Officially an old man...

Today I turned 66, in age...have been told I'm ancient, in sprit...and I feel like I'm 27 in imagination. I cannot fathom how I got to this point...but reality is, I'm a brat in an old man's body. And I can live with that, despite current health issues. What's nice is, work was short and easy since it's finally our quiet time...and I sort of need it to recuperate from the last spate of jobs. Another part of your body being past its warranty date.

So I'm cleaning out my shelves of books and DVDs I no longer want or need. Pared 'em down a lot, with some going to the local library and others going up on ebay. But it meant nothing worked on, either with APoS or UG, today. I'm coming up on 2 weeks officially off and will slam headlong into one or the other or both, then. Right now, I'm still sifting the stories through my anarchic brain.

Devlin fits my cold, dark side so perfectly, in UG, while Brendan's circling and flirting with anarchy as a political means to an end in APoS. They may be two sides to the same coin; not sure yet -- Devlin's gay; Brendan's straight. Seems simple on the outside...but nothing ever truly is. And...that's why I write.

Because I need to write. Need it more than anything. I don't make much money from it...hell, not even enough to pay my rent for a month...but I can't stop. When I do, I'll die. I know it. My stories and characters are the blood in my veins. My future is theirs, and theirs is mine. My world only exists insofar as they are in it. So I guess I am courting madness, by most definitions...except when I finish my books and publish them and send them into the world, I don't expect any particular outcome.

I try to get them noticed and do as much publicity as I can, but my only goal is for them to be read by someone and the characters' stories known to others besides myself. And so far that has happened. Not on the scale of Steven King, by any means, but enough to make me happy. I don't think I have it in me to write a best-seller; I wouldn't even know how to begin.

I've read Grisham and Clancy, two authors who hit it big with their first books...both of which were excellent reads...but my work doesn't aim in that direction. And I haven't stuck with one particular genre, like they did. I've got suspense, farce, mystery, action, romantic comedy, fable...and even a cop biography (that's no longer in print under my name). God only knows where I'll go after these two. Gothic horror with Darian's Point?

You never know what you'll do till you do it...

The return of Kyle's brain...

Had a visit to the doctor, this morning, to get my knee checked...and I've got water in there. Well, fluid. I've had X-rays taken and I'm seeing an orthopedic surgeon Thursday, next week, to have it checked to make sure and maybe drain it and shoot it up with shit and to have this come to me on the day before I'm officially a Senior Citizen is infuriating. Which is good...

Being pissed helped me get past a block and figure out the structure of an important moment in APoS after Brendan returns. He's under an alias because the British were once looking for him, to interrogate about the bomb at Joanna's father's shop, so he's using a friend's identity to hide behind while visiting his mother on her deathbed.

But...it's not completely believable no one would recognize him unless he told them what he's doing. Then they'd go along, just to spite the Brits and RUC. A few are doing exactly that, adding to his cover, but suspicion is building. Then, after an argument with someone who's accused him of being weak and cowardly for not staying to help with the fight, Brendan is storming back home when he hears someone call him by an old nickname -- "Me China" -- and turns without thinking...and it's Billy, an old Protestant friend who's now a constable with the RUC. Blows his cover, completely.

That's when things snowball into hell, for him.

Getting the first draft of that down relaxed me in ways I cannot begin to explain. I even felt good enough to watch the last two episodes of Season 4 of Shetland. They weren't offered when I watched the first 4 episodes and I complained about it. Britbox insisted they were there, and when I went to look, finally, they were. Don't know why they didn't show when I was bingeing on the show, week before last, but saw them through.

What's interesting is, I'd already figured out some of the subplots in the story, but not who the killer was until I read a synopsis; the information that leads to the killer wasn't given till episode 6. But this time, the mystery was solid and the acting rocked, so I still got caught up in the story.

This was, effectively, a 6 hour movie they shot. Meaning the script must've been a total of 360 pages. I guess that's really a miniseries, for TV...but didn't feel like it. Douglas Henshall as the DCI investigating the murders is a solid, subtle actor...and he was met...hell, almost outclassed...by Mark Bonnar, as an old friend and possible suspect. But Doug still has an edge -- he was in this brilliant adaptation of Anna Karenina back in 1999, as Levin! I kept thinking he looked vaguely familiar...and that was it.

His Levin was perfection.

Dead day...(WARNING--griping ahead)

I didn't get home till 3am, thanks to Southwest Airlines, and had 3 weeks worth of laundry to do along with a major inability to work up a want to do it. Took me 3 hours to talk myself into having clean clothes, in the morning, though I haven't done any ironing. But I can do some in the morning because I'm seeing the doctor at 11. My knee acts as if it's out of joint, and I'm feeling old and weary and in a foul mood so I probably shouldn't be writing on this blog but it's a sort of outlet and putting my feelings into my books is my other outlet but that may be a problem since, once they're in there, I don't want to mess with them so it might be hurting my stories except I don't think it is...

And there's my whine for the day. Now I'm off to have some cheese, albeit with a glass of milk. I did get some work done on UG while doing laundry. I've got a lot of reticent words in Devlin's speech, and he's anything but reticent. He's from Brooklyn; he needs more of a rat-a-tat in your face kind of talk and just saying fuck a lot is not a substitution.

It was also one of those days where I couldn't figure out what I wanted to eat, so wandered around and wound up having a turkey bowl from Old Boston...with stuffing and corn...which was a mistake. I keep forgetting a lot of people use chicken broth in their stuffing and I think they did because that's how it affected me. So now I have a headache and backache and want to sleep for a week.

Dammit, I am turning into a cranky old man.

Another job done...

Sitting in Indianapolis' airport waiting to board my flight home, finally. I was done with everything by noon, today, so had some decent BBQ and went to a park to sit and think. There isn't anything else to do here, really, unless you're into the 500 Speedway...which I'm not. I considered driving down to Bloomington to the Lily Library but they closed at 1pm. Dammit. So sit and think it was.

I'm considering doing some sketches for UG, to help get across some things and, to be honest, because I like the idea. It works well, in my mind. I've also figured out ways to streamline the story more. It's pretty jumbled and all over the place, right now, but removing a bit of Dev's inner chat-line would be helpful. He's pretty closed off and self-contained, and that's what makes him both dangerous and reachable.

With Brendan, APoS depends on his voice being free and easy. It will still be more on topic than just meandering or stream-of-consciousness, but condensing his words to suit a faster narrative would be counter-productive. He's Irish; they love to talk in circles.

Getting these two pieces done in a timely fashion means I really should back away from the web. I get into arguments, online, via Twitter and Facebook that are pretty meaningless. But that wind up suddenly taking hours of my time before I even realize it and that has to stop. I'll still do occasional comments and postings on Facebook and Twitter, but nothing like I've been doing.

Something else is, I stupidly agreed to some friends requests on Facebook and suddenly I'm getting IMs and video calls from people I don't know who are in other countries. I don't know why and I'm canceling that crap out as fas as I can. But having women tell me they're horny and home alone is NOT something I would even begin to find interesting. You'd think it would be obvious from my sites that I'm queer, but they apparently don't bother with that. Irritating.

Of course, I'm also getting emails about erectile dysfunction, diabetes and herpes treatments. Why? I have no earthly idea. Maybe it's a case like this one co-worker I had at Heritage, who thought it would be funny to sign me up as a supporter of the GOP. That took me years to get done with, because they sell your info. So do the Dems, which I why I will not donate to any campaigns, anymore. I'm getting 2-3 hundred emails a day begging for money from politicians, all of them URGENT and IN DIRE NEED and IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD shit.

I'm also at the point where, if the Democrats can't manage to run the GOP out of Congress at this next election, they are almost as worthless as the Republicans...and I hate to say it, but Pelosi and Schumer are not giving me the warm and fuzzies about that. But if Republicans are left in any sort of control after the hideousness of the last two years, then this country is beyond redemption.

It'll be time to move.

A bit more APoS...

