No one writes to the General

The other night I had to help a friend of mine from what I can only describe as a rather despairing moment. Jason is having a bit of trouble out there in Zembla, California, and is wondering what to do.

So, let me start by saying this, I've known Jason for a looooong time. He isn't always the easiest person to get along with but still I count him among my friends, though to be honest, his attitude towards his fellow man sometimes makes it a little hard to hang out with him and my other friends. Sorry Jason, but still kind of the truth.

Jason is married to a fairly wonderful woman named Ruthie who has of late been stricken by acute agoraphobia; she really just can't take people. I realize that I've said that rather bluntly, but Jason extrapolates more on the subject on his blog. The point is that beneath Jason's gruff exterior lies a heart of gold, as he gave up society for his wife, and has now moved out into the mountains of unicorporated California. As far as I can tell, he's in the middle of nowhere. He keeps dodging questions about his phone number. To be quite honest, I don't think he has one.

So that unfortunately leaves Jason with nothing but a blog, which was my idea. But nobody seems to be reading Jason's blog--I know how you feel Jason--and so, the poor guy feels like he's reporting his condition to a void, which can be pretty hard sometimes.

The trick for me is to always remember why I'm writing a blog. I'm trying to journal the life of my thoughts out in Massachusetts and to give a little check in with my friends as to how I'm doing. If no one reads that, well, then no one reads that. I at least know that Jason and Avram are reading, everyone else is kind of a mystery (hint, hint--post a comment!). I hope that they read, but I don't know whether they do or not.

But for Jason, and perhaps for others of you out there, the real problem is that he hopes that people will read. I mean, seriously, for Jason, this is about his only conduit to the outside world. Therefore, may I make a few suggestions as to how to get your blog "out there."

First of all, pictures. People love pictures. I realize that Ruthie would have a fit if you were taking pictures of landmarks near your house, but Northern California is a beautiful place. Snap some off your porch. I know that YOU have a digital camera. What? Can't figure out how to use it?

In any case, pictures (well named) will show up on a google image search as well as a regular content search. Maybe sell some things and register on Froogle. I don't know, but that couldn't hurt.

Second, you're going to have to go to other people's blogs, read some, and make some comments. It's the only way to spread the word to new readers. Call it making blog friends. You comment, intelligently, and the next thing you know, the people that read that blog are reading your blog as well.

The third option is obviously to tag line your e-mails with your blog account, but then you're really only targetting your friends, and chances are they already know about your blog. Plus, yeah I know Jason, it's quite possible that you don't want everyone you send e-mail to reading your blog.

Lastly, try to be fun to read. The most read blogs are those with a catch. I'm blogging from prison, or I'm blogging my experiences in boot camp, or something like that. If you have one of these catches, people tend to come see how your doing more. Me, I'm blogging my experience of being alive. Really, it's not that interesting to someone who's looking for that whole, "how the other half lives" slant.

So, Jason I hope this helps.

Response to Jason's comment on Shock Tea

This is in direct response to Jason's post. Kyle, it's not like I don't want to respond to yours. It's just that by Chapter 2, all will be cleared up. If you're feeling unsettled and confused, that's normal, as long as you are also compelled to read the next paragraph. In any case, Jason wrote:

Brian, I notice that you use dashes, rather than quotation marks, to show dialogue. Is this a stream-of-consciousness thing? How do you see it shaping the reader's experience of your novel?

So...first off, not stream-of-consciousness. The problem with Shock T, a problem I've attempted to put into the novel, is that it seems stream-of-consciousness in many parts, but during those parts one has to wonder who's consciousness is supposedly streaming. It's not Bobby's. It's not Slam's. At this point in the story, who else is there. If it's anybody's it's the quasi-omniscient narrator, but the narrator is supposed to seem disembodied from the story, in many cases (H)he, (S)she, (I)it is multiple in personalities. In some cases, the narrator is susceptible to the same delusions as the characters, and in other cases H/S/I is immune. So, I think we have a problem defining this as a stream of consciousness.

