Settling on A-B-C...

I recalled I'd printed out a full copy of everything I'd written on Dair's Window so found it and it's all in binders, now. Adam's story in one. Dair's story beginning December 2009 in the other. I'm going through them, and I'm thinking I like getting the reader to know Adam and how he formed.

He's being brutally honest about himself. No excuses. No justifications. Nor is there any willingness to accept judgement from anyone else over his choices. He services men and women sexually in exchange for money and things he needs. He has the ability to leave with nothing if things grow too dangerous for him. And he always makes sure he has enough cash on hand to be able to do so.

He finds ways around any limitations...like getting a Medicare Card for the Canadian healthcare system. And an ID. He knows what he can do and what he can't to also make money legally. He does not accept society's hypocrisy and refuses to lie, though he will sometimes only reveal as much truth as necessary to handle a situation, if need be.

I'm making notes through his story and am to the point of his second year as assistant ski instructor at a resort outside of Whistler, north of Vancouver. It's here he is turned onto Hitchcock's Vertigo by a video store clerk who tells him it doesn't make a bit of sense but is lovely to look at...and the movie tears him apart.

Because it reflects too much in his life.

The film made perfect sense...as a hideous nightmare a man dreams just before he dies. He thinks of how he escaped his death by allowing the policeman at the beginning to die but then builds a story in his mind that draws him back in steps and stages to try and rewrite what happened.

He falls into a dream world where, in an attempt to change the past he kills two innocent women...Madeline and Judy. And do not tell me they were the same person. That was but his mind justifying his obsession with Madeline, a woman of true beauty and meaning, a thing of perfection. Whom he then formed, again, from Judy, who was nothing but clay to be used as the basis for a second attempt at revision.

Both were caught in this man's nightmare. Both were used and tossed aside like they were nothing. Nothing. With him even saying, when Judy fights against his manipulation, "It can't matter to you."

Can't matter to you? That I am destroying your sense of self? That I deny you as you are and will only accept you as what you are not? Then once she has done as he wills, he carries her to the place where she will die.

He had fought, in his own mind, fought to free himself from guilt and his fate only to find himself caught deeper in it as it destroys others, as well. Leaving him on the precipice of his own death.

I bawled at the end. Like a child who has just realized all around him are monsters, not protective angels. Like a man who has just realized his life is nothing to anyone.

Yes, these were thoughts I'd already visited many times, but now I could see that I sensed it only on an intellectual level. The crushing truth of what they meant was crystalized in this movie in my heart and soul, and I could see myself in both women. Used. Manipulated. Destroyed.

I don't know if this makes a damn bit of sense, but it definitely changes Adam's entire world.

Construction contemplations...

I've settled on Arnaud Dehaynin as the model for Adam, and now I'm currently trying to figure out the best way to work the story. I've got 2 possibilities, either of which would work fine but with different tones and results.

First, jump from chapter one into Dair returning to his home for the first time in nearly 4 years, and dealing with how it has not been kept up. This would lay out the area of Fairview that he lived in and what his house looks like. Lodge, actually, because it used to be a small ski resort kind of place.

It would mean jumping back and forth in the timeframe, where Adam's life would come out in reference to actions happening around Dair as he prepares for his wedding and winds up being charged with assault for a fight with a dickhead named Bobby.

Probably a more demanding read but it might prevent any part of it seeming tedious. I think. You never really know. It would also give a specific impression of Adam that would be challenged in parts. Make the reader question what they know about him. For example, presenting him as a loving, caring young man...who got caught stealing money out of Dair's wallet.

But this would also necessitate changes in the tone and sentence structure as Adam tells some parts of the story in his nearly poetic style, then the rest is done in plain third person omniscient, and I'm not sure I like jumping back and forth, in that way.

Second is having Adam tell his story up to the point he and Dair become lovers...or even to when Adam dies...and then jump the four years to him returning after lawsuits and court fights and becoming involved with Wallace, his gay attorney.

This would be a fairly straightforward way to tell the story. Going A, B, C, D, E...and so forth before shifting form to jump around. Go to third person and change the tone to casual. Have the trials and legal wrangling come out in bits and pieces as it goes along.

Either way is fine, I just need to figure out which is best...and right now I'm leaning to the latter.

Last of Chapter One...

I pulled the elastic on his shorts and let it snap back against him. He yelped, then I rose from the bed, singing like Eartha Kitt as I slipped into his moccasins and pulled on a thick robe.

“C’est si bon.
 C’est un café au lait.
And I bring it today.
 Maybe on a tray, okay?” 

I then scurried into the kitchen, still humming. I know he watched me go; I heard him chuckle. Heard the mattress softly protest as he stretched to stay warm under the covers. Drifting. Dreaming. Thinking. 

I still wonder at how could I have found such a man. Me! Whose life had been anything but filled with grace and beauty. Who had learned far too early how to use others for his survival. Who had been selfish and feral in his existence. I was hardly deserving of him. 

I should have remembered something my Gra’man had once told me. Never question the fates, for they will never explain and may take offense. Just accept when you are happy, and be thankful. 

I should have listened to her. 

I should have requested the day off, or at least postponed my classes until later. He was right about his mother; she would never have fired me. She knew I loved her son beyond measure and would support him in every way he needed...as well as those he didn’t... 

Or he thought he didn’t. 

Like a child. 

Had I not been caught in that avalanche, nothing could have come between us. 

You may have heard of it. First day of spring after a winter of heavy snow. Caused by a snowboarder who had snuck into a closed off area. It even buried part of his mother’s lodge and the public ski lift. 

My students and I were on an upper slope when I heard it coming. I rushed them to a protective cover. All but one was safe when it crashed in upon us. 

I remember feeling only anger, not fear. 

And then nothing. 

Just darkness and silence. 

And my existence was no longer part of Dair’s. 

And yet I...I could not leave him, not even in death. No more could I touch him. Nor he hold me. Or hear me whisper how deeply I had loved him. But still I remained.

It was a form of hell.

Perhaps of punishment.

Or perhaps...just perhaps...a way of giving me time to find one through whom I could tell my story.

Can it be possible, you may wonder, for one who has left the corporeal world to now speak in it? This is not so difficult to understand. It has taken me some years, but I have located a conduit who has kindly opened himself to me. Many writers speak of their works finding them rather than them finding their works, and here is such a case.

Now my one and only past will flow through him. And every word shall carry none of the carefulness or false remembrances which so easily taint all memories. For in such an existence, only truth is allowed to me. And I must honor it.

So please believe me when I tell you of how lovely my Dair is. How decent a man he is. And talented. And kind. And know I do not say this because I love him. 

Loved him. 

No...still love him. 

I say it because it is true.

At least, it was... 

