Chapter Four cont'd from November 12th post...

Did my usual rewriting my rewriting to the point it's ready to move forward to Chapter Five. This is the end of Chapter Four, picking up after Adam and Reynard fight and the good Christian man has stopped it:

“He looked very much like you,” he said. I only shrugged. “And you just happened to run into him? Out here? And so late?” 

My head was beginning to hurt, but my brain had regained some sense. “I had not expected to see him.” 

“Hmm. Why aren’t you in your room?” 

I held up the half-soaked book. “I...I had some money and wanted this...” 

“You’re not supposed to be away from the house.” 

I shrugged. He was being very calm and casual...and then I realized some people had come out of nearby homes to witness the spectacle, so he could not very well be harsh with me. Not in public. 

“You’re bleeding,” he said, just loud enough to be heard by one and all. “Come inside; we’ll clean you up.” 

He led me in to the kitchen and used a wet cloth to dab at the cuts on my face. “How did you get out?” 

I sighed. He was hurting me but I did not want to let him know that. “Over the fence.” 

“I locked the back door.” I smiled and shrugged. “How did you work it? The lock is very good.” 

I took in a deep breath and said, “Ask your friend, Rory.” 

That got me a sharp glance. “Do not get smart with me!” I just looked at him. He almost growled as he said, “You and he are not the best of mates, anymore. Why would he help you?” 

“Money can buy information.” And if you need no further information from him? If you give him no more of your money? Is that why he wrote to my family? Did he want them to come get me? 

He huffed. “So all of the boys know about this?” 

I shrugged. “Ask them.” 

He put some ice in the cloth and pressed it to my eye. “Keep that here. Do not leave.” Then he went downstairs. 

To Rory’s room. 

Where they would talk then search my room. Very thoroughly. Find my money and journal, and I would be in even greater trouble. 

I did not care. My parents said I was no longer of this world. They knew where I was and had no more interest in me. Because of this one aspect of my life. I could not really know what that meant except I was nothing. To Papa. Maman. Gra’mere and Gran’pere. Any one who was of my blood. I was dead to them. 

I was nothing. 

I know I felt pain from Reynard’s fists and feet, but it did not really register. It meant nothing to me. Because... 

Because I was nothing. 

Reynard might convince my parents to come talk to me...

No, no, Papa wouldn’t...but Maman might and...and... 

No. No!

I had sixty loonies in my pocket. I had brought them in case the book of Acorn's poems had arrived. I still held my wet book. I could see the front entrance. So that is when reality took over. 

I set the cloth with ice in the sink, took a brick of cheese and a can of Fanta from the refrigerator, shoved them in my pockets, and walked out that home.

So far as I was concerned, anywhere else would be better than here.

Ignoring social media...

The hell with the world. That helps both peace of mind and allows me to work on chapter four of  Dair's Window. If it is the end of everything decent we've had, at least I'll die writing.

I've removed one character from this part, Loren the gardener. I think I'll put him in Toronto or maybe even Vancouver. Haven't decided, yet, but I do like having him in it.

Something else was Eric's overdose. It felt too Hollywood-ish and I was working too hard to make it a smooth part of the story. I finally decided to pull it, completely. And it works a lot better.

I now have Luc letting Adam know the pot they're smoking has THC in it, which is very addictive. It's the decent Christian man's method of controlling the boys and Rory is his go-between. So Adam stops smoking pot. He starts sneaking out of the home to go to a nearby used book shop and buy books he can't get brought to himself by his visitors. That keeps him sane.

One such book is Stendhal's Le Rouge et le Noir. He doesn't like the ending of it, but otherwise loves the man's prose and characterizations...so makes it a habit to go there once a week, or so.

Until one night he runs into his brother, Reynard, learns his parents have said he is dead, to them, and his world explodes.

I'm going to watch another one of the Thin Man series, tonight. Cleanse my mind of all the shit with the Epstein files and such.

Bad day...

All the shit coming out about Epstein and Felon47 and how the MSM, Leaders of both parties and our so-called system of justice knew and did nothing about it...I'm beyond livid. And for Megyn Kelly to refer to 15 year old rape victims as adult is mind-boggling.

So I watched movies...like Another Thin Man (1939). And may do more, tomorrow. I need to handle my blood pressure.

 

A bit of chapter four...

Adam's been at the home a year, now...

I was hurrying back from the book store and about to turn into the shadows, keeping as quiet as possible, when I noticed a car on the opposing corner. The same type Rav4 as my father’s. Same color. I had not seen it around here, before, and... 

“Adam!” 

Reynard exited the driver’s side. Which made no sense. How did he know where I lived? 

“I’ve been trying to find you,” he continued, rushing across the street to me. “They said you were in that house and...” 

“Who said?” I snapped. His betrayal was still too fresh in my heart to be polite with him. 

“Doesn’t matter. I need to speak with you.” 

“To what purpose?” 

“I should never had told Papa about you.” 

This made me wary. Reynard had never apologized, before. Still it made me a bit less angry. “It is good you think so.” 

“It was a stupid thing to do. If I had thought through the consequences, I would never have done it.” 

I shrugged. “It’s done. Did Papa send you? Maman?” 

“My God, no. They would kill me if they thought I was here. They say you are dead.” 

I felt my breath leave my body. Perhaps even my spirit. “Is that what you came to tell me?” I whispered. 

“No, no, I...I just need you to let Papa know I did not know what you had become until that night.” 

My brain shut down. I could not formulate a single word except, “What?” 

“He thinks I hid your ways from him. And wonders if I have the same sickness. And I tell him over and over, no, I only suspected until...” 

“Stop!” That was the only other word I could think of. None of he said made sense to me. 

“I just...please, Papa does not believe me. He and Maman watch me, constantly. Have begun to control everything about my life to be sure I do not become like you and...” 

“STOP! It’s not enough you killed me?” 

“Killed you? No, no, you are right here and you have a nice home and room and...” 

“Who tells you this? Who told where I am?” 

“Adam, what is happening to me is your fault! I want you to take care of it. End it.” 

My book was in my right hand so I could not grab Reynard except with the other. Which I did, screaming, “How did you find me?” 

He shoved me away, growing angry. “Why are you getting so angry? I’m the one being ruined by your actions!” 

“You tell me. TELL ME!” I screamed that. 

“Here, see this?” 

He showed me the remains of an envelope with my name and this address. In a corner. Like in case of return. And I recognized the handwriting. 

Rory. He always puts a line through his zeroes. 

“No one read it,” Reynard spit at me. “No one wants to hear from you. But I was interrogated for days on whether or not I’d received other letters from you and I said no, over and over and over, but they don’t believe me so you have to tell them so. If you don’t, they will not let me attend Carelton. They think Ottawa is the center for more people like you and...” 

I hit him. 

With my fist...holding my book. 

In the mouth. 

I don’t know which of us was more surprised. 

Blood trailed from his lower lip so, of course, he returned the punch into my face and also my side. I stumbled back and dropped my book. He kicked it, I think without meaning to but still, that infuriated me and I jumped on him. We fell into a bank of snow, howling and kicking and punching at each other like two alley cats fighting over nothing. 

The door to the house opened and the good Christian man came out, snarling, “What are you doing?!” 

I was on my back so Reynard bolted to his feet. Despite the shadows, I noticed his nose was also bleeding and his eyes were filled with madness. He cast a glare at the man then ran off. 

I staggered back to my feet and stood there. Watching him vanish into Papa’s Rav4. And drive away. Into the darkness. 

