Side-tracking...

This was not a good day, for me. Simon led me into another side alley that I didn't really understand but found intriguing enough to waste hours seeing where it went. 

The whole opening bit that I posted over the last couple of days was going to be like an interview of Simon by a police psychologist...but doing it was throwing the whole rest of the story off.

I couldn't figure out how to get back to the storyline and have it make sense. The indecision messed with my focus and made me angry with myself for not being able to work the damned thing out...until I concluded it's not workable.

I sometimes wonder if he doesn't really want me to tell his story. If he has a case of cold feet and that's the reason for all the fucking chaos.

Fortunately, my screen saver is a thousand foot high drone shot slowly passing over London. It starts around Wapping just west of Canary Wharf and gently glides in a straight path past the Shard, over the Thames and Tower Bridge, with The City and St. Paul's to the right of frame while the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern are to the left.

Then come Waterloo Station, the London Eye, Big Ben, and Parliament to the left with Charing Cross Station to the right across to Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens before jumping back to its original starting point.

It's close to five minutes long and is so amazingly soothing, to me. I can watch it a couple of times and remind myself of the size and scale of the biggest city in Europe. The photo I posted is of the City from Primrose Hill, which also reminds me.

God, I wish I was there instead of here.

Second half...

Here is the rest of the first chapter, now at 1700 words...

------

 “There’s a private library I’ve bought in Barrington,” he said, “not so very far from you.” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. 

“Um, Olivier,” I replied, “It’s over three-hundred miles.” 

“Well, you’re a great deal closer than I am.” Spoken in his posh West End tones, which I’m told isn’t an honest accent. “All I need is for you to work up an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published. It’ll be coming as a collection so no need for individual values. Though I am declaring it as six-fifty...” 

“Six-hundred and fifty thousand?” 

“They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked I didn’t already know. 

That name raised issues. I’d worked at Variman's Antiquarian Book Shop for two decades, and I'd had to deal with the woman on several occasions. My first time was when she had loudly complain that the books I’d shipped her were not packed well-enough. She wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, then with bubble wrap around them and put in a box with bio-degradable peanuts. All of which I'd done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box into another. Rather like a Russian Doll. 

I'd done it that way thence forth, when she had ordered online, but no compliment was ever given. Of course, no further complaint, either. About that. Instead, she would snarl about how incomplete the description was. And the three times she set foot in the shop, she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, and there needed to be better climate control...and so on and so on...

She also took her time paying, usually sixty to ninety days instead of the usual thirty, and then only after our accountant, Arnell, had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone I wanted to deal with. So there was another red flag telling me to not agree to do this. 

“There are only about a hundred titles,” Olivier said. 

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” I asked. “Not to Variman’s?”

I thought she'd got on with the two men who owned it...Tomas Varisç and Harold Harman. They looked so much alike people thought they were brothers, but one was from Oregon and the other from Atlanta. Though they did like to bicker like an old married couple. They were now well into their eighties, but the store was still going strong so I'd have thought that would be the first place she'd contact about selling.

Then Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”

Mrs. Northridge? Gone? That surprised me. I'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Her husband kept it low-key. I knew her well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on it. Now I’d also like you to make a condition report on the books...” 

“Oh...oh...Olivier, that is so time-consuming...” 

“Nothing major. Just make certain she took care of them and they haven’t been trashed. These are antiquarian books, and you know how to handle those. Her? I halfway suspect she may have broken a couple of them to remove illustrations.” 

“Oh, God, it’s good she’s gone.” That burst out of me before I could even think to stop it. 

“Well, Simon, I had no idea you were so judgmental.”

“When someone tears apart a book just for the pretty pictures...” I hated people who destroyed books.

“Understood.” 

“Olivier, I don’t know that I’d be right for this.” 

“No, you’re perfect...” 

“But it means traveling to another state and hotel nights and...” 

“It’ll be easy, Simon. I promise. Shouldn’t take you more than a day. Wait, you do have a laptop?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“And Excel?” 

“Yes...but...” 

“Then the list will be easy.”

“You only say that because you’re not doing it.” 

“Simon, please. I would do it myself but I’m nearly four-thousand miles away and the Chelsea Book Fair is happening, next weekend. And Tanner wants this done as quickly as possible, or he’ll have someone just come take the books.” 

“This is so odd. I haven’t heard anything about that collection being up for sale...” 

“Told you, I got in before anyone even knew about it. She’s got some nice editions of Brontë and Austen, a lovely Rubaiyat bound by Sangorsky-Sutcliffe.”