But since my death, life has been her cruelest to him. For everything that happened to him in the years following was my cause. Not by my fault...and yet, it was. So much so, I wonder if becoming one with him was right for me to do. Because now I fear...I fear he no longer remembers our last morning together. He no longer sees those gentle words between us as being lovely. As lovely to him as they are to me. I fear they are tainted by knowing that was the morning my story ended.

For now I can see...he believes his did, as well.

More of chapter one...

Adair Carwyn Llewellyn. How I loved to say his name aloud, though my French accent mangled it. 

“Welsh,” he once told me, though I had not asked. “Dad was a freak about that. So my brother got Gareth, which is almost normal, and I got the one for fun. Not as sexy as the French, or even French Canadienne, but...” 

“Québécois, mon ange,” I had replied, smiling. 

“C’est vrai,” was his reply, but he pronounced it, Say veray. 

I had to laugh. His French...ooh-la... 

He was four months short of his thirtieth birthday, that morning. A man but still so much a boy of his world. The mountains east of Seattle had been his home from the day of his birth. And thanks to this, his life had been one of comfort. Safety. Protection. Parents who loved him, if not each other. A brother older, who would leave him to himself. A rambling home halfway up a foothill. A community where everyone knew everyone. 

Named as Fairview. A middle-class name for a middle-class town. But it held people who liked him. Who cared for him. Who helped build his fortress against the few who did not. So he grew to be certain and sure, and willing to live the life he wanted. 

On top of this, he was one of those rare men who, from an early age, knew what they would become. And he did well, with it. Was happy and alive with it. 

And he let my world blend with his. He allowed me a taste of the joy that seemed to surrounded him. The support. The comfort. There were times at night I would hide and weep in the shadows, I could not believe how happy this made me. 

My own name? Adam Henrí Lécuyer, once of Terrebonne, by Montreal. Three years his junior, but at the very least ten years older than he, in heart and spirit. And in my own reality, twice that. Simple to say, while he had been nurtured in a world of safety and care, I had not. 

But that may be discussed at another time. For this moment, my focus remains upon that last day. 

Our last morning, together... 

Oh, dear God, how I wish I had stayed for just a little longer. Held him closer. But instead, in response to his gentle request, all I did was pat his elegant behind and say, “I would love to snuggle, but that could take all morning and I must be to the slopes by nine or your mother will fire me.” 

As reference, I was a ski instructor at his mother’s lodge, during the winter. Sophisticated and cool, was I...to the primitive minds of far too many. An example of easy, masculine grace and sexuality. Were any to mention this to me, I would shrug and reply they should see me in the off-season, when I was a handyman, gardener, and carpenter, with all of the dirt and sweat they entailed. And that would bring an end to that. 

His response to my comment? A soft purring, “She won’t. She loves you more than me.” 

“I am not sure how to understand that claim,” I said, tracing my fingers down his hip and leg to draw them back up the hairs on his thigh. 

He pulled me closer to him, almost whining, "It's late in the season..." 

I looked through the French doors. Soft flakes continued to drift down in the bare morning light. "And all my classes are full," I whispered. Then I leaned over him to brush my lips over his thick, lovely lashes and he finally opened his eyes. “Café ou thé?” I asked. 

“Coffee -- no, café, s'il vous plaît.” Spoken in his hideous accent. Ooh-la, it always made me laugh.

Dair's Window...part of chapter one...

Adam is beginning to speak...

----

My last day with Dair was the first day of spring. Warm comforters held us in place long past night, refusing to release the beauty of near waking. Even with soft snow against French doors, filtering early light across our bed. 

It was I who woke first, as always, and took in my breath of him. Drew him deep to bring him even closer as I whispered... 

"Dair it's Adam.
 Dair it's Adam. 
 Dormez-vous? 
 Dormez-vous? 
 If you were awake, now. 
 We could have some fun, now. 
 Foolin' 'round. 
 Foolin' 'round." 

 

Touched with the lightest of laughter. 

He sighed and shifted, like a sleepy kitten, and his rough, oh-so-exquisite hands grasped mine as if to pull me closer. His powerful body, so lovely in form, adjusted to mine, and his deep, dark, elegant eyes squinted a bit tighter as he drew in his first waking breath. With the hint of a purr, he rubbed his morning whiskers against my forearms and murmured, “Snuggle.” 

I chuckled and shifted so my nose nuzzled his ear. Mornings like this were always so perfect. Ooh-la, how I loved the feel of him. Strong. Well-fitted. Touched with hair in just the right places. His form was not as carefully crafted as mine, nor even as solid. Merely human and real, with a soft layer of perfection to cover him. Someone to hold you and be held. 

I cannot describe the pleasure I would feel tracing my fingers down his perfect back. Always, always a surprising joy. Or to draw my hands through the dark hair cropped close to his head...that was the embodiment of fulfillment. To feel him breathing under his sleeping shirt was intoxication. Even the light scruff around a chin so neat and strong, for it to rub against mine as his lips touched mine was to know heaven. 

I especially loved to caress the lines in his face, soft creases brought about by joyous smiles. So many times I had told him they made him better looking than I, and on each occasion he would laugh and call me liar and draw me into his embrace...and peace would surround me. He was the very meaning of comfort.

Of home. 

How could that have been possible? For one such as me to find a man so wonderful? What had I done right for this reward? Nothing in my life had prepared me for it. Nothing.

Nor had anything prepared me for the possibility that I might lose him.

But at that moment, on that last morning, the only thoughts I had were that I was his and he was mine. My only world. And to love him was to love life in all its beauty.

And cruelty. 

Shifting details

Simon doesn't want to do any poems or ditties, as I call them. He feels to do so would be shallow and pathetic. BUT...Adam is taking them and using them to describe some of the men who sexually abused him when he was in a foster home. He's young and keeps a journal and they're in it, with odd little sketches of each man.

He starts out using their real names, but that gets him into serious trouble with the snake who's pimping him. The man was told by another boy about Adam's writings, so searched his room to find it, then seriously beat Adam once it was found. Money he'd saved was taken, as well.

However, Adam soon realizes the pimp kept the book and is using it as blackmail, to protect himself and his racket. He fosters orphan boys and kids kicked out of their homes for being gay, like Adam was. On the state dime.

He's got corrupt, hypocritical politicians, businessmen, priests and NGO heads backing him in anything he wants to do...in exchange for his silence and continued access to the boys.

Corruption is nothing new or even recent, in politics. Ulysses S Grant supposedly had the most corrupt administration in US history, until the current Felon in Chief. Warren G. Harding wasn't exactly a saint when it came to business deals, while Nixon wasn't so much venal as just plain in love with power.

So...Dair's Window already has a sort of structure in place. Part One telling about Adam through his time with Dair, before he dies. Part Two is Adam watching over Dair like a guardian angel and seeing how horribly he's being treated by his parents, who sue him for half his wealth because they claim Adam helped him make it.