I was trembling, not from cold. From absolute fury. He destroys my life them wants me to make his whole? As if he has the right to ask for that?

I saw my book was half in a puddle and that added to my anger. I picked it up and realized the man was asking me a question. Very insistently asking. I had to look at him to understand it. 

“Who was that boy?” 

I could not think of what to answer. Just stood there, swaying a little. Not yet hurting...and still rather shocked at how I’d fought Reynard. He had always been bigger and stronger, and it is true I had grown and I was trying to build my own body, a little...but I hadn’t even thought about what I was doing. It was simply reaction to his disgusting demand. 

I heard the question, again, and managed to say, “Someone I used to know.”

Here we go...Fascism Central...

This was written nearly 3 months ago, and it's long, but it's important to keep in mind after the Hated 8 in the Senate stabbed us in the back in exchange for...nothing...and the MAGAt Cult continues to rejoice in the idea of destroying the country just to own the libs. It's obscene.

America tips into fascism — 

"Something is materially different in our country this week than last," writes historian Garrett Graff. 

The United States, just months before its 250th birthday as the world’s leading democracy, has tipped over the edge into authoritarianism and fascism. In the end, faster than I imagined possible, it did happen here. The precise moment when and where in recent weeks America crossed that invisible line from democracy into authoritarianism can and will be debated by future historians, but it’s clear that the line itself has been crossed. 

I think many Americans wrongly believe there would be one clear unambiguous moment where we go from “democracy” to “authoritarianism.” Instead, this is exactly how it happens — a blurring here, a norm destroyed there, a presidential diktat unchallenged. Then you wake up one morning and our country is different. 

Today, August 25, 2025, is that morning. Something is materially different in our country this week than last. Everything else from here on out is just a matter of degree and wondering how bad it will get and how far it will go? Do we end up “merely” like Hungary or do we go all the way toward an “American Reich”? So far, after years of studying World War II, I fear that America’s trajectory feels more like Berlin circa 1933 than it does Budapest circa 2015.

I debated in recent days whether this column should be written by our fearless foreign correspondent William Boot, who started satirically chronicling the backsliding of American democracy in January and the willful destruction of the federal government, but it seems more important to write plainly.

Saying that our country has tipped over an invisible edge into an authoritarian state plainly is important — and easier than most in the media and pundit class will pretend it is. They will presumably for some period of time — perhaps even a long period of time — stick to euphemisms (with lines like “No president has asserted such direct and sweeping control over the nation's capital” and “Through immigration crackdowns and cultural purges, President Trump is wielding government power to enforce a more rigid, exclusionary definition of what it means to be American.”) and continue to give voice to “both siders,” but the reality is that only one political party is responsible for this moment. They will say that Trump’s motives are inscrutable or unclear — but the effect of Trump’s governing style is undeniable. 

American fascism looks like the president using armed military units from governors loyal to his regime to seize cities run by opposition political figures and it looks like the president using federal law enforcement to target regime opponents. 

American fascism looks like the would-be self-proclaimed king deploying the military on US soil not only not in response to requests by local or state officials but over — and almost specifically to spite — their vociferous objections. 

The president’s military occupation of the capital has escalated in recent days into something not seen since British troops marched the streets of colonial Boston — even though precisely nothing has happened to warrant it, the Pentagon has now armed the National Guard patrolling DC and armored vehicles, designed for the worst of combat, are patrolling the capital, where they’re colliding with civilian vehicles because war transports are not supposed to be on civilian streets. (Why a 14-ton MRAP is in any way necessary for a domestic police mission is its own worthy line of questioning!)

Word came over the weekend that the president is now drawing up plans and explicitly threatening domestic political opponents like the governors of California and Illinois with similar military occupations — exercising emergency powers in a moment where the only emergency is his own abuse of power.

Civilians who try lawfully to exercise their right to document the abuses of the regime are themselves arrested and charged with felonies through trumped-up charges teeming with official lies. The fact that this military takeover and federal occupation is being done to the city’s residents — and not on their behalf — is evident in how deserted DC has become as residents refuse to enter public spaces where they might have to interact with agents of the state.

America has become a country where armed officers of the state shout “Papers please!” on the street at men and women heading home from work, a vision we associate with the Gestapo in Nazi Germany or the KGB in Soviet Russia, and where masked men wrestle to the ground and abduct people without due process into unmarked vehicles, disappearing them into an opaque system where their family members beg for information.

It looks like a president, who is supposed to be the figurehead of the party of small government, is extorting US companies for the regular act of doing business — earning his good will in recent weeks has required seizing parts of major US companies or imposing bizarre taxes on others in exchange for his personal support.

It looks like a country where our largest and most powerful corporate titans line up to pay tribute personally — delivering literal gold to the president in full view of cameras — and where foreign governments bribe him with largesse as gross as a 747 plane for his personal use after he leaves office, and where media companies have to censor their own staffs in order to be allowed to operate.

It looks like a country where inconvenient figures are kidnapped and disappeared overseas to torture gulags with no due process or dumped in countries where they have no possible connection. Kilmar Albrego Garcia has been punished for months with the full weight of the US government simply because he embarrassed the Trump administration. It looks like a country where the government, devoid of irony, is reopening concentration camps on the site of some of the country’s darkest hours of history where it previously hosted concentration camps. 

It looks like a government where agency by department, people who try to uphold the rule of law are being purged — sometimes for nothing more than personal friendships or because they voiced an inconvenient fact, and where even the loyalists deemed insufficiently loyal are cashiered. Billy Long, the stunningly unqualified former cattle auctioneer placed in charge of the IRS, evidently was removed after he tried to uphold the most basic legal requirements for sharing taxpayer data. 

It looks like a country where Trump assumes he can control and dictate our history, what books we read, our arts, and even our sports heroes. He assumes there is no line between his taste and our nation. 

Just months short of the nation’s 250th birthday, Donald Trump is close to batting a thousand at speed-running the very abuses of power that led to the Founders to write the Declaration of Independence in the first place. Does any of this sound familiar:

• He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good. 
• For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments 
• He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. 
• He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance. 
• He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers. 
• He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us. 
• For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world 
• For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent 
• For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury 
• For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences 
• And so on. 

One could say that Trump has blown through the nation’s constitutional and political guardrails, but a more accurate assessment is that both Congress and the Supreme Court — who have, as I wrote earlier this spring, effectively rolled over and played dead when it comes to their constitutional duty to exert checks and balances — removed those guardrails helpfully in advance. 

In a dissent last week, Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson compared the Court’s current approach, which has allowed Trump to streamroll past the normal constraints of the presidency through one procedural sleight-of-hand after another, to the game Calvinball, played by Calvin & Hobbes. “Today’s ruling is of a piece with this Court’s recent tendencies. ‘[R]ight when the Judiciary should be hunkering down to do all it can to preserve the law’s constraints,’ the Court opts instead to make vindicating the rule of law and preventing manifestly injurious Government action as difficult as possible,” she writes. “This is Calvinball jurisprudence with a twist. Calvinball has only one rule: There are no fixed rules. We seem to have two: that one, and this Administration always wins.” 

The response, meanwhile, by Democrats has been unconscionably weak. It’s no coincidence that governors like Gavin Newsom and J.B. Pritzker have been the leaders of recent days; they are clear-eyed about what is happening. As Greg Sargent writes, “Newsom shapes everything around the brute fact that Trump is serially breaking the law and using government sponsored violence and intimidation to entrench authoritarian power. He accepts this as the core fact of our moment.” 