The beginning of part 3. Brendan's mother is dying from cancer and he's been called home after more than seven years --

----

A friend of Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she found me the best way home. I flew out of Intercontinental on a TWA flight to Dublin via New York, where I caught a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport via Avair. It wasn’t cheap, but I had savings enough to cover it. Uncle Sean told me he’d pay the ticket, but I wanted nothing from him. He called me independent to a fault and I knew he meant it gentle, but only because he hadn’t noticed how I’d shut him off since my whipping, how I spoke to him only when necessary, how I was never around to work on that old Volvo, again. I simply wanted nothing to do with a man who’d let family be abused in such a way. Perhaps I should have told him why, but I never did because he was Aunt Mari’s husband and she’d done backflips for me. To have caused them all that disruption would have been a cruel way to repay her for all her kindness and generosity, not merely since I’d come there but in the years before. So I paid for my ticket, cashed all my savings into pounds with a few punt should I need them and when I said goodbye at the airport. I knew I’d not be coming back.

None of them asked me how I was getting back into Derry, what with me not having legal papers, and I offered no explanations. The less known by all, the better...except for Jeremy; it was him got me home without trouble.

Since he’d returned from Hong Kong, his position at Garrison Petrol had settled into Houston. His knowledge of the expanding Chinese market for oil and the secret (but widely known) discussions underway between London and Peking to hand the territory back at the end of the Brit’s lease made him too important to let go. So he handed me his passport and said, “With that moustache and sideburns, you look a lot like my photo.”

“I dunno, Jeremy; I can’t see it.”

“Sure, just lighten up your hair, cut it a bit shorter so it’s not so curly.”

“Without hair to hide me, I’ll look even less like you.”

“Fine -- Everett’ll slip your photo in for mine. I know they look for stuff like that, at immigration, but he’s an artist; he can pull it off.”

“But will he?”

“I’ve already talked to him.”

“You’ll need it again, sometime,” I said, looking it over, already knowing exactly what I’d do.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

I shrugged. “Mairead says she’s fadin’ fast, then there’ll be the wake and family to settle. A month, maybe. Six weeks.” Forever.

“Don’t stay any longer; it’s due for replacement in a couple months and I have to send it in, so I’ll need to get it fixed, first.”

“I dunno, Jeremy -- really, do I look the part of a Jew?” I said it smiling.

“What does a Jew look like, bitch? And your dick sure as hell is Jewish. You’ll pass, so long as you don’t talk with that brogue.”

I snapped into a Texas twang, “Yor right a-bout tha-yat, little feller. Better if’n Ah talk lahk a fo-ohl.”

“Shit, don’t talk much at all. And when you do, whisper.”

I chuckled and slipped the passport into my back pocket. He also gave me use of his Master Charge card since it was slated for renewal the following month and had but five hundred left on its limit. “I’ll not use it,” I said, “unless absolutely necessary.”

He swatted me arse and sent me out the door with, “I’ll want post cards!”

I didn’t look around but waved my hand back at him, as if in agreement.

Everett helped me shift my looks to better suit Jeremy’s description -- first bleaching my hair a couple shades lighter then adding red highlights, and he worked his magic on my moustache and sideburns, as well. Then once my hair was cut back, we got a couple Polaroids snapped at a photo shop and he set to work. And he had no end of trouble exchanging out Jeremy’s photo for mine but once done, to my eye it looked damn good -- and I looked damn strange.

“This isn’t a good look for you,” he said, “but that should help. By the time they get to you, they’ll be so sick of dealing with Americans, they’ll probably just give it a glance, stamp it and tell you to fuck off.”

“In a true Irish fashion.”

“What’d you have to give Jeremy for this?”

“Promise to give it back when I return.”

“What’re you giving me?”

“Well...I could go to Rocky Horror... in a gold Speedo.”

He smiled, almost sweetly. “You -- you’d really do that?”

“I enjoy it, well enough. Susan Sarandon’s got a nice set on her.”

He laughed. “Shit, you’d make the perfect Rocky. So, they keeping your stuff in the pool house?”

No, I sold what I could and gave away the rest. “I got a storage unit. There’s too much of it.”

His expression froze and he looked at me, hard, as if he knew I wasn’t planning to return, then grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close to kiss me, long and deep and French in style. Tender but needy. I let him.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were filled with hurt. “Is that how you kissed her?”

“Vangie? Yes.”

“But not -- ?”

Joanna? “No. It would’ve put her off, and I’d do anything to keep that from happening.”

He nodded. “Like what I just did.”

“Have I run screaming down the street, yet?”

He stroked a thumb over my right eyebrow. “Considering your luck with girls, maybe you oughta try a walk on the wild side.”

Been there and tried that. “With you?”

He laughed to himself. “Me as Frankenfurter, you as Rocky?” He was hurting and he’d been such a mate to me, I couldn’t help but nod. He took in a deep breath. “Keep the dream alive. Okay. I’m gonna hold you to it, Pug.”

I yapped at him in answer and we parted with him laughing. And two days later I was on a plane for home.

Some of APoS

Long plane ride and too much to do this evening, but still managed to work a bit on APoS. This part is summer 1973, when Brendan's in Houston. He was taken there while in a catatonic shock, and it's about a week after he's come back to life and had his first meal with his Aunt Mari's family. I made some small changes and smoothed it up, a bit...

----

It took me a week after that dinner to be able to even so much as climb the stairs without being exhausted, and days after that before I ventured from the house, and then it was only because Uncle Sean was working on his car. It had rained and the air was thick and wet, making it difficult to breathe, almost. I was lying in my bed, staring at the blank ceiling, drifting in my usual nothingness as I heard the motor chugging, outside, over and over and --

-- Josiah O’Shea’s Cortina wouldn’t start on damp mornings and he’d had near everyone he could think of check into it, at no small cost to himself, until he let me look into it and I found the problem and --

I rose from the bed and went to the window. Uncle Sean was at the Volvo, under the bonnet -- the hood, as it were. It was a dark blue PV444 and looked like it had the twin SU Carbs to it. A decent-looking car it was but in need of a wash and maybe attention paid to the rust spots developing between the passenger door and front wing. The interior wasn’t quite as good of shape but wasn’t beyond saving, and from here the motor looked fine. But when Uncle Sean get behind the wheel to turn the key, I could hear the car creak a little so it definitely needed lubrication and maybe a fresh set of dampers.

I stood there and watched Uncle Sean try to start the motor and it just chug along, working really hard to catch. Then he’d go back under the bonnet, unplug the spark wires and replug them and try again only to get nothing. Then he’d go back under the bonnet and undo other connections and redo them and try again. Over and over. It was comical, for he didn’t sit easy in that car.

I finally had enough of it and went downstairs and out the back door. The ground was still wet and sticky, and the air felt even more smothering without the house. I wore only my pyjama bottoms, still, no slippers even, so the soaked grass tickled my feet.

“Having troubles?” I asked.

He jumped and looked at me as if I were a madman, which I probably seemed to him. “Brendan, what you doin’ out here? You ain’t dressed.”

I didn’t care. “Would you care for me to look at it?” I said, motioning to the Volvo.

He shrugged. “Does this every time there’s a fog in the mornin’. Then in the afternoon, it starts up fine. But I need to get goin’ an’ this is the only car left.”

I looked around and saw two dry spots where two cars had been. “When’s Aunt Mari due back?”

“Dunno. Guess I’ll just grab a cab. Lookin’ at buyin’ this bar in up in The Heights and the owner’s due at one. I’ll get it towed into the shop, later.”

In answer, I leaned over the motor and checked the cables. They were on the old side, probably original. Same for the coil. I pulled at it without gripping the glove and it nearly separated. “Try starting it, again.”

He shrugged and sat behind the wheel and the car creaked; definitely needed lubing but maybe only a topping off on the dampers. I pushed both ends of the coil’s cable against their gloves...and the motor fired right up.

Uncle Sean bolted from the car, startled. “What’d you do?”

“You need a new coil,” I said. “It’s coming apart inside the glove, so you can’t see it. It’s not making the connection. Is there an auto supply shop nearby?”

“Up Shepherd. I can stop on the way.”

I nodded. “You might want to think about having all the cables replaced. They’re about due.”

“Damn, Brendan, where’d you learn that?”

“I’ve been at this since forever. Clocks, tellys and the like. Cars. Made money from it. Had a job.”

“Your mother never told us.”

“Why would she? When I got on with Mr. McClosky, she thought I just cleaned the shop. She thinks me simple.”