The story is going to end in 2008, with the backlash against Proposition 8, in California, that's spreading. I want to be able to reference touchstones in the fight for equality. But the beginning is going to focus on Adam and his developing poetry, shifting to serious as he rides the trans-Canadian train from Toronto to Vancouver...and how he eventually uses it as a way to avoid his growing feelings for Dair.

Adam's poetry...

He's trying some things out...and I'm too tired from shifting boxes, this morning, and driving to just outside Elizabeth NJ to really focus. But here's a taste...

----

Adam's Poem 

To invite Grayson

To my room 

In the hotel 

For celebration only. 

Our bond of work to seal... 

Long days.

Ten-thousand words.

But all was now

Carved in stone

And we knew

Our lives had steered

To a fresh, new time of joy

So savor it

A moment longer

With Gray

Alone

Not call my wife

To say our dreams had been made real.

Nought but me asking,

“Bourbon or Scotch?”

When he took my belt

And drew me back to him

To encase me in a beauty 

hat bring about things

Which should not have been done...

Even as the world cheered.

Awareness comes...

I haven't really thought much about this, except in a peripheral fashion, but when I refused to change the title of How to Rape a Straight Guy to get it published, I had really, deep down, stopped giving a fuck.

It was strictly on a subconscious level. I still huffed and puffed and fretted and worried and wondered, consciously...but reality is, that is when I began writing books that were not part of the mainstream and actually caused offense to some people. And I didn't stop. DDC is just the latest variation of that.

People didn't like my work? That's fine. It still felt bad...but when my screenwriting was criticized, it could make me want to quit writing and return to art. And take me time to regain my ability to look past the critique and find something to use out of it.

Unless, of course, the criticism was over the top. Like one self-important ass who rewrote my script, Find Ray T, line by line to prove to me I didn't know how to write a screenplay, and all he did was make me laugh.

But despite my whining and complaining and grandiose statements since HTRASG came out...I've had strength and certainty enough to continue down this path. Even on the occasions where I was still damaged. Sometimes slowly. Often awkwardly. But not backing down. Because deep within, I did not give a fuck.

I still have manners enough not to force my ways onto people, and I remain human enough to want praise instead of dismissal or condescension about my writing...but it took me till I was 55 years old to get to the point where not getting it wouldn't derail me.

When coming from someone else. When it comes from my characters, I still can get really fucked up. But that's family...

Simon the Huff...

The drive down to Baltimore was helpful in one way. Simon let me know he's not ready to share his story with me, yet. He still isn't sure about me. Which I'm fine with. He can come forth when he feels the time is right. I've finally learned when I try to force a story to happen, it turns out like crap. But he could have let me know this earlier...

I also decided I don't want to do any more on Blood Angel, right now. I just finished what is, effectively, a 100K word novel dealing with men being raped, killed and made into diner fare for the universe by a jokey asshole, and just don't feel like doing any more. Dirc's novella and book took a lot of that out of me.

I am beginning to have some back-and-forth with Adam, from Dair's Window. Discussing how to handle his history up to the point where he dies...and then being the teller of Dair's story as he tries to rebuild his life. It's set in 2002 to 2010...and is hinting towards having a third part, with Dair's life inFairview as an out gay lad and his travels in Europe studying stained glass windows. Not sure that's really needed, yet.

And there's Adam's poetry. Does he get elegant and poetic as he talks of his own life and Dair's? I don't know if I can pull off the poetry aspect, and I do not want Adam to be a delusional fool about himself.

It's not going to be as expansive as Brendan's story in APoS so should fit easily into one volume. Like what I did with Bobby Carapisi. That initially came out as 3 volumes but when I got the rights back from that publisher I aligned them all into one book.

So it seems I did get some benefit from this journey. It wasn't a bad drive. I've been up and down it, before, but there's been new construction and road links arranged, so I had to use GPS a couple times to make sure I stayed on course. Took 7 hours, almost to the minute.

Now I'm ensconced in a room at a Quality Inn, that doesn't have a number on the door, no hangers, and a tiny bathroom. Wild.

Finalizing...

All set for tomorrow's trip. Not really looking forward to it, but it's short and I'm driving so have flexibility I wouldn't have by flying. And the good thing about driving is my mind goes into reboot or recharge mode and I might be able to figure out what I want to do, next.

Suddenly I've been thinking about The Alice '65 and shifting it back into a screenplay. Why? No idea. I don't really know how to write scripts that get sold, and towards the end of my writing them working up one that would even do well in competitions. I never did write according to Syd Field or Save the Cat kind of nonsense, and I think it put readers off.

I had a lot of fun with DDC...and now sort of want to do something...I dunno, not meaningful, really. A story that sets out to drag you into their view of the world does not interest me. They're usually overbearing, and I don't like them. Nor do I have the talent to make it work, even if I did try to do it.

It's just, while I'm still sort of thinking about Simon's Murder...it remains as a very quiet story in my head, to the point I didn't like the title being along the lines of The Murder of a Quiet Man because it was too obvious. I'm not writing a murder mystery, with that story, so not sure how it would come together.

There's Dair's Window lurking in the background. And coming back from Baltimore, I'd pass through Corning and could hop by the glass museum, again. Even though I've been there three times, already. But see if it juices me up.

One project that's nudging me is making an inventory of my books. I don't have a list of them, in case something should happen and I need to replace them. Which is a thought. I do have one for my DVDs, just so I won't accidentally buy one I already have a copy of.

I dunno...we'll see what tomorrow brings.

DDC is uploaded...

 

Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe is now officially available for sale in ebook, for 99¢. Complete and total. And I feel good about it. I made some changes to the cover, as seen here, and it was accepted by Smashwords, only, through D2D. No other ebook retailer would touch it.

Not that I blame them. It really is an amoral story with a lot of non-con sex. But I enjoyed writing it and seeing it develop and it turned out just as it should have.

The morning was taken up by changing healthcare plans from United to Aetna. I can do that, even outside the enrollment period due to special circumstances.

I'm also recovering from a very rough time at Quest, where the person drawing blood was flat out inept. She tried both arms before using a big needle instead of the butterfly one on my hand to fill the vials, and it hurt. I have bruising and the crook of my left arm is still tender. This is unusual; normally it's easy in and out.

On top of this, it took a lot of effort to get a contact number for the Baltimore job. Which had to do because the people at the office demanded it or they'd call everything off. I don't like it when things get tense, like that.

Tomorrow is prepping the last of everything for my drive, Sunday. I'm taking carrots, cucumbers and Ranch dressing to nibble on as I go, as well as a couple sandwiches and bottles of DPZ. No crackers or nuts. I'm down to 230 lbs and want to keep losing.