By contrast, I challenge you to find even a moderately tepid and clear-eyed statement from any national Democrat. National Democrats seem all invisible as the military takes over policing the streets of the capital and prosecuting its crimes. This should be a lay-up to oppose — the most basic duty of any congressional figure, and yet, “House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries and Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer, along with other senior Democrats, have not been a part of any concerted effort to voice opposition to the occupation.” 

It’s still a party paralyzed by their own creaking gerontocracy; DC’s own nearly ninety-year-old congressional delegate hasn’t been seen in public since the occupation of her city — and her statement protesting it was accompanied by a photo of her at a different, previous, unrelated protest. 

There’s a story that I think a lot about — on September 29, 2008, I went to one of those friendly background lunches that reporters in D.C. do all the time with newsmakers. It was the heart of the financial crisis and a group of us were meeting with Rep. Eric Cantor, a rising star in the GOP and party whip. The House was about to vote on a bailout for Wall Street that effectively everyone agreed was necessary to hold together the global economy — President Bush, Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson, Fed chair Ben Bernanke, GOP presidential nominee John McCain (who had even suspended his campaign to focus on the crisis) and Democratic nominee Barack Obama. Cantor casually told us over lunch that his caucus was going to vote it down. We reporters, many of them far more experienced Hill veterans than me, were incredulous — all of his party’s leaders, the ones in the roles who knew the stake, the ones the party was supposed to listen to and follow, said this was critical — and yet the House GOP was going to let it burn? 

Cantor was right — the House voted down the bailout and the stock market dropped 800 points. The end seemed nigh. 

I remember walking out of that luncheon feeling like I had glimpsed something important. The beating heart of the GOP no longer cared about principles or policy. There was a nihilist wing in control that scared me; they were happy to let it all burn. For years in covering the rise (and return) of Trump and Trumpism, I imagined there was some line that the GOP would not be willing to compromise for greed and power — some incident that would bring party leaders to their senses, some principle or red-line would be unwilling to trade or cross in pursuit of furthering Trump’s agenda. Even after January 6th, I held hope that might be the end. But then Eric Cantor’s buddy Kevin McCarthy showed up at Mar-a-Lago and the rehabilitation tour began. 

It has led here, to this moment, where all three branches of the GOP-controlled government have been willing to torch the republic and democracy that generations of elected officials and citizens have tended for 249 years simply to please Donald Trump and avoid running afoul of his temper. 

Where America goes from here is a story yet to be written. It will surely get worse — Trump’s push now is clearly focused on locking in an illegitimate claim to power. Whether we can come back from this moment is a story yet unknown. But it’s clear today America is different and, even if we fight our way back, it will never be the same.

Sketches help...

 I'd done these in pencil, very rough ideas, so today inked them in to help me picture what it is I'm writing. Now that I have it settled in my head, I can move on to Chapter Four of DW.

Here's the overview of the house. Nice and normal-looking, but with a back entrance to the garage, off an alleyway. Lots of tall bushes and trees.

A covered walkway connects the house to the garage, and I decided not to bother with a raised pool. There are also flower beds along the house, garage and back wall.

This is the 3/4 view. Makes everything a bit more obvious.

Interior downstairs and basement. Staircase leading up, at the back, and also going down to the basement. The door to the garage is also in this area.

The basement has Rory's room and games and TV and such, with a small library.

Interior upstairs, with Adam's room filled in. Six rooms, two bathrooms total.

I'm not of a mind to do the garage's interior.

I also spent some time howling online about the treason of 8 Democrats, who aligned with the GOP to end the shutdown. I don't think they expected the pushback and anger being directed at them. They've already posted videos justifying their decision.

That's the Democratic Party -- once, again, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. There's still a chance this vile deal won't happen. They have one more vote requiring 60 Senators to say Aye, so they might flip back. But it's not guaranteed.

Just like assurances from the GOP they'd hold a vote on the ACA credits are already vanishing, thanks to Johnson's refusal to promise a vote in the House. To no one's surprise.

I'm so disgusted with them...

When in doubt, make it up...

I sat down and spent a couple hours working out what I needed for the boys' home in Chapter Three, diagraming and sketching and tossing aside ideas, and searching the streets of Montréal to make sure I could do what I planned to do (thank you Google Maps). And what I came up with is livable. Even believable.

I went up the Island on Montréal to where the yards were more spacious and the St. Lawrence River merged with the Prairies River. I built a corner lot with lots of trees and shrubs, a detached garage in a back corner connected to the house by an enclosed walkway, and structured a house with two floors and a basement.

First floor is sitting room, dining room and kitchen on one side of a center hallway; the other side is the owner's living quarters. Six rooms upstairs, with gable windows, a bathroom and a closet of things. The basement is the game room and library, with another private room for one of the boys and another bathroom.

The garage has been done over into two rooms where the boys go to meet with their visitors. Also, while drugs are not officially allowed that is not strictly enforced. Adam does pot in a bong and smokes cigarettes, and a couple of the boys use drugs to numb being used.

I feel a lot better about it, now. I might add a second bathroom upstairs. I'll think about that. But it would make sense. Maybe one that's just a shower, no tub. And a free-standing pool in back?

I like being at the point where I can fuss over details instead of messy structure.

Plausibility problem

I've run headlong into an issue that really cannot be shoved aside. Adam is handled as a runaway by the authorities. Because his parents do not want him back, he is handed over to a foster home. Where the owner of the home is really a pimp for the boys staying there. Only boys. Mid-teens.

The intent is for them to have a place to live until they're old enough to handle things on their own. But it's really a male whorehouse, with carefully selected clients who drop by for their fun.

Well, that's raised an issue I cannot get around. Where can this kind of place be situated, in Montréal? If it's in a residential area, neighbors will eventually notice the comings and going of middle-age males into the house.

If it's located in an industrial area that's pretty much shut down after six, it would stand out as unusual and bring unwanted attention. Putting it downtown doesn't work, either, nor in the Old City.

No matter what, the way I have it written now is not realistic. And I'm blocked trying to figure it out. Because the alternative at the moment is for Adam to be homeless and standing outside the bus stations waiting for some old man to pick him up and pay him enough to buy a meal and room for the night.

That or wind up a kept boy for sugar-daddy kind of guy. And neither really works for me.

I've thought of just passing by it, but this part of his life informs on so much else so it needs to work. Otherwise, I'd have to chuck large portions of what I've already written and infused into his story with Dair.

And Adam's not exactly being helpful. The little shit.

I may have to get rid of my car...

I just spent $1000+ getting it in shape for winter. Tires rotated, new oil, full fluids, air filter, tune up with new plugs and distributor cap, oil seepage noted, battery replaced, lubes and labor...and a lecture on how my car's body needs attention. Which it does, but I only have 1 rust spot on it; the rest are just dings.

In the last 12 months I've spent thousands of dollars on it. I love my car, but for that kind of money I could be in a new one that's under warrantee. I like the HRVs, except for all the electronic crap and it not being available with a stick. It would have been the right height for me to get in and out of, though.

Thing is, I can't keep up this kind of expense. $1300 a year for insurance! Things going wrong because the car's 27 years old? And I don't even drive it that much. Maybe 200-250 miles a month. There's been occasions I've gone 2 months before needing to gas up.

But having a car helps so much. Groceries. Dr. appointments. Going into Caladex, now and then. I mean, I could do that on the bus; I managed in LA for nearly 2 years, with no car. But it's a real hassle. And Uber's not that cheap.

