Valley of the Dolls and Beyond...

Not up for a blog, tonight, so here's a review of a truly trashy movie I saw when I was 15 years old, in Hawaii. Perfect location.

And the trailer for another I saw in San Antonio, a few years later -- a self-proclaimed NON-followup written by Roger Ebert, and a really, truly, hideously awful movie to the point of it being fun. How many soft-porn films end with a take on the Manson murders and a man's severed head rolling across the floor? Very influential on me.

Forward movement...

Laptop's working so I managed to get two chapters input from my red pen edit. It's going slow because I'm making further changes. Adjusting. Cutting redundant sentences. At the moment, the story is 135,000 words and I'm past the most intense part of the edit, so it may wind up being right around that...but no guarantees.

I'm really a crappy writer, and this book is proving it to me. I work and rework and re-rework the sentences I write in order just to get them to make sense and be in the order they should be, and still find they aren't quite right, yet. It's as if I'm peeling an onion layer by layer but never getting to the center of it. I just slop crap together and think it's fine...till I look at it later and think, How the fuck could I have written that?

And the ideas I jammed in to give the story detail and interest? They's silly. Affectatious. For example, I had it where Brendan's father never told his kids the stories he tells in pubs to cadge drinks from the patrons. His bar mates come to his wake and wax eloquently about his stories being so amazing and true, and when Brendan tells them Da never told them, they say he's being silly. The whole concept is silly.

Instead, changing it to his father telling the stories to the kids when he's drunk and close to incoherent, and use an example about harpies living in the Cliffs of Moher and how it came about. Bouncing back and forth in the tale so it's hard to follow. Makes a lot more sense, that way.

In Book Three, when Brendan's twenty-five, he hears a taped recording of his father telling that same story before he'd had his second drink...and it is beautifully told. Almost like poetry, his voice melodious and sure, and it builds anger in his that the man would share his best voice with his friends and those who'd support his alcoholism but not with his family.

Took me six fucking years to figure out how much better that would be.

Shit, shit, shit...

One of the two portals on my MacBook Pro is dead, the one I used for the power connector. I didn't know this until the battery had drained to nothing and it shut down on me, completely. Took me all kinds of tricks to get it back up, and that was only when I tried the second portal as a last resort. That worked. I tried plugging in a thumb drive to the initial portal and nothing. Won't load in.

On top of this, the battery needs replacing because it will not hold a charge for more than half an hour. I hadn't cared because I was working from home and had it plugged in. But if the primary portal is dead and the second one is being used for power, I have no way to download anything onto a drive unless I unplug the power and do it quick, quick, quick. 

Which I did, today. Saved everything I could, even stuff I had already saved. Just to be safe. I suppose I could pull out my old MacBook and see if it will work with the WiFi. I really liked it, but it's 15 years old. so has limitations.

Looks like I'll be buying that MacMini, after all, since I do 99% of everything on my laptop at home. Pisses me off, but what can you do?

I hate technology.

The opening chapter of APoS...

As polished and complete as it's gonna get, right now:

-------

Those who knew Eamonn Kinsella...and were truly being honest with themselves, for once...had to admit that were he born but ten miles to the west or north his murder would have been seen as the fitting end to a hard and brutal man. As his son, I do not make this claim lightly. Nor is it merely from spite. While true he near twisted my arm off when forcing me to turn over a five-pound note I'd received for my tenth birthday, just so he could drink himself into another stupor, that does not factor into my opinion. All it does is prove that my father was a very difficult man. 

In many ways and with everyone. 

It would take little more than a wrong word, here; a wrong look, there; or even a wrong touch on his shoulder to call forth some beast within. Then suddenly you'd find yourself on the floor with a split lip or blackened eye. And it would be your fault for his reaction, no matter how improbable the cause, so expect no apology. With his height of well above six feet, weight at more than fifteen stone, and back still carrying the strength gained from a long-past position as a navvy, few were they who would take the dispute further. 

That was why, as word of his death spread, the first thought on many-a-mind was he had finally focused his anger on the one absolute truth of existence -- that there was always somebody bigger, stronger, meaner and better with his fists than yourself, and that one day you were sure to meet. 

His body was found off the Limavady Road, down a farm trail that might have offered a pleasant view of the Foyle had it not decided to turn so sharply to the east. The morning air was cold and blustery, and the fields around him bleak and gray despite recent whispers of snow and the brightness of the sky. He had been dumped in a ditch, his coat pulled down his arms and his hands bound tight behind him. Rumors also flew that he had been emasculated, never to be confirmed one way or the other. It was verified that every bone in every finger was broken, several ribs were shattered, an elbow had been dislocated and his face pummeled into the merest hint of a human visage. Blood soaked his shirt to his trousers, the knees of which were torn and scraped as if he’d been forced to crawl on them. Or been dragged. And it was said not one tooth was left in his mouth. 

As for the Coroner’s release on the manner of his death? It was the purest embodiment of callous simplicity. “Mr. Kinsella perished from the result of a bullet being fired into the crown of his head.” 

Mr. Kinsella perished. 

He was not murdered. 

Nor was he killed. 

Or even slaughtered, like a cow in the abattoir. 

He merely perished. A charming word you'd hear more often on the lips of someone claiming they're perished from the hunger. Or thirst. Or cold. Or the mere seeking of a job. Not once until that Coroner's comment had I ever connected the damned word with death. Which sent me to the library to dig into their dictionary and discover it actually was defined as such, with synonyms being expire, wither, shrivel, vanish, molder and rot, any of which might have been just as inappropriate. 

He had lain on his back in a slight trail of dirty water until his clothing was soaked through and solid with ice. One unseeing eye open and tinted by blood; the other swollen shut. Well-preserved, he was. Refrigerated, even. Time of death was somewhere between midnight and four of that morning, which brought forth a great deal of anger. Two nights before, he had been jostled out of McCleary’s in his far-too-usual condition, just after last orders. And he had not returned to his hovel, that much was certain. Nor had he been seen anywhere else, since. So to one and all it became a truth carved in stone that his torturers had enjoyed their game with him for near two days. 

Adding to the horror of his lengthy demise was how the somewhat reticent undertaker handling the funeral arrangements had gently but firmly insistented on a closed casket. 

"Considering the overall devastation visited upon him," he'd softly said to the widow, "well...there's only so much one can do, you know, and really, Mrs. Kinsella, it would be best to remember him as he was." 

To which she began to wail, "My poor Eamonn." As was expected of her. Mrs. Haggerty, her immediate neighbor, was at her side...which was how word of this travesty leap from house to home with the speed of telepathy; that woman never knew a secret she couldn't spread faster than the BBC. 

I also was in the room, as was my elder brother, Eamonn, the younger. I was standing quietly, and told I was being quite stoic a lad, as my elder sister, Mairead, sat on a stool and wept. Eamonn's fists were clenched and his body tight, for he and Mairead knew what all of this meant. And while I did understand the concept of death, I could make no sense from the quiet reticence in the way it was being depicted by any and all concerned. Not then, anyway. 

But oh, did this news increase the dead man's stature in the eyes of any and all. He quickly became the truest of true Irishmen, who did not release his hold on life as easily as others would have. Who fought to the end in order to return home to his kith and kin. Why, he even spat blood in the faces of his killers, that much was a certainty. Before the day was gone, he'd been elevated to the likes of Cu Chulain and Michael Collins and every other hero of Ireland's past, with all past grievances forgotten. 

So throughout the afternoon and evening, many a pub mate dropped by to offer kind remembrances of my Da's bleak eyes and long face, a visage that brought to mind tortured poets and sad balladeers. They wistfully spoke of how he could sing so well as to make the angels weep. Elegant tunes of Ireland's ruined past and her dead future. Others provided gentle smiles as they told stories about the stories he could weave. Melodious tales of fairies living in oak glens that once spread forever across the land. And of gods who roamed her once glorious green fields and forests. And exciting events wrapped around Grianán Aileach, the ancient ring fort but six miles and a hundred worlds away from town. Oh, he had a true Irish heart in his use of word. In another time under much better circumstances, he'd have given the likes of James Joyce and Sean O’Casey a challenge as the nation’s bard, for each tale was brought to life with such beauty and perfection you'd have thought he lived through each and every one. 