“Didn’t you tell her what you were actually doin’?”

I nodded then headed back to the house, feeling vague and sleepy and actually hungry. Uncle Sean let me go.

I fixed a sandwich from the wealth of food available in the fridge -- cheeses and luncheon meats and lettuce so crisp it could cut you and rich red tomatoes and something called Sandwich Spread all piled high on some white bread that felt as light as a feather -- and found only a couple of Dr. Peppers chilled in the fridge’s door. I took one, opened it and returned to my room. I sat on the bed and ate, feeling very luxurious, and thoroughly enjoyed the Dr. Pepper; it wasn’t as sharp and biting as Coke. Then I dozed a little before rising, again, and deciding I was weary of having nothing on me but pyjamas.

I took a long scalding-hot shower, letting the steam boil through me, catching the light from the window to make tiny rainbows and looking like clouds of gentleness come to fill my lungs and wipe away the world long past and the stickiness of the air. Then I toweled off...and had to towel off twice more, thanks to the combination of steam and humidity bringing out my sweat. No wonder they bathe every day and layer on deodorant, I said to myself; if they didn’t they’d reek.

I dug through a large set of drawers to find y-fronts and socks and undershirts and athletic shorts -- of course, I was in Scott’s room and they’d left me some of his things to wear. I was surprised they fit, seeing as how he’s taller than me and thinner, but then reminded myself I’d lost a fair bit of weight and was only just beginning to regain it. When I was back the way I used to be, I’d need a size larger -- and shorter.

I found my jeans hanging in a closet with some Levis. My boots sat on a shelf in the back, nicks in the leather and still covered with mud and dust and --

-- I slipped from the mud on my boots and the car vanished and I tumbled back as dust and filth and bits and pieces of metal and engine rained down on me and --

I stepped back. Saw a pair of sandals and took those. They were a bit on the large side, but an extra pair of socks helped them fit just right.

Of course, I was beginning to near weariness, again, but I decided not to give in, this time. I headed downstairs.

Pretensions of poetry and art...

I've long had the idea that in order to be a great director, you need to have a poet's soul. So many times I saw good directors miss or mess up moments that could have been beautiful...or just not be able to rise to the level the script needed in order to become great. My favorite comparison is Before Sunrise against Frost/Nixon.

Before Sunrise follows a young man and woman around Vienna as they talk and connect and maybe fall in love. It's just over a hundred minutes long but captures the ins and outs of two disparate people seeking something more and finding that even though he is American and she is French, they have a lot in common. Very simple. Very sweet, helped by the natural performances of Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke...and by Linklater's carefully crafted direction. Look at the simple elegance of this scene...

The poet unto himself. A line between Ethan and Julie...him close to crossing it but not quite...until the poem is read. Linklater appears to have learned his craft from elegant filmmakers like Jean Renoir and Francois Truffaut and Akira Kurosawa and Yasujirô Ozu and John Ford, all of whom knew how to build to a moment that could dip into your psyche and tear you up in ways wonderful and heartbreaking. Hell, Ozu even hated to move his camera, at all, and consistently placed it just 3 feet above the ground...but that added to the poetry of his loveliest works, like Late Spring and Tokyo Story.

Frost/Nixon is about the machinations leading up to the interview between David Frost and Richard Nixon. This happened during an intense time in America, not long after Nixon resigned in disgrace, with both men maneuvering to use the broadcast interview to their own advantage. It was initially a play, but I never saw that performed so don't know how much was changed, other than opening it up.

Michael Sheen as Frost and Frank Langella do all they can with the script, and are very good, but Ron Howard is of the ham-fisted school of film, rather like Steven Spielberg and Sydney Pollack. He's a great craftsman of simple emotions but not a poet or artist, and it shows in how he just shoots scenes and does little to add to them...right up to the biggest revelation of all, which should bring chills to anyone who sees it -- when Frost gets Nixon to do something he's never done...admit he believed that the president was above the law.

This scene should tear across the screen, become two men fighting for supremacy of the moment, with one thinking he's winning while not realizing he's set himself up for complete collapse. But Howard keeps the audience at a distance from it, keeps Frost jammed into a corner by Nixon's shoulder, cuts to the two of them and a camera monitor, cuts to people watching as Nixon implodes, has Nixon's aide wait and wait before bursting in to stop it all...lovely to look at but devoid of real meaning or emotion.

This is what I've always felt and maybe was part of the reason I never really pushed hard to become a director, just always thought it would be nice to do...but that deep down I didn't have a poet's touch. But last night I re-read part of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor...mainly the end, as Jake comes to terms with the truth...and have come to think I was wrong about myself. Stupidly wrong. Easily wrong.

Maybe I have been afraid all my life...not of failure...not of success...just not of achieving what I see not only in my mind's eye but in my soul. I halfway think that would have destroyed me. No...I'm sure it would have...and it's sad to think it took all these years to finally see that.

So what does all this mean? How hell should I know? I'm just a writer.

Back to my usual indecision...

Going through Underground Guy...I've become less certain about the setup. My lead attacks an undercover cop in the middle of a surveillance operation, thus inadvertently helping get another man killed...according the the British police. The rest of the story depends on him being released after being arrested...but I don't think the cops would let him go. It's too likely he was working with a serial killer to throw the cops off while his partner fulfilled his bloodlust.

But the story doesn't work if I keep him in the station...or does it? Could imprisonment force him to come to terms with what's happened in his life to bring him to this point? And still wind up helping the cops?

The way it is, now... once he's released, he inadvertently connects with the man the cops have under surveillance for the killings...and starts piecing together that they may be focused on the wrong man for racist reasons. If I keep him under arrest, that part goes out. But I like it. It works into my intent for the story...

However, if I take out the killer stuff and just make this the story about a dangerous man who attacks a young man in London because of things that have happened back in his home of NYC...and comes to understand and accept the horrors of his own history...that changes the whole timbre of the story...makes it a lot deeper and demanding...and I wanted something cheesy and fun to write, to keep me from getting lost in A Place of Safety.

It's just, I can't figure out a good excuse for the police to release him on bail, even if it's them hoping he'll lead them to the killer and prove he's part of that devil's deal. That's too Hollywood-ish. Too contrary to reality, for me. Granted, I got carried away a bit like that in Rape In Holding Cell 6, especially the second part, but even that was still somewhat grounded. This is just...too much is convenient for convenience's sake, and I hate that.

Dammit, if there's anything I did NOT want right now, it's having another story argue with me over what it is.

BritBox is on my shit list...

After working all day on my apartment and paperwork, I decided to binge-watch the 4th season of Shetland as I prepped some magazines to donate. It's a murder mystery set in the Shetland Islands of Northern Scotland. The landscape is amazing and the acting top-notch. A couple of the mysteries in the first season were dumb, and I don't have access to 2 and 3 without paying Amazon for them, but this series looked pretty good, and was...until I got to what I thought was the end and found out it was only the 4th episode; there are two more...and they don't tell you that.

If I'd known, I'd have watched one of my DVDs instead. Shit. That really pisses me off because I now want to know what happened, but it seems only Amazon offers them on their video streaming service, for $1.99. I don't want to do business with that fucking company, and I'm adult enough to know it's just a work of fiction so I can walk away from the ending, but the way BritBox didn't bother to at least inform the viewer up front in practically insulting.

Hell, I could even have settled in and worked more on A Place Of Safety or Underground Guy and had as much fun (well, at least not been pissed off, like this). Makes me leery of the rest of their lineup. Do I have to check with IMDb every time I think I want to watch something on their channel, just to verify they've got everything? Why bother? Oh, well...another life lesson learned...that I've had to learn over and over and over -- check everything; trust nothing, completely.

I'm rearranging my apartment, in steps and stages. Getting rid of as much crap as I can. I've posted a few things on ebay for sale to see if they'll bring anything in, and have more to offer. I'm also giving away things I don't think are worth much. I won't part with gifts; that's rude. But I've already freed up 2 shelves worth of crap, giving a bit more space to spread out.

Part of what I'm getting rid of is my Alfred Hitchcock collection -- DVDs and books. He's the one who got me interested in film, which turned out to be a big mistake. Now that I'm done with it, after far too long, it's time he was removed. Other DVDs are going, as well. I have a lot that I've seen and don't want to see, again.