The great thing is, my A1c is on the downswing so no Ozempic.

Wrap it up...

I'm at the point where I'm changing the to a to an, and that's my sign to stop the rewrite of Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe and put the sucker out. I will do so, tomorrow, once I have a re-think about the cover. I feel like it needs a bit more in the visuals, so we'll see.

I'm so happy with how it turned out, I'm surprised at myself. And a bit worried. Whenever I feel like this I wind up learning it's really crap or has issues I've neglected...but reality is, it's a solid story with action, adventure, Beautiful men, sex, love, romance, violence, revenge, humor, social commentary, and a fair amount of irreverent attitude. Dirc turned out to be a real character...and I like him.

 I wonder if I could do something like this with a mainstream story? With Simon's story. Have everything in it in a sort of smorgasbord of telling? No idea. It seems too rooted in meaningfulness. Which can be a real weight on a novel.

That almost happened with Bobby Carapisi. It's a dark story with the title character committing suicide halfway through after being destroyed by society's reaction to learning he's been raped. But I included Moritz, a wild, overly-dramatic Hollywood queen who supports the main character, Eric, throughout as comedy relief. And the story becomes about Eric's evolution from a victim to a man back in control of his life in a far more complete way.

That was something that wasn't planned, as I wrote it. I published it in three volumes, the last of which I've had people tell me was unnecessary. Because it focused on Allan and why he became the monster he was. But to me, I needed it to find completion.

Well...let's see what comes up next. I never really know what my next project will be until I'm into it. Should be fun.

Better days...

I got a lot done on DDC. May finish this pass, tonight. It's up over 85K in wordage but more consistent and snottier and I only have four more chapters to go.

I don't know where this attitude is coming from. But Dirc has zero concern for what he's doing to men he doesn't know...as well as a couple he does. His actions are really quite evil...but he's a nice guy. Smart. Clever, even. So I think he's sympathetic, for a monstrous rapist.

He saves Irin's life...as well as those of a couple other guys. Even converts a few men over to his way. Commits murder against a Federal Agent who tortured him. And winds up with an HEA. All completely opposite to the Judeo-Christian attitude of crime deserves punishment.

I guess having agents from Area 51 do torturous testing on him and Irin is a sort of punishment. Seems his time with Dyarvos has altered his DNA to make him a superior human, and they want to know how and why. He even gets a chance to rape his own clone, putting reality to the phrase, Go fuck yourself.

God, sometimes I can be so screwed up....

Anyway, that's why I cast this as Sci-Fi/Horror. With horror you can get away with so much more, and I don't want anyone walking into this thinking it's going to be a fun, simple fuck-fest...

Even though it is.

Feeling a lot better, obviously. It's amazing what chocolate cake with chocolate frosting will do for your sense of being. Fucks up my blood sugar, but worth it.

Not my happiest day...

I got three immunizations, yesterday -- Covid 19, flu and RSV -- and I thought I was handling it fine. A bit achy, slightly feverish. But damn, today I was so fucking tired. I slept till noon and still needed a nap. And each time I got up I was groggy as hell. And a bit off-balance. I'm not completely back to normal, but at least it seems to be lessening.

It's just, when I get like this I don't want to do anything. I need milk, but couldn't talk myself into going out for it. Recycling is overflowing but that means I'd have to take it down to the bins. My back is not comfortable, nor is my gut. What I ate for lunch and dinner I didn't like. I was a nasty old man.

Fortunately, Dave Rich posted some new images on Instagram. For some reason he helps center me. Calm me. I don't know why. Chris Evans make me happy but Dave brings me a form of...I dunno...peace, I guess.

So tomorrow, I will go out for milk. I could now, but that means getting dressed and presentable for public. Still...for tomorrow's breakfast, I could get an almond croissant. Or maybe a slice of chocolate fudge cake. I can't stop thinking about that, lately. I dunno.

I did manage to get myself to work on Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe, and am up to chapter eleven out of thirty-two...but it was difficult. I focused on finding typos and missing words, or the wrong word used. Like feat instead of fear, kind of thing.

I like how the book comes across as a real novel. Hell, it IS a real novel. Just lots of mm sex in it. Most of which is non-con. And I'm sure the pseudo-Christianists will do all they can to ban books like mine, so why bother? But I do.

Today was supposed to be the rapture. Nothing on the news, yet, but I did hear someone claim it might be tomorrow. We can only hope. I know I got no chance of being caught up, but God it would be nice to be rid of those people.

First try at a cover...

And I kind of like it...a bit abstract yet telling. But is it too plain?

Storyline: Continuing from Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones.

No one believes an extraterrestrial named Dyarvos brought Dirc back to life after a cop killed him, because the damned thing deserted him. Now Dirc's been found guilty of raping and murdering dozens of men, and he's being transported to San Quentin when Dyarvos returns with new plans.

Turns out human males are worth more than Dyarvos thought. Dirc's joyous preparation of the men he'd supplied for the creature's space craft apparently made them not only better suited as fuel but even tastier as food...a real delicacy. So it wants to open up an intergalactic cafe for space travelers, and it wants Dirc to be one of its suppliers. 

He is happy to go along, despite the betrayal and Dyarvos' casual disregard for his feelings...because it'll make him rich. Filthy rich. Rich enough to never have to deal with assholes trying to fuck him over, again.

But first, he needs to get done with that system of justice that wants to execute him...not to mention evade Federal Agents from Area 51 who want to run some pretty vicious tests on him to understand why his DNA has altered. It's going to be a real adventure of a journey.

And along the way, he may even find love with an old friend...Irin, whom Dyarvos had apparently prepped to take his place. The damned thing.

But hey, all's fair in love, war, and business...

Time to work up a cover...

I finished this pass on Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe, and need to start thinking about a good cover image for it. Which I am drawing a blank on. I want it to be intense because the book is pretty intense. Lots of kidnapping, non-con, torture, and terrorizing as well as SciFi/Horror Erotica, included. AND...action-adventure and romance. A real smorgasbord.

I guess I could go back into Shutterstock and see what images I pulled up that I didn't use. I don't have anything in the photos I got from Dan Skinner or others that would work. It's all boiling down to what will make people pay attention and in mm erotica that's usually a well-built man who's half-naked. Which I don't have a problem with....

I got the text down to under 85K in words, which is still a lot, and there were many points in the story that didn't align with what was done in Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones, so that got updated. I'm going to do another pass then use Microsoft editor to test it.

I like how it turned out. Including the HEA. I'm still seeking a better ending line but it's getting there. I may be asking too much for that. Writing a book about men being kidnapped, raped and handed over to an extraterrestrial to be added to its intergalactic cafe's menu may not require anything truly pithy or sharp.