Which put me off, for I'd heard Da's stories and singing voice, and not been much impressed. But when I said so, the usual response was, "Oh, you poor wee lad, how could you know?" Or, "What a thing to say about your poor dead da." Or, "This is what happens when you're simple." The last one usually followed by a wink and nod to whomever was seated next to them. And when neither Eamonn the younger nor Mairead said a single word to the contrary, the dismissal of my opinion was complete.

Simple! Once you have the reputation of that, you cannot seem to remove it. But I was smart enough to know now was not the time to remind the bloody hypocrites of the money borrowed but never to be repaid, or drunken rants along the road, or the beatings and the bursts of howling fury and the theft of any money we'd managed to pull together. I had long ceased to wonder at how much viciousness and cruelty could have been poured into one man in fewer than thirty-six years, and had just accepted it was a part of him. After all, he was hardly the only Irishman filled with anger. It was the one honest emotion those like him were allowed to hold. And if my mother was seen at market with fresh bruises, or was out in the cold night air walking us around till our lord and master had sworn himself into weary, drunken sleep? Well, her nails had left scratches deep on more than just his back, and her quick use of an iron skillet to the head had not gone unnoticed. But it hit me wrong, then. 

It wasn't till years later I understood that hypocrisy is just good manners, at a wake. 

So the bad of my father was made quiet and the best cried aloud. His funeral was well-attended and partially paid for through the intersession of Father Demian, who’d so often visited the man’s home in times of distress. The rest was provided by the widow's one sister, Maria Nolan, who had rushed over from Houston. Texas. It was she who'd sent me that five-pound note. She saw that everything was arranged as well as possible in our sad little hovel. She also kept my younger brother and sister at her hotel room to give them peace from the nonstop clamor of adults in the house. And when she spoke to the press, she emphasized that the widow had five children with another soon due yet was living in a structure that was condemned and had no prospects for better. She actually shamed the bastards who ran the town like their bloody fiefdom into at least promising new lodgings once the last of the Rossville Flats was completed.

If there were room still available on the queue, of course. Can’t make promises one might have to keep.

I think they expected that, as with most catastrophic events, soon all would be over and done with and life return to normal as the confusion surrounding us all drifted away, so they could return to ignoring us. And would have but for one small and final detail that proved more than important. 

Eamonn Kinsella lived and died in Derry, in the North of Ireland. Londonderry for those who cannot be bothered to learn the city’s true name. A Catholic town taken hold of by Protestants in the way an abusive man might take hold of a woman he fancied, refusing to let her go even if it meant her destruction. So when it was learned that my Da had been killed by two drunk Protestants, that well-mannered hypocrisy turned to fury. 

It didn't help the bastards swore to heaven and earth they’d only meant to have some fun with the Taig. Which was accepted as the most reasonable explanation by the powers that be, despite his vicious and extremely well-known injuries. So thus was the martyrdom of Eamonn Kinsella to Mother Ireland made a part of history and his trek to sainthood begun as the truth of his former violent existence vanished like a ghost. 

The year was 1966, when several other Catholics were killed for being Catholic and Catholic schools attacked by the Protestant fools, all because the move to civil rights for the Catholic minority in the state had begun to grow in force. It was as if they thought hitting someone who's asking you to stop hitting them means they will shut up and let you continue the beating. To add to the insult, Protestant leaders insisted the Catholic population was responsible for the discrimination against it so no quarter would be given to make amends for the past transgressions that they, themselves, had caused. 

It never ceases to amaze me how many stupid people refuse to see the reality of what is happening around them. That we had decided not to let the past determine the course of the future. That trying to keep everything as it had been was no longer an option, and if they would only compromise a little, a lot could be achieved and both our world and theirs made better. 

But to follow that course would have been intelligent, so arrogance and stupidity took sway...and what followed was all but pre-ordained. 

Having barely passed my tenth birthday, I was not much aware of the quiet hatred that was building to an explosion of death and cruelty. An explosion made only the worse by it happening in a supposedly civilized part of the dwindling British Empire. But what child can see the growth of history around him when even few adults can? Things happen, and you either weep when it ends poorly or rejoice when it doesn’t. Thus, my father's death held resonance for me in but the most selfish, limited and childish of ways -- that he was gone, and I could now live my life in the manner I chose, that of a lad filled with hopes and dreams and prayers and promises, thinking himself to be in a place of safety.

Shock and awe...

There may be civil war in Russia. We'll know more in the morning, but at the moment it appears the head of Wagner, Prigozhin, has led his men to surround the headquarters of Russia's Southern Military Command in Rostov-on-Don and is planning to march on Moscow. If he's in control of Rostov, he's got access to a huge amount of military materiel, and that's scary.

However, he's verbally attacked the current Minster of Defense, Shoygu, but not Putin, so a lot of this is still off-center. BUT...it's just possible this will give Moscow the excuse to withdraw from Ukraine without losing face...which would be lovely.

I am convinced this happened because I posted a video of Tom Hiddleston dancing to Ra Ra Rasputin, by Boney, yesterday. Rather fits, in a way. No matter what, I'm accepting responsibility for it.

Also some family chat to deal with. And the realization I haven't gotten my tax refund from NY State...and finally noticing my CPA input my old address for a check when I'd always had it direct deposited to my checking account. It's not a lot, but every little bit helps. Meaning no inputting done, today, and Monday will be taken up with getting that corrected, I'm sure.

So...just more digging into notes and adding a few more details to APoS. Simple things like add a photo on the wall of Brendan's grandparents, on his mother's side. He knows his father was an orphan but there are questions about a lot of that, questions he cannot get answered even though people in Derry know each other's lineage back a dozen generations, almost.

There will be, tomorrow. I'm getting this draft done by the end of the month.

Ready to start next polish...

More notes made. A bit of revision to smooth some additions over. Now it's time to go through and input all the changes in the Word file. See what I've got going here. Make it fit and be a smooth read, which is why I go over and over and over my work. I'm not like Stephen King; I don't have his command of language, never have. He spits 'em out like a human branch of AI.

I used to think I was smart. The way some of my books fell together gave me a hint of arrogance, a bit too much certainty that I know what I'm doing. I just neglected to keep in mind that those were jaunty things with sex and violence in them, and weren't too solidly grounded in reality. My hardest one, Bobby Carapisi, took a fair amount of effort to make right, but that was because the characters took me places I didn't want to go and I fought them.

But with A Place of Safety, I'm dealing not only with a real time and actual places and events that truly occurred, I'm dealing with making sure the characters ring true for how they would have lived their lives. And dealing with a couple people already having told me I will never be able to make it right. So I've worked it and worked it and worked it and am now at the point where I can accept that if it's good enough for someone in LA or NYC or even London to read it and feel it's true, that's the best I can do.

I won't be able to not read what people say about it, if it gets any reviews. That's a compulsion with me. But it's also how I see what works and what doesn't. Like with The Beast in the Nothing Room. The reviews are pretty good for it, but one comment caught me and I could see where I'd made a mistake; I didn't set the relationship between Finn and Christian up well enough to honestly earn the ending. Didn't make that mistake in the books after.

So on this story, I'm dancing as fast as Tom Hiddleston...just nowhere near as hot...

The fates intervene...

It was decided, today, by the powers that be, I was going to get nothing done because my laptop decided to start doing some very weird things. It kept dinging at me and the screen would fade slightly then come back and posts I'd made days ago were suddenly showing up, again. So I properly freaked out and backed up everything I could then shut the thing down and went to the Mac Store at Walden Galleria to look into how much a new one would cost if I needed one.

OUCH!

Just a Mac Mini with a keyboard and mouse would be $1100.00, and that's without a mac monitor. Those damn things would have doubled the price, at best. I looked at the ipad setups and none of them felt comfortable, but a new MacBook Pro that I could accept would kick me up to $2000. Shit. I can't afford any of that.

