Cells
by Scott C. Holstad

A Book Review by Allison February McKinley © 2005

Wild Child Publishing.com © 2005

Published by PublishAmerica ISBN: 1-4137-4180-0

Allison's review in ten words or fewer: A gritty ride through one man's personal hell and back.

Moods invent the man.
I am a creation of
turbulence, a rider of
an ongoing
merry-go-round.

Scott Holstad might seem to be a creation of turbulence; at least he certainly was when he wrote Cells in the late 90s. His words portray the torture of a disturbed soul.

Not for the weak of heart, Cells is divided into four chapters: "The Edge", "Madness", "Where Now", "Jail and the Future", containing 83 poems in all, and though Scott's poetry--some may prefer to call it 'short-form prose'--takes us on a ride through his own private purgatory, he does not leave us without hope.

In performing research for my interview with Scott, I found a very interesting titbit: Scott's older books have become collector's items already, one selling on eBay for $193.00. I noted also that used copies of Cells at Amazon.com sell for more than new. To enjoy this type of celebrity, many writers have to die first, yet Scott is still alive, young and healthy, and working on book number sixteen. At one time, Scott's books were outselling those of his idol Charles Bukowski.

Taken individually, some of the poems in Cells may seem the ranting of a lunatic, a malcontent in an ongoing war 'against the machine', as in Next Time:

Next time
I don't think
I'm going to
make a go
of it alone

I want to take
out half the town
end up
with the breeze
blowing through
the hundreds of
holes the LAPD
put through me

Others, I think, represent the views of a recovering man looking back at one who was temporarily insane, one who was badly hurt by life, born with something dangerous inside that was set to go off at any minute, as recounted in Growth:

My playing fields
were comprised of a
black and white
universe

     cold/hot
     light/dark
     heaven/hell
     right/wrong

This
my guide
my birthright

I tried,
Lord knows I did,
but something was
buried
in the back of my
     soul
a perfectly
round
darkness

a
blackened
key
which
when turned
daily
produced
increasing
     torment
     fires of hell
     anguish
     despair
the leaves
turned gray
the rose petals
dropped to the
earth

and I felt heat
distant
at first
but
the kindling was
just the beginning;
soon more logs
were added
and I was ablaze

I earned a
reputation,
I tortured my
beleaguered parents,
I started
     writing

my mind went every
     which
way

and
I
yearned for violence,
sought it out,

on my way to a
multi-degreed
corporate
family
life

I
became
Manic Depressive
Obsessive Compulsive
ADD

the signs had been there
no one knew
no one gave a shit

when i
was to
eventually
go
overboard
it was
to be a
lesson
learned

After I had finished the first two chapters of Cells, I could not help but wonder if there were any cure for mental disorders of this nature. Or had Scott just been overlooked? In chapter three, "Where Now", I found:

why?

all through the years
they asked
WHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY
i
heard
over and over
you are the angriest person I've ever met
psychologists
counsellors
ministers
shrinks
professors
didn't matter
I couldn't answer the question
see
there was
no
answer
I
am bipolar
manic depressive
allegedly
it's genetic
I didn't find this out
until I was 31
and had spent
23 FUCKING YEARS
living like this
trying to drink myself
into daily comas
driving cars into streetlights
racking up tens of thousands
of dollars in credit card bills
fucking anything that moved
twice
28 different people in july of 1988
taking anything anyone gave me
self-medicating myself
cause
I knew
SOMETHING WAS WRONG
but I could never give the
right answer
there was none
I wasn't angry
for any tangible reason
it was biological

NOW
i
am angry
because in all of
those years I went
to those professionals
not ONE of them gave
me a diagnosis worth
a shit and as a
result
I missed 23 years
of my life

In Expressions, Scott reveals that the 'cure' is far more terrifying than the illness.

I've seen the expressions on
their faces, faceless zombie
movement the whole lot of them.

I'm the only lucid one, and I
don't make that statement
lightly. We're dragged from

class to class: Art Therapy,
Group Therapy, Callisthenics,
Street Management, Anger

Management. For the
"lower functioning" ones
(read, full blown

schizophrenic), there are
classes on how to rent an
apartment, cook a meal,

find a low paying, menial
job which will undoubtedly
make them feel like

productive citizens of our
society--these, a former
accountant, city attorney,

teacher--broken people
all, next to the indigents,
homeless, toothless, all

expressions given to them
in honor of their condition,
rendered to them via

Thorazine, Klonopin,
Haldol, Risperdal, Zyprexa
and
so many more.

Zombies. That's who
they are, and that's who
we are to society.

I've seen the expressions
on their faces. It's called
No Hope.

Is this the best we can expect from 'modern medicine'?

Klonopin

...I'm not drooling now,
But I am on Klonopin,
And it's fucking with me
Hard, even thought it's
Allegedly keeping me
"Stable".
Please note
I have not killed
Myself
Or anyone else
In the last several
Months of being on it,
So it must be effective.
Still
I fell
Getting into the shower
This morning.

Just today, 28 February 2005, the Los Angeles Times reported the story of a woman who died in jail recently. She was a heroin addict. She was held in a cell without any type of medication or medical supervision and died from withdrawal on the tenth day. Is this humane? Did this punishment fit her 'crime'? Is not addiction an illness?

Once, Scott was incarcerated for carrying two knives that were legal in the state, but not in the city, and spent days with twenty-seven men in a cell designed for sixteen, denied water and his medication. Sandwiches were provided three times a day, yet Scott is allergic to wheat. From Holstad walking Sir:

...Later got stuck in a holding pen
with two black kids from
opposing gangs, and me
looking like a Neo Nazi
with shaved head, goatee,
scars on arm looking
like tats. We eyed each
other warily, but soon
found we were smarter
than the other fuckups...

...when these two kids and I got
into our final cell blocks
we each said we'd
watch the others' backs
and we did
and we took turns
sleeping on the concrete
floor with our mini blanket
provided to us courtesy of
you tax payers

16 bunks
65 people

you do the math

Throughout history, we have been remiss in providing proper treatment for our mentally ill. I would like to think that things have changed. Now, having read Scott's book, I do not think that is the case.

Awareness allows us to effect change. We must often question our values and our actions. Scott Holstad's book Cells asks, Are we treating our prisoners correctly? Are we doing the right thing for those who suffer mental illness? Scott's descriptions of modern incarceration and mental health facilities hearken back to the horrors we still hear of gaols and lunatic asylums in medieval times.

It is as if the people who run these institutions even today are the nihilists, reflecting in the treatment they dispense a belief that existence is senseless and useless; creating conditions in the social organisation that are so bad as to make destruction desirable for its own sake.

Is there no redeeming quality or light in life itself, no hope of redemption? Is knocking someone out with medication and teaching basic street survival skills the best we can do for those who suffer mental illness? Is this the only offering of a loving and caring society?

Though this river of nihilism may run deep in the institutions of cure, Scott seems to say that the individual, even though ill, must be stronger than the institution. He leaves us with a ray of hope in Negotiation.

Shifting through the rubble,
they hope to grasp me,
heal me,
looking for shards of
what I once was
or am yet to be
they reach.

Keep grasping,
for I am multi-faceted,
multi-faced,
and while I feel
      unwell
I am my own
power
my own home
with blackened roses
gaping at softened
slashed easy chairs,
furled requiems
of silence,
yet strength too

     of poetry
     of the books
     of the gods

I am my Own
and
I intend to
be the keeper of
My truth,
the slayer of
My dragons,
the exorcist of
My demons.