Ask any chronobiologist, “the study of innate biological rhythms,” what the vacuum of solitary confinement does to the psyche and they’ll probably refer you to the ancient Roman philosopher Seneca and his descriptions of silver miners who encountered phenomena from long term mental distress, psychic pressure from claustrophobia, and the full tempest of panic as they imagined the ceilings and walls enclosing them. With no sunsets or sunrises you pass time on a kind of primordial instinct. Like animals in a zoo, you become sad and pensive. Eventually you succumb to your enclosure and fall into a paralytic shock which you can recognize by the endless pacing for hours on end. My extended stay here in this subterranean cave has nothing to do with breaking any rules. As a bank robber I’m viewed as an escape risk and leader/organizer. I find it difficult to organize my own thoughts much less lead an uprising against the bologna sandwiches which we are served trice a day. In a system that created darkness where light is desperately needed, this place is the front lines of little hope.
The use of solitary confinement is draconian. There is an urban legend that this place permanently dismantles the good parts of you. Instead of becoming easier over time, the accumulative effects of a prolonged stay results in diminishing returns. In the 1980s an expedition into a cave called Sarawak Chamber, “in Borneo,” a group of cavers had to be guided out after becoming emotionally despondent. Being isolated in these places you become adroit at communicating with your fellow condemned. Reading lips, American Sign Language, or passing lines.
Yesterday I spoke with a kid from Stockton, CA. For hours we shared life experiences vis-à-vis the vent. He was in prison for a parole violation. Although he had lived in Stockton, he worked at the Costco in Tracy. After speaking with him for a while things just weren’t adding up. He said he worked part-time, however, he left for work at 5:00 a.m. and didn’t return until 5:00 p.m. Finally he admitted that he didn’t own a car and was embarrassed to admit that he had to walk 20 miles to work. Can you believe that he was ashamed of that?
There is always an uncanny mixture of bravado amongst a den of thieves, however and prisoner worth his salt displaces these false veneers and finds within himself elements of authenticity. I’d rather befriend someone who walks 20 miles to a part-time job than someone who drives a Ferrari. It’s easy in this place to lose sight of the beauty that’s in the struggle. His story emboldened me to look deeper within myself and focus on that inward voice and not the echo of my resounding footsteps in this concrete cave.
Mongoose Distro 