If all I needed to do was writing in Word, I could do that on my old MacBook, but it's too old for current WiFi. I have an old ipad but never got comfortable with it. I finally gave up and came home to do further investigation, if I could. And figure out how much I'd have to pay to upgrade my PhotoShop and Word, since you can no longer buy them outright.

Fortunately, when I fired up the laptop, it was back to normal and an update was due. I cleaned it with Clean my Mac and did the update and it's been working fine, the last hour or so. But it spooked me. Reality is, I could afford the Mac Mini with an after-market monitor. It would just mean digging into my savings. I'd really rather not, just yet. Not till everything's settled with my brother.

Long story short, today was shot. BUT...if anything does go wrong, I'm totally backed up on a thumb drive.

Latest draft done...

Done. Again. Wondering if I just passed over the last few chapters with few alterations because I'm tired of it. Weary of it. I've been at this book for decades and now my biggest fear is I'm just letting it go because I'd worked on it so long I just can't anymore. No idea. But tomorrow I will go through my notes, see if anything cries out to be added in, then Friday start inputting the changes.

This does count as a rewrite, since I did some serious restructuring. I moved a memory Brendan had of seeing Danny and his father arguing behind the church they attend. His father works there, and Father Demian is the priest. Brendan was eleven, at the time.

I had it happening late in the book but it felt wrong, so I shifted it to earlier, when he's first begun to notice how moody Danny has become. Both are about twelve years old and Brendan begins to suspect the priest was molesting Danny, but then Father Demian is replaced with Father Jack and everything becomes more even-keeled, for everyone.

Now, at the later point, when they're fourteen, Brendan knows the truth but also learns Danny knows he's been seeing Joanna, a Protestant girl. Brendan thought he was being clever enough to keep it a secret. Of course, Danny won't tell on him, but it's still a shock. Now the structure feels better, since this all leads up to Brendan being ordered to end the relationship, in the next to last chapter, and he decides to leave Derry, instead.

God, I have no idea if the story makes sense or reads true. I haven't for a while. I just keep trying to make it better and better. I do think it's conceivable I could publish it in January. So far my push to find an agent has only gotten me silence or rejection. So...aim to publish all three over 2024...and see how it goes.

Maybe I'll do a box set, too.

64 pages left...

If all goes well, tomorrow, I'll be done with my red pen edit of APoS-Derry and can go through my notes to add in aspects that might enhance the story. I've got plenty. I take notes from everything I can, be it CAIN or Derry of the Past or emails to people in the country and videos available on YouTube.

I've done some restructuring and cutting. There was one moment I had Brendan repeating some gossip, albeit for a good reason. He needed to find out what was going on with a friend of his who has having a crisis...but it just rang wrong for him, so I cut it. Completely. The chat they have now is disjointed, a bit, but still says what it needs to and makes Brendan think he might have hated his father over something the man could not have controlled. And it jolts him to his core.

He and Joanna catch a ride down to Dublin to look at Trinity College. She's thinking of colleges to apply to and Brendan was hoping she'd consider Trinity, but she unimpressed. She's leaning more towards Queens College, in Belfast. He hates that idea because he wants to get away from the Catholic/Protestant divide in the north. I added in a hint that the reason he gets a tattoo of her name on his shoulder is a way to nudge her to go for St. Andrews, like he wants. Rather passive-aggressive of him.

I'm also developing the suggestion he has a heart condition that is undiagnosed. He starts off with a quiet cough but in a couple of vicious situations he comes close to what seems like a heart attack. One man even tells him he needs to have it looked at, but he never does. It won't be found out till the end, just before he's sent to Houston.

So tomorrow I'm digging into the Bloody Sunday part of the story, which to Brendan turns from a pleasant Sunday into complete chaos and he sees people murdered right before his eyes. I'm treading carefully, here, and keeping it as close to the facts as possible. Making sure I haven't stepped out of line. But that's what convinces him it's time to leave Derry.

Smashwords sale July1-31

 Smashwords is having their summer sale, 1-31 July 2023, and some of my ebooks are participating, but not all. The ones which will be part of it are going to be free. Sales are weak and I want them read, and apparently the only way to get people to pay attention to your work, these days, is to put it up on Kindle Direct and deal with their crap, or offer it for free. So here are the ones I'm doing.

Carli's Kills

Bobby Carapisi

The Alice '65

The Lyons' Den

The Vanishing of Owen Taylor

Just another kind of promo that I hope will help jump-start interest in the books, again.

Brendan and Joanna...

This is after the battle of Bogside, during the celebration fleadh (party). The British Army is now patrolling the city, keeping the Protestants out.

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

Just past one on the second day of the fleadh, I was leaning against the Free Derry gable, feeling so real and good I closed my eyes to listen to a piper playing Dreams of Galway. People still milled about and what craic I heard was happy and quick. It was like a bright new world for us all. As if we were ourselves, alone, apart from the rest of Ireland, with prayers and dreams and hopes and promises aplenty, building our world anew, and I was thinking, This is how it should always be and... 

“I know this hat!” jolted me as my cap was grabbed off my head. 

I spun around...and it was Joanna, laughing with those friends of hers. She wore bellbottoms and a light jacket, and her hair danced in the breeze as she spun about and set the cap on her head and looked so much like an angel it hurt me. 

“I’ve never seen it before,” said the girl closest to her, a round pale thing that looked like a marshmallow in her white dress, stockings and shoes. 

“In Woolworth's,” she said. “Caught him looking at us. Shy and sweet.” She pinched my cheek. I was still so shocked, I could think of nothing to say. “You’re not much of one for words, are you?” she continued, smiling. 

I glanced around. A couple people were eyeing her, frowns on their faces. She wasn’t known and would soon be asked to verify her right to be here. 

I finally found enough voice to ask, “How’d you get here?” 

“On the bus,” she said, then they dissolved into giggles. 

I kept my words soft. “But the checkpoints...” 

The marshmallow said, “I’ve a cousin lives in Ballymena so said we all lived there, and no one stopped us.” 

“Helps to bat your eyes at the soldiers, it does,” said the other friend, who resembled the pop star, Lulu, made more-so by how her face was made up. 

I realized Joanna wore only lip-gloss and a dash of powder, her skin was so clear and bright, and she had the air of mint about her...spearmint. Yes, spearmint. Like I'd been chewing to hold the glass in our windows in our old home and I grinned, stupidly, at the thought...but then I saw Jackie, Aidan, and a couple other lads from Creggan moving toward us and knew they’d be very unhappy some Protestant girls had snuck into our fleadh.

So I waved to them and said as loud as I could, “Here, Jackie, some birds I met in Claudy!” 

The Lulu said, “I’ve never been...“ 

I turned, smiling, and shot a quiet “Whist,” at her. 

Joanna caught on and turned her smile on Jackie. “We heard there’s a fleadh and came to see. It’s lovely.” Marshmallow had a bit of fear in her eyes as she nodded, unable to speak. 

Jackie wasn’t ready to accept it, yet. “What’s your name?” 

“McGillicuty,” shot out of me. “Jo, Mary and Lulu. They’re cousins...nieces of Mrs. McKenna on Little James.”

“How’d ya get in?” snarled one of Jackie’s mates, a big bruiser of a thick lad with a voice like a growling wolf. 

Joanna stepped around me and went straight to him, her smile growing near wicked as she touched his chin and said, “The soldiers are boys, just like you, and how does any girl get around them?” 

He blushed. The big bastard actually blushed. 

I huffed and put some bite into my voice. “Jo...you said you’d not do that around me.” 

She stepped back and put my cap back on my head, still smiling. “Now, don’t be such a child.” 

Lulu laughed, despite herself. 

Jackie took a look at her and his face softened. “So you’re enjoyin' yourself, then?” 

Lulu took on an attitude I couldn’t quite make out as she said, “I’ve seen no reason not to, yet.” 