It seems I will have to cut anything with sugar out of my diet, completely. I try to use it in moderation, but I'm finding I grow very sluggish and sleepy if I have any candy or even canned fruit in its own juice. Irritating...but this morning I weighed 230 lbs...that's 10 lbs less than the beginning of summer. So I guess the tradeoff works.

Workin' on Dirc and Dyarvos...

I started in on Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe...and I'm not happy I showed it in this condition. Lots of typos and moments that make no sense, and I'm only 20% through it. Brother, if I'm going to publish my work, I need to either get an editor open to extreme mm erotica or find a way to proof my work better.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that I'd forgotten some of the things I put in the story. It's almost like I'm reading it for the first time, in parts. Like the involvement of a young guard named Cliff, who Dirc tries to protect from Dyarvos.

I want to get this done and out for Halloween, because it's got a lot of horror aspects to it as well as SciFi and erotica. And Dirc's attitude is a lot more irreverent. Maybe that will perk people's interest. But it's not short. 85K+ in wordage.

Didn't help that I had a nosebleed, today. First in well over a year. Not a gusher but enough to take my focus for over an hour to get it to stop. I pinched my nose, as an ENT had told me to do, once, using a cold wet cloth, then stuffed some toilet paper soaked in Afrin up the nostril. That took care of it, finally. Still a bit iffy, but better.

At the same time, I was setting up driving down to a job in Baltimore, starting a week from Monday. Just transferring files from cabinets into boxes to be shipped to a university, but the donor wants the files kept in order and the boxes labeled. That adds a day to the job.

I'm at a stage in my life where I get lost in what's going on and have to stop and think before I can catch onto what needs to be done or what I was doing. I like to believe I'm doing well, mentally, overall...but can't really verify that. So I'm noting plans in my planner and printing out itineraries and making as many post-its as I can to keep from forgetting to do things.

But truth be told, there's nothing new about that...

World traveler, Kyle...

Headed back to Hong Kong for Firsts China Book Fair. First week of December. I'm going in style, this time -- business class, albeit with a 3 hour layover in Seoul, each way. Makes for a much longer trip, but more comfortable, it being a flat bed seat. Better food, too.

I depart on December 1st and arrive late on December 2nd, but I'll have all day, Wednesday to recuperate before move-in on Thursday. It's in the same location as last time...the Maritime Museum, Pier 8 at the Ferry Terminal...and it'll be good to see all the people I've dealt with, before.

What helps is, I'll have a good 12 hours on the plane to work on MQM...and I'm fairly certain I'll have an idea of what I'm doing with it, but then. Of course, knowing me...I may be exhibiting a bit too much optimism.

I'm having to pull back from Social Media, somewhat, just to keep from losing myself in the madness of the MAGAt Class and their rabid actions and attitudes. It really does hurt your heart to find out so many people who look like you are raving lunatics and racist scum who claim to be Christian even as they spit on the teachings of Christ.

I'm no longer a believer in God. If there was one, he'd have cut down half the people in this country, including Felon47, for being monsters and demons out to cause pain and suffering. But they're prospering, instead, and seizing power to expand their evil.

But that isn't what really an atheist. I became one after reading the Bible from cover to cover and saw how it not only justified but encouraged rape, incest, murder, fraud, lying, cheating, intolerance, and genocide. Knowing this helped me with Brendan's final thought monologue in APoS-HNH as he now sees that is just how people always have been, and always will be, and the only thing you can do in response is to tell your stories.

Jean Renoir had a brilliant comment on that, from The Rules of the Game (which is actually The Rule of the Game, in the French) -- The awful thing about life is this: Everybody has their reasons. And in the last 10 years of this civilization we have seen just how true that is...

...And how evil.

The Joy of Being a Dick...or Dirc...

In any other world, Dirc would be considered certifiably insane. Never mind he's linked himself with an avaricious alien who thinks his plan for an interstellar diner puts him on level of The Great British Bakeoff, though really it's more like some Best Greasy Spoon Cook show on cable, his willingness to seek ways to supply Dyarvos, the alien, with fresh male meat kicks him out of normal society into WTF World.

Of course, most people are shocked and want him put away. The feds are curious and suspicious, and want him for their own interrogations and testing. They halfway suspect he's an alien construct. And while Dyarvos is willing to help him, it's usually done in a surly manner, as if Dirc isn't really worth the trouble.

Even as he brings in quality goods. At least he's paid in things he can sell for enough to fund a better lifestyle...but that keeps getting yanked away until he decides to deal with the people who are really in charge. So he's also a businessman who can evolve with reality.

And who's having fun with the brutality of his ways. Such an American lad, he is. Heroic in how he remains loyal to Irin and his growing pack. Clever in how he gets out of situations. Vengeful against the right people. and overall just plain psychotic in how he doesn't give a shit about what people he doesn't care about think of him.

Talk about free-wheeling. Can this be called good chaos? I did a touch of it in Hunter, but no one was being made into burgers, in that book, and Hunter changed to being a better guy. Dirc? No fuckin' way. He's got a business to run...making men into meat. And he's makin' a mint.

A true entrepreneur...

Consistently inconsistent...

I'm going to work the rest of Dirc's story into an e-book and post it for Halloween. It's got horror and sex and violence and Sci-Fi all rolled into one, as well as some action-adventure and fine-dining, but with a relatively HEA, at the end. It's time to finalize this and connect it with the first book, then kick them out into the world.

New title -- Dirc and the Dyarvos Cafe (Men, they're what's for dinner). It already has a pretty off-beat manner of telling the story, so I may see if I can get even snarkier. Darker black humor. It's at just over 84K in wordage.

This will, hopefully, clear my head of everything non-Simon. I have other books I want to write, sure -- Dair's Window, Darian's Point, and the like -- but if I'm going to spend the next year or two on MQM, I need to at least not have this part of Dirc's tale hanging around.

What helped clear my mind is the number of spots showing up on my skin as pre-cancerous. Nothing major, but there. Got two burned off my left calf, today, and have to monitor two others, on my nose and left neck.

Same for a polyp in my gall bladder and the time approaching for my next colonoscopy, which will probably find more.

All this reminds you that your time on this planet is limited, especially this far into my life. So get to it. Get as much done as possible. Hope that when you do finally vanish from here are no regrets on the writing end...

...Even though there always are.

Thoughts to live by...

...Since I am blank of brain, today...I share these bits of wisdom and hope to make them work within Simon's story. Now referred to as MQM...The Murder of a Quiet Man.

Hopefully, tomorrow I'll be back inside my head...but I have a doctor's appointment at 2pm so...not so sure. Dermatology. Old man skin and issues that may stem from having had 2nd degree sunburn.

Getting old sucks.

Another day done...

Another job finished and happiness around. Except... 