Crap, I don't need to be worrying about this, right now. I had the money, fortunately...so I didn't have to hit up my savings. I'm just...just tired of always being on the edge of broke.

Of course, Adam is saying, Let's use this for me. Even more-so, because I have no driving license. To which I reply, It's not the same fucking thing, asshole.

I dunno...maybe the fates are telling me it's time to stop driving before I hurt somebody. Even though I haven't hit anyone in nearly three years, and that time was so slight it didn't cost much to handle.

Shit, is anybody out there willing to gift me half a million bucks so I can move to Dublin or London?

Nothing on DW, today...

This is what I've been doing. I'm sick and tired of Democrats barely fighting back against the GOP's shutdown of the government and their push towards fascism, so I worked this up and have been spreading it around. Sent it off to both my Senators...Gillibrand and Schumer...and Rep. Kennedy.

It's not much, and I have no idea if it will get any traction, but I have gotten some decent feedback. And this image of the moon caught in a rainbow makes me feel hopeful.

Would you be willing to do the following to fight back against the GOP, on behalf of Democrats?

1. Rallies like AOC and Bernie did? 

• a. Record them 
• b. Talk to people 
• c. Broadcast it on their social media 

2. Hold town halls in across the state? 

• a. Record them 
• b. Talk to people 
• c. Broadcast it on your social media 

3. Hold town halls in Republican districts? 

• a. “Your rep may not care but we do.” 
• b. Record them 
• c. Talk to people 
• d. Broadcast it on your social media 

4. Make it clear to the MSM Democrats are in Washington ready to talk while Republicans are on vacation? 

• a. News conferences. 
• b. Going on MSM and cable news to press the case and keep blaming Republicans for this 
• c. Argue back when any moderator tries to make it Democrats’ fault 

5. Table setups like Yassamin Ansari outside the Speaker’s office? 

6. Go en mass to the White House to meet with the president? He won’t do it, but the optics would be great for us. 

7. Keep publicizing the hell out of what’s been shut down and how it’s affecting Americans? 

• a. Museums in Washington 
• b. Air traffic control disrupting holiday travel and damaging safety

For some reason it's gotten me three message requests on Instagram from women who want to show me their tits. Blocked 'em all. That is NOT my thing. I just hope it resonates with other Democrats and liberals.

Discomforting...

I tapped into a part of me I usually try to ignore, today. I sat down and opened a Word doc to add notes to DW...and instead wrote about Reynard appearing outside the home Adam now lives in.

How did he find Adam? Reynard inadvertently reveals Rory, one of the boys in the home, wrote to their parents, but instead of reading the letter, they'd shredded it. Reynard saw the return address in the trash and came to demand Adam help him.

The Lécuyers believe Reynard was hiding Adam's homosexuality and are punishing him for it. Without really knowing what he's doing, he lets Adam know his parents consider him dead, and he acts like it's Adam's duty to clarify that him choosing to be gay was a secret from him as well. 

Deeply hurt, Adam punches him. They get into a serious brawl in front of the home and the good Christian man who pimps Adam out has to intervene. Reynard runs off, and Adam is left bloodied and blank of mind...and aware that the life he was trying to build in that home is no more.

This...part of this...grew out of something that happened to me as a child. I was born with health issues, some very serious. Turned out, my father had knocked up another woman, just before my mother became pregnant, and she'd borne him a healthy son. So he decided he didn't want me or my mother; he wanted to stay with that woman.

My mother and I were shipped off to San Antonio, to live. My mother got married, again, when I was four to man in the Air Force. In order for me to get benefits, I had to be his legal child, so she contacted my father and asked if it would be okay for him to adopt me.

My father, effectively, said, "Yeah, sure, take him. I don't want him." So when I was five, I was given a new last name -- Sullivan. Didn't see anyone in my father's side of the family till I was in my twenties.

The abandonment of this still messes with me and my belief I'm not worthy of being wanted. Doesn't help many other aspects of my life reinforced this feeling. Things I had had no control over. But this is mainly responsible for me being alone for the last forty years.

Adam is bringing this forward...and I'm letting him...but shit, it fucks me up.

Not rushing...

I'm fighting my natural inclination to make what I've written good-enough for now so I can jump to the next part, but instead am making myself redo each chapter till they are as tight as I can make them. 

I've almost worked like this, before, but cast it aside once I reached a certain point in the story. I'm not doing that, this time. This book is not going to be good, if I can help it; it will be fan-fucking-tastic.

My initial work with APoS was like that, but more like getting it into order. Roughing it out. Then I began working through each volume A-Z, and that seemed to do right for it. I wanted a bit of sweep to the story as well as centering it in Brendan's life.

With DW, I want it more intimate. No real sweep; just people existing and connecting and ricocheting off each other...

Wow...I just had an image of pool balls clacking all over the table but not dropping into the pockets. Funny.

...Anyway, for that to work I need to have a solid grasp of their stories. Not just Adam's and Dair's, but peripheral characters like Loren...and Rory...and even Reynard, Adam's brother.

He shows up outside the home and wants Adam to say he's okay with how things turned out. Suggests it's his own fault he had to be outed. Didn't expect so violent a reaction. And gets angry when Adam refuses to provide him with absolution.

That'll be in Chapter Four, where Adam winds up beaten by a visitor and decides to leave Montréal. His attitude will be, No matter where I go, it cannot be worse than where I am.

I've done that, myself, but always fallen back into the same habits. I'm hoping I can work with Adam not to let that happen with his story...

When in doubt...

Add a new character and some dialogue. This image popped up on Tumblr and it was so filled with emotion, I had to use it in Dair's Window.

This kid looks exhausted and a bit lost, to me. Been workin' his ass off and now is having maybe some soup or stew for lunch, with a cup of coffee next to him. And a smoke. Before getting back to the grind.

I added it to a part of Chapter Three where one of the guys disappears, overnight, and Adam notices this guy is turning over the soil in the flowerbeds behind the house...and starts a conversation...

Because he finds the guy attractive. His name's Loren, and it comes out he's married, has a kid...and was a former inhabitant of the house.

That added so many levels of possibility that this whole section got shifted to Chapter Four, leaving me plenty of room to expand on the boys in Chapter Three. I want to keep it under 3000 words? Done.

All without a deliberate plan. just being open to opportunities that might arise.

I keep telling myself to trust the process then do everything I can not to trust it. Silly me.

My only worry, now, is keeping it from turning into padding, making the story bigger while adding nothing. I can easily do that.

Chapter Three of DW is not going right...

I'm doing my usual thing of going through it and peeling back layers, slowly, slowly, very slowly...and it still doesn't feel right. I don't get a sense that the boys in that house are really inhabiting space in Adam's story. More like cyphers.

There are 7 boys between the ages of 15 and 17, with Rory always jockeying to be the alpha dog, but they're all still so bland and unreal. The thing is, I'm not 100% I need more than that because once Adam leaves the house he doesn't see them or contact them, again.

So I'll keep doing passes until I feel I've gone as deep as I can go, with them.

I've set it up like a New Orleans whorehouse, but with clients who have to make appointments and come in at different times so no one sees anyone else. If that's even possible. Another aspect of this part of the story I need to make sure about.

I dunno...maybe I'm just getting to be too anal on this. I can be. It could also be wariness about being too open about the sexual hijinks that could be going on.

Except, they have to reserve that for their visitors. And I've established that two of them have to take drugs to handle what they're doing. Which leads to problems. Which could be explored a bit more.