Which I had heard about through the bookseller grapevine but hadn't seen. “Well...I am familiar with a nice set of Fielding’s Amelia she bought from Variman’s.” 

“I didn’t know about that one. So it’s a hundred-and-one books.” 

“You mean titles. That one’s four volumes in a slip-case.” 

“See? See?! You know exactly what needs to be done.” 

I was still unsure. But he was being his usual cajoling self, referencing how I’d already done a couple of similar jobs for him. One of which included air travel. So I sighed and said I’d head down Sunday. 

“Can’t you go, tomorrow?” he asked. “Start Thursday? Finish Friday?” 

“I have to make plans and...” 

“C’mon, Simon. You could head out tonight, if you wanted.” 

“That...is an absolute no. Why are you in such a rush?” 

“Not me. Tanner. I mentioned, he’s pushing to have it gone ASAP. I'll pay you for your drive time.” 

“You would, anyway. But all right; I’ll drive down, tomorrow.” My thought being it would be an excuse to break from that artwork and think about the final touch. I wasn’t due to ship it off till next week.

“Thanks, mate. You’re a life-saver.” 

What an ironic comment, considering the damage he did to my world.

New opening...

I couldn't sleep, last night, so about 3:30am I got up and started writing the first chapter of PvSH. Just let it out, and worked until about 5. It's chatty...but it's leading to something. I did a polish and it's now just over 1600 words, total. Here's the first half:

-------

I did not want to go.

I'd been called and asked to catalogue a small book collection and I don’t know why, but something inside me said, Refuse the job. Do not do it. Stay home and deal with the myriad other things you have to do. So many...things. List of things. To do. Make a list to...to prove you have a list of things to do. On top of that, do not forget that every time you’ve ignored this feeling, you’ve regretted it. So do not go. 

But reality has this cold manner of bringing you back to a simple understanding...that sometimes you have to be one with the world, whether you want to or not. And in this case it simply boiled down to...I needed the money. Repairs to my little CRV had depleted my savings below a level I was comfortable with. The payment this job would bring promised to rebuild it well enough to ease my concerns. 

I should have listened to my voice. 

I should have said, No. 

I was working on a new painting when the call came. A commission I’d agreed to for a client who already had two of my works. He’d sent me a photograph of himself and his lover, and this would make it a triptych. I was close to completion, so normally I would have just let the call go to voice mail.

Except I was stopped by uncertainty as to where to add the final touch on the piece. It was in my stark black and white style, on canvas. Kodalithic. Two men in an embrace, from the hips up, front three-quarter angle. My client with his back to the wall, left arm dropped to his side, his shirt open to reveal a full chest with hair, his face open but turned away from the other man. Whose shirt was buttoned and who was trying to kiss him. His right hand was around the man’s waist and his face lost in darkness. 

The shadows were sharp against the white of their shirts and highlighted areas of their bodies. To me, the pose offered up an interesting tension. Want on the part of the one kissing; rejection on the part of the other. Lovely and sharp, awaiting my signature...a dash of blood red. Like on all of my paintings. But nowhere seemed right for it. 

If I put it on the man who was looking away, at the base of his jawline, it could look like the kissing man’s nose was bleeding. Not what I wanted. If I put it along his lip, it would seem as if they’d had a fight. Also not my preference. His eyes were focused away from the other man and sad. The dash of red there would offer the same impression. So on his chest? No. That would be seen as a stabbing wound, and I did not want it to be linked solely to violence. 

So when my phone buzzed, I accepted the call as a welcome distraction, since I knew the caller. Olivier Deskin, an antiquarian book dealer in London. 

It’s no surprise he would call me. I’d worked in book stores my entire life, especially antiquarian the last twenty years...well, almost twenty-five. I’d recently retired to live on Social Security, supplemented by the sales of my artwork or, as noted, commissions. Of which I’d received three, prior to this one. But I was finding the cost of living was far greater than I had expected. And that’s with me already being a very frugal person. Then with my car needing new brakes...any additional income was welcome. 

Initially, Olivier’s call seemed to be an opportunity to cushion my financial situation. 

Oh, to clarify, my name is Simon Halloran, and I look like someone you might expect to see in a book store. Quiet. Slim. Normal height. Still a full head of hair but more silver than brown, as it once was. Plain features and good posture, with no facial hair. And I still had all my teeth. Dental health had been drilled into me since a toddler while living with my grandmother, in San Antonio. 

