Conclusion of Lectures (Part 1)
In my introduction to this series of lectures I stated that the contents would also serve as my doctoral thesis.
I will now proceed with that business.
Dear Doctor; why do I feel so compelled to search into the depths of Boltdomness? Is there something missing in my childhood? Don’t write that question down. I think I know the answer.
My father never laid a hand on me; nor did he use drugs or alcohol. He did, however, become enraged if I made a mistake while he was working in his garage. It was not ‘our’ garage. It was ‘his’ garage.
I was occasionally allowed to watch him work on his vintage auto. This would occur more often than not when my mother would send me out there (“Go work in the garage with your father.”) Most of her time was spent in a chat room vicariously pleasing a panoply of lonely people. But I wander; more about my father.
My father, you see, was a dichotomy.
In the evening he wished to avoid all of his daytime endeavors. In the daytime he was ‘Doctor Spencer,’ a well-respected professor in Binghamton University’s Psychology Department. At night he loved to hide in the garage and pretend to be doing important things to his prized auto. He loved that auto more than he did me.
I never really knew if he was hiding from his work or my mother (or his mother who lived with us). All of that really does not matter and I should not have wasted your time telling it. The real story is about the bolts.
My father had a coffee can full of bolts that sat on a shelf in the garage. If I made a mistake such as asking a question or touching him he would get very angry. The top would be yanked off the can and he would start throwing bolts at me. I would proceed to cry and that made him even more irate. The bolts would then really start to fly.
Mother would hear me crying and she would have to abandon her internet friends to come and rescue me. This would result in “chatus interuptus” with a new-found intimate friend on the computer. She told me she didn’t much care about having to come to the garage so often.
A screaming match between her and my father would then ensue.
It was not long before my father realized that bombarding me with bolts was not resulting in an emotionally perfect outcome.
He soon discovered that he could hit me with a single bolt and I would take the pain. I found it was not as traumatic as crying and listening to another shout-fest between the two of them.
Sometimes, when in this stoic trance, I would get a strange stirring that I did not understand. This must have appeared interesting to him.