The only consistent thought between them all is, where they currently live is a lot better than the abusive homes, where they were. The man running the house is very careful as to which boys he chooses to live there.

Tootsie roll bites...

I was a bad boy. I had a small bowl of Tootsie Roll bites on the shelf where I keep my keys and wallet because I like to take a couple of them with me when I go out. If I have a low-blood-sugar episode, they're good for combating that. Before them, I'd kept Starlight peppermints. I should have stuck with those.

I had a wild attack of needing chocolate, this evening, so ate all the Tootsie Rolls. With a glass of milk, at least, to mitigate some of it. But now I'm feeling weird. ODing on the candy? Damn. I'm so fucking self-indulgent.

BUT...I got through two passes on Chapter Three of DW. Fleshed out the boys Adam is roomed with...well, each in his own room. Because each takes care of his male clients in his room.

Rory, Eric, Trey, Luc, Carlo and Tevean, all in the 15 to 17 year-old range. I made a note in the story that the age of consent in Canada in the middle 90s was 14, with some restrictions, but also this is violating all sorts of laws against prostitution so it's rather moot. I think the current age of consent is 16.

Nothing that happens sexually is detailed. I don't want anyone claiming this is kiddie porn. The fact is, I don't like writing about having sex with underage boys. It's just plain nasty. I lust over men, like Chris Evans. Especially since he's a daddy, now. I wouldn't mind doing some father-fucking with him.

Anyway, this is part of Adam's past and important to the story, later. This part includes him finding out he loves poetry, thanks to one visitor who just wants him to read it to him. No sex. Just companionship. So he writes about it in his journal...and it's what keeps him from becoming an uncaring beast.

Like the world around him is becoming.

On to Chapter Three...

It's Hallowe'en and I'd love to go trick or treating with Dave. Maybe trick and treating. This costume of his is just so...so enticing, to me. 

I did another pass on Chapter Two of DW, cutting it back a little bit more. But I'm now at the point of deciding if I use a or the in a sentence, so it's time to move on.

At the end of the chapter, Adam was been handed over to a foster home for boys run by a good Christian man...who pimps them out to a select clientele of married men. Hit a spot where I glossed over Adam's new associates--Rory, Eric, Trey, Luc, Carlo and Trevean--so need to address that.

Digging through the parts I've already written, I did find a couple of descriptions of Rory, Eric and Trey, but mostly it's going to be working them up from basics. So Chapter Three is going to take some work.

This is where Adam heals after being kicked out of his home and abandoned by everyone. He finally begins to understand his life is completely different now. No one will be coming to save him, so he's on his own. But he's smart and observant and develops a plan to leave on his own terms. If he'll be allowed to.

I may break this part in half. It's 17 pages and I'll be adding more in. We'll see how much larger it gets to be.

I have my website for the mainstream books all set with everything available. I'm trying to push all my books more but not doing a very good job of it. I'm blank when it comes to salesmanship. I'm going to talk to Emily Jackson about setting up another page on WordPress for my MM erotica, to give me something to refer people to. Dunno if that's possible without paying a shitload more.

And therein likes the issue -- I don't know what I can and can't do online. I guess I should work on that, some...

Short chapters mean...

"Echoes of the Path"
Yeah Wang

Careful dissection of what Adam is saying...so far. Chapter Two is 3100 words on 13 pages, and bit by bit I'm removing a lot of the superfluous commentary that's meant to soften the reading. This is not a part that should be read with comfort. Adam is talking about being thrown out of his home because he's gay, and how the judicial system in Montreal was as casually callous with him as his parents were.

So far it's going well, working like this. Not overwhelming like it sometimes was with APoS. I've gone over this chapter probably five times, not as rewrites but almost as a detective seeking to remove anything superfluous. Or even a poet digging for just the right word. 

I'm also making certain Adam's voice retains a bit of the poet as he lays out his life, up to his death...and then even his afterlife. I want the reader to know he's intelligent, creative and capable of just about anything. Even though he's a sex-worker, throughout.

I have to admit I had an odd reaction at learning a previous man I'd used as a model for Dair has an Only Fans page and posts clips of him having sex with his boyfriend or lover or whatever. It's silly of me, because he's doing exactly what is necessary for him to make a living. Like Adam does. At least, to make enough of a living to pay off student loans and still have a decent level of existence.

But I felt put off. A bit disappointed. And it's only because I saw him in one way and he turned out to be as human as anybody else. If I know from the outset you've worked in porn or on Only Fans, I got no problem with that. It's having to adjust my view of you to incorporate this new side of you that troubles me.

I'm using that silly reaction of mine to color some characters' attitudes. Others won't give a damn. Like how I feel about him, now...which, admittedly, I had to argue myself into.

Sometimes I wonder if there's still too much Presbyterian in me...

Thoughts for the day...

Since I'm brain dead, right now...

Finding my writing rhythm with DW...

I'm working on a chapter at a time, till it's ready. Keeping them at about 2800-3200 words. Blending the words as best I can into Adam's manner of speech. There will be no long chapters in this book. And even if I do no writing, I'll still be moving forward with it.

I managed to make it to my 9am appointment, today. Where my stomach got scanned in a bunch of odd poses...which brought on a headache. I've always had issues with the left side of my neck. It's where the vast majority of my headaches start, and today I think I pinched a nerve in there, or something...to where I could not focus or think.

So I took a long nap...2 hours. And would have gone longer but I set my alarm to get up. That helped enough to where I could go through Chapter Two of Adam's portion of the book. And hone it more.

He's revealing how he was outed by his brother and kicked out of his home, and how the authorities treated him like a problem so put him with a man who became his pimp.

I'm being careful in this area, because even though the legal age of consent in Canada is fourteen, and Adam's fifteen at the time, in the US that's a serious issue. I'm no pedophile; I don't like boys, I like men. But that won't keep people from claiming otherwise to suit their own agenda.

I'm fighting with myself to keep Adam's story as honest as possible...so we'll see how it goes. I'm going to do another pass on this chapter, then move to the next one...which will really be the problematic one.

I dealt with Father Damian's molestation of Danny in a very oblique way that made it clear what was going on without saying it. Don't think I can get away with that, here.

And maybe I don't want to.

Late riser...

I hate getting up in the morning, at least not before 10:30. It's hard as hell for me to go to bed before 2 so that makes for a good 8 hours of sleep, and there have been many occasions where I'd sleep till noon...usually after staying up till 4am...or even 5.

Once I lie down, I rarely have trouble dropping into slumber; it's actually making myself stop and accept that I need the rest that's the issue. I'm using this in Dair, who can get so into working on one of this stained glass projects, he neglects sleep and food and rest because he's afraid he'll lose the link or spark he's got for the piece.

Adam was good about sensing when Dair needed to be pulled back from the abyss, even when he didn't know it, himself. He'd quietly guide Dair into the real world and soothe him and keep him fed, which adds to Dair's extreme sense of loss after Adam dies. No one is watching over him, not like Adam did. Now Dair is adrift, unable to regain his center...something Wallace can't even understand, let alone help him with.

The more I get into this story, the more I see one important aspect of it is Dair's unconditional love for Adam. Because even though Adam stole from him and pushed him away, at times, and manipulated him...he didn't care. He loved Adam for being more than a partner; he was Dair's protector.

I'm not sure how I can handle that dichotomy in Adam except to watch as Wallace tears him down in every legal sense...thanks to the lawsuit brought by Adam's parents...and Dair sees the man is killing Adam all over again.