Jackie reached over to her but I put myself between them, without a thought, and said, “Now Jackie, these girls aren’t of age, and I promised to keep watch over them.” 

“You?” said Thick. 

“Aye. It’s not like we have to worry about the peelers or lads from the Waterside trying to make trouble with our lasses, is it? I’m here as their...their...” 

Joanna wrapped her arm around mine and sighed, “I told my aunt we didn’t need a chaperone, but she didn’t believe us.” 

“You must be someone special," said Aidan, "for our Bren to let you wear his cap.” 

“She is,” popped out of me before I could think to stop it. She beamed at me and it was my turn to blush. 

Jackie laughed. ”Keep a good watch on 'em, Bren. Show ‘em the kind of man you are.” Then he and his mates wandered off. 

I turned to Joanna and her friends and said, “He might well check with Mrs. McKenna and be sore pissed when he finds out we lied to him. C’mon, I’ll get you to home.” 

"But we only just arrived." 

"Yeah, right, we should wander around a bit, first. Not leave too quick." 

“What about you?” Joanna asked. “Won’t he come for you?” 

“I’ll worry about that when it happens.” 

I didn't really think Jackie would care enough to do it, or even if he did he'd be hard with me. But it did make me feel quite the man about town by acting all concerned for their safety. What's best, I saw what I'm sure was a hint of respect in Joanna's eyes. 

So we listened to more music. During one, all three danced their jig and many around us clapped at good they were. We had a bite to eat and orange crush, and Lulu was after having a toffee apple, but they were in the middle of preparing a new batch so it was forgotten. It was so calm and easy and lovely.

Just as it was starting to grow chill we headed on. I said little as the girls chattered about Jackie and his mates. Lulu was quite taken with him while Marshmallow thought they were all crude and in need of a shave. Joanna just cast me a knowing smile. 

It’s funny, but me having on my NASA cap, wearing my finer clothes and escorting three girls out of the Bogside apparently gave us an aura of respectability, as Marshmallow, put it. We were asked a few short questions at the Waterloo checkpoint then allowed past. We caught a bus across from the Guildhall, grandly paid for by me, and headed back to the Waterside. We hopped off at Edward Street and headed through an area of nice semi-detached homes with gardens and flowers and nearly new cars parked in front. Some lads the girls knew were milling out and about and called to them in ways I found unpleasant, but they got ignored. We turned down a lane with no outlet and went straight to the house at the head, where I recognized the estate car in front. 

Lulu and Marshmallow scurried off to their own homes when Joanna’s mum and brother came out the door to watch us approach. She was worried; he was wary and had his eyes sharp on me. 

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice sounding far too much like wee Eammon’s mother’s. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Who’s this with you?” 

Before Joanna could speak I said, “I’m Billie Corrie of the Fountain, ma’am. We met up in Woolworth’s, in the music. I thought it best to escort the ladies home.” And I made myself sound very grand as I said it. 

Her mother smiled, indulgently, and nodded. “Thank you, Billie. It's growing late. Would you care to join us for tea?” 

“That’d be...that’d be smashin',” I said, copying a saying from a program on the telly. 

Joanna took me to the toilet, her eyes dancing with laughter. At the basin, she made a motion of washing her hands. I grinned, pleased beyond anything that she’d remembered when first I saw her. Then I noticed her brother was watching us. That made me uncomfortable, but I did my best to ignore it.

They served a fine roast chicken, potatoes and string beans off real China, and just to show off a bit I accepted a leg and ate it using a knife and fork. They were quite impressed, and didn't seem to notice my soft cough as I prepared to make the first cut. What was even better? Her brother ate his with his fingers. And don't think Joanna and her bother didn't cast him a look or two.

Their last name was Martin, with her brother a Charles. Her father owned a menswear shop off Irish Street and her friends’ real names were Angela, for Marshmallow, and Louisa, for Lulu. They attended the same school and had been friends since forever. 

I told them of how I fixed things. Charles didn't believe me and suggested Mrs. Martin bring me a fine toaster that didn’t work on one side. I graciously said I would look at it, and it took me but a minute to see a connector had broken free. Mr. Martin had a soldering stick in his shed, so I fixed it for them, right there and at no charge. They were well-impressed, and I’d never been so proud. 

Charles continued to be worrisome, however. As I was taking the toaster apart, he mentioned, “I know a Ronald Corrie in the Fountain.” 

I just grinned and said, “That’s me uncle, and a lazier man you’ll never meet. If he even sees a speck of work to be done, he’s off the other direction.” 

Which brought a laugh from all and a near smile from himself. Still, he did not stop looking at me. 

It had begun to grow dark when I left. Joanna's Da offered to run me home, but I insisted on taking the bus. I headed off with my hands in my pockets, strutting like I had not a care in the world, even as I kept a soft watch on the lads who were still milling about. They let me pass, their eyes wary on me, but I guess I seemed too sure of myself to be thought of as a Catholic in the Protestant area. 

I was almost to the stop when I heard a car race up behind me. I spun to look and it was the estate car, with Charles driving fast at me. Some of the lads from the street were with him. He near hit me with the damned thing, trying to block me against a hedge, then they burst from the car and I was grabbed and slung around onto a fender. I hit it, hard but mainly against my hands, and a body pressed hard against me. 

It was Charles’s voice that snarled, “The bus depot. I knew I’d seen you before. You’re a bloody taig.” 

“You sure of this, Charlie?” came the other's voice. 

“He’s awful neat to be a paddy,” came as I heard more feet running up. 

“And the hat,” said the first. “Since when do papists have money enough to go to NASA?” 

“He’s a dirty fuckin’ taig, I tell youse!" he howled as he punched me in the side, near knocking the breath from me. "Sniffin’ after my sister!” 

I said nothing, just looked around and saw Charles’s mate was crowding in, so I kicked up and managed to connect with Charlie's nuts. That jolted him and startled them all, allowing me to slip out from under their grip and run. Two of the lads chased me as Charlie howled in pain and anger. 

I raced down Irish onto Spencer, saw a bus just about to pull away from the stop so ran faster and jumped aboard. It pulled away before they could catch me. It was going the wrong direction from home but I didn’t care. I rode it to Altnagelvin, then hid behind a column to see if they’d followed me. I think I saw them drive past but not pull in, so I caught another bus back to Guildhall. By then I was calm again. 

My cap on my head, I went through the checkpoints, the Army’s and our own, with little trouble then went straight home. Everything was quiet and calm. I got the feeling everyone all still over at the Fleadh. So I went into the back and sat by the herbs behind the hutch and gazed up at the stars. And let it all settle in on me. 

I’d been lucky to get away unhurt except for jab to my side. I knew that. I also knew that not once had I coughed during any of it. Nor had I cried from fear or pain or begged to be left alone. I had worked my way out of a hideous situation, all on me own. I had strutted into the middle of Protestant territory. Into the middle of the Waterside. Surrounded by my enemies. And I'd come out in one piece. Of course, Charlie would tell everyone who and what I was, so I’d be a fool to consider going back to see Joanna ever again. 

But bloody hell, wasn't she worth being a fool over?

Halfway...

Seems the halfway point worked out just right in the middle of this part of the story. It comes shortly after Brendan's family moves into their new apartment, a few months after the attack on the People's Democracy marchers at Burntollet bridge. That happens on January 4th, 1969 so the move comes in March or April. Anger is building in the Catholic community and Protestants can't see that if they'd just give in a little they could avoid the hell that was to come.

Working on this book has clued me into just how blind people can be when they want to be. And how easily manipulated. Ian Paisley caught on to the growing Protestant fear that they'd be disenfranchised if they gave Catholics any of the same right they enjoyed and used it to build a mob of thugs who loved to wreak havoc on those they didn't think could fight back. And for 45 years there had been little pushback. But with the civil rights movement, everything changed...and those in power couldn't see it. Hell, even the IRA's leadership of the time couldn't see it.

Or wouldn't. Or were too stupid to understand. Or a combination of all three. And followed 30 years of bloodshed, hate, division, lies, anger, and blame until both sides were too worn out to continue and came to a compromise. After wasting billions of pounds sterling and ruining the lives of untold more people.