Olivier was a short man born into relative wealth near Wimbledon. He was very trim, like a tennis player, thanks to always being in motion, and a bit on the posh side. He had a very nice profile with a Roman nose, thick wavy hair, and when he learned I was gay made certain to let me know he was not interested in the lads, just the lassies. His words, not mine. 

As if I were planning to molest him, or something. It was silly.

We’d met when he came into the shop where I worked and I sold him a nice East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales done by Arthur Rackham. He also came close to purchasing a framed leaf from Rackham’s Das Rheingold.

I ramble here because this information is important to the context of what happened, after Olivier called.

Shifting sands...

I feel like something is changing within me, and I'm not sure what it is. But I don't want to go out into the world unless I have to. Don't want to explore like I used to. I just want to stay home.

I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday and cannot see myself leaving my apartment till then. At which time I'll get some groceries I need...especially DPZ. Then come home and stay the fuck away from people.

Thanks to social media, I'm growing to really dislike humanity. Not just the ridiculous MAGAt Class who are slavishly devoted to Felon47, but those who ignore the whole situation that's building. As if they think so long as they aren't affected it won't matter.

It will, eventually. The country is sliding into a form of theocracy, something that's already taken hold in too many states, and now is verging into totalitarianism. For example, Greg Abbott threatening to arrest Democrats in the Legislature because they left the state to kill his ability to redistrict Texas for the MAGAt Class. All to gain 5 more seats in the House. Now California, NY and Michigan are threatening to retaliate, for Democrats.

Abbott has no legal basis, but that doesn't stop those people. What matters to them is force and, like Felon47, a willingness to ignore the courts and do as they damn well pleases. Tearing people's lives apart as they go.

Like Paley's and Walstead's actions in PvSH do Simon's. In response, his poems have become more angry and threatening. His art is growing more extreme. He's 69 and lost and wondering how he wound up where he is. What his reaction will be when, as he expects, he will be found guilty by the court.

We've walked that followup back from murder...maybe. I think. But too much is still locked in Simon's shadows and I'm only catching glimpses of it, when he doesn't want me to.

And if this sounds fucking crazy, you're right; it is. But these are becoming crazy times and that affects me and my characters.

Scary me...

I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with Simon and myself, and I wind up making the attached artwork (cropped to be SFW) and then writing the following poem.

I think it's in free-form...

Blood is coming.

Hear it flow 

Closer. 

Cruel. 

Unstoppable. 

As furies laugh 

And beg me cry. 

I cannot. 

It was long ago. 

No midnight shrouds it 

In love. 

No careful step 

To soften echoes. 

No prayers or dreams 

To stay its spread. 

The pool of crimson 

Will be met 

By life of one 

So filled with dread. 

The silence 

Deep with screams 

Lies where it fell 

And all one knows

Is three cold words 

Softly echo 

In your head... 

It is done.

I don't know what it means and Simon is being no help. He's pushing to kill Paley at the end of the story. Despite my own feelings about it. He hates the man, and that builds as the city keeps demanding he surrender to their claims against him.

That adds to his emotion, increases his anger, but basically he wants to do it because the man took away the one thing he had left to himself--that he'd never been in trouble with the law. Despite living for years in a state that would have jailed him, given the chance.

He now knows that he's spent his life in the shadows for nothing. A crazy way to view it, but that is what's eating him up.

I don't know how to handle this. I mean...well...how would he do it? No, I...I do have an idea as to how. It's getting Paley close enough for it to happen that's the problem...

Man, I really do not like the direction this is going...

Psycho-me...

I read back over some of the posts I've made on this blog regarding The People v Simon Harper and I am all over the place with it. Totally out of control. Which only means I have no idea what the intent of the story is...or about...and the characters aren't working together, yet. Even the outline I did, initially, is scattered everywhere.

It really startled me, because I thought I was honing in on PvSH's through line...but that is nowhere near the case. After a dozen comments regarding Simon and his actions, I was completely confused about what was going on, and why. So I did what any normal red-blooded American gay male would do in a situation like this.

I made hot tea and ate two small Marie Callendar's chocolate pies. 88 calories. Totally killed my diet...hell, the structure of my existence...but it comforted me enough to kick back and reconsider why this story is coming to me, right now. Why it won't let go, even as it refuses to give me a reason to hold on. I think I need to know that, first.

All I have right now is questions.

Is Simon filled with a rage he's fighting to keep control of? Is he depressed about how fucked up everything is? Is he hurt about being arrested for the first time in his life? He's 69 years old and lived in a state that would put him in jail for loving a man, especially in the 70s, yet he never once had to face that. And now he does, over nothing.

