A Place of Safety - Derry / New World For Old / Home Not Home

A Place of Safety - Derry / New World For Old / Home Not Home
All three volumes are available in hardcover, paperback and ebook!

Wednesday, November 19, 2025

Back to Chapter 5...

I thought I was done with this chapter, for now, but it's become much more demanding and involved and in need of care. So I spent the day on it and let Adam lead me into his deepest thoughts as he walks away from the boys home he was forced to live in.

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

I know I felt pain from Reynard’s fists and feet, but it registered only in my head, not my heart. It meant nothing to me because... 

Because I was nothing.

I did not really know or...or truly understand what that meant except... 

Except I no longer existed. 

To Maman. Papa. Gra’mere and Gran’pere. Anyone who was of my blood. 

I was dead to them. 

I was nothing. 

Just as I was nothing to that decent Christian man, except to make him an income he never shared. Nothing to Rory except someone he did not like because he could not manipulate me. Nothing to any of the others. 

They would now search my room. Find my money and journal. Toss my books into their library, to be ignored. Give my clothes to the boy who would replace me. And I would be nothing, to any of them. 

How can I be nothing when still I feel the cold? When sharp icy air enters my lungs to be expelled as steam? When my heart beats fast and eyes water against the breezes whispering around me? When still my body aches from my brother’s anger? When one foot sweeps before the other and I move forward? Physically move forward. 

How is this nothing? 

I had no sense of time or place. I felt that it was after nine...maybe almost ten in the evening. The streets were dark. The few businesses closed. No restaurants to peek into with the hope of glimpsing a clock. No one else around to ask. Not that it truly mattered. 

I was nothing, so time was, as well. 

Somehow I found my way to Sherbrooke, which would lead me to the city center, so I continued to walk. Past rough structures and open spaces and areas for parking and commercial buildings, then apartment blocks and restaurants. Joined only by the little traffic of those returning home late from their day. 

I had finally begun to work the wet pages of my book apart so they would not stick together as they dried. My gloves were clumsy so I removed them, and my fingers did not like the icy air. But all that mattered was the care of my Stendhal. 

On and on I walked. In the chill night with only my damp jacket to warm me. But I appreciated how the cold kept my aches to a minimum, and helped the cuts on my face to clot. Sometimes I even put my arm with the still wet part of the sleeve up against my eye, which felt very good. 

Two times cars pulled up to my side, pacing me as I walked, and in them were older men asking me if I wanted a ride. Both times I only gave them a shake of my head and kept going. I could not deal with anyone who wanted anything from me, right then. 

As I continued, my thoughts remained scattered. Anger at Rory for writing my family. Fury at Reynard for finding me. Fear I might be arrested and returned to that decent Christian man’s home. Worries about what I could do. Thinking I should find the Gay Youth Group to ask for their help...then shaking off the thought for fear they might also turn on me. And mixed through it all was a sadness that I was now, without question, an orphan. 

That if I was dead to my parents, they also were dead to me. 

But I could not accept that thought.

Tuesday, November 18, 2025

The beginning of chapter six...

Adam's doing what he must to survive...

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This city was more cold than Montréal, from the lake's winds and snow blowing in. It cut through me as I hurried from the coach to enter the lovely, warm terminal. But I could stay in there only for so long; A guard was watching me. A teenage boy just arrived. Alone. Only a jacket to wear against the frigid breezes. No luggage. Early in the morning. Cuts and bruises on his face. Walking like an old man. With no question, he would make a call to the police about a runaway, and I would be returned to that home. So I only used the facilities and made myself leave. 

Toronto was madness. Construction everywhere. Towers of glass leaping to the sky. Hissing traffic. People who rushed about. So much more-so than in Montréal. At once, I was lost in its madness. At least the cold had lessened my pain. The coach had been warm, causing me to ache and hurt if I moved, so I had slept little, but in this city’s wind and snow I was too busy shivering for that to affect me. 

I wandered along Bay Street, growing more and more certain my decision to come here had been a mistake when I happened to notice the back of one of the curved towers of city hall. I had seen photos of it when I still was at school. I thought at least I could sit in there for a while, away from the chaos, and let my mind waken and let me form some kind of plan. 