I think what I was going for instead was more a concept of stream of reality, which is less pretentious than it sounds. The most common narrative structure in Shock Tea is that of a camera simply moving through the action of the story, so that it records everything the way that old German film makers used to record "a day in the life of a street" movies back in the twenties, but its presence has trouble focussing. This camera, however, is an improved version of its cinematic cousin. It's recording internal states, sometimes the internal states of an entire culture. In fact, that is the horror in Shock T, that the characters are programmed by their culture and to get inside their heads is to see that vast network and be overwhelmed by it. Thus internal states always seem to be madness, or are re-rendered into myth. I don't want to say to much on that subject, since it is a great deal of the driving force of the story.

There is also, of course, the narrator viewpoint who is convinced that this is a story, that it has to be a story, because if the lives of these people are not a story then what are they? What is the point of life? Thus, with the power of an omnisient narrator, he attempts to force Shock T into the mold of a story with varying success. This is the guy who needs the First for the story to start.

But it is the providence of the near catatonic camera simply recording the action that is in question, because it is from this narrative view that quotes are replaced by dashes. Also, you may have noticed, the language becomes extraordinarilly passive. These are things that happen. These are things that are being recorded, recorded without commentary except when the camera slips into the grand network of socially constructed internal states, but here again, internal to whom?

So, imagine this camera sitting in the middle of the room while a conversation is going on. It does not move. If something is said off camera, then someone later watching the film does not know who said what except by their tone, whether they are initiating conversation or responding, and what they say. Let us say that the conversation happens on camera. There are no close-ups. No switching between the characters as the conversation volleys back and forth. The noise and the meanings are produced without any posturing to supply commentary. It's not that the meanings are lost. They may be explored ad nauseam. But they are not commented on. This is a world where villains and heroes are not readilly apparent. Good and evil still exist, but there is no one to tell you one from the other. If you need that delineation, it's your job to provide it.

A quote mark not only tells you that someone is saying something but it puts an authoritative stamp on the statement. "Hello," the operator said. Who said? The operator. The dash does not supply that authority. -Hello- Who said that? It's impossible to tell without searching the context. Who are they talking to? Did they say, "hello," in response, or are they starting something. Maybe they are talking to themselves. Nothing is particularly clear, except that noise was made. Whether or not it meant something is not a function of the noise, but the environment in which the noise was made.

Two other features bear mentioning in relation to the dash. First of all, it's more action oriented than the quote. There is no ,______ said to slow down the action of speaking, and I am a big believer in keeping the tempo of the language paced with the action it represents. Second, by not using ,_____ said, I am forced to make the conversations meaningful enough to point out who the speaker is. At times, this is particularly confusing, and at those times, I have endeavored to provide more clues, like saids, or whispers, or screams. Whatever.

In any case, I hope this answers that round of questions concerning the Shock T.
Actually, one last thing. The - works pretty much the same as the " in terms of continuity. Thus a missing dash at the end of a paragraph, still means that the next block of text is the same speaker. But, I'm sure you've all figured that out by now.

UMass Pictures

Well, I took the camera to school today and I think I got some pretty good shots of my campus.
Here we go.
First of all, this is the front of my school.
This is Bartlett Hall, the English building. Yes it is very very ugly.
Compare Bartlett to say, this building and I think you'll see what I mean.
This is the fine arts building, which is huge. I call it the dried up dam.
This is the most notable point on our campus, the duck pond. I should have gotten the swans in there. The pond actually is home to ducks, geese, and swans, and is right next to our enormous quad which pretty much seperates the newer parts of the campus, from the dorms and older buildings. That, by the way, is the old dorms, not Southwest where I teach.
Though my campus has a great deal of concrete structures, I can assure you that there is Ivy. Of course, this is a frathouse. The big concrete building is actually the student union seen from afar. The fence is surrounding the W.E.B. DuBois library and the old church.
From the 23rd floor of the DuBois Library, the view of the surrounding territory (those high rises are the Southwest Dorms where I teach) aught to give a pretty good feel for the campus size and surrounding forest.