Bad choice of hotel. OMG. A nearly new building, where the water pressure is poor and the fucking fire alarm howled, twice. Threw me off, completely. I was so certain it would start screaming, again, I slept in my underwear and had my pants ready to be put on, fast. It was okay the rest of the night, but no way am I returning to that place when the next tranche of boxes is to go. 

That is the second hotel I’ve had water issues with, this month. The one in Houston couldn‘t make up its mind if it would provide hot water when you take a shower. I was told I wasn’t doing it right, the first night, and it did come out hot the next two nights, but then Wednesday night is was only okay and the last night was cool, again. Not cold like I was using the wrong setting; just lukewarm. Irritating. 

I stayed at this hotel the last time I was in Houston and it was fine, so I don’t know what was going on. Another hotel I will not return to, again...though on this job I get the impression the client’s done. Of course, last night’s alarms freaked me out and I came close to working in the car just to keep the noise down, so I neglected to post anything and only barely focused on Simon’s story. 

I’m having trouble not building up a timeline for it. Simon wants to lead me through it as it happens, with segues into his past. Maybe shifting to a journal he’s keeping to build up his character. Which makes me nervous, but I don’t want to push too hard, because he will just go quiet on me. He doesn’t even want me to name the other characters till they show up. 

Meaning my list of those involved is now worthless. 

I’m leaning hard into calling this The Murder of a Quiet Man. I get the feeling Simon has been quiet his entire life, and even when he’s defending himself against the growing fury of the system of justice, he’s quiet about it. No hysteria. No anger. No cursing. He’s found silence works a lot better in controlling a situation than spitting and moaning. And that drives his opponents crazy. Which I really like. 

I want Simon to be as relatable as possible. I want the reader to like him. Care about him. But I’m wary of setting that up too quickly...or didactically.

 

Not a day for thinking...

Well...I ate some cheese that I probably shouldn't have. What was left of a brick of cheddar. I cut off the bad parts, but that must not have been enough because my body is not happy. Fortunately, I carry Imodium AD with me, at all times. Learned to have something when I developed a similar situation on my one visit to Paris and all I could find for it was something you dissolve into sparkling water. Which I did. And it finally worked.

It's come in handy. I seem to have issues with local water, so have long avoided anything that might have been washed with it, like salads or lettuce and tomato on burgers. I buy distilled water to use for brushing my teeth and making tea, and even washing fruit if I feel like having an apple. It's helped.

Water properties can change significantly from one city to another, primarily due to differences in the water's source and the treatment processes used., especially in mineral content, pH, and taste. So I don't deal with it. I can handle Buffalo's water because I'm used to cooking with it, but I don't drink that from the tap, either. Same for bottled Spring Water. I go for Smart Water.

If I do Hong Kong, they have a brand called Watson Water that's distilled, so I can get that. And I've found Smart Water is available throughout much of Europe and the UK.

Anyway, I'm a lot better, now...and I'm vaguely thinking of Simon's book. Its title shifted, again, into The Murder of a Quiet Man. Or maybe...The Killing of a Silent Man. Still unsure about which or even either. There's too much brewing in the back of my head over this book, and I'm trying to avoid any repetition of something I've already done.

Since I'm off to Rhode Island, tomorrow, ain't doing much writing till that's done and I'm back, in a couple days. But I'm going to take my time with this one. It almost feels like it will be a delicate piece to write...

Me? Delicate? What a laugh.

Home, again, and need time to think...

 I had a bit of a...I won't say it's a religious experience, but something came down from the ether to touch my direction and guide me...and I need to sit in quiet for a lot longer before I really understand enough to share the feeling it brought me.

It started when I went to what used to be the Transco Tower, by the Galleria, and saw the trees...which had been saplings when I moved to Houston...were now, of course, fully grown and giving lovely shade. And were mitigating the spray from the fountain, in the breeze.

And how the Transco Tower looked as new as ever, even though it was designed 45 years ago. Philip Johnson did an amazing job creating a building for the ages.

I then went to a used bookstore and found a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer that convinced me to buy it...

...After which, I spent some time at Rothko Chapel. Just sitting in the quiet of it. And came to see what Simon's story could be.

As mentioned, I'm still contemplating what's come over me...but wanted to put a place-holder for it in my mind and intentions.

Almost back to where I belong...

Finished packing that library. 41 boxes holding 2073 very small books. Mostly pamphlet-sized. I was expecting much larger volumes...but this is good. Tomorrow is the pickup and I return to Buffalo. Then another light job on Monday and I can settle back into my nothing routine.

I had an interesting thought come up, today. Putting BA-4 aside and working up another coloring book. Call it Demented Dreams of DILFs...more mature men who are Dads I'd Like to Fuck. No full nudity. Maybe even fully dressed, for some of them. Giving them names and doing 26 of them...meaning one for every letter of the alphabet.

Or align it with my books. Curt and Shayes in HTRASG. Alec and Freddy in PM. Antony in RIHC6. That might be just as interesting...and better promotional work. Maybe. Not all that sure...

If I'm going to, I have to get hard onto it so it'll be ready for Christmas. Work out the setup in each image. Cover, front and rear, like Demented Dreams, of guys in trouble. That sold fairly well, and I'd like to see if I can get back some of the money I've poured into publishing, this year. Sales have pretty much collapsed.

It might also get my mind off the insanity surrounding the death of Charlie Kirk. The right wing's hysteria is boiling over into death threats agains all liberals and promises of retribution, when they don't even know who the shooter is, yet. So far, it looks more and more like a right wing nut or even something set up by Felon47 to deflect from the Epstein files.

You may think suggesting that is on the crazy side...but I would not put it past him. He's connected to too many of the sudden deaths of people who threatened him. The son-of-a-bitch.

I'm bad...

Charlie Kirk was shot and killed at a rally in Utah, and I am not sorry for him. He was a hateful little beast who hurt so many people--by supporting ICE raids, anti-trans disinformation, lies about the LGBTQ+ community, support for Russia's terrorism in Ukraine, mocking the near murder of Paul Pelosi, disparaging successful women--and the world is better off without him.

I feel the same way about Felon47, in the White House...except I do not want him assassinated. I want him to die of natural causes, because if he's shot he'll become a martyr to the MAGAt Class and that is not acceptable. But if he's taken out by a heart attack or stroke, JD Vance becomes president and he does not have the ability to keep the bastard's cult going.

Hmph...35 years ago I had the idea of updating Aristophanes' The Birds into a cyber-punk screenplay. Set in a dystopian future where the Anglo class lived in towers reaching to the sun and the punks were at ground level working in packs to live off the dregs. Two men from the Anglo class come down to rile them up into fighting back in ways that would disrupt everything, online...forcing better conditions for them all.

I never pursued it. I mean, I did a first draft that wasn't very good but still...it would have been way ahead of its time. And I felt it was too late to do when 2001 came around.