Is he resigned to the hatefulness of the world against people like him? Where even people who claim to be allies will support those who want to hurt him? Something he honestly can do nothing about...except not let them get close to him.

This also leads into does he really hate Alain so much he wants to see the man die? Why would he feel that way if I take out the sexual abuse? Is emotional abuse enough to trigger it? Or is it just him being too weak to reject Alain and thinking the man's death is the only way to truly end his relationship with him? That sounds pathetic.

For a moment, I thought I'd reverse the situation at the end and have Simon kill Paley...but I hate the thought of writing a killer queer. And don't point out that Dirc set men up to be killed, in DDB; he had justifications and enough cover to avoid feeling responsible in any way. If Simon killed Paley, it would be at close range and without excuses...and would strengthen the impression in people's minds that queers are dangerous.

I won't be part of that...even though I have been. I just...I won't with Simon's story.

Old tricks...

I tried something I've done before, to get out of a funk like this. I ran my errands, this morning and early afternoon...then just lay on the couch, fully dressed, thinking about nothing. Told the world to fuck off and let my mind go blank to see if something would filter up through my malaise.

What did is odd...but maybe makes sense. Calm Simon down even further. No sex referenced in the story except in the abstract. Same for his poetry...but that being done with gentle illustrations instead of wicked ones. His life is one of hiding. Not wanting to be noticed or seen due to his mistreatment. Lack of self-esteem. Mistakes he's made and cannot shake off.

He has no hate boiling up. No anger at the world. Just a sadness over how things are. His life was one of vagueness and drifting. Silence being his preference. He doesn't fight because he's strong, deep within, or unwilling to be pushed around or blackmailed. He doesn't spit or moan or howl about what's happening to him. He simply will not go along with what the prosecution wants.

His one attribute during this whole situation is his stubbornness. His motto is still, I did nothing wrong or illegal...and that's it. But it kicks this hard-headed part of him into gear, and that's his whole fight. They want him to give in to their overwhelming superiority and he simply won't. And in doing so wreaks chaos in the DA's office and the police force.

Which would be very difficult to make interesting...I think. No big dramatic moves on his part; just a silent refusal that becomes a brick wall. Not through any overt intent, but still impermeable. 

I'm reminded of a novel that was suggested to me by a German professor I had, at Trinity University, and his wife. A Man without Qualities. (Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften.) It covered a wide range of existential themes concerning humanity and feelings, with no central core to link everything together. But it did have a vague concern with the values of truth and opinion and how society organizes ideas about life and civilization.

Why am I thinking of that book...unless it's something I'm aiming for? It's been centuries since I read it. Don't remember much about it. I think there was a man accused of murdering a woman or a prostitute. But even that was low-key...

Oh, Lord, why can't I just write another erotic horror story and have fun?

Contemplation...

I'm 73, today, and feel like I'm caught between heaven and hell. Old in body, not in mind or sprit. Wondering how much longer I can keep going with the writing. I've been at it for fifty years...and I feel no closer to success than when I started. When I shifted away from art and thought I could make a career in film. Bad choice.

I'm working on PvSH...but I'm not enthusiastic about it. Not angry. Not even really fighting about it like I did for so many years with APoS. Simon wants to take it directions he thinks might excite me, but that doesn't work. I feel only slightly connected to him and the story. Doesn't matter what I do, it's never more than something to work on it.

I had lunch with some friends at a place with okay BBQ. This is Buffalo; they don't really know how to make that or good Mexican food, up here. And I got a few cards. And I saw a doctor about gall bladder surgery that I do not want to do. Talked to my sister in Texas. And took a long nap.

I did buy myself some chocolate chip cookies at Wegman's. Theirs are pretty damn good. Had those as my cake. Nothing more. So I'm just floating, right now.

Not one project I have on tap is exciting me. Nothing grabs me enough to make me feel the need to do it. For all the complaining I did about writing APoS, I never lost the sense I needed to write it. Like I once felt about Bobby Carapisi. I had a need to write it, all of it...which included the third volume. Which I've been told was unnecessary. Which was wrong; it absolutely had to be done.

What did I write after that? Was it The Lyons' Den? Working up something so completely different and off the wall some people can't even get into it? Break me out of the mood I was in after BC? Maybe. Maybe I should do that, again...

Is this what happens to writers? They finally reach the point where they've tapped out all their creative impulses and just thrash about seeing new inspiration?