My main focus is elsewhere, now...

Worked on UG, today...

Mainly because my head is fuzz, since I didn't get home till after 2am, and didn't hit the bed till nearly 4. Sometimes Southwest drives me nuts.

Anyway, this is the story of an American businessman, Devlin, who's accused of helping a serial killer who's had 4 victims, in London. He inadvertently mucked up a surveillance operation and is trying to figure a way out of the mess he's in. Currently, he's on bail due to minimal evidence and has had his passport seized. His sister-in-law has come over and taken control of information gathering, and is treating him like an errant child.

-------

I needed to blow off some steam or I'd explode, but I hadn't brought any running clothes with me. Just my sneakers. Fine. I yanked on a pair of briefs, pulled my sleeping shorts on as well as a tee-shirt and hoodie, slipped my feet into my runners, made sure I had my key and NYDL...and that damned note about my passport...and headed out.

It was brisk, but I knew in a few minutes I'd have myself warmed up, so after stretching I decided to circle Heathrow. Talk about stupid? My average run is five-six miles a day, and that damned airport is a good twelve or thirteen, in circumference. Because you can't just run the perimeter; you have to go down this street and across that roadway and around another circle and along a back road and over another thoroughfare and on and on. But the good thing about it was by the third turn I was so focused on just not stopping, I stopped focusing on the turmoil in my brain.

I knew it was Diana’s parting crack that had slammed me -- about me behaving myself. My father’d said crap like that to me too damn many times. Usually accompanied by a slap or a punch or his fucking belt. In fact, the last time I saw him, he tried the same shit, trying to get me back under control.

Now my father was one of those people who won't believe what they don't want to believe. Since I didn't fit into his idea of what a faggot looks like, he never thought I could be one. But then one day he called and demanded I come home. He didn't tell me why, just to get my ass there.

I hopped a train after class on Friday and got to the house about six. Dad was sitting in a chair in the living room, four empty beer cans and half a fifth of bourbon gone. The second I saw those I know he'd be trouble. The second he saw me, he was.

He got up from the chair, unsteady, and glared at me as he said, "It true you suck dick?"

I’d been dreading that question for years, and the words cut deep into me, but all I did was give him a shrug of Yes.

He downed another bourbon and drank some beer, his focus on something I couldn’t see. He was bigger than me by two inches and thirty pounds, but most of it was a gut he was building. Still his hands were solid beef, as were his arms, and just because his hair was more gray than black didn't mean he was too old to be a hard-assed SOB, so I kept my eyes on him, waiting for the first swing so I could duck.

He shifted his glare onto me. Moved closer to me, looking me over like I was something he wanted to buy. "You do this to get at me?"

I snorted. "I do it 'cause it's who I am."

"Fuck.” More beer. “Your brother know?"

"Colin's got nothing to do with this."

"He suck dick, too?"

"What the fuck? He's married and has twins. Where the fuck you get off wonderin' that?"

"You think I'm gonna keep payin' for some faggot’s fancy-ass college and all that shit?"

"I got grants and scholarships; your part makes up about a third of my tuition and half of my living expenses."

"Fuckin' expenses, cocksucker. Convincin' stupid college kids to let you fuck 'em."

I laughed without thinking. "You think I don't get hit on by guys? I'm told I'm pretty hot, a real otter."

"What the fuck's this otter shit?"

"Young. Stocky. Built. Hair on him. Not old enough to be a bear, yet, or even a cub, but gettin' there. Lots of guys want me to fuck 'em, but I only wanna fuck the ones who look like you."

"Me? You fuckin' sayin' you wanna fuck me?"

I smiled and winked and the first punch caught me off-guard. I stumbled around and he roared at me. Landed another punch in my side. My wrestling took over so his next swing gave me the momentum to roll him over me and across the floor into the couch. He wound up sitting half on his ass and half on his side. He was so stunned by the move, he didn't even try to get up; he just looked at me, his face a mass of drunken stupid.

I backed out the door and headed for the subway. I didn't notice my nose was bleeding until I was halfway there. I stopped in a mom and pop and bought a bottle of water and used that to clean myself off. By the time I was on the platform, I looked normal -- as normal as you can when you've disowned yourself and added to your debt load by way too much money. Sure, it wouldn't have to be for the full tuition; I'd been as cheap as I could, so all I had left to worry about was the Spring Semester. But Grad school would be a bitch to pay for. I wondered if I could really afford to go.

I got the call just after I got off the train. From Colin.

"Dad's had a stroke. Get here as quick as you can."

I debated not going but that would leave Colin to handle everything and he was already hard-pressed to take care of his family and company. So I showered and shaved and packed my nose and went back. By the time I got to the hospital, dad was dead.

The doctor called it a stroke. Colin accepted it as a stroke. Diana comforted him as she juggled the twins. I was offered sympathy but I shrugged it off. I also handled the funeral arrangements and probated the will; Colin was pretty shook up. The company was split between him and me, as was dad's life insurance -- a hundred-and-fifty thousand bucks -- and I set up the next semester’s classes so I could come in to help twice a week and weekends.

I know I should’ve felt bad about the passing of my father, but I didn't. All I thought was, his death took care of my tuition. And may have brought justice to mom.

What I couldn’t figure out was how dad had found out. He’d called me the week before to bitch about Colin and demand I come help with the business, and not a word. Then a guy I knew named Noel, who was expressing his condolences, revealed he was the one who’d outed me.

Fucking Noel. Another trust fund baby whose daddy was high up in one of those too-big-to-fail banks and mommy was editor of a national fashion magazine. We’d met in the student union and I’d thought he'd be a fun one-nighter, but talk about a control freak. He started off by telling me how to suck his nice-enough dick, which took all the fun out of it. Then he insisted I eat his ass, which I don't mind doing to the right kind but his was small and boring. The final kicker was, he wouldn't let me fuck him and only gave me a hand-job. I thought about forcing the issue but I'd just started my senior year and didn't want to derail it, so I just blew him off.

Oh, but one didn't do that to Noel. His feeling was, once we shared a bed my life was his and his alone. Like, if I was in class and he texted, he'd toss a fit if I didn't answer and send a long nasty message about how irresponsible and immature I was. Stupid little bitch couldn't accept that I really wasn't into him.

Don't get me wrong, he was good-looking. Brown Hair. Broad shoulders. Ice-blue eyes that were just as cold. One of those taut-bodied Upper East Side boys who would happily pay as much for a shirt as I did rent because it was the latest thing, then would blame the poor for being too lazy to work five jobs to make ends meet. Even if everything had clicked between us, in bed, I’d have blown him off because my dad was the only asshole I’d tolerate in my life.

Once he realized there was no way in hell I was going to pay attention to his sense of entitlement, Noel called dad at the office. Then the little bitch let me know what he’d done by complaining about how much detail he had to go into to convince my father he was telling the truth, and subtly suggested it was my own fault for not being nicer to him. What surprised me is, all I did was shrug.

Yeah, part of me was pissed off, but another part was happy he'd done it. Now I could be completely open about who I was and what I was after. What made it better was, since Noel was still interested in another night together, I decided to, oh, give in.

Till we got to his condo. He started in his directions, again, and that’s when I tore his overpriced designer crap off him, tied his little bitch ass down to the bed, and fucked him for hours. In his ass and his mouth. He kept begging me to stop, but I played with his dick till he was hard and ready and begging me to finish him off, then he went nearly catatonic when I finally did. After which I dressed and left.

He begged me for another night, but I never went near him, again, and when he started his harassment crap up, I had Hamilton file a restraining order in a very public way. That embarrassed mommy and daddy so he vanished into rehab.

Of course, remembering dad’s death and figuring I’d caused it with our fight, that made me wonder if Faure’s bullshit might be a sort of karma against me. But considering the chaos that fucker brought and changes we made for the better in the company, and the fact that I finally got full reimbursement from the little shit, I convinced myself that it didn’t fit the parameters.

Remembering that brought a smile to my face. And even though it took my fourth and fifth wind to make it all the way back to the hotel, I was still on my feet when I stumbled into the lobby. I was pouring sweat and rubber-legged, but I was also feeling the amazing nirvana that comes from a good run.

