Chapter 10

Where do I begin?  How do I begin?  How do I go back to a life of digits after losing a life of love?

They say, Amelia, complete your freshman year.  Attend the annual dance, then only three more years to go.  There will always be time for Marco.  As if they know how slowly time passes without you.  Missing you is what makes this an institution.  Missing you makes me write old form.  The physicality of writing on paper, the time it takes, reminds me of you.

Without hope of ocean or bottle, how can you respond to me like in one of the pre-digital tales you told me from the collector’s Stories of Hope?  The memory of paper books lining the collector’s walls now seems like an imagined screensaver.

At first the institution resisted giving me paper and pen.  They said it would compromise my rehabilitation.  They said I should assimilate to efficiency and the rationale.  “What could paper and ink generate but waste?”  I resisted their logic by refusing to do my nightlies.  My agreement with them did not require me to reach high standards as a student, only to commit to the institution until I completed college.  Plenty of students refuse to do their nightlies.  I’ve been hearing that in posts for years.

“Amelia,” they said, “you have always been different from other students.  Even when under the influence of Marco, you have always done your nightlies.  The patrol informed us of the great promise you showed during your dialogue with them.  They said your logic was strong and that your potential for internalizing the rationale was great.  They said you could one day be a troubleshooter within the Mod, negotiate dialogues for the patrol, or even legislate policy.”

Whatever my weaknesses in writing source code, they said my graphic design studies were hiding my true logical gifts.  They said I was destined for more.  At the highest level, tech and logic are of equal importance to the Mod, City, and the rationale.  I began to wonder if I had underestimated myself or if they were merely manipulating their words to make me internalize the rationale.

Finally they gave me the pen and paper as a reward for returning to my studies.  Teachers here deliver necessities to me by hand same as my parents did at home after receiving their nightly ship.

Students don’t have access to an elliptical.  Otherwise the rooms are standard issue, hardly different than my room at home.  Above my desk with flat screen and digit board, I sleep in a conforming bunk bed.  A mini and headset are also provided so we can listen to music or video without disturbing the rooms around us.  Other than bed sheets and the clothing I brought with me, the only other item in the room is a dresser for my clothes with a hang for dresses.  They’ve provided that luxury.

To avoid the inefficiency of real time socializing, they’ve provided us each with our own bathroom.  Surprisingly, my bathroom includes a shower and a tub, a luxury usually earned by the most productive parents.  The water costs must be draining.

Please forgive the middle year humor.  Sometimes I wish I could return to the simplicity of those years, though it would mean waiting five more years to meet you.  My teachers said only the most promising reform students are assigned rooms with tubs; the others must earn the privilege as a product of their studies and progress with the rationale.  I don’t know what to believe.  It’s not a question I feel comfortable asking, not wanting to offend any of the other reform students.  Most of them aren’t as lucky to have memories such as ours to keep them going.  Most of them haven’t bothered to return my requests for contact.

One student, Skip, is being reformed for boarding.  Not with digits, but on wheels.  After his parents’ shipment arrived each night, he would escape into the night on his board and wheels.  Skip would ride his board, on streets maintained for licensed trips and the patrol, doing tricks over curbs and in the air.  It was only a matter of time before he was caught, warned and then re-caught.  The tricks kept him going back for more.  He said much depends on velocity, necessitating smooth roads, and he tried to describe the tricks for me.  He even tried to send links to his pre-digital boarding heroes, but access had been blocked.

The tricks are hard to imagine without images, but he compared them to dancing in the air with the board as his partner.  When the tricks are done right, the board becomes an extension of his feet.

He said it was like love in that way.  He said there were different types of love, all kinds of trouble worth living transit for.  In the end, the patrol persuaded him to attend the institution by warning what would happen to his parents.  Their logic was strong; he couldn’t resist for long.  Our parents have worked so hard for us.  We are all they have.  All I have is the memory of you and the picture you gave me.

I’ve folded it so small, hidden it so many times, that the picture has worn off or faded in spots.  Stars in the worn paper mark your face as if you are under a night sky; only the background is blue from the collector’s painted walls.  When I think of the collector’s flat, I remember the walls painted blue wherever not lined by books.  It’s growing hard to remember the rest of his treasures.  The night seems long ago and our time there brief.  How is time passing for you?  How do you feel when you go to our meets and I am not there?  In my mind I see you placing “at” signs everywhere only to gain no response.  I worry about the patrol using the symbol to locate you, forcing you into dialogue for new crimes against reason that would not be covered by my agreement.  Whenever I review the record of my dialogue with the patrol, I discover loopholes only in their favor.  I don’t suspect they would interpret the agreement to your advantage.  If they caught you, would you submit to an institution so we could at least be standard together?  Or would you commit to your pre-digital ideals and be tracked as a permanent transit?  I love you, Marco, more than anything in this world, even more than the pre-digital ideals that inspired our meets.

After completing my studies, they say I will understand why we would be better off living together as standard citizens.  They say you must possess valuable skills to have dodged the patrol for so long.  I didn’t tell them how long that was or the adventures you have pursued.  Sometimes I think they say things to see how I will react.

Teachers visit our room three times a day to deliver meals or fresh sheets, bathroom items and water.  They stay long enough to answer questions in real time.  Whatever the inefficiency of real time, that type of dialogue can be very convincing when you are not used to speaking with another person present, especially a teacher whose logic is strong.

To clear my head, I’ve begun avoiding speaking to my teachers in person.  From now on, I will only speak to them via chat.  I feel less intimidated that way, but wonder if my choice provides greater strength to their position.  Am I conforming to the rationale by seeing the advantages of tech?

I would rather lead a pre-digital life with you, to live among the collection, to raise our child to be more independent from the Mod and Privates.  Whatever our living conditions, I would rather live with you than apart.  Living apart doesn’t feel like life at all.  It feels like living transit.  I don’t think I have the strength to live like this forever.

Marco, I know you love me.  I am as sure of that as the picture in my hand, but if the patrol were to engage you in dialogue, would you choose rehabilitation if it meant the chance to communicate with me again?  Or would you choose to live transit?  I know that was never what you wanted, that you thought grandfathered practices could coexist with modern ones.  I know you fear transitory life as much as me, but sometimes you would get a look in your eye when the wind made its sound through the tall grass or when the doves would coo.  You would get a look like the stars cut in the picture I’m holding.  I know you love me, Marco, but I hope the stars are not enough to make you fail the dialogue.

You must not let the patrol catch you, must not search for me.  If we’re both patient, we will one day have the life you dreamt for us.  When I graduate, we will.  I will not waiver.