Two Boys: An Escape From Being Raped

It took a whole lot of counseling and a whole lot of support for the boys to get through all the rape issues constructed in the above film.

They would fall apart.

In editing, in solemn mockery of themselves, in the bonfires of the music they had picked with care, a dirge, riveted to illuminations of things they did not want to see, in and of themselves, a concealment so shameful they were their own aversion to hypnotic images of who they knew in the mirror as benevolent. They had nothing more to give. It had been taken from them. No sooner righteous than a gratitude for a pardon that would not come.

It is always with you.

At the seams.

I have to close my eyes tight and get through my own abhorrence around being touched stuff. And pick them up and hold them.

The kid has his face buried in the leaves and he’s crying. What the fuck else am I supposed to do.

They finally did it.

They are really the only ones who know what it took to face the boogey man squarely in the face and to survive it.

I want them to see themselves as being strong survivors.

Anyone who’s been raped knows exactly what I mean.

The rest of you just don’t fucking know. Too much about humiliation

And that was just the beginning of the challenge.

The assignment was to deal with it.

To take difficult and adult themes — even if the audience finds children at this to be disturbing (I do) and to construct something that is subsequently art. This is the only way it will be confronted and done.

No sooner recalcitrant, but they in defense had renounced themselves, cast behind, unappropriated, detained by their own abandonment, who and what they were, no sooner than uneasiness as stranded from the idea you came from something called a home, no sooner home than distress, no sleep, just nightmares and a cheerless sorrow, no sooner provoked or seduced by an internal pageant of dragging their slow lengths along the masquerade of life, no sooner all the heavy hours, never laughing, laughing in mistrust and spots, no sooner a moral mask of wearing what he thinks he deserves, no sooner night sweats than disrepute.

The boogey man is an evil fuck, and they know. They know.

This stuff is herculean for these boys.

It would be herculean for any adult.

This is just one of the themes they confronted.

One big issue is escape.

They got through the rape scene by being quick about it.

I do not know that you, the audience, will even notice.

But you might.

They took a scene directly from JUST BEFORE THE CURE and the challenge was to own it and make it yours.

It is going to take a long time to get them through to some safe place where the kid internalizes it was not his fault.

Because he has constructed a reality completely divorced from it was not his fault. To him, it was all his fault. My job is to listen.

And to honor that this is how he feels. Even if he’s wrong.

It was not your fault.

And I’m sorry you had to hear that in court. The people who should have protected you were not there.

But we are here now. You are safe.

The belief that he is to blame is embedded in him like a stone he carries in his bowels.

Escape is easier said that done.

The part where one boy is being raped while the other boy is compelled to watch it, is, in truth, at least on film, the same boy. They call it disassociation.

I hate working with disassociation, but there it is. One boy went mute for two years.

Not one word.

He rocked a lot.

A lot a lot lot lot. It was what he did.

During a time he was not safe, he was acting out.

There was a time where what is called a hypersexuality raised its ugly head.

And there was a pimp who suddenly in his kingdom had his hands more filled than he knew what to do with. Kingdoms. Power is ephemeral.

Most pimps would have let the kid die. Because what happened was fucking trouble.

Apparently, the pimp who left him on the sidewalk by the nearest emergency room was not that hard to find. This kid took a broken beer bottle and fucked himself in the ass and almost bled to death.

But the pimp had a heart of gold, and dumped him on the hospital sidewalk.

Dead boys are bad for business.

The kid had to have a colostomy.

This is where it becomes so gross, even I recoil.

I think I should take to rocking backing back and forth myself. I’ve tried. No cigar.

It doesn’t help.

Somewhere I actually wrote in one of my stupid books: Give me the bad ones. The mad ones. I want the ones everyone has washed their hands of.

Well, they did. Just a few. A few too many.

Somewhere else I wrote. Art can help heal their wounds.

I am an asshole. The biggest asshole you can possibly imagine.

I do not know if we have done this kid any favors. By keeping him alive. The do-gooders are very dangerous people.

This kid shits into a plastic bag.

Personally, I would kill myself. There would be no joy in being here.

So he went mute and he rocks a lot.

However, he no longer fucks himself with broken beer bottles.

We hush, hush, hush the stories of such kids. Because we don’t want to see it, and we don’t want to hear about it. We cover it up with a vast and very sick silence.

We are the ones who go mute. A conspiracy of numb. We are numb. We are indifferent.

I have to help him with the bag. The other boys were shocked to see it. I had warned them. But you have to see it and smell it to really know.

There’s a whole pseudo-medical cheerleading section out there (it’s what else, an industry) of medical smiling faces who tell him he will be fine with the colostomy, and that he can have a normal life, and let’s go tip toe through the tulips.

There are no tulips.

This kid hates himself.

He hates his life. And he has begged other boys to kill him.

“He’s saying it again.”

“I’m making dinner. Just tell him no. I won’t kill you.”

“No, I won’t kill you. You’re weird, but I’m not going to kill you so stop asking me that, and I mean it.”

I have sworn never to write anything stupid ever again.

Don’t read the shit I write. Please. Just ignore it. Keep on moving to some other idiot’s fucking book.

There are some people who cannot stand the smell of shit, and I am one of them.

Gag me.

I’m not very good at cleaning him up. It’s more like moral support. Some support.

I would definitely put a gun in my mouth. It would be a blessing. But here all of us do-gooders are. Convincing him that he needs to live.

Actually, we are the ones who need him to live.

He’s on a lot of drugs. It doesn’t help. It just makes his shit smell worse.

And all the nursey cheerleaders need to ask themselves: What is a normal life.

I hate these nurse-types. I really hate them. They’re cruel, and their behavior is beneath contempt.

I would go mute myself but I don’t think I could hold out for five minutes.

Maybe three.

The cheerleaders will tell you it doesn’t smell.

Bitch, you are wrong. You are so wrong.

I help these kids construct film and video. I teach them photography. I keep hoping this kid will get beyond all the shit that is thrown at him.

It doesn’t work like that.

Please don’t send me the bad ones. Or the mad ones. Or both.

I take it back. I wrote it. So what. I take it back.

Send me the ones who have no problems.

Universal precautions.

I don’t know if HIV is in piss or shit because I do not want to know.

So what do we do with this kid.

We put him in a little room with a long table, filled with suits, and the judge has an assistant who turns on the video camera.

They insist it isn’t court, but it looks like court, it sounds like court, and if it quacks it’s a duck in court. It’s court. It’s abuse is what it is.

Justice. Does. Not. Exist.

I cannot let this kid be alone even in the bathroom. I do not trust him.

When his head was in the leaves with all the crying — we did not film that — the colostomy bag came off.

He had to go shower off.

I did burn those clothes.

Eventually, he’s going to kill himself. Until then…

The issue is escape.

It pervades this little, constructed film.

The two boys employed the idea of the young man who wants to escape to Canada to avoid the draft of the war in Vietnam.

What does this historical event have to do with rape. Everything.

It was the worst of times. It was not quite the best of times.

These two kids get it.

Less than two minutes. They board a raft like Tom and Huck. And they escape. The river is a refuge. And in this small world, to draw breath in pain.

It takes a lot of courage to face this shit. Literally.

When the film was finally done, they were wrung out. They had nothing more to give.

They cross a great river.

Why he would hang on him, as if increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on. The wagon pulls away. Childhood ends.

Sort of.

I had them put their little jammies on and go to bed.

Good nite moon.

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