I was back in control.

Stuck in Vegas...

My flight's delayed by over 2 hours, thank you Southwest. Now set to depart at 6pm but no plane at the gate, yet. So...I won't be home till nearly 2am...if then. Not happy.

Didn't help my mood to be flying over the Sierra Mountains...and their amazing beauty from 32,000 feet reminded me, with a vengeance, that I'm a California boy. And I miss my home. I can't afford to live there, anymore, but it's still where my heart is. Always will be.

I worked a bit on Underground Guy, to keep my mind off that crap. Plus, Vegas' airport is not the nicest place to be caught in...unless you don't mind losing money playing slot machines that are geared to keep as much of your money as possible.

And I lost some. I threw a $20 into a Wheel of Fortune" with the wish I could pay for a trip to Norway...and lost it. Took 5 minutes, if that long. The fates are laughing at my childish hopes and dreams and prayers. Well, at least I had some decent BBQ.

I'm mainly going through what I already have in UG, like I did with APOS, and finding out where I need to fill in. I'm going to jump back and forth between the two books, when one becomes too intense. That's not to say they're on the same level; UG is more of a letting off steam book while APOS is my attempt at aping Tolstoy...even though he never worked in first person.

Maybe I shouldn't, either...

Another job done...

A lot more work than I expected...so I'm beat. Tomorrow is heading for home..So a bit more of APOS to tide me over...this is when Brendan's twelve....

-----

I was in no rush to get home. I’d be in for it from Ma for not telling her I was going out and being gone for so long, so I headed over to Colm’s, but he wasn’t in. From there I went to Paidrig’s, but he was watching his sister and nephew, and I had no interest in helping him. I thought about Eammon’s, but his mother would be a trial and a half, and Danny’d been running with a new crowd, of late, so I just slowly wandered about in the growing ruins of my neighborhood.

We’d been learning about the Blitz and how even Belfast was hit by the Nazi bombers, and I wondered if this is how the city looked after such a catastrophe. If Da had wandered through such ruins, though they’d have still been smoking from the fires and death within them. I knew little of his childhood. Hadn’t he any brothers or sisters? Or was he an only child, something that would be unusual in Ireland? The mystery of his early years began to pick at me and seemed magnified by the blank walls staring out at rough mounds of dirt and stone.

With the Derry Corporation, this was about nothing but redevelopment. New lodgings for old, with indoor plumbing and windows tight against winter’s chill and good wiring that could accept electric appliances for those who could afford them. So now half a block that once held homes and was a neighborhood and had people living next to each other their whole lives had been made vacant and meaningless. Other houses were empty, their windows bricked up. The destruction was working its way closer and closer to my home, so it was only a matter of time before we wound up in a soulless flat and were ordered to feel grateful because it offered a bathtub and hot water.

The fog had grown softer but more consistent, so that looking at some of these buildings made you feel more like you were staring at ghosts than you were dwellings where couples had been married and borne children and lived their lives in silence, always hoping tomorrow would be better. Or tomorrow. Or even the tomorrow after that.

I wondered if it was like this in Dublin or all through the Republic. I was fair certain it wasn’t on the other side of the Foyle. Joanna’s family was obviously doing quite well, for that estate car was almost new, and their clothes were up to date and obviously not from a second hand shop. Were all Catholics so poor in wealth? Were Protestants really so much richer than us? The stories and vicious gossip I heard were so filled with such contradictions, I honestly could not say. It seemed to me I should travel down to Dublin some time just to see for myself what a nation of papists was like.

I heard an RUC whistle blare behind me, and with it came the sound of running feet, so I stepped into a vacant doorway and glanced about just in time to see Danny and a couple odd-sized lads from Springtown running out of the mist, laughing.

“Oi, me China!” I called out, and Danny skidded to a halt, this wild look on his face, but when he saw me, he grinned and hopped into the doorway with me. Moments later, a couple of RUC coppers ran past, still chasing the other lads.

He chuckled and punched me softly in the shoulder, saying, “You saved me, Bren.” And his face was bright with excitement, happier than I’d seen him in months.

“What was all that?” I asked.

“We was throwing stones at windows in the Guildhall and they thought to catch us. Bloody bastards.”

“Still after your mates.”

“They won’t catch ‘em. By now they’d hit out to four directions, but I know where they’ll wind up.” Then he looked at me and grinned. “Come with me; I’ll introduce you.”

“Where?”

“Up Groarty Road in the Republic. It’s at this round pile of rocks up there.”

“Isn’t that far?”

“Not so very. So you comin’?”

Not feeling ready to face Ma yet, I gave a shrug and went with him.

Not so very far? It took us near two hours of brisk walking to get there, something made longer by the hills and grotto along the way. Danny just kept at it, not even trying to talk. I almost wanted to ask him where he’d been these last few weeks, maybe find out why he’d ended his altar boy assistance with Father Jack, but the lovely silence of us just being together and the good clean air crashing into my lungs kept me from saying a word. And the occasional grin I got from him said I’d done right. He’d never been much of one for conversation.

As we left the city’s edge, the fog all but vanished. There was no moon out but it was still a bright enough night to see across the parcels of land and beyond the clumps of trees. And because the silence was cut only by the sound of our shoes on the road, it seemed as if we’d been taken to a new and amazing world of peace and tolerance. And for the first time I got the urge to just keep walking till I could walk no more.

Finally, we cut down this road that curled around and up a hill, and after a bit I could make out a round shape at the top of it, to our right. There wasn’t a tree near it and the wind was brisk and bit at my cheeks. I had my parka on tight, then, but Danny was in just a jacket and seemed untouched by the chill.

“Is that it?” I asked, my voice sudden and sharp against the quiet.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “I think it was a fort, once. It’s got walkways going up, inside.”

“How long you been coming here?”

“A year.”

“Bloody hell, Danny, you keep your own counsel, don’t you?”

“I like being alone.”

“Then why’d you show it to your mates?”

“I didn’t,” he said with a sigh. “It’s not like it’s a secret. They found me there, one night. We hit it off.”

Then I heard an odd swishing sound and turned just as a Schwinn bicycle raced up the gravel road and whipped past us, its pilot laughing. Another boy was on the handlebars. A moment behind them was a Huffy Penguin, with a second lad seated on the rear of the banana seat. They stopped a bit ahead of us and jumped off their bikes, waving at Danny.

“Hey, Danny-boy, who’s the lad!” shouted the one who’d piloted the Penguin.

“It’s Brendan,” he called back. “I told you of him!”

They came down the hill a bit to meet us, one tall, two my height, one smaller than Maeve, all dark and slim and looking a lot like brothers. It was the same group who’d been chased by the peelers. Their clothes were flashy and neat, something I hadn’t noticed when they ran past, and their faces were all grins as the tall one grabbed my hand, saying, “So you’re the famous fix-anything lad.”

“Can you work on the gears on me bike? They rattle something awful,” said one my size, who was the darkest. The other one my size was fairer and freckled.

I shrugged and said, “Won’t know till I see it.”

“I’m Tommy,” said the tall one, “and this is Aiden.” He pointed to the one with the Schwinn then to his mate in size, who’d piloted the Huffy. “That’s Sean. And last is Brian.”

“Boru to yous,” said the smallest lad, whose pants were actually a few inches too short for him and whose boots made his feet look comical in size.

“And Saint Brendan to you,” said I, in return. "I've an uncle named Sean."

"Who doesn't?" Sean shot back.

They laughed and we cut through what I think was heather up the last of the hill to the fort. Whatever it was, it was thick and grabbed at my trousers.

“I think I know your brother, Eamonn,” Said Tommy. “He’s at university, inn’t he?”

“First term,” I said, nodding, suddenly remembering what I’d seen in the window. “He -- he’s home, for the weekend. I -- I don’t recall you being around.”

“I met him on the march to Dungiven. He’s a passionate one. When things threatened to get hard between us and the RUC, he helped convince us to back down.”

“You should’ve torn those bloody peelers apart,” snapped Brian.

“Plenty of time for that.”

“Um -- Eamonn thinks O’Neill will work with us,” I said.

“Give the country over?” laughed Sean.