Or something like that. I dunno. It's early in the writing, yet. But it's getting me excited about the story, again.

Poetry...

Adam wrote a poem. In Quebecois. No idea if it's any good; I've never studied poetry and my French is crap...but it's at the end of chapter one, now.

Aucun ange
Celui
Qui s'est faufilé dans mon monde
Au-delà de la peur de ceux
Qui ne se soucient de rien

Aucune créature 

Celui 

Qui a l'habitude de se régaler 

D'un 

Sans armure 

Au-delà de sa connaissance 

C'est sa seule vérité

L'accepter 

C'est mentir à mon passé 

Sans 

Besoin de correction 

Pour moi 

Le connaître 

C'est rejeter tout ce que j'ai 

De moi-même 

Afin de pouvoir reconstruire 

Un monde dont 

Je pourrais être 

Plus qu'une partie

La terreur de tout ça 

Est exquise

Ma peur 

Me pousse 

À accepter 

La beauté qu'il offre. 

Pour que je puisse me reposer... 

Enfin... 

Enfin... 

Me reposer...

Translation:

No angel 

He 

Who slipped through my world 

Past fear of those 

Who care for nothing 

No creature

He

Whose wont to feast 

On one 

With no suit of armor 

Beyond his understanding 

Is his only truth 

To accept 

Him 

Is to lie to my past 

Without 

Need for correction

To know 

Him 

Is to reject all I hold 

And own 

Of myself 

So I might build anew 

A world in which I can be more 

Then a part of 

The terror of this 

Is exquisite

My fear 

Drives me 

To accept 

The beauty he offers

So I might rest... 

Finally... 

Finally... 

Rest...

Step away from the keyboard...

To an extent, I did. Just a bit of posting on FaceBook, Xitter and Instagram...while mainly staying away from the chaos. I've finally accepted the MAGAt Cult is not going to acknowledge their hypocrisy, and pointing it out to them is a waste of time. It's like trying to soothe a rabid dog. You can't; you'll just get bit.

So gazing upon this image of a meadow in Snoqualmie, Washington, helped shift me back to a version of self-control. What I found most interesting about the region was how the mountains jut up straight from the plain. No foothills leading you to the cliffs. So I'll need to change the description of the area in Dair's Window.

That led me to working with Adam to find his voice and transfer it to the page. I changed up the opening a bit and cut away a lot of chatter. Dropped a few hundred words. He's more melodious, now, so my focus will be to continue that through chapter two, when he's talking about being kicked out of his home for being gay.

I've decided to do his story through to the point of his death, then shift to Dair's. Adam's is first person; Dair's is third person, with comments from Adam sprinkled through. 

I'm wondering...the old argument about putting one space or two after a period, when typing, is back. I can go either way, so which would be easiest to read? Does it even really matter? I'm open to responses.

And obviously, I'm in a much better mood than yesterday.

Wrecked...

There was so much bullshit, today, I feel beaten to nothing. Depressed. Shaken. Melancholy even. Which used to be a medical term for women. Melancholia or something?

For a clinical explanation, melancholia is a severe form of major depressive disorder characterized by a profound loss of pleasure, a slowing of thought and activity, and feelings of despair and excessive guilt.

That's me to a fucking T, right now. I know much of it is due to the insane political situation we have, where the GOP has gone full MAGAt Cult and Democrats are barely even trying to fight back. Where Felon47 can tear down a large portion of the White House on a whim and steal money from the government with impunity. Where people are being attacked and imprisoned based on racism and hate. And there ain't jack shit I can do about that...except scream into the void.

I've been told I'm an empath, which is basically characterized by being highly attuned to the emotions and energies of others, often feeling them as if they were their own. Includes deep intuition, profound empathy, high sensitivity, and a strong drive to help others, that can lead to emotional exhaustion and stress.

Maybe. That could be why I only write stories about the rape and murder of men, and don't actually do it. I'm too connected to any pain I might cause.

But as I'm writing this, I haven't been able to re-set myself. Reboot me. Whatever. I'm half-hunched over, not sitting up straight or even comfortably. I'm in one of my lost phases and want nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the next few years away.

Which is not an option...dammit.

Shifting back on track...

I'm working at the office, tomorrow, probably not all day. Just checking paperwork for dealers coming to the US for Boston. Did one, today, that was intense. Found a couple errors that could have cost some money in fines. But that's why we do it.

Also made a meatloaf and a pot roast. The first in the oven, the latter in a crock pot. Turned out well but what a mess I make when cooking.

I'm still playing with the idea of doing coloring books for my characters, but not as seriously as I should, yet. More like for fun. I want to get Dair's Window done and it's going to take a lot of focus. I need to make certain it's not meandering too much.

There is a lot to the story...not just about Adam and Dair, but also their friends and family. How Dair's brother, Gareth, winds up trapped in a marriage with three daughters. And Marvo, a longtime gay friend, escaped an abusive relationship and drugs.

And...Adam's time in the porn industry, where he learned how to take care of himself...even at the expense of others. Something he plans to do with Dair but is softened by Dair's trust and caring when put in a position of providing him some protection from homophobes.

And we can't forget Jackson and Setsuko, who are having a kid, and Wallace's one-time involvement with him in Tokyo...with Setsuko's knowledge. Damn, this story is going to be as long as Don Quixote and Moby Dick, combined.

Nothing unusual, for me.

Mr. Self-indulgence

Didn't feel up to anything, today, so went to Panera for a salad. Then Wegman's for some groceries. Then WalMart for Sandwich Spread (since it's the only place in town that carries it). Then Tops to get the things I couldn't find at Wegman's. Then to home. All in a steady rain.

Made tostadas for dinner and used this evening to pull together images for a potential coloring book to illuminate my characters. One for the mainstream books and one for the erotica...and maybe one just for APoS? It's becoming very involved and expanding and a bit overwhelming. BA, alone, is 18 images.

I want to give a taste of everyone important in the books, but that may be overreaching. I'm up to 76 images, and that's really 3 coloring books. And a lot of work...and that's without even factoring in Dair's Window.

Oh, well...doesn't hurt to wonder about doing it...

I finally found and duplicated a file of Adam's ditties for DW, saving it to my desktop, to sprinkle through the story. I already know this story is going to take well over a year to write, if I want to do it correctly. Right now, I'm still digging through the massive amount of writing I've already done on it, much of which is effectively going into the bin.

Still on the tired side from the Seattle job, even though I slept really well, last night. Just got to keep getting up when it's morning. I could easily sleep past noon...but then, I usually got to bed between 2 and 3 am.

Total night owl.

What a weekend...

I flew to Seattle on Friday, pretty much on-time with my connections and everything. Got to my hotel...a Best Western right by SeaTac...and the WiFi was crap. I could barely get on, it was slow as shit, and I kept getting bumped off, like every five minutes, then put back on 5-10 seconds later.

I hate using my phone's hot-spot but had to in order to answer emails and prep for the fair move-out. It's owned by Caladex and I have no idea what the media costs are. When I ask I get shrugged off. So no recreational work done, online.

I rented a car for Saturday and drove up into the mountains along the 90, east of Seattle, to get a better idea of how it works up there. I wanted to get a feel for the are Dair's Window is set in, and I'm glad I did. Even though the story takes place in the first decade of this century, I could see where I was being unrealistic about a few aspects of the area. Better to know now than later.

I missed the No Kings demonstration, here, but will attend the next one, in Buffalo. I may even get an inflatable character to wear when I do it.

