personalities of some, and determining the real personality of the rest. In a world where past is long gone, present is past, and the future is now, Dakota fit in perfectly.

Two thousand one brought about a rough winter for the small self-contained town that its population was held captive in. Everyone knew it, too afraid to admit, that life in Prescott was one of repetitive, banausic dejection. The lifestyle of Prescott was not considered so by the many families whose children never left. Often the human brain denies pity in an attempt to also deny opportunity and action, which was precisely the definition of the town’s mindset. However, time has no pity. Time has no appreciation for the could-haves and the would-haves that we fall back to. The past holds appropriate evidence of time’s disregard for even a smidgen of contingency.

birds and the bees. minus bees

Let's start simple.

The early bird gets the worm. --Good job. Ahead of the game, this bird gets its food.

When the cat leaves, the mice will play. --Great. The mice have a chance to enjoy some time without fear.

The second mouse gets the cheese.--Contradicting our first example, this slacker gets the prize when the risk-taker gets burned.

What is wrong with this series? Well, first of all, the early bird gets the worm, but there is also a second worm and a third. The other birds also get food; they just have to look harder. Second, when the cat leaves, the mice play, but who says a bird only eats worms? Say the mice notice the cat leaves, start to play, but get devoured by a hawk. It doesn't seem fair. However, what if the only reason the cat left was because it was carried away by a vulture? Furthermore, as the first mouse is trapped underneath the strong spring activated bar which slowly ends its life, the second mouse enjoys the cheese, yet the third mouse gets nothing. Unlike the third bird who still has a worm somewhere, this retarded mouse has no cheese. Unless of course, this cycle repeats. The third mouse may do as the first and get slammed. BUT, who says the cycle doesn't start back with the second mouse? The second mouse may go for the next piece of cheese and get stuck...or did he learn from seeing his brother in the guillotine? So what is it, the second or third. Maybe the cat gets to the mouse before it solves this dilemma. Maybe a bird comes in and snatches the mouse, but when it is feasting on its prey, they cat pounces on its delicious, fresh, double meal.

Alcatraz

I have been working on this for about 2 months now. I had about a little over 14 pages written. Lost it...all of it. So I started from scratch trying to remember what was important. Tell me what you think. (should I make another go at it?)

Life does not exist in this place. I do not know what to label the daily routine force-fed to me, but it is not life. I am trapped in my cell, unable to see the world I once knew and the life I once lived. The 6 steps I am granted as I walk past one of the two 6" X 6" windows is my breath of fresh air. The natural light gleams on my face and brings out my abhorrence for this wretched structure that symbolizes the rest of my time on this earth. As my sole is crushed, I voluntarily lead myself into the dark cement room. The daily eradication of my inner self just gets easier as my time progresses; it is not that this action is becoming an accepted bit I go through; I am merely becoming impartial to the pain. I am gradually building my immunity to the piercing thought of my inability to break free from any source of restriction.

A decade ago I would sit in my cell and cry to the wall. My tears were leaving my body to ask forgiveness. Each whimper was a part of my life that I cast out of myself. My wife, my children, my job, my childhood, my parents, my first bicycle, my geometry teacher, coffee in the morning, my neighbors, Katherine Dawson - my first crush, my perfect life, my partners, my books, my vision, my grandmother who told me I would succeed in anything I do. I had to get past the fact that I let everything in my life slip away. I had to erase every memory that was once precious to me; my task was to expunge any regret that has crossed my mind. If I could not accomplish this, I wouldn't last a second in this place. Dying inside was my first step to ensure my future existence in this gloomy building.

Wake up. Stand up. Stride the 9 foot walk from the wall to the bars 37 times. Make the bed. Watch the 7:00 guard make his way to the cell. Stand up for the bell count.

Each morning gave me a new reason to hate the cell. I woke up before the bell in order to show the others that I was on top of things. I wanted the respect I once had before my sentence. I needed it. It was nourishment to my pride. I pulled myself out of bed every morning with the thought that if I wake up before the others, they will fear me. There is a certain amount of aversion that was created by my morning routine that pleased me. The others were uncomfortable around me, exactly what I worked for.

My goal was harden myself as I did not care for anything. Fights would break out around me, but I paid no attention. Escape attempts were made; I didn't budge. People would die, but I stood alone, blasé. Apathy was my way of growing out of my personality. I was almost unbreakable. No human, weapon, or sentence in the basement could harden me like I had myself. It was better this way.

The window was my only curiosity. Everyday I would walk past the square window which allowed me to see everything I was missing out on. During my first years, I could not bring myself to look. My heart dropped when it caught me staring past it to acknowledge the beauty of the outside world. As time progressed I met the window with my day dreams. I would look at it, only on the surface, to imagine it was just a painting. I would force myself to look only at the painting, not into it. As I beheld the painting, I would cogitate all of its features. It was a new painting everyday, fresh to my mind. Contemplating each new painter, I thought up details. His hair, his face, his family, his financial status, his breath, his bedtime, his motivation, his past, what he ate before he painted, his personality, his home--focusing on the details kept me sane. It would be enough to drive a genius into his grave, but it could not take a thing from me, for everything was gone. The window was my only escape from reality, the certainty that life did not exist for me; I was dead inside. My mind slipped from solidity everyday by the grace of the window. It held me, beat me, taught me, fed me, woke me, scared me, and gave me breath. It was the billboard to manifest the hell I live in. I listened to every word it whispered.