I quickly strode around to the city hall's entrance, found a small coffee shop inside and had tea and a croissant. Enough to warm me and fill me, for now. 

To begin, I needed money. I had forty-two dollars left in my pocket. I had seen a notice for a youth hostel on a bulletin board at the coach terminal, offering rooms for ten dollars a night. I had known of a hostel up by the ski resort we visited, and had met some of the young people staying there. They loved the communal setting, low cost and close camaraderie, so I had memorized the address off the notice. This might be a good temporary solution, only I did not know where it was. 

So I gathered my courage and approached a guard to ask him. I told him that was where I was staying, but that I was lost. I held my copy of Stendhal in one hand and pretended I was much younger and more foolish, something many people think all sixteen year-old boys are. 

He led me to the information desk and they gave me a local map then showed me the hostel was just over a kilometer away. 

I sighed. "I now see I turned left instead of right," I said, laughing at myself. "My...my mother claims I do everything backwards." 

The woman behind the counter frowned at me. "Your family's at a hostel?" 

"No," I said, focusing on the map to hide my sudden fear. "My friends. We came from Ottawa on the coach, but they are not very easy to travel with. They want to do everything their way." 

The guard was eyeing my face. "You guys got in a fight?" 

I shrugged. "Only some pushing with Rory, and I fell. That is why I paid not much attention when I left the hostel. I was angry and...and I wanted someplace to sit and read my book." I held up the Stendahl. "This, I bought yesterday. But Eric and Rory prefer to run around. I think I am the only one who brought money enough with me." 

"I think you ought to stay someplace else," said the woman. Ooh-la...careful, Adam. 

I shrugged. "Tonight's room is already paid for, and we return to Ottawa, tomorrow. But I will not travel with them, again. They are idiots." 

I thanked them and made myself stroll away. Then I found the hostel and talked the desk clerk into letting me register early, so I might enjoy a nap. 

Enjoy? To wake up stiff and my body aching, stomach empty, and head hurting too much to formulate a plan for my time there? Hardly. I really wanted a long hot bath, but all they had was a communal shower. And I had no clean clothes with me. 

I left to search for a cheap place to eat, and passed a coin laundry close to the hostel. With several people inside, using it. In the middle of the week. While sitting and paying little attention to the washers. And dryers. 

So...I entered. Carefully. Sat on a bench near a long wall of dryers, reading my book, until I saw a man close to my size bring a trolley of his wet clothes over and slop them into an empty one. 

I watched them tumble. Almost mesmerizing. Then I casually looked at him. He was reading a thick book. Probably from university. So I opened his dryer and pulled out two pair of briefs and white socks. They still were damp, but I did not care. I set the machine to continue and hurried back to the hostel. 

I left my new items on the heating grill of my room and stood in the communal shower for fifteen minutes, just letting the hot water soothe me. Fortunately, no one was else around. 

I still was hungry, but I had been hungry before.

Monday, November 17, 2025

Back on track...

This afternoon I worked on Chapter Six, where Adam is in Toronto and getting reoriented. He steals some clothes and starts haunting the coach terminal to let men pick him up and pay him for sex. It's dangerous and he's almost arrested by an undercover cop, but it gets him cash enough to pay for a room in a youth hostel and buy a winter coat at a second hand store.

After more than two weeks of this, he finally gets picked up by a porn producer, and that will be Chapter Seven. So I took a break and went online...

I really need to avoid social media, right now. because I feel like I'm drowning. I inadvertently saw and heard that clip of a caller asking Dean Withers...on his live podcast...to explain why it is wrong to rape children. And he didn't just ask it once. He pursued it. Insulted Dean for not giving him his explanation immediately.

This is on top of Megyn Kelly claiming it's not pedophilia if a grown man has sex with a 15 year-old girl. Megyn Kelly! Who used to be a fukkking attorney and should know better.

Then another guy posted a comment on Instagram about how "leftists want to add the MAPS flag to the gay pride flag." MAPS stands for Minor Attracted Persons Society. The rebranded name for NAMBLA, branching out to include little girls. He thinks we want that filth mixed into the Pride and/or Trans flag.

I'm so repulsed by this, I can't think. I went back to Chapter Six and read through it, again, to try and clear my head but the abject moral bankruptcy of someone even mouthing these questions and comments still tears at me.

