I begin this novel with three examples of how hard it is with someone with Aspergers who always begins any dialogue with believing (literally) what the person says to me. BW was kinda more than curious. For a few seconds, I would remind myself that the Normals did not speak literally. The ones with agendas, were dangerous. Especially from pressure of 24 boys who would terrorise any person who wanted to know them. They were all suicidal. I have to think a minute about what they are saying, and then I can kick start it by being softly confrontative. I really wanted his BW's feedback (he's very smart), then, I realized there were open wounds in BW's soul. There were enough wounds hot to trot but not in this space, please. I am the Wrong Person to ask What Is Real The wounded and the wounded. The boys would become far too curious, and they would befriend him, and put him through it all. Even they are aware of It Takes Me a zippy minute to understand that this person is using maybe a metaphor that could be applicable to a variety of situations and backgrounds. When BW says -- I love you more -- I thought he meant it. What he was actually saying was that he would like to become more involved with the Smash Street Boys. I used to hear the same speech by about a hundred other homo sapiens. It was ordinary, but maybe not to him. Those boys would be more closed than I was. And wasn't, that makes me think perhaps he was amusing. I did not think that. Yet. There are caveats. I knew where they came from. For me to disclose would be illegal because HIV status cannot be made public by another person no matter who they are. I was not sure I could trust BW. He was a little new to the whole nine yards, and in that context I myself simply allowed the narrative to unwind. It was the correct decision. BW reacted in hysterics. I never read his stuff but the boys did, so I guess the ghosting should begin. My focus was not unlike a laser beam. There was some fragility among the boys. They would deny it. They would push his buttons until something broke. Keeping their HIV status confidential is the law. I was looking (not asking) for some fragility on BW's part. Anything less than that would be hubris. Do not let them push you too hard (they would do it anyway) But. BW just kept getting angrier and angrier. Maybe I let him in too far. The behavior of the boys in other situations out of their control, controlled. Sets off the sparks. No one wanted gasoline and rocket ships who are to blame. Wherever. To be in outburst. Is not to be. These boys could induce both grieving and Grand Theft Auto in the same breath. I did learn from JC. That there were people with great hearts. But how many open wounds could I deal with in one day. It was the boys who wanted suicide watches. Two at a time broken up and replaced by another two for two hours. Back and forth like dogs in a kennel. What we needed was sleep. Kids withdrawing from opiates must recapture their sleep. The new one will be ready to ask how does he get to the roof. He doesn't he's going to fall apart anyway. They are welcomed to fall apart. I cannot allow myself fall the luxury thrill boner over Look At Me. No, you look at me. BW ran right hard into a brick wall called sex. "Brothers don't have sex." This is where the rubber hits the reveille. I saw a black and white photograph of a rising anxiety. I can't afford that. These guys do not need or feed on anxiety. They run from it, and then they become the thing itself. What they hid was tenderness. Moments of profound significance (like I can do things and tune a car) to them. Like how many of these people can I piss off. In all of this, we had work to do. Like read the books I just passed out. Does anyone know who Samuel Taylor Coleridge was, and yes, he did, indeed, embibe a bit, so let's see if we can dig a bit to see if it was or it wasn't an easy architect.