I'm getting a similar feeling from Simon Halloran's story. That it would have been best to write it a couple years ago. Make its quiet points in a way that's accessible to people. Now the political chaos is out of control and no way can I keep up with that in my writing. Not when ICE is running around kidnapping, killing and deporting people with impunity.

This is not the America I want to live in.

Working my way through...

I'm old and tired and cranky, and having to accept I cannot do this kind of work for much longer...if at all. I'm maybe just over halfway through the library, at 25 boxes, and should be done for the pickup time...and I am exhausted.

I'm also having an odd emotional reaction to these books. They're all about WW1, with lots of poetry and reminiscences that seem to have been self-published. It's been well over a hundred years since the end of that war, one that was seen as being stupid and begun thanks to a few men's egos...once called The War to End All Wars...and had history has shown, it didn't.

I'm feeling an odd sadness deep within at how casually mankind will kill and destroy while how hard it is to get them to care for others and to build. Russia in Ukraine. Israel in Gaza. India and Pakistan. The dozen conflicts going on in Africa. And peace is almost never the true intention of them. It's just power and domination.

We're basically in a non-shooting civil war in the US, between the MAGAt Class of racists and those of us who despise everything they stand for. Felon47 is sending troops into cities that do not support him, as if he can force his will on them. Like he forced himself on God knows how many women and children.

Maybe this feeling I'm having is more like melancholy at how people refuse to learn from history. Refuse to grow. They almost seem to...then forget it all and start pretending the lies they're being fed by the billionaire-owned media is truth, even when it directly contradicts reality.

This has me thinking about Simon Holleran, again. He winds up killed because he wouldn't roll over in the face of a system of justice meant to protect those in power, not him. Not sure how I could work all of this into his story...but it is beginning to weigh on me.

Not even sure if I want to bother...

Old-man-itis...

Today went well. Not as fast as I'd like, but there is less to do so I'm not pushing it. I'm finding my back is not happy with me standing for 8 hours. Still, the books are smaller than I thought so I'm fitting far more into each box. And are some lovely ones...

This is from a job I did more than 3 years ago, which was fairly well-organized and clean. Today's library is another that's an exception to the rule of packing; it's in order and easy to deal with. Not even any dust. Not a great workspace, overall, but not the worst I've ever had to deal with.

I do love interacting with books. Like the psycho I am, I talk to them and ask them to help each other when dealing with one that's more fragile...and even let them know they're going to good homes. I also pay compliments or give sympathy when they haven't been cared for, in the past.

Had no time to really think about BA-4. Even after dinner. I was too tired and had other things that had to be done. Now I'm going to draw a nice hot bath and sit in it till I'm shriveled up like a prune.

And try to figure out how best to utilize the fine work being turned out by the woman I've hired for promoting my writing. I've been pretty neglectful in that. And am too dumb to work it out for myself so may ask her for input.

Gearing up for Halloween and Christmas...so I got the goods for everyone to give as gifts...

Ah, Houston...

If I ever need reminding why I never want to live here again, little work trips like this will do the job. Confusing street names that Google Maps got wrong. Like calling Telegraph Road the 35...and telling me it will take me to the 45...when it doesn't. I have to branch off to Reveille to do that. Then dealing with sections of the 45 and the interchange to the 69 which use to be the 59...where you have to swing over three lanes of traffic within 1000 feet to get onto it. And that's with me still knowing the basic layout of the city.

Well, within the 610 Loop.

The flights were okay, though the one from Baltimore to Houston was late. But I arrange to get onto the plane first, with Southwest, so I can get a seat with lots of room. Then I can work easily on my laptop.

I started going through BA-4 and got to the point where Léonidès reconnects with Dmitry. Added in a new character, Christian, who used to be a member of Queen Christina's court and wound up exiled when she abdicated. He's one of Gabrielle's vampire men, knows he's gay and uses him to torment Dmitry for not telling her he could never become her mate.

Léon's pointed towards Korea, where Gabrielle is tracking down a young captain in the US Navy who's en route to force Korea to open up to Western trade. Léon senses she hasn't turned the man, yet, so off he goes...after a few days in Dmitry's bed.

So this part is closing in on 19K in wordage, but I think I'll trim it back some. I was setting up the paqrt of the story set in New Orleans...which has changed. How much, I don't know, yet. 

But it's coming along...

Trippin'...

Off to Houston, tomorrow AM. Gotta pack 2000 books +/- but have 4 days to do it in, now, so shouldn't be a problem. Except they have to be checked off against a list, which adds time. And of course it's hovering around 90 and 75% humidity, but it will mostly be in an air conditioned house. I'm still bringing my portable fans.

And getting some good Tex-Mex...and even some truly nasty. And there'll be decent BBQ. Being there till Friday will help space it out.

I've been thinking about BA-4 and needing to find a good subtitle for it. Journey to Betrayal? In search of Betrayal? Leon travels from France to England to grab a ship and transit towards Korea by passenger ship, by way of the Suez Canal to India and Indonesia and Hong Kong and Shanghai and finally Seoul.

Of course, he connects with vampires along the way, and feeds at each port, before connecting with a vampire ocean captain who uses duòlos to help run his ship. Leon has money enough to buy a clipped to bring him home...and learns the Oiym are keeping an eye on him, in case he treis to overthrow the Council.

All of this is pretty well established in what I have, so far. I want to get it done by the end of September...well, first weeks of October because I'm doing Seattle, again. This time heading over on the 17th of October and back on the 20th.

Too damn much is going on, and I don't like how it's cutting into my trolling for pretty male images...

Red Speedo

I wrote this, years ago. Still brings back a fond memory...

----

Used to be, when I was asked when I knew I was gay, I’d pop off with a glib, “The first time I saw Gene Kelly’s ass.” And it wasn’t far wrong. I happened onto a Saturday afternoon showing of On The Town on TV – just about the time he meets up with Miss Turnstiles and they do their little duet – and got locked onto him and his derriere in that white sailor suit...and never once looked back. 

 But reality is, that was merely the first time I understood what it was I wanted in life. The first time I knew that I wasn’t like the other guys was when I went on a camping trip with my Boy Scout troop. I was a Second Class about two or three badges short of being First Class, and I’d been part of this troop at my church for a year. 

Which was pretty good for just being twelve and having lived in five different cities in the previous four years. 

 I didn’t like it much. Wasn’t really one of the guys. And camping was pure boredom. Though I didn’t mind sitting around a late night campfire telling ghost stories – it being in Texas, everybody knew at least three, and since I’d lived in England I knew five. But sleeping under the stars was uncomfortable and I never got the hang of cooking in the wild. 