I know some of my turmoil stems from me writing that boys in their middle teens are being used for sex in that decent Christian man's home. But I make it clear this is not right. Adam goes along with it because his other choices are juvenile detention or living on the street in winter. It is not a good situation.

It's all but sanctioned by the state and the church. It's hypocrisy defined. And it leads to destruction and death, later. Not once is it justified. So to have someone actually voice that question has shaken me and made me second guess my work...and expanded on my disgust with humanity.

I need to stop, for a while, and ignore the world. It's become too much of a pig stye.

Sunday, November 16, 2025

Beginning of Chapter 5?

Not sure yet, but this works on its own...as Adam is walking away from the boys' home.

-------

Somehow I found my way to Sherbrooke, which I knew would lead me to the city center. So on I walked. Past rough buildings and open spaces and areas for parking and commercial buildings, then apartment blocks and restaurants. Joined only by the little traffic of those returning home late from their day. 

I had the sense that when I walked out the door, it was after nine...maybe almost ten in the evening. Most businesses were closed and a peek into restaurants offered no glimpse of a clock, so could not verify. 

On and on I walked. In the cold night air with only my damp jacket to warm me. But it was enough against the wind. I appreciated how the chill kept my aches to a minimum, and stopped blood from trailing down my face. Sometimes I even put my arm up with the still wet part of the sleeve against my eye, which felt very good. 

Two times cars pulled up to my side, pacing me as I walked, and in them were older men asking me if I wanted a ride. Both times I only gave them a shake of my head and kept going. I could not deal with anyone who wanted anything from me, right then. 

As I continued, my thoughts remained scattered...anger at Rory, fear I might be arrested and returned to that decent Christian man’s home, worries about what I could do to live, thinking I should find the Gay Youth Group to ask for their help them shaking off the thought for fear they might also turn on me, sadness that I was now, without question, an orphan. That if I was dead to my parents, they also were dead to me...and I could not accept that thought. 

On and on my mind pinged, left and right and around and all over, until my thoughts settled on a book my older gentleman had brought me. The memory of it kindly reached out to lead every thought down to one. 

It was an anthology of poetry. In French. The binding green and ornate with gold trim. 

“I found it in a shop close to here,” he had said. “Just a couple blocks away, on rue D’Antoine.” Then as he handed it to me, he had asked, “Will you read to me this poem?” 

It was Demain, dès l’aube by Victor Hugo:

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.


I will leave. You see, I know you are waiting for me.
I will go through the forest, I will go over the mountain.
I cannot stay away from you any longer.

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Seeing nothing outside, hearing no sound,
Alone, unknown, my back bent, my hands clasped,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.

I will not look at the gold of the falling evening,
Nor the sails in the distance descending towards Harfleur,
And when I arrive, I will place on your grave
A bouquet of green holly and flowering heather.

When I was done, I could not think of what to say, to him. No thanks came from me, except with my eyes holding tears. His smile revealed how deeply I had touched him, and all he did was give me a gentle kiss on my forehead and caress his shivering fingers through my hair...and leave.

Even then, I somehow knew I would never see him, again.

Saturday, November 15, 2025

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.

Friday, November 14, 2025

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.

Thursday, November 13, 2025

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.


 

Wednesday, November 12, 2025

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.”

Tuesday, November 11, 2025

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.

Monday, November 10, 2025

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...

Sunday, November 9, 2025

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.

Saturday, November 8, 2025

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.

Friday, November 7, 2025

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?

Thursday, November 6, 2025

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.

Wednesday, November 5, 2025

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.

Tuesday, November 4, 2025

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...

Monday, November 3, 2025

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.

Sunday, November 2, 2025

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.

Saturday, November 1, 2025

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.

Friday, October 31, 2025

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...

Thursday, October 30, 2025

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...

Wednesday, October 29, 2025

Thoughts for the day...

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

Tuesday, October 28, 2025

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.

Monday, October 27, 2025

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.

Sunday, October 26, 2025

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...

Saturday, October 25, 2025

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.

Friday, October 24, 2025

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.

Thursday, October 23, 2025

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.

Wednesday, October 22, 2025

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.