So there you have it folks, that's about one half of my campus. I ran out of room on the camera.

commentary on Shock T(3)

Alright, previous shockt T are 1, 2. I'm not so sure I'd just starting reading this installment without reading those first. But as always:
WARNING...The following post is from the novel that I am working on. It is dark, filled with drugs and sex and violence and all manner of foul language and grammar. If you are sensitive to this type of thing, do not read on. If this is your bag of tea, then enjoy.
Also, feel free to comment if you'd like.

Shock T (3)

Here again we find the narrative besieged by problems. First and foremost, the lack of reality to the above scene leaves a "bad taste in our mouth" even if we realize that the nature of this story is that of fiction and therefore permissible to elements contrived. We must ultimately agree that there are degrees to which something may be contrived, that in fact, there is such a thing as too contrived, and that the preceding scene so divorces itself from reality that it can no longer assume itself permissible even in a work of fiction (even one based on hallucination, bent logic, insanity, religious epiphany, etc.). Secondly, what really do we learn about the so called "Breaking" of Bobby. We find that Bobby’s parents divorce badly, we find that Bobby finds himself in the custody of his mother, we learn that Bobby has trouble fitting in at school, and we find that Bobby’s mother is most likely going to develop a bit of a drug habit. Of course, this begins the discussion, but it seems a false start. It certainly does not speak to a uniqueness of events that finally lead Bobby to the Pacifica or to the drugs. There are simply too many divorces of this nature for us to assume that Bobby’s situation is unique. If he is broken then why aren’t so many others broken. We must ultimately agree that we need more.
Daddy gone Bobby. Gone and left us Bobby. All your fault Bobby. Shouldn’t have opened that filthy mouth of yours Bobby. There are plenty of frozen dinners in the freezer Bobby. Won’t Be Home Until Late Mommy leaves Other Children Don’t Like Me Bobby in front of his television so that she can find a new man.
-Are there angels Mommy?-
The door clicks locked. Don’t open it for anyone. A long legged spider repels down the TV screen. The matches are in the cupboard. Strike anywhere. Sizzle, pop, drop, scamper. Jump, jump, back to couch, run. There’s a pistol next to the night stand. There’s a pistol in Bobby’s hand. There’s a pistol aimed at the only door into the room. The rest of the house is theirs. They can have it. Tired tired Bobby. Don’t fall asleep Bobby. Mommy come home and you got a gun, you going to catch trouble something fierce. Got to put away the matches. Put away the gun. Walk the house with the gun. Run back without it.
There’s no one here. There’s no one here. There’s no one here.
-I’m scared Telley Vee, show me something funny?-
Scary. Police. Scary. Game show. Talk show. Movie. Funny- three kids living in a suburban home with their mom and their dad, and sometimes there’s a crazy Uncle who drops by. No one lights matches. No one ever leaves.
Sleepy tired. Fight it. They know when you’re asleep. They’re hiding in the closets now, but they know when you’re asleep. Footsteps laughing. Footsteps moving. Footsteps click. Footsteps click. Footsteps click.
Get your knife. Where’s the gun? You put it away. Hide, hide, hide!
-Bobby must have gone to bed.-
-Sounds like he has the right idea.-
-hmm.-
-Who’s he?-
-Bobby don’t sneak up on me like that.-
-I thought you were someone else.-
-It’s late you’ve got to go to bed.-
-Hi there Bobby, I’m Phil.-

Hi There Phil. Fake Smile Phil. No like Phil. Phil no like. Phil no like kids. Phil no like fun, and noise, and playing, and talking, and anything. Phil no like Bobby. Phil jealous of other men, especially the young ones. Bobby go in the other room. Bobby go outside and play. Bobby get out of here. GOD DAMMIT BOBBY, I’M TRYING TO WATCH THE FUCKING GAME! Phil not daddy.