Simon's escape from Alain...

Not sure where this is going in the story, yet...

------

Do you know how long it took me to get to the point where I was brave enough to publish those sketches? Thirty years after Alain’s death. And even then I self-published the book rather than submit it to be considered by a publisher of any kind. Made certain everyone knew it was an adult coloring book, not for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned many of the images I wanted to use down into sketches that were cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but workable. I’m a practiced artist, not a talented one. 

 My one talent was composition of a simplicity that could indicate far more, depending on my use of color. Black and white images in a kodalithic style, very stark with no mid-tones. Then a drop of deep rich red to contrast. I did a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought and made me a bit of a name. 

I made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those for the coloring book, but I still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, and that fueled my ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. A ten year old Honda CRV, which has been a great car. Carried my canvasses to various art festivals. It’s twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like me. But it got me here and back to Afton Springs, twice. I’ll drive it until it falls apart. 

That’s how I am. I hate to make changes unless absolutely necessary. That’s why it was so hard to leave Alain, prior to that night. Because for all the horrible things he did do to me...I’d felt like I was important to him. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. You don’t know how that notion can hand control of yourself to another. And I’d thought treating him like a king would protect that sense. Let me stay near him. 

That was the reality of my life, at that time. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do to me. I knew he’d never take me to the point of death. He was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. Nor would the pain he caused be extreme. It was merely an acceptable punishment, on a symbolic level, for having turned out wrong, as my family had let me know more than once. 

No, I finally left because a cold, clear understanding crept into my mind...that he only saw me as a toy, nothing more. Something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. About as human to him as a blow-up doll. It was always me there for him, never him for me...and, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and I would be left adrift. 

It wasn’t a slow decision. I didn’t take weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply...one day I couldn’t leave, the next day I couldn’t stay. Like a switch was flicked in my brain, shining a light on what I’d been tolerating. 

Of course, I couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave him by just walking away without a plan. I needed a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through me to the point where no matter what I did, I knew would be all right. So I took some time off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. I wanted a larger world in which to disappear and find my way. But also one still familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world. 

It was a massive city, exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, and I found a position at one, there. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday. 

Next, I drove down Westheimer to seek a small apartment. I didn’t have much money, and since I was going to abandon my lease I wanted a place and a job already arranged. I found one near Montrose, close to a Kroger, and knew the bus was right there. I could move in whenever I wanted. So there was y plan.

I had to tolerate him using me as his whore, one more time. He thought it was funny, me not liking it. Not wanting it. While the men who were with him thought I did and was just pretending to struggle. 

At least, I think they did. But there were two bastards with thick wedding bands who...who took special pleasure in binding me with that wrap and ripping apart my clothes and abusing me as Alain chuckled and shot Polaroids of it all. Both had children at home. They were the worst. The angriest. Probably because they didn’t have the balls to be what they wanted to be. 

I left in the middle of the week. A Thursday. Gave half my furniture away to people in the complex, put what I could in a small UHaul cube truck, and mid-afternoon left my key on the kitchen counter and drove away. Told no one where I was going. I didn’t put in a forwarding address at the post office. I never got much mail, anyway. I did have to change banks, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure I emphasized no one was to know what I’d done. 

We call that ghosting, now. Back then, it was escaping.

Zombie work

Not a great day. Barely slept, last night, thanks to a nerve in my left foot acting up. Finally put a cold pack on it and that seems to have helped. But I've been something of a zombie, all day, including during an eye appointment.

I'm doing Simon's trial in transcript form so dug up copies of court transcripts to use as templates. And it's not easy work, since I don't have the template of machine for it. As you can see, it's very precise.

1. Number every page, including covers, indexes, certificate (no Roman numerals). 

2. “Certified Transcript” must be on the cover. 

3. Each day must be a separate volume. 

4. Electronic transcripts must be in searchable PDF format. 

5. Certificate for electronic transcript must have an electronic or digital signature. 

6. Covers must indicate volume and total number of volumes; Volume 1 of 4. 

7. Cover must indicate pages included. For example, Pages 101 through 179/300. 

8. The Master Index is Volume 0, blocked Pages 1 through 100, no certificate. 

9. Indicate on last page of Master Index: (Pages * through 100 are utilized for block numbering purposes. The next page number is 101 in Volume 1. Nothing is omitted.)

10. Lines are numbered

11. Text is double-spaced.

And it's legal size (8.5x14"). It's not proving to be very easy.