Sometimes I wonder if we're slipping into a similar situation, in this country. We've got hardcore radical right wing religious nuts, like Paisley was, trying to shove their agenda down the throats of the rest of us, even as we fight back. I hope it doesn't descend into the same level of bloodshed, because over 3000 people died in those 30 years, most of them between 1970 and 1975. The population of N. Ireland was 1,500,000. That would equal to well over 600,000 dead in a country our size.

But that's about how many died in the Civil War, so it's not inconceivable.

Moving right along...

I've slipped into the smoothest part of the rewrite, now that Brendan's personality is established and his attitudes settled in. I also found the perfect spot to show him learning to use a knife and fork on a drumstick.

----------

Of course, the Protestant crowd was growing more and more difficult with us. As if their threats and calling of names would stop the marches and demonstrations and actions being taken throughout the year. It's like their side believed that to give us the same as everyone meant there would be less for them. There were also many on our side who said we should just keep ourselves apart from the Unionists, completely, with the comment usually followed by something like, They cannot be trusted. So I made sure to tell all my mates...no, my Chinas that religion and politics were to be kept from my house. 

"If you don't," I said, "you're in for an hour's lecture about the history of Ireland in full detail, from my mother, and you do not want that. Believe me." 

"Yeah," said Paidrig, "get enough from the brothers, hi." 

"And priests," said Danny. 

"Father Demian treats you to history lessons, does he?" asked Colm, jostling Danny, who just shrugged and said no more. 

Fortunately, Ma never saw Billy with me, again. Which was good, because the gossip was growing about a group of Catholic boys being seen with him. 

He lives in The Fountain, don't he? 

It's not good for him to be mingling in with our lads. 

What d'ya think he's after, hi? 

Somethin' sneaky, that's for sure. 

That's a low thing to say about a child. 

I seen him going after Proddies with stones. 

He's the one with the catapult, hi? 

Brand new, and a good eye with it. 

Well, if he's firing stones at them, he can't be a bad 'un, can he? 

A lot of that gargle was due to this one time, during a July Orange Parade, Billy and me were on William Street and got caught in the middle of two gangs chucking stones at each other, one Catholic and one Protestant. I was near hit by a fair-size piece of pavement that came from my side, so I'd howled and shied it back at them, without a thought. Then I'd followed it with more. 

Billy had laughed and begun grabbing pebbles to fire at the Proddies, using that catapult. We were like loonies in the bin...till both sides had forgotten about each other and come after us. Fortunately, we were also good runners. 

I'd known Mrs. Bannon was home so we'd bolted up to her door and scurried inside, me crying, "Mrs. Bannon, we've come for tea!" 

She'd come tottering down the hall, an older lady in just her shift and apron, eyes wide and wary. "Tea," she'd asked. "What do you mean?" 

"Don't you remember, Mrs. Bannon?" I had said, full innocent. "You invited me for tea, today at...at..." This old grandfather clock of hers had shown 5:49, so I'd continued with, "six o'clock, but I'm a bit early. Sorry if that's a trouble." 

"I did?" She had started frowning at herself. 

"Surely you've not forgotten?" I'd asked. Billy was about to fall into laughing so I'd jostled him and added. "I brought a friend, Billy, with me. I hope it's all right." 

She had huffed then smiled and shrugged and said, "Come along. Seat yourselves at the table I'll have it ready in a jiff." 

So we did. And she'd fed us part of her chicken dinner, with mushy peas and carrots, with a fine Ceylon Black tea. We'd sat at the table, where I'd noticed she used a knife and fork to cut the meat off a leg. Without thinking, I'd tried to emulate her, and she had been kind enough to give me direction on how best to hold the cutlery; instead of gripping it like I was going to stab something, hold it like you were going to poke some lad's fat arse.

"It's so much nicer this way," she'd said. "Isn't it?" 

Well, it was certainly nicer than tearing it apart with your fingers, and the mechanics of it were simple. Dig the fork deep into the meat and slice between it and the bone. Carefully. Like working with a delicate telly. I'd felt very grown up being able to do it, and a bit guilty for taking some of her food away from her over a lie. 

Billy'd never said a word, just watched me and her with our finest manners. 

We'd still had a lovely chat about how glad she was we'd stopped by, despite all the noise and carry-on with the march. She also had four cats that came strolling out, one after the other, all orange tabbies, of course, and only one willing to be touched. None had tried to get on the table but instead placed themselves around her, standing at attention, almost like they were guarding her. When we'd finally left, she made us swear to come, again, and next time she'd be sure to remember inviting us. 

Billy had laughed at me the whole way home, saying over and over, "I can't believe you did that!" 

"Got us away, didn't it?" I'd said, proudly. "And well-fed." 

"Me mother's gonna wonder why I'm not hungry, now. And where I was." 

"Tell her we had tea and cakes at the Diplomat." 

"Yeah, she'll believe that. You're loop-de-loop, me China." 

"Maybe next time I'll let you get pummeled." 

"I'm faster than you in a run." 

I'd just laughed at him.

We'd crowed about our battle to Colm and Danny, the next day, and they'd told me I was mad, to which I'd answered, "I was. The bloody thing missed me by an inch. Whoever threw it should get glasses or training."

 They then refused to believe our visit with Mrs. Bannon. I didn't bother to convince them. Instead, since I had no jobs lined up, we hit up to Long Tower and had a fine game of footy.

Family stuff of my own...

My youngest brother, Kelly, just moved into a new apartment from a cheesy little trailer on the east side of San Antonio. It's a lot better than where he was, right next to a Target and WalMart. He's getting financial assistance from the city for his rent, too. That's taken a few phone calls and back and forth with him as well as my nephew, who's the one really getting things done. Me being 1600 miles away is rather limiting.

Still, it takes focus away from what I'm doing here. My hope is this will be nicely settled by the end of the week and I can be easy, again. He's never been the easiest person to get to do things for himself. He needs a steady push, but careful so he doesn't get to feel like he's being treated like a child. 

In a bookend situation that only seems to happen in novels, Kelly and I were born with health issues, some pretty severe. I managed to grow out of mine enough to function like a normal person, though I do sometimes think I'm an undiagnosed dyslexic who's worked out how to cope with it on my own. Not easily, and I still take longer to write because I keep reversing letter and numbers and leaving out entire words...but I recognize it as I go and do what I can to correct it, then.

Anyway, I'm my mother's first child and Kelly is her last, while my middle brother and sister were born fine. Developed normally. None of the quirks Kelly and I have. He turned out to be wired up different from the rest of us but functioned well-enough. He's always had minimum wage jobs in grocery stores and convenience stores and apartment maintenance but they've done fine for him. However, now he's older and his abilities have deteriorated while his cognitive processes have become limited, so he doesn't have what people want to hire, anymore.

At least he's going to get early Social Security when he hits 62, this coming January, and maybe Medicade. Which will take a huge financial burden off me, finally. I've been his main source of income for the last ten years...and it's been rough. But he never had to worry about living on the street, thanks to additional help from my sister.

So tomorrow I go back to APoS and Brendan's march to his destiny.

Mark Hertling on the Orange Bastard's Treason

I am beyond livid at what The Former President has done with America's secrets. I kept away from the mass hysteria of him traveling to the courthouse and being charged, though apparently not arraigned, if I understand it correctly. No bail required. No travel restrictions. No need to turn over his passport. Not even a fucking mug shot. Handled with kid gloves. 

I'm not going to rant and rave on what he's done; I'm too fucking pissed off. Here's a much better discussion of it from Mark Hertling's Twitter posting today:

 --------- 

A former President is being indicted - for the 2nd time - & there's non-stop coverage. Some good analysis, some not so good. Many keep bringing up how "those in the military are likely the most upset about Trump absconding with intel secrets." 

Yes, but there's more. Having read the indictment (4x's now), the amount & type of classified information Trump took, hid, did not secure, and refused to give back is, IMHO, gobsmacking. Many analysts have called them "war plans." 