This First serves three purposes. By grounding itself in a reality previously missing from our discarded ‘counselor scene’ First we find that this First is conveniently more believable. The divorce has sent Mrs. Tutt-Gramsisky (who’s name really no longer requires hyphenation) looking for a new man, she finds one, and now we find Bobby facing the problem that so many children face: the uncaring surrogate father figure. Furthermore, by suddenly introducing a new character into the story, we have fallen back into the old tried and true adage "when all else fails, complicate matters." Lastly, we are finally introduced to Telley Vee, our best pal in the whole damn world, our necessary touchstone in a world where insanity and "drug logic" become the philosophy du jour
Unfortunately, again we find that the important elements of this scenario have been glossed over. We find that there is a certain setup (though not exactly foreshadowing) of future abuse, but repetitively we find ourselves in the same boat, so to speak, in that we have no idea why Bobby is different than so many others who start in abusive households and go on to lead happy and relatively well adjusted lives. In fact, we have failed to even live up to the horror of abuse (assuming that the horror of the abuse would shed some light on how Bobby became broken) by failing to include a detail oriented scene wherein we see an actual case of Phil’s wrath taken out on Bobby.
We cannot ignore either the introduction of the gun in this scene. If we are to choose this as our First, then obviously we expect that some Next will include a firing of the gun. When this does not happen we feel surprise, disappointment, and a lack of fulfillment. We may be able to get around this inspiration of distress if there were some social commentary concerning the way the culture apathetically fails to find the inclusion of a gun worthy of notice, but we must first admit that this scene fails to make such commentary.
Perhaps our best bet for a First is to describe the scenario down to its details. Center the whole thing in a reality based context, forget the gun altogether, and involve all four of the characters we know of so far: Phil, Bobby, Mrs. Tutt (Brenda), and of course, Telley Vee.

-Where are you going dressed like that?-
-Work called, they want to talk to me about all of my absences.-
-See. That’s the difference between me and you. I know what has to be done and I do it. I don’t let the shit get in my way. I just keep on truckin’.-
-Yeah. Well, it’s hard to get to work when you’re partying all night.-
-I don’t have any problem doing it.-
-Well, all you have to do is answer phones Phil. It’s a little different for me.-
-Oh Wah!-
-Lay off Phil. I’m in no mood.-
-Are you coming down?-
-Yes. Where the fuck are my keys? Bobby move!-
-Bobby help your Mother find her keys. Don’t just sit there...You want a line.-
-Oh man yeah.-
-I’ll go chop you one up.-
-Heh Phil.-
-Yeah.-
-I need you to watch Bobby while I’m gone.-
-What!?-
-He’s sick Phil. He’s running a fever.-
-So?-
-So, I need you to take off work and watch after him.-
-I can’t miss work because of him. Here.-
-Put it in the other room, I don’t want him watching.-
-Bobby go in the other room.-
-No. Put it in the other room. I just got through telling you he’s sick.-
-What’s wrong with him?-
From the other room comes, -I don’t know . He’s running a fever,- far enough not to hear Phil’s -You better not be faking it. You little fucker.-
-What?-
-Nothing.-
Brenda, fastens an earring. -If his fever doesn’t break, I need you to take him to the hospital.-
-Are you crazy?-
-Phil, people die from high fevers.-
-Well, we wouldn’t want that to happen.-
-Hey Phil, have a heart will you, I’ve got to go to work.-
-Feel better?-
-Yeah.-
-Do you have to go right now?- Hand on shoulder.
-Yeah.-
Bobby tries to whisper it hoping that Phil won’t feel an intrusion. -I found your car keys, mommy.-
-Thanks Bobby.-
Phil is all smirk. -Where were they?-
Bobby answers with a quiet, -Next to your purse.-
-Jesus, Brenda.-
-I guess I’m feeling a little scatterbrained this morning. I’ve got to go. Watch him.-
-Bye.-
-Bye mommy.-
-Christ kid, aren’t you a little old to be calling her mommy...Sick little boys spend their days in bed.-
Mommy, are there angels?

