Library of dust assignment.

My containment.

My once lover.

~ October 22nd, 1967.

I always lived a small life. I was just a normal guy, not horrible looking. I was never famous, I didn't have a mansion, and I lived life without much controversy. I didn't make a hit single on the radio, and I never took more of anything than I should. I lived in a small house in Salem, Oregon. I spent my free time with friends, and dated some girls here and there. I painted in my free time, and had a small interest in photography. Despite all that, nothing ever mattered to me much. Just one thing.

~ October 25, 1967.

She had beautiful, brown hair and blue eyes that sparkled like nothing I've ever seen before. The moment I saw her, my entire body had this want. This want to run up to her and get down on one knee, and take her as mine for the rest of my life. I had never talked to her before, didn't know her name, and yet I already knew I would do anything for her; As well as anything to have her. It was April 2nd, earlier this year when we met. I saw her for the first time at my best friend's high school football game. She was walking around the campus with another brunette girl that looked a year or so older than her. That's when it happened. She caught my eye. She stopped where she was walking, as did I. I came over and introduced myself. We got to talking, and I talked her into letting me take her on a date the following Saturday. That date was the first time I really had a chance to look at her. She was so pretty, more than she probably knew.

~ October 27th, 1967.

Over the following months, we grew to fall in love. We would go out on evenings, and she looked at me every day with the same want I felt when we first met. I adore her. And she felt the same. Life seemed all too perfect. I finally had someone by my side. Sure, we fought occasionally, but that's what you get when you fall in love. She taught me things, as well as I did for her. No more boring routines in my life, no more same old-same old. It was perfect; it was heaven. I had begun to wonder if I should marry her. It seemed as though everything was perfect. In a few months, I had learned to love someone more than anything I’ve ever loved before. That is, until we started to fight more. About once a week, we would fight. I never hurt her. I always swore I would kill myself if I hurt her. If anything hurt her.

~ November 29th, 1967.

Remember when I told you about a month ago that everything was perfect? That I would never hurt her? I didn't mean to do it. We had a big fight on November 1st. A day I will never forget, the most morbid and haunting memory I will ever have. After we fought, she left the house to go get some air and calm down. Nothing out of the ordinary, seeing as how these past few months have been going similarly. This night was feeling more sad than usual. I made the choice to run after her, this time. I knew my words had hurt her more than before. I didn't like that. As I said, I would never hurt her. But I did. I came out of the house, in search of her. I found her. Oh, did I find her. In the middle of the road. Barely breathing. I called the ambulance, and they admitted her into this place called the Oregon State Hospital. They told me I would be allowed to visit her weekly, and she would be let out in about a month. I didn't realize they were lying.

~ December 30th, 1968.

The last day of the year. I can't sleep, I can't breathe, I can't eat. I have this mind numbing feeling all throughout my body, which is becoming weak and tired. I have this feeling all night and day. I hate it. I'm afraid of everything. Imagine the feeling of being scared to go to sleep at night, the feeling of blood dripping down your wrists, and not feeling happy for months. You have just imagined my life for the past year. Ever since she got admitted into that hell of a hospital, my life has been like this. She's dead. Dead. As in she'll never be back to me, and I'll never get to hold her again. I hear she got put into a can. They left her there, because they thought she was insane after the accident. She just got hit by a car! She was having some memory problems, but they locked her in that prison. It's an insane asylum; and it's my fault that she got there. I am a horrible person. That stupid, stupid fight. I never should've fought with her. She was my only happiness in life.
~ May 14th, 1969. I'm sorry to admit this is my last entry. I was admitted into the Oregon "State Hospital" which is really just hell. It's cold and dark here. I was admitted for something called depression, which they assume makes me a crazy freak. I can't stand living here. I have the haunting memory of my once happy life all around me. Love is a ghost. It once was alive, breathing and feeling. It had passion and togetherness, being tender and caring. Then all of a sudden, it dies. And the old memories of it haunt you for the rest of your life. So this is the end of mine. She always left a dent in my life. A dent that can’t and never will be fixed. So I leave you with no memory of me except razorblades on the floor, some Reader's Digest magazines, and my ghost. Once felt, no longer anymore.

http://www.davidmaisel.com/
My humanities teacher had us write a story on David Maisel's gallery, The Library Of dust. The gallery is on these copper canisters, that have cremated remains of bodies from the Oregon State Hospital, which was an insane asylum. People who were mentally ill, depressed, or even just a little out of the ordinary were seen as insane and locked away in this horrible place. The bodies were put in the copper cans, and just left there, unclaimed by families. Our assignment was to choose a can and write a story about who they were, 500 words minimum. The assignment was to write a story about one can, but I felt a strong instinct to write a love story between the two. I also included two images that really moved me in his
Asylum collection. I hope at least one person can read this story and realize that just because someone is different, or has a mental disability, that it does not mean they should be treated differently than another. Thank you to David Maisel and his moving photography, and Mr. Ross for assigning this project that I am incredibly interested in.

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