I doubt any documents fit into that specific contingency category. The documents were likely extremely detailed intelligence assessments, w/ potential foe (& friendly) capabilities & weaknesses & US capabilities we would not want anyone - especially foes - to know. 

Many have said, this isn't a document issue it's a national security issue. I have seen intel agencies, military units, foreign service officers put sweat & blood into providing these documents, making sure they are accurate. All those individuals KNOW they must get it right, because their work, their assessments, are provided to key decision-makers. Those who view these docs - the President, high-level military leaders, State Dept officials & others - use these assessments for critical decision making. FOR our citizens, FOR our country. 

One phrase in the indictment struck me like a bullet. Trump saying: "my boxes." None of these are "personal papers." These documents provide information/intelligence - gathered through the use of US capabilities, put together by really smart, dedicated, patriotic individuals - to be used by US officials to defend against all enemies, foreign & domestic. Strategic leaders see and use these documents when they are in a position to serve the American people. They don't get to keep them, or review them, or show them around, or not keep them secure, when they are no longer in the position.

As a military leader in command of different organizations, I "used" each kind of the type of documents found in the trove at MAL. Each kind: Secret, Top Secret, TS-SCI, TS-HCI, NOFORM, TK, even the kinds of ones that were "redactted" (mostly likely various code word). I was ONLY allowed to see them because they helped me make better decisions, plans, or conduct more effective operations. 

When I left the military or a specific job, I was "read out" of the clearance. That's what happens to everyone, including the President. Yes, the President has declassification authority. But that requires a process that then protects a LOT of people. Anyone who says otherwise is a moron. And anyone who says someone can do it after leaving their leadership role is even more moronic. 

There's a reason I reacted viscerally to the "my papers" statement. To claim they are "his" - as if they've been given to him for personal use or vanity just like the WWE belt, the NY Post clippings, or any other trinket or memento found in these boxes - is horrid. Yes, military & intel officials are pissed. They know the power of these documents that were treated cavalierly. All Americans should be equally pissed. But it seems many are not because of how some in government are treating this case. 

We need to treat this seriously.

Brendan makes friends...

 This is when Brendan is 8 and already thought to be a bit weird.

---------

Never was I the sort of lad who sought friendships. I had more important things for my attention and would have been happy to pass through life on just a name basis with those around me. But Eamonn decided he fancied a girl he'd noticed at The Embassy, one night, and found he knew her uncle, a Mr. O'Faelan who drove an old black cab. He also learned she lived in a house that overlooked the pitch where Derry City played their home games.

So one day, when I was but eight, Eamonn stormed into the parlor, freshly washed, and said, "Come along, Bren! Derry City's playin' and I know a place we can watch." 

I waved him away and kept my focus on unwinding the spring to Mrs. Campbell's alarm clock. She'd worked it so tight it was frozen and might even have been bent so would need a new spring, if I could get the old one out and...and never mind; that's not important...though the sixpence she'd promised was. 

But he simply picked me up, slung me over his shoulder and swatted me arse, saying, "We're off to watch the match, Ma!" 

"Leave off me!" was all I got out before Ma came down the stairs, also freshly washed. When had the two of them done that? I wondered, for I'd been working not so very far from the basin. 

She was smiling as she said, "Good. Get him out for a bit. All he does is sit there and tinker with things. Drives me mad. Be sure to keep him there till it's done." 

Then I heard, "Bernadette," calling in Da's voice. 

Eamonn carried me outside and I saw Da coming up from Fahan, his rucksak over one shoulder. He had returned from Belfast on the afternoon bus. Then I realized the house was quiet. Where were Mairead, Rhuari and Maeve? 

Eamonn waved to Da then I wound up seated on his shoulders and ferried like an invalid child all the way to Brandywell. 

Enroute, he told me, "I just want to spend some time with a lass named Aliene, Bren. Slip away and talk. Will you help me, here?" 

"Why can't you talk with her without me?" I snarled. 

"It's complicated." 

"What's that mean?" 

"Don't the Brothers teach you English?" 

"I do well enough." 

"All right, all right. It's just, I want to talk with her without her parents breathing down my neck or her friends all about. That's all." 

"And you need me for that? I was trying to..." 

He yanked at my legs to shut me up. "I told Mr. O'Faelan I'd bring you. He's heard how you like to fix things and he'll probably ask you something about his cab." 

"I don't fix cars." 

"He may still ask." 

"He can ask what he wants; I don't fix cars." 

We were at the front door to a nice terrace house before he'd let me down. An older lady answered the door and Eamonn said, "Good afternoon, Mrs Mooney. I'm Eamonn Kinsella and this is my brother, Brendan. Did Mr. O'Faelan tell you we might be dropping by to watch Derry City, with him?" 

She just huffed and said, "He's upstairs, front bedroom. I'll bring you all some tea." Then she headed back to what looked like a real kitchen, from what I could see. Very posh. 

So up the stairs he dragged me. Hesitated at an open door, obviously to the back bedroom, and smiled at a pretty girl with red hair, inside. Then led me to the front. It was nice and comfortable, with two windows. Lace curtains were pulled aside, with two boys huddled around one and a boy and man at the other, chattering some nonsense about how the match was going. 

The man was Mr. O'Faelan, who was tall, ruddy, neatly dressed and smoking a cigarette. The boy with him was Colm, a lad my age who was also ruddy and block-solid. I'd seen him about school with a pack of mates. He was one of those lads whom no one would test or bother. 

At the other window were Danny Gallagher and Paidrig Hurley, both my age, but w hile Danny was trim and fair, Paidrig was more fat than not and darker. Neither was at my school, but I'd seen Danny at my parish. They were having full fun rooting our team on. 

Eamonn introduced me to Mr. O'Faelan, who shook my hand and said, "I hear you're something of a fix-it lad." I just shrugged. "My For Hire flag won't stay up. I have to bind it then unbind. But if I take it in for repair, it's going to cost me. Maybe even put in an electronic." 

"Don't you know someone who can take it apart and see what's the problem?" 

He nodded. "But they all tell me to get a new one." 

"Well...won't know what I can do till I see it." 

He smiled and nodded. "I'll show you after the match." 

"You'll have to take us home. I don't have my grip or turn-screw with me." 

He just nodded and pulled up a chair to sit and watch what he could of the match. 

I didn't really understand the rules and such of football, for sports had never much interested me, so Mr. O'Faelan explained it as the first half continued. Colm cast me a few irritated glances then joined Danny and Paidrig. At the mid-point, score was 0-1 and not looking good. 

Mr. O'Faelan was smoking hard and fast and growling in very angry tones. Not even Mrs. Moony's tea and cake settled him. Not until I found that I could see mistakes being made by the opposing team's fresh goalie, in the second half. I had no idea what to call them but I'd say things like, "He's at the wrong side of the net," and "Looks like he's aimed for the center." Nine times out of ten, watching the players do their back and forth runs and kicks and bumps, I could say where our goal would be attempted. 

 Mr. O'Faelan, noticed and asked me to also watch our goalie. I had to stand on the chair to get a better view of him, and I found he was better aware of the opposing team's strategy. Colm and Danny came over to flank me at that window, fascinated, as Mr. O'Faelan stood behind me. Eamonn had, as I suspected he would, disappeared. 

"D'you play?" Colm asked me. 

"Never have," was my response. 

"Then how can you tell what they're up to?" Danny asked. 

"It's how they move on the pitch. Who they look at and for how long." 

Colm frowned, his eyes sharp on the players. "We have a strategy that's tight." 

"Not like theirs." 

"Will we be winning this match?" Mr. O'Faelan asked. 

I nodded. "Derry City's not on top of it, but our goalie's on top of it and theirs is shite." 

He chuckled, said he had to make a phone call and hurried downstairs. Colm smirked after him. Eight years old and he knows all his Da's betting quirks. Then he turned back to me. "I've seen you at school." 

I shrugged in answer.