“That bastard, Paisley, wouldn’t let him,” said Aiden.

“Not after Antrim,” said Tommy.

“Were you there?” I asked.

“Torched one of the RUC’s tenders,” he said, proudly. “News crews snapped photos of it for the papers.”

“He’s got a bloody scrapbook,” said Brian.

“For history, me lad!”

We reached the base of the fort and circled around to a tiny opening covered with a grate. Tommy undid a couple of bolts and pulled it partway off, then held it aside as we scampered through this cave-like passageway to the middle of the circle.

Danny wasn’t kidding; it did used to be a fort, with stone steps leading up to three levels of walkways. The uppermost one was only a few feet under the top so it looked as if you could lean on its walls and look out over the whole of Ireland. It was only later I learned we were in Grianán Aileach.

-->

Goodreads review of OT

I got 3 Stars...and some of the criticism is valid. You learn as you go...
________

This was a pretty intense story that I liked for the most part subject to a couple issues. It’s a mystery as the title indicates and our MC Jake’s Uncle Owen is missing. He receives information from various sources, some even anonymously, and heads to Palm Springs to see what’s going on.

From the beginning I felt like I was dropped in the middle of movie where I missed the beginning and character descriptions. But that was okay, because the relationships Jake has with his family and friends is so interesting I was ready to go with what I had because the writing was so good. Jake’s background is wonderfully diverse and complex and explains so much about him as a person. His relationship with his lover Antony is equally complex, the background of which we learn the basics of but most of it occurred before the events of this book. On one hand it annoyed me as at times the tension was so thick I wanted to know why, but on the other hand I was glad the relationship didn’t take over the story and I was happy when it moved back to the mystery.

The author is a gifted mystery writer who doesn’t insult the reader’s intelligence by writing as if the reader can’t keep up. He adds plenty of naturally occurring twists and turns interspaced by Jake’s personal drama in such a relatable way. The story doesn’t get stuck on either the mystery or the relationships, things are always moving and I was never bored.

While the mystery was complex, it was also very dark. Overt homophobia is rampant in Palm Springs with crooked cops, attorneys, government, banks, and churches making the lives of the gay community unbelievable hard. There is on page violent gay bashing and sexual assault (though the on page assault is far less obvious then the flashbacks). But the author expertly keeps the story from becoming a depressing slog under the weight of the homophobia. No matter what happens, Jake keeps moving forward. He doesn’t mope, or throw a pity party, he jumps right back in without missing a beat. And when that moment comes later in the story, that moment when Jake has had enough and explodes, it was beautiful to watch and worth the wait. I knew he had it in him felt the shift in the story when he finally found his voice.

As much as I loved it when Jake finally fought back, he never stops being angry. I understood it but grew tired of it. The last fourth of the book was almost in a loop, a homophobic event, Jake strikes out, people cave, a short time, a homophobic event, Jake strikes out, people cave, rinse and repeat. Over and over and over. It became exhausting to read and the continual anger lost its power after a while.

And then there is the problem that is more a me thing than anything. Rape hovers over the entire story. Jake’s flashbacks to his time in prison, the rape and murder of a man, and later an on page assault (though stopped). Rape is something I’m highly sensitive to, and felt it was overdone. Knowing what Jake went through in prison is useful in understanding how he operates, but I saw no benefit to the play by play showing of it in his flashbacks.

For the most part I liked it. Jake is fascinating and the mystery tight. Just a couple things kept me from loving it. Definitely a book to consider for gay mystery lovers.

What's wrong with pornography?

Apparently, HTRASG is porn, according to someone who shall remain unnamed, and my response was, Okay, so? No explanation that it's not, even according to Amazon, and no excuses. No pointing out the sex is only a bit more graphic than what you find in a Judith Krantz novel, and you can get those in the library. No arguing. No demeaning of him for his comment. My feeling was, If that's how you feel about it, fine. And seriously, so what?

I kept telling myself I wasn't going to explain my books, nor was I going to argue over what they're about...which I'm ambivalent about because they are my babies. But...they have to face the world and the people in it, and despite everything one may try, you cannot please everybody. In fact, some people will go out of their way to not be pleased.

However, this is the first time I really felt that way. Amazon banned the book for a while, when someone called it porn, and I fought like crazy against that...and they backed down, partway...but the damage was done. Sales never really recovered. The one real accomplishment of that fiasco was, I built a strong distrust of Amazon and their bullshit. That's why I won't use Create Space and Kindle does not get exclusive anything to my e-books.

But when others called it porn, I'd argue it's not and Amazon said so, as if there's something wrong about it being labeled that way. Well... there isn't. I know the book's about more than just getting a prurient rise out of the reader...be they male or female (I got my best reviews from female readers)...so if the person reading the book doesn't want to get beyond the sexual encounters, their loss. I used rape as a way to condemn injustices I see in society every day, and if you can't accept that or don't want to see it, when so many others have, fine.

I have to admit, this is a weight off my shoulders. Another step in building my writer's ego. And I needed it. The job I'm doing, right now, entails packing and transporting a massive library of genre writers...and I'm seeing books I'd never known existed by writers I had heard of and read...and not all of them were in normal format -- i.e. perfect bound in standard sizes -- and to see the variations let me start to see how much I've limited myself with my own preconceived notions and defensiveness.

If PS is to be anything meaningful, I have to shrug all that crap off. And the first step is giving it back its full name -- A Place of Safety. APOS. In Portuguese, it means After. Not sure what it means in the story, yet...but it's interesting. Dunno how Brendan feels, either...but we're still working through the stuff already done and getting it in order. That, alone, will take months...so he and I can confer on that, later. As for the rest, I don't have time for other people's attitudes on my work.

Like it or don't, read it or don't, the choice is yours.

More of Place of Safety...

This is the opening of book 2 -- A New World. Brendan has witnessed a horrific bombing and crashed into a psychotic break in order to handle it.

-------------

There was black, peeling paint on an old windowsill. Paint weather-beaten and dried and bleached by the sun till it curled into little sections to reveal gray wood that used to be pine. I think. Bits had shredded away thanks to rain and wind...maybe someone’s careless pulling at the splinters. Maybe mine. It was almost lovely in its weaving patterns and grooves. But what caught my attention most was the steady line of ants whispering back and forth across it. Dismantling what was left of a half-eaten sandwich and crisps on a dish. Once some sort of meat salad on light bread. Not so very old. Part of a crust lay next to it. Had it been mine? There was a taste in my mouth that was rather fishy. And in my hand was a long bottle of Coke. Still chilled and half gone. If it was I who sipped it, as well, I don’t remember it.

From that sandwich, my eyes led me around a room larger than Ma’s, with a single bed against the wall to my left, a table beside it with a lamp and clock that read 11:42. A unit of shelves to the other side of it, filled with books, then a door and a well-stuffed chair in another corner and a writing desk jammed behind me. Paper with soft lines of golds and browns and oranges and greens covered the walls while plain tan paper swiped across the ceiling, and picture-prints in black frames hung here and there, with areas around some of them faded, as if there had been larger items in their place.

I finally noticed I was sitting in a swivel chair that seemed to belong to the desk, and on it was a typewriter under its own cover. The bed was mussed. Slippers and a robe lay on the floor, which led me to notice I was in pyjamas. Bottoms only, but it was good they were. The air was warm and thick, not at all like early winter.

My window was on the second floor and looked out into a yard that was nothing like what you would find in Derry...and could have used some tending. Half was covered in grass that was forcing its way between the tile and concrete encompassing a rectangular swimming pool. At the far end was a small house built of brick, with black trimmed windows with a slanted roof. A wire fence laced with vines of thick, drooping, fragrant yellow and white flowers encompassed the yard, with a pair of trees offering deep shade from its two corners, a hammock strung between them. An old bicycle, rusted but workable, was propped up against a section that had a wire gate. A brick garage was to the right of one tree, unto itself, a well-tended gravel drive leading up to it and an old Volvo 544 parked to one side. It all had the feel of expensive, but worn and in need of serious work.