The fair went all right. I had 4 dealers to handle and had to shrink-wrap 4 pallets, which really wears you out if you do it right. I can only hope I did, because I don't normally do that kind of thing. But I was exhausted by the time it was done.

Walking back to the monorail, I saw this great image of the Space Needle so took a couple shots. I like this one, where it's reflected in the Museum of Pop Culture building. And the color is so right for near Halloween. Looks kind of like a space alien from a 50s horror film.

On the flights, there was minimal room so I read two books -- Hang On, St. Christopher by Adrian McKinty, which was good...though I do feel the ending was a bit rushed, and The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie...which was weird. It was published in 1929 and parts were funny, but it had a dozen characters running around calling each other by 2-3 different names, so got a bit confusing. And I didn't really buy the explanation.

My return flights were okay, though I did have to book it from the end of Concourse B to the end of Concourse A, in Denver, within 10 minutes to make my connection. And that flight had the most uncomfortable seats. But I got home...a bit late...and slept til 11:30am.

Thinking too much?

This is dealing with not only my trip to Seattle, tomorrow, but also flying to Hong Kong at the beginning of December, for Firsts China Book Fair.

First, Seattle. I'm going through JFK on JetBlue. I've done what I can to prepare for any issues thanks to the MAGAt Class shutting down the government, so now it's just a case of we'll see what happens. I have an extra day I can use to get there, if need be.

My return is on United, through Denver, on Monday. For my own peace of mind, I bought travel insurance for both. Hopefully, I won't need it.

The main deal is the trip to Hong Kong. I'm flying on Korean Air Lines out of Toronto's Pearson Airport. I have to change planes in Inchon, which is a modern airport but still...when I'd go Cathy it was a straight flight. The one positive here is, I'm going business class, so it should be a lot more comfortable.

The issue is getting to Pearson. My thought was to grab a bus in Buffalo and just ride that up, the day before, then spend the night in a hotel by the airport. It means going to the downtown Toronto bus depot and catching a train out to Pearson, where I'd get the hotel shuttle to pick me up, but it seemed straightforward.

Got talked out of that because "going through customs could be hours" (according to the people I'm working for). They said they's take me to St. Catharines, on the Canadian side, and I could catch a train or bus from there. Seems convoluted, but they're the ones paying the bill so...

Thing is, the bus and train schedules suck. Massively. And returning? Even worse. I tried it a half-dozen ways and nothing was happiness, in any way. Even looked into leaving from Niagara Falls, Canada...and that's crappy, too.

I'm so bummed by it, I'm more open to just driving up in my '98 Civic and parking it. But it'll be the beginning of winter and it's a hundred miles. I like to think my car is good for that, but I can't be sure.

It's really ridiculous that such a major Canadian airport doesn't have constant bus or rail traffic to connect it with local cities, like they do in Europe and the UK.

Rough day online...

I really should stay off the internet, because the horror that's building in America is reminding me too damned much of the buildup to The Troubles in Northern Ireland. Which lasted from 1968 to 1998, and killed thousands.

Protestants treated Catholics like shit for decades, refusing to give them even the minimal rights they wanted -- 1-man, 1-vote; decent housing; access to jobs. It reached the point of no return when the People's March calling for those rights was attacked on January 4th, 1969 at Burntollet Bridge. There, with the help of the Constabulary, Protestants attacked peaceful marchers, injuring dozens.

That led to a back and forth that built up to the Battle of Bogside, in August 1969, when Catholics refused to tolerate the insults and discrimination any further.

The British Army was brought in after days of fighting, ostensibly to protect Catholics from Protestants...but wound up taking the side of Protestants and demonizing and attacking Catholics. This gave rise to shoot-offs of the IRA...PIRA, OIRA, INLA, who fought back with bombings and murders and it went back and forth and back and forth and didn't stop until the leaders of both sides finally grew too old and tired to fight, anymore.

And Catholics were given pretty much what they asked for in 1968. Years of death and destruction that could have been avoided by people willing to talk to each other. But Protestant stupidity and stubbornness sabotaged every attempt to end the chaos. And I do lay the main responsibility on them, especially a loud and evil Presbyterian minister named Ian Paisley.

The part that hits me most is, the British Army was blaming the IRA for everything that happened, even before it was a workable organization. It was weak and disorganized, and labeled with the moniker I Ran Away...until it formed into the only group willing to truly defend the Catholic Community from the hate and destruction of the other side.

That is so damned much like how the DoJ blames ANTIFA for the pushback against their tyranny...an organization that does not exist. And like Protestants were allowed to do just about anything they wanted, by the the British Army, same happens with the MAGAt Class.

There was arrest and imprisonment without warrant, interrogations by torture, inhuman confinement conditions, almost all against Catholics...and that bullshit is being parroted by ICE and the DoJ against anyone they please. Citizen or not. White or minority.

The lead in A Place of Safety, Brendan Kinsella, experiences all of this between the ages of 10 and 25 -- the riots, the slaughters, the bombings, the chaos, including arrest, torture, and accusations from both sides that he's working against them. And I fear all of that is going to happen here.

We already have one side rejoicing in the terrorism of the ICE/Gestapo and calling for people to be killed, just like Protestants did in Northern Ireland. Uniformed thugs wander the streets of Chicago and Portland and LA and DC, attacking whomever they want, like the Army did in Derry and Belfast. And the powers that be celebrate this while the opposition is limited to a few voices with little support from their own party.

How long before there are massacres like Bloody Sunday in Derry and in Ballymurphy? Pam Biondi, Kristi Noem and Karoline Leavitt seem willing to champion that while blaming everything on an idea that is not an organization, but by its very name opposes the fascism they want to force on us all. All in the name of the most vile of men, ever. A convicted felon who's molested children.

It's scary.

More of the DW's chapter...

This image was made for me by the woman I hired to promote my books. Can't believe how good she made me look.

Now this part continues straight from yesterday's post.

-----------

“You got a suit?” 

I nodded. “Of navy blue.” Which had been carefully tailored to fit, and I had been very careful with. Much of my clothing was fine, but this was Hugo Boss. One is not casual with such. 

“Didn’t realize.” 

“Well...I do not wear my finer clothing when I work.” 

He nodded then removed the tux. The snow was deep and growing dirty from traffic, so we put it on a broad hanger and into a garment bag, then we drove straight to Tidwika. There, I dressed him, again, to as fine an effect. And again, fixed his tie.

And this time he gave me soft giggles as a response.

My own suit was already on-hand; it had been well-cleaned and pressed by the hotel staff, the day before, as had my light pink silk shirt and burgundy tie. My shoes were old but nicely-polished so you could not tell. And when I was done with own ensemble, I know I looked good.

But then, in Hugo Boss, with my face newly shaved and hair freshly cut, how could I not?

I turned to see him looking at me...and the lines of joy on his face came into full view. Giving him a beauty that cannot be described except as a tender sort of pleasure. My poet, within, sprang forth and said, We will remember this...and honor it.

"There," I said, to cover how affected I was, "we now have the appearance of elegant young gentlemen."

He only grinned and off we went to the Great Room.

The ceremony was sweet and simple, set against the tall window looking up the slopes, skiers dancing down for one last run before returning home. Abigail, Bethany and Chloe led Marion up to husband number three...

Who wore what can only be described as Nashville chic, from the glittering designs on the chest and back of his powder blue suit. And the odd cut of his lapels. I would swear I saw Marion’s eyes widen in shock at seeing it.