No use crying over spilled milk. Better to scream about it. Better to slap and then say, -Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room. Now look at this fucking mess you made.- Better to cry for the slap. Cry because you are alone. Cry because you’ve been shoved straight into the maw of the monster and there’s no one there to help you. Run Bobby. Run to your room and then shut the door fast because Phil is hot on your heels and when the door slams in his face, he’ll take his rage out on the wood.
-Open this fucking door.-
Whimper. Whimper. Window. Cry. Cry. Window. Hop. Climb. Take out the screen. Don’t break it. If Phil sees a broken screen, he’s only going to be madder. He’s only going to hit harder. A broken screen is worth twice a beating. Now jump. Caught, drag. Drag across carpets, the rug biting and stretching the strike anywhere skin. Skin tender dragged across the linoleum. Almost feels better when it’s dragged through spilled milk. Cooler, dragged through angel white milk.
Mommy, are there angels? Does someone see the smoke.
Telley Vee, are there angels?
-The American Bald Eagle cannot lay its eggs close to civilization. The pollution, the noise, and the invasion of its privacy by mankind puts it out of the necessary state of mind to achieve fertility. It lives in a delicate balance with nature, and when this balance is disturbed, the creature can be brought to extinction. We have made use of this effect to keep the bald eagle out of our lumber camps, ski resorts, and other places in the wilderness that we, as a people, like to visit, use up, and eventually destroy in the name of an ever expansive suburbia to support the all important city.
-Similar to the bald eagle is another winged adversary: the angel. During the middle ages, man kind became intensely interested in the angel, developing whole schools of thought on the subject. How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? The world may never know, but regardless, this period marked the high point in Man’s fascination with the creature.
-The scholars of the middle ages asked important questions about the angel. What do they eat? Where do they live? Can they mate with humans, and of course, what would that feel like? After much debate and experimentation, they discovered that angels eat a substance called manna, a Hebrew word meaning ‘what’s that.’ They also discovered that the angels’ eco-system relies on the blue of the sky, a factor which the beings share in common with many other animal, though obviously for different reasons. Unfortunately, these scholars made no further progress on the angel’s sexual habits. Worse yet, the angels themselves refused to cooperate.
-To this effect, twentieth century scholar and philosopher Frederick Nietzsche, said his famous phrase, "God Is Dead." Unfortunately, though Nietzsche was on the right track, it seemed the angels were not about to surrender to extinction. Tactics such as those administered to in the dealings with the American bald eagle would have to be employed; the delicate balance of the angel’s eco system would have to be disturbed in order to press the animals to the needs of mankind.-

Getting older Bobby. Getting Colder Bobby. See the light yet Bobby. Bobby got friends. He found them wandering lost in the streets, playing with matches and throwing fits. The night sky is orange. The day sky is gray. The sidewalks go further than anyone could ever walk, but they lead to dumpsters in empty lots. They lead up into the hills where no one ever goes. They lead to houses where mommies and daddies are not home. They lead to after hour parks. He spends his time throwing bottles and stones. Are there angels in the white powder mommy?

Finally, a First we can work with. Obviously, it still has a few bugs in it, but this First at least brings up many of the all the important details concerning the breaking of Bobby. First, we have an actual instance of abuse and drug use (as well as a foreshadowing to Bobby’s later life style of crime and chemical dependency). Second, we have intertwined the story with a motif which we have otherwise managed to avoid thus far. We are given some semblance of spirituality, even religious spirituality, via the whole angel thing. Lastly, we have located Bobby in a time frame closer to the eighteen years of age that we have agreed upon for the balcony scene Next.
Where this First fails, however, is on the same point that so many of the previous possible Firsts failed. We have no motivation to think of Bobby as having encountered anything different than so many others, and we must concede that if our Next is formed from this First than the Presidential Suite of the Pacifica Hotel is a very crowded place indeed. The room would be filled with every child who ever came from a household of abuse and addiction.
Perhaps the best bet is to combine the style of all previous Firsts and to synthesize them into one cohesive description of Bobby’s breaking. This would thereby include the motivations of all the major characters to manufacture a scene in which finally we can see a differentiation between Bobby and so many others so far who hold his beginnings in common. We’ll start with Mrs. Tutt and the school counselor.