Danny added, "And at mass. Always off to yourself, you and your family. Always quiet. Except around the grown ups." 

"Ma don't like noise in church," I said. 

"He's the looner, hi," said Paidrig, whom I'd near forgot was there. 

Colm frowned at him. "What d'you mean?" 

"That's what all the lads call him. I know the White brothers and they pick on everybody but him, hi. Scared he might hex 'em or something." 

"I don't know them," I said, even though I did and they had tried to pick at me, a few times, but had backed away when all I'd do is just glare at them like they were insects. 

"You want to play some footy?" Colm asked. "Danny and me're at Doire Youth Club. Play at Long Tower, and we could use another." 

"See how you do as real goalie," said Danny. 

"I'm usually it," said Colm, "but I'm not good with strategy." 

"Or quick," said Danny. 

"Oi!" But he was smirking when he said it.

"Never played before," I said. 

"It's easy," Colm laughed. "Keep the ball out." 

I huffed. "Like what I've been telling you he was doing or not, the whole match?" 

Colm and Danny both laughed. Paidrig helped himself to a last slice of the cake. 

I actually smiled but still said, "I don't know." 

That is when Eamonn was shoved into the room by Mrs. Money, as she snarled, "You will stay in here or be out on your arse." Mr. O'Faelan was right behind him, shaking his head and fighting a smile as he murmured, "Oh, Eamon. Eamonn."

Climbing back on the horse...

I went through one of my usual downer moods and did absolutely no writing or rewriting yesterday or the day before. Instead, I worked online trying to help on the disaster of the Nova Kakhovka dam's destruction on the Dnipro River in Ukraine. It's still unfolding and there's word Russia destroyed another dam in Ukraine. There's not much I can do from Buffalo, and because of my age, but direct people to places where they can donate money and things to go to the country. If anyone wants to do so, here's a link to Timothy Snyder's Twitter page and 10 places that are working for Ukraine.

On a positive note, Ukraine's counter-assault is underway and it is going to be bloody. Hideous. But all you can to is hope Putin is deposed ASAP and Russia withdraws back to the 1991 borders she agreed to. I doubt that will happen and it apppears this war will go on for years until Russia backs down, like she did in Afghanistan.

It's funny and a bit shallow of me, but I'm angry with Moscow for invading Ukraine partly because I loved Russian literature. Anna Karenina, War & Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment...I was entranced by the whole idea of man trapped in his fate. I even used Chekov's short story, Champagne, for a short script that actually impressed my screenwriting teachers at UT. Now? I've learned so much about Russia's hideous past...not just under communism but also the Tsars...that I cannot see her culture as anything but horrifying.

I did manage to get back to work, this morning, and restructure the first three chapters, a bit. Not a huge amount. Just made it a case of having things happen instead of Brendan only telling us what happened. Like how he met his friends -- Colm, Danny, Paidrig, wee Eammon, Billy and Gerry. Made it more natural and easy-going...and added a good 5 pages to the chapter. But it's more immediate, now.

At least #45 was indicted and Pat Robertson died, this week. Two evil men who deserve hell. I wish I believed in it so I'd know Robertson was down there and The Orange One will join him, some day.

Continuation...

 Yesterday's post continued and added to:

-------

We were climbing back up the hillside to my house when Danny said, "You're in a better temper, now." 

I shrugged. "Wasn't I, before?" 

"Naw. Quiet. Even for you. Like your mind's a hundred miles off." 

I stopped halfway up the hill and looked at my house. No light was on. I turned around. "I want another smoke, but I haven't any. Let's go back to -- " 

"Here." 

He let me have one of his and I fired it up and stood there, looking out over the Bogside. Over the fading light. Finally, the darkness, the growing darkness. With nightfall, I knew I'd be fine, again. Happy, again. Something icy was caught in my chest. Something empty. I needed space and silence and nothingness to let it drift away. So I said nothing.

Danny kept quiet. For a moment I got the feeling he was going through something similar. Maybe as bad as myself, maybe not, but him not saying a word was the best thing he could have done for me. By the end of the smoke, the light was far enough gone to let me be completely at ease. 

I asked, "Have you seen Colm, today?" 

"Naw, he's off with those new lads. Him and Paidrig. No idea where they are. Who they are. Why?" 

I shrugged and smiled at him. "You'll always be me China, won't ya?" 

He smiled back, but with a bit of wariness. "'Course, Bren. And you, mine." He looked back over the Bogside, swaying a little. "It's nice, here. The city's quiet and you can tuck your thoughts away to worry over, later." I nodded. I could hear a smile in his voice. "You understand what I mean. I don't think Colm ever could. He's too caught in his...what'd he call it once? Forward movement?" 

I chuckled. "Sounds American." 

He smiled. "That's our Colm, always with the latest. When's Eamonn back?" 

I had no idea so just shrugged, then asked, "You thirsty?" He shrugged a sort of yes. I grinned. "Y'know, I got a pound on me, still. What you say we find out if some old sport'll pop in the off-license and get us a little something? To drink." 

"I don't think a pound's enough for the both of us," said Danny. Then he cast me a wicked side glance. "Let's to my house." 

I shrugged and we went. 

His was a nice maisonette in fair shape down the hill from mine. Mold on the whitewashed walls and chipped sills and stoops, without, but in through the green door you'd find a well-kept parlor with a small prayer corner next to the hearth, cushioned chairs and two lamps around a low table. Pictures adorned the walls and throw carpets covered the floor. A telly was in the corner nearest the window, its rabbit ears extended with tinfoil. 

We said hello to his mother, who was focused on some cooking show on the telly so barely noticed us. 

"Valium," said Danny. 

"Wow," I said. "Y'know, I can copy me Ma's signature. You think we could get some for wee Eammon's?" 

"I think ya gotta see the doctor first." 

Then we were up to his small room...where he had a plush bed to himself, table and lamp beside it, a wardrobe and a narrow desk with a wooden chair. Posters of The Rolling Stones and Lulu and the like were pinned to his walls, and atop the wardrobe was a row of books...that hid three Tennant Nips bottles. He handed me one.

"How'd you get these?" I asked. 

"Da's. Didn't notice I lifted them. He forgets how much he's had to drink, at times." 

So we sat down and started up the radio and finished off his pack of Blues and each had a bottle as we just listened to song after song after song. Not saying a word. I didn't get home till well after everyone was to bed. 

The next morning, it being Sunday, I slept through Mass. But then Mai worked a full fry-up, the smells of which brought me bolting downstairs fast, I was so perished from the hunger. But the moment Ma saw me, she tossed what was to be my plate on the floor, breaking it. That it was one that was already chipped and cracked, I noticed. Of course, that set Kieran to wailing. 

Mai’s sigh of, “Ma, it’s a sin to waste food,” didn't begin to make her sorry for it, while Rhuari just looked at her as Maeve asked, “But how’s he to eat it, Ma?” 

“Hush and finish your breakfast,” she snapped. Then she shook Kieran and said, “Be still or I’ll give you cause to cry.” Of course, he couldn’t be, so she pulled him up from the chair and swatted his rear. He shut up, startled.

Silence smothered the room. It was the first time she'd struck him in any way. She almost looked flustered.

Without thinking, I added to it when I glared at her and muttered, "Beating a baby." 

Now they all looked at me, in shock. Which made me grin. Then just to be a maggot, I sat cross-leg on the floor and ate very bit of that fry-up I could manage with my fingers. Like a dog eating its vomit, but with more care to avoid the broken plate.

There was not a word from any of them, though a wary glint came Ma's eyes. I had to fight a laugh. If she thought me simple, before, now she was sure to think me mad. And I loved it. Might give her pause, the next time she thinks to lay hands on me.

Shifting...

Officially, this is chapter 6 in the story. Brendan is twelve, and this part happens just after he's had a vicious argument with his mother. For the first time he's yelled back at her in front of people, and she's bloodied him. They're in front of their home, and not one of the witnesses does anything to stop the beating, infuriating him. It takes Mairead coming from inside to draw his mother away, and he is left alone as everyone else goes back home. And this infuriates him.