 Then one weekend we went on a hike to stay overnight along the Guadalupe Rive, near New Braunsfels. A damn had recently been completed and a lake would soon cover this large section of gullies and ravines with ice cold spring water, an area saturated with towering Cedar Trees and bubbling brooks and limestone cliffs, and my first thought at seeing it was, “What a shame to fill it in with water.”

 It was an June weekend, the time of year where the air surrounds you in a blanket of stillness. A rain the night before added to the humidity, so by the time we reached our chosen camp site, we were dripping with sweat and near heat exhaustion. So the leader of our troop said, “Let’s drop everything and hit the water.” 

 Took the other guys no time to become a dozen tweens in shorts and trunks splashing around in a pool shaded by ancient Pecan trees. Wrestling. Swimming. Making noise. 

 Thing is, I couldn’t swim, so couldn’t join them. Not that it mattered; I was transfixed by a simple series of rapids and tiny waterfalls gurgling past at breakneck speed. So I sat and watched twigs and leaves race by like little boats and pretended they were jumping over Niagara Falls. 

 Now, we also had assistant scout master, who was a young Airman with a wife and who was about to be a father. He was around 6 feet tall with dark hair, tight and trim, and with tanned skin. I'd thought he was very good-looking, and he was really nice to me. Very patient, like when he showed me for the tenth time how to do a simple square knot. As I said, I really didn't understand why I thought that, at the time. I was just focused on how wonderful his hands were, and I wanted to sketch them, sometime. So I thought I was just being artistic. 

 Well...he joined our party by standing on a rock at the top of the rapids cascade. Straight and proud. Broad shoulders. Trim hips. Legs to die for. His elegant form framed by deep green trees, slashes of white rock and clear blue sky. Water splashing around his ankles. His hands on his hips as he surveyed the majesty of the area. And all he was wearing was a bright red, square cut Speedo. 

 I looked up and saw him and my heart nearly stopped. He was like Adonis descended from Olympus, with that perfect body, a smile that outshone the sun and RayBans shielding his eyes. 

He was such a complete vision of Steve McQueen cool, I actually cried out, "Mr. Prescott, you're gorgeous." 

 My voice echoed off the rocks. And everyone heard it. And it got very quiet. But all Mr. Prescott did was look at me...and smile...and say, "Thank you." Nothing more. 

 At that moment, I would have killed to be held by him. 

 The rest of the camping trip was me being teased as a girl with a crush by the other boys, but never when he was in earshot. Then when we got back to the church, the scout master took me to one side and told me I should leave the troop because, "We know how uncomfortable you must feel, here, because we feel uncomfortable, too."

 I shrugged. I was never going to gain First Class status in Scouting because I couldn’t swim, and you had to have that badge to advance. Of course, my parents were informed. They shrugged it off as being something he'll grow out of.

But I’d caught my first real glimpse of how the world treats those not straight and simple. Still didn't understand what I was thinking or feeling, but now there was a stain on it and I didn't know how to end that.

 I didn't see Mr. Prescott, again, after that. He was transferred to California, and not long after his wife brought a new little boy into the world. All the ladies in the church were buzzing like crazy, about it. 

 I got depressed, when I heard. I knew I'd never see him, again.

 I do still conjure him up, sometimes, standing on that rock like the kingly gentleman he was. And still, sometimes...sometimes, when I dream of that day, I hold him...and he holds me…and nothing more.

 And for those few moments, I feel whole.

Procrastination central...

That's all I did, today--avoided doing anything I needed to. Kept myself in the abstract as everything around me grew more and more real.

Did I do cooking? Nah. Cleaning? Well, I did dust a couple of shelves. Darning socks? One pair; the other I'm just chucking and buying fresh socks, tomorrow. Lunch? Made a meatloaf sandwich. Had a beer...which was a mistake. It just made me grumpier.

Did I start in on BA-4? Nope. Did I sort out the papers on my desk? Nope. Did I watch anything or read anything? Nope. Did a bit of back-and-forth with some idiots online...but I've finally reached the point where they are completely unimportant, to me.

As regards that, I'm finally in accordance with Dieterich Bonhoeffer's notion about humanity. He was a German theologian who viewed stupidity as a more dangerous force than evil because it's impervious to reason, facts, and even force. We're nottalking just  a lack of intelligence, but a moral failing characterized by a resistance to critical thinking and a willingness to accept simplistic narratives, particularly within group settings.

It was a condition that people can fall into, especially within powerful social structures or during times of rising power. He saw that educated and cultured individuals could support harmful policies, not out of malice, but out of a kind of intellectual passivity and a susceptibility to groupthink.

Meaning stupid people are resistant to logic, facts, and arguments, often dismissing contradictory information as inconsequential or irrelevant. They prefer to rely on slogans and catchphrases rather than engaging in critical analysis.

The dangerous potential of stupid people, particularly those in positions of power, is they can easily be manipulated and become agents of destruction. He also noted their tendency towards self-satisfaction and defensiveness when confronted with their own limitations.

He disliked intellectual passivity and believed critical thinking as the best way to resist manipulation and harmful ideologies. But that requires individuals to be willing to question, to learn, and to take responsibility for their actions, even when it is difficult or unpopular.

Nice thoughts, but he never had to deal with the MAGAt Class...

Stop the changing, already!!!!

Why the fuck do things have to be so complicated? And changing, nonstop? Making plans is a lesson in futility, it seems...I mean, lately...and I don't want to have to deal with it all.

I want a guy like this to come to my home, fix me dinner, give me a rub-down in every way you can imagine as I whine about how fucked up I am, serenade me into a good mood, and then leave.

If I ever make a billion dollars, I'd hire one to do just that. Dressed in the same outfit...well, not exactly. I don't like those undies. Basic white CKs or a nice red Speedo, instead.

I've had a thing about red Speedos since the assistant scoutmaster of my troop wore one to go swimming on a camping trip...and I told him he was gorgeous. Which he was. But then, I was only twelve, so I may be coloring more beauty into his memory than was really there.

Still, it got me removed from the Boy Scouts. Not that I cared. Two years in that and cub scouts, and I still had trouble remembering how to tie a square knot. I wrote about that, once; I should revisit it.

Anyway, my plans next week are redone, thanks to there still being a bedbug issue on my floor. Or maybe above or below; you never know with those damned things. I got a notice the exterminator was coming on Monday...right when I was getting a home visit from United Healthcare then planning to hit the airport to fly to Houston.

So, rescheduled the visit, found out changing my flight to Sunday, instead, would cut $18 off the price of the ticket and an extra night's hotel room would only add $90...so got the okay to change it. I'm now set to start packing on Monday instead of Tuesday.

I'm thinking of diving into book four of Blood Angel, since it's already worked out. I need to change a number of details in it, for consistency, but I've got another 17,000 words already written. Beginning, middle and end, with Gabrielle being a total bitch.

We'll see...