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remember, remember, the fifth of november, the gunpowder treason and plot...

i know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot

29 May
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Jimson: I never know what hes gonna do. Nothing in him, nothing about him is what it looks like. He's an outlaw, papa. A real one. I just make the noises. There's this stillness in his heart. Except when he's with me. Or when he's furious. Furious even to crashing headfirst into the invisible. But he can't catch a break. And he digs danger. His eyes lit up when he saw me go in manic. In school one time, as i thrashed him, I saw his eyes go cold. It stopped my heart. I quit it, helped him up, afraid of what he'd do if he had to get up by himself.
Now he doesn't even get Death as an insult. He doesn't get either that having no luck at all is a reason to be ashamed. There's nothing good about it. We talk about the luckless as if they were some kind of noble, or at least pitiable. But unluck is evil.

I want to take him away. I have to get him on something, a boat or something that floats, so we can sail off without harm. He can't stay in a community of real people. His isolation is an insult to people; it rips them up. Here he would have to be dead. He's been forsaken. No luck, no strength, no wit. Jory is out of his wits. He has no resistance. It's been paralyzed and poisoned. Some of it by me. He has no hold on himself, no honor. God, moral, ethical, whatever, is beside the point. He'll become a coward; he'll grow malicious. He'll hack up everything around him if i don't take him away. He's like that.

Except with me. He's not like that with me.

Jimbo: You're high on this, aren't you?
Jimson: Yeah.
Jimbo: And you've stayed on the wagon?
Jimson: Ever since he was convicted.
Jimbo: Then I suppose...It sounds like love to me.

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