---------

Danny and wee Eammon showed up, just then, to find me standing alone across the lane from my door. Doing nothing. Just standing. By this point, my lip was no longer bleeding. I'd wiped my face with my sleeve. My shirt was black so blood didn't show on it. I looked as if I'd just grown lost in one of my thoughts.

Which was truth. Having seen the same rage in my mother as I'd seen in Da, so many times, I finally understood they had been perfect for each other. A perfect match between growling animals and I had no idea what to make of it.

"Ready for us, me China?" Danny asked, his voice wary. 

I nodded and turned and we walked down through the waste land to Fahan and Waterloo, to find what sport we could in Guildhall Square. There wasn't much, with this demonstration. Just more loud voices and demands made, but they had begun to seem all the same and a bit tedious. We stayed for a long enough while, paying little attention to the crowd or speakers, just smoking Blues and saying naught.

Then we had our tea at a chippy. Danny and I let wee Eammon share in ours...more mine, really, for I wasn't so very hungry, and eating hurt my lip. After, we wandered along the Strand and the docks till half eight. That's when we dropped wee Eammon off to his Ma's, in the Flats. 

She was not happy he'd been out so long, and never mind he'd been with us. She smelled the fags on us was sure we were trying to kill him, if not from the asthma then letting him starve to death, and she would not hear of him actually having eaten. He just cast us a look of thanks before we were escorted out and the door slammed behind us. 

We heard her saying, "I don't want you around those two, anymore!" 

"Ma, they're me friends, and Brendan -- " 

"Enough! The trial that Brendan is to his mother is bad enough, and he's happy to make you one for me!"

 Their voices grew too muffled to hear more. 

Danny sighed. "I'm glad me Ma's not like that." He winked at me. "She's on tranqs. Maybe we should ask NHS to give some to wee Eammon's." 

I just nodded and turned, not even trying to smile. I was numb to her words. I leaned against the railing and pulled out my last Blue. As I lit it, I heard barking, from below. In the twilight, I saw a pack of dogs chase a yellow tom cat across the courtyard. It tried to escape them, but they managed to surround it in a corner and were howling and snarling and lunging as the cat hissed and spit and clawed at them. I held my breath. Five...no, six against one. I figured the cat was dead. For while I wanted something to throw down to stop them, I had nothing, and the elevator was slow. 

Danny noticed the beasts and sighed. "I've seen that one chased a few times," he said. "Not a pleasant creature. Looks like he's finally been caught." 

"It's not fair, is it?" I murmured. "A pack like that against one." 

"It's nature's way." 

"Yeah...I guess. Would that it were not so..." 

I watched the mongrels grow closer and closer to the tom, having their fun. Lunging. Snapping. Near grabbing his tail, once. He still spat and hissed and scratched, giving no hint of surrender. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. I felt it would be dishonorable. 

Closer they grew. 

Louder. 

Angrier. 

People walked wide to avoid it, doing nothing to help or hinder. Like with me.

I felt a despair grow within. And anger. At everything. At nothing. Finally, I flicked the last of my Blue down at the howling beasts. To my shock, it twisted and spun and landed on one dog's arse. The mongrel yelped and turned and the others hesitated and... 

Suddenly, the tom spun into a howling mass of fur and claws, startling the dogs. Yelps and howls and whines and cries of pain and soft whimpers...and poof -- the cat was gone. 

"Jesus, Bren, did you see that?" Danny whispered.

I nodded, grinning, really fucking proud of myself, though it was pure luck the Blue had traveled as it did. "Never count yourself down, eh?" 

"I guess not," he said, then fired up his own fag. 

I didn't want to move. I wanted to stand there, in homage. Watch the dogs wander around, hurt and confused. How could it have gotten away? They had beaten the little beast, they knew it, but it had outdone them. They'd get no second go at it...and nothing could have pleased me more than to have witnessed it. I actually started to laugh, even though it hurt my lip.

I looked up and across at the Guildhall, sitting solid and uncaring. A symbol of all that was wrong in Derry. A Catholic town controlled by Protestants without a care for those who'd been here a thousand years before them. Beyond it, the Foyle whispered past, giving no thought to our pettiness and obscene behaviors. Nature's way was to let the strong destroy the weak? That tom had proven it a lie. No matter how badly you seem to have lost, you could still beat your tormentors. 

Then wee Eammon's Ma burst out the door, howling, "Why are you standing there, smoking? He's got asthma, you know? Are you trying to kill him?" 

"Ma, I'm fine," came from within. 

I sighed, saluted her, then Danny and I headed for the elevator. I had a pound still on me, and I wanted a drink and another smoke. But my mood was lighter. 

The strong destroy the weak? Like bloody hell.

Better and smoother...

The moodiness of yesterday pretty much drifted away by the time I woke this morning. I had some bizarre dreams about a 747 and running from one of the of the airport to another only to find I had to go back and there were no planes...and that's about all I remember.

It seems the first four chapters of APoS are the ones demanding the biggest adjustments. Now I'm slipping through much easier, with minimal red pen happening, half of which are to correct a typo or note where a word is missing or I've somehow repeated a sentence in the body of a paragraph. Just plain sloppy.

Brendan's more out of his shell and sees Joanna for the first time. He's just helped Mr. O'Faelan repair his taxi by the bus depot and is trying to wash the oil and muck off him with some snow when she appears with her mother and brother. The two of them exchange looks and Brendan is done for. But she's Protestant and Mr. O'Faelan gives Brendan a gentle warning about expectations.

Except that night, Brendan cannot help but think about her and has his first erection...and finds himself in severe pain. He has phimosis and has to be circumcised. He's already known as the Jew-boy of the neighborhood because of how he is with money, and now it's even more-so. He points out Scots are tighter with their cash, but no one pays any attention.

I had though about shifting a lot of this deeper into the story. Things Brendan refers to at times when current events remind him...but that doesn't seem to be the way the story wants to be told. Lay the groundwork and then get things going. It's not all that deep into the book. Maybe 50-60 pages, once formatted, and then events start swirling around him.

I'm sort of torn between the screenplay rule that you have to grab them by page 10...which lately seems to have become page 3...and keep it going fast. But this is a book, and I'm not emulating something written by Stephen King, so I think I can take some time.

I hope.

Moodiness...

Woke up this morning completely out of sorts, with the beginning of a psoriatic headache and bleary attitude that did not bode well. I grumbled about till nearly 2, fighting the headache back to niggling but not painful, twice, before I was able to get myself in gear to work on APoS. It's still there, but merely irritating.

I rewrote the section where Brendan makes friends with Colm and Danny, and I think it plays a lot more naturally. Eamonn drags six-year-old Brendan with him as an excuse to get into the house of Colm's aunt. Their upstairs windows overlook the pitch where Derry City football team plays, and he knows Colm's father, Mr. O'Faelan, watches when there is a home game. Eamonn doesn't care about all that; he has a crush on one of Colm's cousins, who lives there. So he tells everyone Brendan wants to watch the match.

Which he doesn't. Brendan's sole interest is in rebuilding and repairing things, and he's irritated he's dragged away from replacing the wheels on a Corgi toy. So while Eamonn is trying to make time with the girl, Brendan is bored and starts criticizing how the football teams are playing. It's almost like taking apart a clock to repair, to him, as he gains a quick idea of the two teams' strategies and can tell what their play will be, from moment to moment.

Danny and Paidrig are also there, watching. They know of Brendan but have never spoken to him thanks to his reputation for being standoffish to the point of loony. But his observations prove to be true and even convince Mr. O'Faelan to call his bookie and bet on Derry City to win. Brendan points out the opposing team's goalie consistently sets himself up wrong, and half the time the only reason a goal isn't made is due to a poor kick or relay.

This starts the boys on a longterm friendship, which helps protect Brendan from some neighborhood bullies and brings him out into the world. He still like to take things apart and put them back together, but it's no longer his only meaning, and now he'll be ready to see Joanna and find a new dream for his life.