I heard children laughing in the distance and --

-- I looked around to see a boy and girl chasing from the sweets shop and dancing around each other and the boy falling against the car and --
I bolted up from the chair to pace the room, my breath harsh and sudden, my arms wrapped around me. Panic filled my entire body and I put my hands to my ears but still I could hear the laughter...and I walked the length of that room, back and forth and back and forth...until it faded away...and my pacing stopped and my arms drew down...and I let myself notice a smell that came from my skin. A scented soap so clean and fresh and --

-- My shirt was removed, carefully, by two men, one my age and one twice as old, and I was sat on the toilet to remove my boots and socks then guided to my feet for one set of hands to tug at my pants as the other held me up and --
I spun to look at a door beside the desk. I knew it was the loo before I even crossed to open it. Which it was -- long and narrow, with a massive tub and shower curtain around it and a pair of sinks with a tall mirror opposite it and a small window in the wall above the tub to let in light and a door at the far end that I knew would be locked. I slipped in and saw the toilet was behind a partition on the far side of the tub, and everything was in perfect condition -- save for the towels hung haphazard from neat little bars affixed to the wall. I smelled one, and it held the same lingering aroma of that soap and --

-- The older man rubbed me down with one, talking in a voice I couldn’t understand, as the younger one brought in the pyjamas and robe and my hair was toweled off then combed, as if he’d done it a hundred times before and --
I sat on the edge of the tub, not so much from confusion as from dizziness. It seems I’d been bathed and dressed and put to bed like a sleepy child. Was it the day after? Two days? A week? I honestly had no sense of the time. But the weather was warm to the point of hot and the stillness of it oppressed almost to where you couldn’t breathe. This could never be winter in Derry. Nor summer. Was I in the tropics?

I rose and leaned against the sink to look in the mirror and saw looking back this hollow-eyed lad with a scruff of a beard...well, in the places it would grow. My hair was longer and ratty with curls. My skin was grey and I looked as if I’d lost two or three stone, the way my bones showed on me. I began to shake and my knees give out and I dropped to the floor and --

-- I flew through clouds of the finest mist molded into perfect playthings, with the sky as blue as blue could be and all seen through a small window with rounded corners that distorted everything but I didn’t care because the clouds were heaven and souls filled them to bursting and dreams danced in the shadows of their billowing tufts and I whispered a song to them -- Farewell Angelina? -- as they soared past and a hand touched me and I looked around and --
Someone entered the bedroom, without knocking.

“Brendan?” asked the kindest voice one could imagine. “Are you all right, son?”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think of the words to say.

Place of Safety...part 1...

Colm and Brendan get in a fight with some Protestant boys and one was beaten, badly, so they ran off. Now they're headed home but get rousted at a British checkpoint. The soldiers are on edge; two of their men were found murdered, the day before, and word is the IRA has begun its resurgence.

------------------

The Sergeant eyed the scrapes on my face and grabbed Colm’s arm to look closer at his bandage.

"What's this?" he snarled at Colm.

I gave a small laugh. “Me mate was playin’ the cod, is all. “

“Shut the fook up, ye fookin’ taig.”

I shrugged. “Call me what you want, but I was workin' on a car and me mate was actin’ stupid and got under it to play and kicked it off its block. The cut’s from the tail pipe hittin' him as it fell. Me boss tied his arm and it took the three of us to set the car right.”

“Ye fookin’ liar -- you fix cars? A nobody like you?”

I snorted, this time. “I can fix any car there is.”

He smiled at me, cold and hard. “Yeah? I got a Land Rover leaks oil. Nobody can tell me why. All the seals are good and no cracks in the block. What the fookin' shite is wrong wit’ it?”

“What’s the year?”

“Sixty-three.”

“Model”

“S-4.”

“Is the head tight?”

“’Course it fookin’ is.”

“Sure of that? If you put a normal jointing, it needs to twice be turned, to make sure. I used double joints and compounds when I fixed Dr. Wiler’s; went hard on the fastening. Colm helped me with the last turn of the spanner.”

Colm nodded, without hesitation. “It was bloody hard. Bloody thing won’t come off without major surgery, for certain.”

“Hasn’t had a leak since,” I said, smiling.

Another soldier came up. “What about a Volvo 122? Shifter comes out the gear box.”

“That’s the bloody car’s design. Put it back in and screw it closed, is all you need to do.”

“Not what the mechanic said. Needs doin’ just right, fastened down just right.”

“Yeah, and how much’d he charge you?”

“...Twenty quid.”

“Each time?”

“I...I didn’t say it was more’n once.”

I let myself chuckle. “Next time it comes out, put it in yourself and see what happens.”

“So you do know cars,” the Sergeant said.

Another soldier came over, his fingers itching to pull the trigger of his rifle, his eyes darting between Colm, me and the Sergeant. “Are we sendin’ off or keepin’ ‘em, sir?”

The Sergeant just turned and walked away. The first soldier said, “Off wit’ ye.” And they let us go, him calling "Thanks," as we went.

And we went. Fast. So fast, we were halfway down Fahan before I realized I was shaking, like mad. And Colm had been dead silent. Then I coughed. Again. Colm looked at me. Pulled me around Fox's Corner. Stopped me.

“You didn’t cough once, in front of that bastard.” I couldn’t speak. He eyed me. Saw me shaking. His face grew gentle. “C’mon, me china, let’s to home.”

I just started walking, that bloody cough still popping up, now and again, but my shaking eased...till Ma looked out the door and saw me and burst up and slapped me for being late.

“I told you to be home by four!” she screamed.

“It was the checkpoints, Mrs. Kinsella,” Colm said.

“You should’ve allowed for that!”

“You’re lucky we’re home, at all, and not at Castlerock. Bren kept us from that.”

“And what would he have that they want? You and your lyin' ways, coverin' for each other and -- ” She slapped the back of my head and grabbed my collar to yank me inside. 

“Mrs. Kinsella!" His voice was sharp and cold. A man's voice, not a boy's. “I’ll ask you not to hit Brendan, again -- ”

Ma glared at him. “You’ll mind your own business, me boy, or -- ”

Colm took a step closer and Ma shut up and I stopped shaking. “Colm! Won’t...won't they check my story? Do you know if...if McClosky’ll back it up?”

Colm's voice was like ice. “He will...once he knows.”

“Best get to him. Set it straight.”

Colm nodded, his eyes locked on Ma. For the first time since before Da died, I saw wariness in her face. He backed away, giving me a pat on my shoulder. “You’re an odd one, Bren...and I’m glad you’re with us, not them.”

I sort of smiled at him...and he left.

I turned to Ma and said, “I’d not call him a liar, again. I don’t think he’d like it.”

Then I went up to my room and sat in my bed and gazed out the window at that ugly bloody yard, behind us, and I did not move till supper.

Thermostat remodel...

My apartment building put in a new thermostat to control my AC and heating, but in order to do it right, I had to move a couple of book cases. Doing so made me see just how much crap I'd accumulated without thinking, so I'm digging through and pulling out books I've read and don't want to read, again; and papers I don't need; and journals and pamphlets I've no more use for...and junk in general. So that's been my last couple of days -- sorting and shredding things that need not be known.

I've already got 2 bags of shredding and I'm maybe 25% of the way through. I did that as I watched a couple more episodes of Midsomer Murders...just to watch Nick Hendrix. At least, that's how I justified not writing. I need my place back in a semblance of order by Sunday, because I'm spending all next week in Oakland and do not want to come back to it.

I finally caught a glimpse of why I'm fixated on Nick -- he reminds me of Clive Owen, like from when he was in Croupier and that BMW series of adverts called The Driver....and Gosford Park. Mr. Hendrix hasn't half the intensity of Mr. Owen, but looks-wise...they could be brothers...or father and son...and it feeds my fantasies.

I never know why I get attracted to a man. Someone you'd think would be a gay man's dream might not grab me in any way. Hugh Grant, for example; he's nice-looking but not for me. Same for Colin Firth. And Colin Farrell doesn't even begin to interest me while Aiden Turner stops me cold when I see him.

Henry Cavill would be an obvious choice for anyone to be attracted to, and he is gorgeous, but Russell Tovey is not conventionally handsome, yet I'd chose him over Henry in a heartbeat. It's weird.

But it's the same with a story, actually. I can work on a script and love it and the characters, but sometimes it stops on me. Completely. Won't let me go one step farther and I have no idea why except it just no longer grabs me, and no matter what I try, I can't re-engage.