A justice of the peace from North Bend officiated and we behaved ourselves well during Marion's latest gamble. But from the glances her current husband cast me, more than once, I knew it would not be a permanent union. I hoped she would be happy for a while. 

After the reception, Dair and I returned to the room to change back into our regular clothes. Neither of us had indulged too greatly in the sparkling wine from Washington and Oregon. Nor did we wish to risk ruining our finery. But I had brought with me a bottle of one that was quite acceptable, and intended to sit before the fireplace by the Great Room and finish the bottle. With Dair, were he open to it. 

He was so much easier in that tux, now, I almost wanted him to remain in it. Such a lovely image, he presented. Especially when leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, on one shoulder, hands back in pockets, his face gentle but his eyes lost in thought. 

Finally he asked, “You think people like us’ll ever get to be married?” 

I had just hung up my suit coat and was unbuttoning my shirt. “To those we love? Who can say? There is too much religion in government for the answer to be simple.” 

I removed my shirt and also put it on a hanger. While I had worn a Ralph Lauren undershirt so my silk one would not be too soiled, I still wanted it to be properly handled by a cleaner. 

“Do you not wish to remove that horrible tux?” I joked. 

He shrugged. “I feeling okay enough in it.” He looked me over in a way I was too aware of. “Mom got you to get me into this thing, didn’t she?” 

I shrugged. “I believe she feared you would join the procession in your overalls.” 

He chuckled. “I might have.” 

“Here.” I slipped around behind him and helped him off with his jacket, then put it on a hanger. 

“You take care of things,” he almost whispered. 

I had to nod. “I am not so rich that I can afford to replace anything I misuse.” Then added, “And this is rented.” 

I removed the little black studs in his shirt, careful to replace them into the box they had come in. Same for the cufflinks. As I began to slip the shirt off him, he took hold of my hands. 

I knew what he wanted, but I still joked, “You wish to sleep in this suit?” 

His expression did not change. Only his eyes grew sharp on mine and he drew his fingers up my right bicep and touched my face and my thoughts scattered in a thousand directions as he shifted closer and kissed me. 

“I want to undress you,” he murmured. 

There it was. 

I now had him. 

Owned him. 

Another man to bring into my fold, to add to my list of conquests. And it was not unwelcome. But... 

But I had planned for it to be in his home. In the lodge. In his bed. We had come so close, that day. Four months? Five months before? To join in his bed would have been so much better. Make a union between us more complete and...and so I backed away, smiling. 

I saw fear dash into his eyes as he said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have done that -- " 

My breath was sharp and my heart pounding as I heard myself saying, “Dair, keep in your mind...the gossip you have heard of me...well, I...I am not so good a person.” 

“So I’d have pay you...” 

My normal response would be to say, No, but my winter coat is so old, or I cannot think about that, right now, my shoes are so worn and in need of replacement. This time? I was wounded, deeply. He had heard the gossip...and it had taken hold of him...and...and...

And could think of nothing to say, except, “Non, never would I take money from you for that.”

Today's work on DW...

Leading up to January 1, 2001:

A week later was to be Marion's third wedding. At Tidwika in their Great Room, well-cleaned up after the previous night’s New Year's party. The very idea made Dair grumpy, for a silly reason. Marion asked him to be her Best Man. Meaning, he must wear a suit. 

“I don’t have one,” he’d growled. “I never wear them.” 

“Once won’t kill you,” she’d snapped back. “And I want you presentable for Jack.” Her soon-to-be husband. Who had, apparently, modeled for many romance novel covers, if one went by his looks. A face carved from granite. Dark hair touched with white. A physique to make mine look pale and weak, but on legs that made him appear top-heavy. 

Dair was huffing into irritation so I joked, “So then will I call you Mrs. Mellander?” 

“You do and I’ll make you into a Miss Lécuyer.” 

We both laughed, lightening the mood. 

But Dair still snarled, “I’m not buying something just to wear it one time. Or are you already planning on husband number four?” 

Marion turned to him and snapped, “Adair Carwyn Llewellyn...” 

So I cut in with, “You rent. Something in classic black? A tux, perhaps. En ensemble?” 

That made Marion smile, hopeful. “Oh, baby, that would be so lovely.” 

“But...but where can we get one here?” he asked. 

I held up a finger. “First, with Nordstroms we will check.” 

“In Seattle?” 

“They have the annex on the West End. We ask there.” 

Dair snorted and huffed off, leaving me with his mother. Who turned to me and murmured, “If you can make him presentable, even just for the pictures...” 

I chuckled. “Have faith, Marion.” Then I wandered down to my room at the Shamirs’. 

The very next day, I had to all but drag Dair to the Nordstrom's annex and found them most obliging. Despite him being in his overalls. I convinced him to remove them and stand there in his boxer briefs and undershirt so they could take his precise measurements. 

He looked so adorable, and I know he would hate to hear me say that. But his fine legs swirling with just the right amount of hair up to a lovely rear that curled around to a strong back. The young man with the tape measure was enjoying himself, greatly. So very amusing. 

The tux arrived on New Year’s Eve, so we stood before a mirror in the shop to make the final adjustments. Through all of which Dair rolled his eyes and growled, like an unruly beast. I could not believe how much I enjoyed this. I managed to convince him that the purchase of dress shoes and a fine silk handkerchief were worth the one-hundred dollars; the shirt and tie came with the tux. 

To no surprise, he did not know how to prepare a bow-tie. 

“Never had to before,” he muttered. “Got any I can just clip on?” 

The clerk blinked, in horror, and I waved him away before turning Dair to me. "You never had to wear a tie?" I asked as I slipped a loose one around his neck. 

"The regular kind, a couple times, but they were already made and clipped onto my collar." 

"Oh, mon dieu,” I chuckled as I pulled and wrapped and tucked the soft silk. He was such a little boy. “The one time mon pere suggested a clip-on to maman, she all but died from apoplexy. Much too low-class and unbefitting of a Lécuyer! She had gran’pere come to show us how. Which he did. Several times until Reynard and I could manage it, ourselves. Which made maman very happy. Shall I help you to learn, as well?" 

"I don’t wear suits and sure as hell not bow ties." 

“This is not a suit,” I sighed, finishing the tie. “It is a uniform to please your mother. C’est tout.” I turned him to look at himself in the mirror. 

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, it’s not gonna hurt me, I guess. It’s just...Gareth’s the I’m-a-suit guy and he’s not even comin’. I’m the one backin’ her up.” I said nothing, in reaction; did nothing. “That wife of his...well...at least she let my nieces be in the wedding party. Probably because she wants details about how it went down.” 

I gave him a gentle nod. “It will be his loss, and he will see this in years to come.” Then I grinned and saluted him in the mirror. “Et pour ta mère, nous qui sommes sur le point de mourir, t'honneur."

He laughed. "What?" 

"C'est un proverbe. A proverb. It means..." 

"Wait, wait, wait...lemme work it out. Uh...mourir is to die, nous is we...oh, oh, We who are about to die salute you!" 

I nodded. "You learn French?" 

He smiled at me, murmuring, "Just a little. Um, un petite peu. Helped me in France."

"With the doctor you met?"

He blushed and stepped back, slumped his shoulders a little, slipped his hands in the trouser pockets and muttered, "So does this really work for you?” 

Oh-la, he made such a lovely image, I could not help but whisper, "Oh, Dair, you are so much better looking than I." 

He laughed, said, "Liar. Now let’s see your tux."

"I am not in the wedding party, so I wear my own suit."