-Mrs. Tutt, It’s good to see you again, but I wish we could meet under better circumstances.-
-Is Bobby alright?. I’ve done everything you suggested.-
-Mrs. Tutt, let me ask you a few questions. Does Bobby have much contact with the family?-
-Well, it’s really just me and Phil, but no.-
-Hmm....Does he spend very much time at home?-
-No, he leaves for all hours of the night. Sometimes he doesn’t even come home. I think it’s that crowd he’s been running with, not that I mind so much. It’s good to have the pressure off.-
-Have you started noticing things missing from your house?-
-Oh yeah, I’ve caught him red handed a couple of times going through my purse. What is this all about?-
-Well Mrs. Tutt, we here feel that Bobby is taking an unfortunate turn in his development. He rarely comes to class and when he does, he just sits in the corner. He doesn’t socialize, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t seem to take much of anything seriously, and well, we believe he’s taking some very dangerous drugs. Now mind you, we sell the drugs ourselves, but we prefer that our clientele remain the initiated...football players, student counsel members, cheerleaders, etcetera. People who are making an active effort to conform. Your son, on the other hand, refuses to conform. His science teacher in the regular lesson explaining the God myth was forced to argue with Bobby concerning the possible existence of Angels. Angels!-
-But angel’s can’t live in an orange sky.-
-Precisely my point. Now, needless to say, we want toe the line conformity, not some moody brooder, and sadly, Bobby has fallen into the latter category I think.-
-I see. Well, I don’t really know what more I can do. I let Phil beat Bobby, but he won’t run away. I don’t think he’s going to swallow all of it down, you know...grin and bear it. I’m just waiting for him to commit suicide. It’s the only solution I can see to the problem.-
-Mrs. Tutt, times have changed since you and I were teenagers. They don’t just commit suicide anymore ma’am. Nowadays, they grab a gun, take out their family and then come down to the school for one final shoot out before they blow their own heads off. You must have seen the movies.-
-Oh my!-
-Yes, I’m afraid so. No, we’re going to have to deal with this problem in a more subtle manner than pushing him to the edge.-
-Subtle, what do you mean? Like the beatings?-
-No, I think an even gentler hand is required here if we intend to cut our losses and run. Do you have a car?-
-Yes a brand new one. Bobby said that he needed new clothes, but I’ve always felt it important to remember who is the parent and who is the child.-
-I concur whole heartedly. So does this mean that you now have two cars in your...er...family?-
-Yeeeeaaah. I have a car and Phil has a car.-
-Good. Let Bobby borrow Phil’s car.-
-Are you crazy!? I’m not going to let that little monster behind the wheel. I thought you people were taught how to train children. As a mother I know, you give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.-
-That’s precisely my point. Bobby’s bored, and therefore, dangerous. Give him a car. Let him taste the city. Trust me, he’ll run away. No ‘out with a bang’, no ‘bad example’, no ‘drop out lying around the house at twenty five living off you and Phil.’-