That's why I feel so strongly about Place of Safety. I've worked on it in fits and starts over years...hell, decades, now...but get right back into it and love what's happening in it and how the characters are interacting...until I get scared of what I'm trying, again, and freak out and have to take some time to regain my composure. But I'll never let go because it's a story I need to tell...and I really do need to get over my childish hesitation about it. Which I am...in fits and starts.  So I guess I'll keep going till it's done or I'm dead.

And at the rate I'm going, this process may continue for another decade.

Edgy...

I've been in the weirdest mood since getting back from the UK. Like I'm on edge...not quite nervous but unable to relax. Tight and tense. I don't know why...unless it's from being so beat up from this trip. I just know I had one hell of a time focusing on anything, yesterday, of any meaning...and today was almost as bad.

Of course, it doesn't help I had to shove a lot of crap out of position in my apartment because the management decided to install a thermostat. My ac/heating unit had old controls that were manually switched on and off. Now I can set the thing to go on and off whenever and it works just as poorly.

But my apartment's in a mess and I'm trying to rearrange things so they work better and have no idea what to do about it all except get rid of a lot of junk. Which means sitting down and going through it and dealing with the dust...and I just don't wanna...not right now...

I'm sick and fucking tired of the GOP and right wing scum taking this country down the path of totalitarianism. Republicans are so busy proving themselves to be hypocrites -- and damn proud of it -- it's destroying any semblance of normalcy. I'm pissed off all the time and seriously would not weep if every damned one of them was wiped out by some GOP-oriented plague or, as poetic justice, a right wing gunman.

Maybe that's why I'm so on edge. It tells on you, being infuriated on a daily basis for 18 months straight. I wish Czar Snowflake would just die or have his stroke or something, already, with Pence and all the rest following him in hideous ways.

As a ludicrous segue, this anger and frustration reminded me I wanted to find that Creepy Magazine cover of Dracula and The Wolf Man fighting in the ruins of Whitby Abbey...and here it is. But it's not really Whitby...just a close resemblance. The artist may have used it as a template....but it works. One of my all-time favorite magazine covers.

So...what I now need to do is find a way of channelling my anger and frustration into PS to bolster Brendan. It fits best in the third section -- when he returns to Derry -- but also works in the second part, set in Houston. I've got a situation started there that leads to tragedy...and maybe horror...not sure yet.

I think PS is turning into a primal scream...

Movies on a plane...

Flying back from London, I had an empty seat next to me but the other two seats in the row were taken up by a young, blond, British couple who had that flat monotone London accent that's kind of nasal and drives me nuts. So instead of reading, I decided to watch some movies, with earbuds to drown them out. Don't cost anything but time on a plane, right?

First up -- Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express. I'd avoided it because of that amazingly dumb mustache Branagh has Hercule Poirot sporting. He's also 20 years too young for the role. but I figured, "How bad could it be?"

VERY.

The story is exquisite Agatha Christie. An American businessman is stabbed to death in a locked sleeping berth on a luxury train. Turns out he was an infamous criminal and, bit by bit, it's revealed everyone on the train had a connection to a hideous crime he committed. It's up to Hercule Poirot to solve the case.

Nice and straightforward...and done beautifully, before...so how the hell could the script be damn near incoherent? I've read the book and seen the Sydney Lumet version, and I had trouble following it. Then there's Branagh's direction -- rather than helping to reveal the story and characters, he goes out of his way to obscure them and even adds flourishes to remind you that he's directing this film. Like the overhead shot as they discover the body...that never shows the body. This was surprising, because he's done some elegant work in the past.

Next is the casting...and changing of the original characters (not to mention attitudes of the times) to suit that casting. Like having a black actor play the doctor and be having an affair with a white woman. But worst of all was the ridiculous denouement. Poirot gets SHOT...to no real physical effect! He still jumps around like an acrobat, and has the suspects lined up at a table in a tunnel in wintry mountains in order to almost dance about and tell them he knows what's going on and who the killer is.

If I'd paid a buck for this, I'd have asked for my money back.

Next up -- Love, Simon. A nice gay coming out story...which was really an outing story, because the main character doesn't come out, it's revealed that he's gay in a vicious posting on the school chat forum and is forced to tell his family...all with no honest repercussions. His father even apologizes for not already knowing. Jesus. Then the whole school cheers when he finds love...with one of his good friends...about whom we are supposed to believe he didn't know a very important detail. A lot of gay people are wild about this film, and I don't get it. Beautiful Thing and Weekend are a hundred times better and far more honest.

Last was Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri. A woman whose daughter was raped and murdered demands to know why there's been no arrest and sets in motion events that turn brutal and tragic. This one, I liked because it took events to their logical conclusion, most of the time...including the inconclusive ending, which apparently has been a point of contention to many. The acting was uniformly top notch, with Frances McDormand and Sam Rockwell earning their Oscars.

There were a few points that irritated...like a black cop showing up and refusing to hand over paperwork to the white cops to prove he's been assigned to the town's police force; black people get shot for that kind of shit. And I've been to St. Louis and Kansas City, both pretty damn flat areas, as is most of Missouri; I don't recall any high-hills in that state. Turns out it was shot in North Carolina...and looks it...so why not just set it there? But those didn't really detract from the total package.

This evening, I watched a year-old Episode of Midsomer Murders -- Death by Persuasion -- that was nice enough. But the reason I watched is, I've developed something of a crush on Nick Hendrix, who plays the lead detective's sidekick...which is shocking, to me. He looks like a typical English lad and doesn't have 1/10 the charisma of Russell Tovey, on camera, but I'd be happy to chase him. Man, you never know what's going to hit you from where, when it comes to attraction.

So now I'm almost back to normal, whatever that is, and about to make my own kind of magic.

I'm baaaaaaaack...

For the last three weeks, I've been doing so much traveling and scrambling and financial finagling and time zone changing, it's taken me until today to begin to even understand where I am or how I got here. And it's not over; next week I'm in Oakland and the week after that, Indianapolis...well, a town outside that city. Whoever said this summer was going to be quiet put a hex on it.

But...I did get to see some places I never would have. And I hurt my right knee, not to mention pissing off my feet, by walking so damn much. It's still achy and I can't sit for long periods without getting up to stretch it out, but I did manage to lose 5 lbs this trip.

And I got to see York, epitomized by their Minster Cathedral, with its magnificent stained glass windows. But here's the fun part -- every church in the city has amazing stained glass windows. Apparently, this was a major center for that and they still have workshops for making them.

Then after a nearly 3 hour train ride there was Whitby Abbey, where Dracula came ashore and took Lucy as his first UK victim.

The ruins are on top of a hill overlooking Whitby and more than make up for the tackiness of the town. 199 steps up to a view that was almost as magnificent as the Cliffs of Moher. I could see why Bram Stoker used it for his location. Of course, it wasn't till I'd headed back to York that I heard Whitby is also famous for its fish & chips. Dammit; I was hungry for some.

I also did Jarvik, the Viking colony in the middle of York. It was flooded out a couple years back when the River Ouse had one of her annual fits, so what I saw was all new and fascinating. A day in the life of a Viking village from 1000 years ago.

But then, I also got screwed over by 2 of 3 Hilton hotels I was staying in, something I'm still trying to sort out. I only stayed there because Mary Jane is an honors member and gets points, but they were supposed to be paid for on her credit card and the M-Fkers wouldn't do it. I had to use my own and I'm not sure I got the same deal on the rate, or that she got the points. I'll have to check that, on Monday.

What was worse was, I got very little done on Place of Safety. You'd think during a 10 day trip to the UK I'd have had time to just sit and think. Instead, all I got was a few notes and a slight reworking of a section I'd already written but had a new idea for. Still, that little bit of space let me contemplate aspects of the story...and I could see I was slipping into a too one-sided vision of a few people.

Like Brendan's father. He's a violent, selfish brute...and that is way too black and white for this to work. I mean, it's somewhat understandable because Brendan's ten when the man is killed, so he does see things in more simplistic terms. But he's not incapable of realizing there was more to the man than just his drinking and his fists...and I was ignoring that aspect of him.

I want people in my book, not characters.