The Journal of Kaneonuskatew Blackwood
Rickard Dunklestein
My name is Rickard Dunklestein and I have a hobby that is more interesting than most stamp and coin collectors. I am a bit of an urban explorer. In today's day-and-age when most of the world had been investigated and mapped out, I instead sought to explore the abandoned and forgotten. I reasoned that in these places, I could find the extraordinary. I enjoyed my forays into the disused and neglected portions of the city. I loved nothing more than to spend a Saturday carefully moving through the decrepit and derelict buildings in the southern side of the city. It was on one of these Saturday expeditions this past year that I first came across the journal of Kaneonuskatew Blackwood.
I had been rummaging through an abandoned building on the industrial side of town when I discovered the journal. The first few floors were devoid of anything really interesting, but when I reached the sixth and upper-most floor; I found a soiled mattress and desk. Sitting on the desk was a fountain pen and a paper journal. I ignored the saccharine sweet smell that flooded my nostrils and pervaded the upper-most floor. I sat down on what was the squatter's mattress and began to read.
Blackwood Journal Entry: July 28th, 2011
My therapist, back when I had a therapist, suggested that I write all my emotions into a journal so I could go back and see how far I've come. I guess that's true, but probably not in the aspect that she had thought. She probably hoped that I would find enough emotional catharsis that I might make a breakthrough of sorts, but unfortunately she was wrong. I write and write, but nothing ever changes.
I guess I should give introductions. My name is Kaneonuskatew Blackwood. Don't ask me how drunk my parents were when they came up with that name. My father thought it sounded tough and my mother was too doped up on the epidurals to support or reject the name. I told my friends my name was Kane and that went over without any problems. I was raised on an Indian reservation in the western part of America, but I left when I was twenty years old.
I'm writing all of this because my attempt to flee from home was met with less than desirable results. The plane stalled mid-air and crashed into a mountain. I won't elaborate what happened to me while I was stranded in the wilderness for over three weeks without food and the wounded survivor who passed away named Jim Donner. I will only allude to the fact that it ended with me being tried for murder in court. I don't feel it necessary to expound on this, as shortly after my court hearing, my journal that I had typed while awaiting trial was made public.
Even though I was declared not guilty by the judicial system, the release of my journal made me into a pariah. I couldn't live in one place for too long. As soon as the people placed my name and face to the tragedy, I had to leave. Their looks of disdain and harsh words were too much for me to bear. I was and am a social exile. I only did what was necessary to survive. I believe that anyone who had been in my situation would have done the same, but no one seems willing to step up to that challenge of being without food for three weeks and having to eat your only friend.
I received a small sum from when I pressed charges against the airlines that had put me in that fiendish situation, but once my sentiments came out; their support and funding dried up. I found myself an outcast. I moved out to New York. It was the only place where someone could be swallowed up in anonymity. I lost everything: my identity, my ability to sustain myself, my pride. I had once asked the gods for a new start, unfortunately I didn't know that the gods were cruel and sarcastic when I offered up that supplication. I got my wishes in spades.
I live my life day to day on the streets. My frostbitten deformities make begging a rather easy thing. The tips of my fingers and nose have gone black. I don't have any more sensation in them, which took some getting used to, but doesn't even phase me now. I am still gaunt like a skeleton even a year after the plane crash that resulted in my near starvation. I earn enough begging to keep myself fed. It's not the healthiest situation, but it could be much worse.