Vroom Vroom Bobby. Vroom vroom. White line fever. You and eight friends, four twelve packs, a sheet, a little mommy plastic baggie, and you run the gamut. Parking lot. Guzzle. Guzzle. Guzzle. Front door. Freedom Bobby. Absolute two hit freedom.
-See I.D.-
Back door. Music thumping behind locked steel door with no handle on this side. Bang. Bang. I got five, let me in. I got ten, let me in. I got fifteen, let me in. I got twenty, LET ME IN. Lights. Camera. Action bra beauties bouncing to the biggie biggie beat under beams of color never seen before by man nor beast inspiring bravado in the bathroom, with a CD case and a razor blade. Out. Never seen so many freaks in all your life, lurking in the shadows, lurching out filthy moans as they are payed in full with blow jobs under the table and
-hey. Want to try X.-
So friendly. So friendly. Where’s the slap coming from? No slap. No matches. No angels. No sky. Just shot after shot after shot after shot after you’re pretty in a thousand different languages and how old are you in a thousand new after dance like a maniac and no one can see after don’t even cup the smoke when the bouncer walks by after what’s that smell in the air like perfume after nibble on your ear after kiss at her neck after hands down your pants and
-come on-
while people in the next stall do the exact same thing as you and her but at a higher pitch after maneuver out with stupid look on your face and her panties in your pocket after chop a line on the table and snort it up after bar guy catches you and throws your scrawny ass to the street wolves outside after
-hey you two, come here.-
-Run!-
Run bobby. Run round corner with girl by the hand. Jumping Bobby. Climbing Bobby. Keep on running Bobby though they’re long gone Bobby. Police car rolls up says, "whoo!" Man gets out of cop car says, "can I talk to you for a minute on this back alley street where I can ask you how old you are and you can tell me that you’re seventeen and the girl you’re with can say that she’s fifteen and I can ask you if you’ve been drinking and you can say, "yes ossifer," though you probably won’t mention the pot, the coke, or the X and I can tell you that if I wanted to I could haul you both in but since I’m such a nice guy and your girl’s done up so darling, I’m just going to let you go just as long as your girlfriend there can tell me whether or not there are angels.- Unbuckle.
-That asshole took all our fucking drugs.-
Spit.
-I can’t believe he fucking took our drugs.-
Spit.
-I mean, fuck!-
Spit.
-Aren’t you going to fucking say anything.-
-You just...-
-Cops in this town. That guy would have taken us in in a second. I’m not going to jail again.-
-Jesus.-
-Can we go get me something to drink?-
-Yeah.-
Spit.
-...and he still fucking took our drugs. I mean, its one thing for these guys to act like assholes, but to do all that and then take our fucking drugs. What the fuck is this world coming to.-
Blue sky, orange sky. Are there angels?
-Aren’t you going to fucking say anything?!-
-I can’t believe that you...-
-Oh, don’t be so fucking naive. I did what we had to do...Anyway, that’s over. We’ve got to deal with the problem at hand. Do you have any money?-
-I got my mommy’s card and her code.-
-Brilliant. Kiss me.-
-Let’s get you something to drink first.-
Card slips into machine. Machine asks for code. Bobby punches B-R-O-K-E-N with a trembling come down hand. Machine spits four hundred dollars of get back up again money.
-Do you know where we can buy.-
-Yeah.-
Old building crumbling Gothic with the street lights shattered and upstairs graffiti, twenty people living in a five by five space, one baby and two mattresses among them. The inbred forgotten children of Telley Vee and the crystal nightshade decanter: Slam, in case he’s been forgotten.

Night go on Bobby. All night Bobby. All right Bobby. Tinsel strength Bobby. Like a champ Bobby. Find a mattress Bobby. Night wears on Bobby. Perform your fifteen year old freak show in front of twenty new passed out friends with Slam watching the golden initiation as too many chemicals keep him from being impressed behind mirrored sunglasses of ‘I’m asleep’.

Well, of course. Given that we let this possible First run until such point as it leads us somewhere, we have fortunately been led to a place which we might have assumed at the very beginning of this search. There are two people to our Next. There are two people on the balcony of the Presidential Suite of the Pacifica Hotel. Two people who hold the room as sanctum and sanctuary. Two people: one savior, one saved, and it now seems obvious that we have made a major mistake in assuming that our First must begin with Bobby, that the breaking in fact has nothing to do with Slam. It is an obvious mistake but not one that we should beat ourselves up over. Its easy to have made the mistake that the breaking was about the abuse. It’s easy to say that it was about the drugs (though not directly). We might have even assumed that it was about the faith, especially as it represents possibility. However, Bobby does not become Broken because he accepts the torture but because he sees that there is something else, something that he could have, something that is beyond and yet missing from him. That's how he knows he's broken. Therefore, our First should not center on the conditions of poor Bobby Tutt, but in the potential of a different life as represented by the man they call Slam. As in all good stories (term used loosely here), we must start not with the torment, but with the desire.

quick note

Just a quick note to let you all know that everything turned out fine. We found a Mexican Food restaurant on Friday, and it turned out to be more than half way decent (though clearly they interpret spicy as either sweet or a bowl full of mashed jalapinos).

Also, I'd like to mention that Gabe over at Penny Arcade has spawned. He has pictures of his son up on his website if you are a fan of PA or of babies in general.

I've got to go teach so bye for now.