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."

It's the end of the world and I'm writing a book...

It really hit hard, today. Mainly because of the abject stupidity of the MAGAt Class who worship Felon47 and revel in him giving rein to their racism and hate. And I see no end to it unless that POS dies in the next three weeks. Then maybe...maybe we'll survive.

Because there is no talking to people like that. They are not open to reason or reality. They too busy enjoying the pain and suffering they're causing. MAGA is a new religion, and just as vile as the old ones.

And it's not just in America. It's all over the globe. Bloggers and commenters in Africa and Asia and Europe and South America choosing the side of terrorism over simple human decency. We're out to kill each other for no more reason than we can. Guns. Drones. Whatever.

I was reminded of John B Calhoun's theory of Behavioral Sink, which he came up with while experimenting with rats...and later, mice...regarding overpopulation. A few rodents were put into a confined space and provided with plenty of food and water, where they overbred to the point their behaviors were altered and they couldn't function. (The link provides a much better description).

I actually wondered if earth was an alien scientist's experiment along the same lines?

What's funny is, I began thinking about this after I found and rewrote one section of Dair's Window that I needed: when Dair and Adam get ready for Marion's third wedding. Initially, I'd had Dair dressing Adam in a suit because he'd never worn one, which was totally wrong. Adam knows class. He's used it to make his way in the world. So I switched it, and it worked out a lot better.

In fact, the moment they finally connect in bed will now come after the wedding, where it just builds from the night and the joy and they support for each other, starting on January 1, 2001. Much better timing.

I went through a rough few moments lost as to what happens when and where is best for it, and this is helping. I've even worked up an XL Spreadsheet for the years 1996-2010 and decided to not have Dair go to trial for beating up Bobby. Just preliminary hearings and delays.

It may be futile to keep going on it, but I can't change now.

Then in honor of Diane Keaton, I watched First Wives Club and loved it. Again. Got it on DVD.

I have hundreds of DVDs. I need to sort these things out.

Incomplete...

Well, it appears sections of Dair's Window I thought I'd written either were not or are hidden somewhere in another file. I figure I have maybe 60% of it in order but I'm missing moments like when Dair and Adam are dressing for Marion's third marriage...and Dair is very uncomfortable in a suit but Adam is dragging him through the process.

There's also a bit where Adam comes up with an idea for making Marion's ski lodge a go-to place year 'round by focusing on the Snoqualmie Indigenous Culture and having special events throughout the spring and summer, into fall. Which I know I wrote but is not in either of the ring binders...and I cannot find the file.

I'm also missing the actual part where Dair is put on trial for nearly beating a guy to death. Someone firebombs Dair's lodge and all evidence points to this jerk named Bobby, so Dair confronts him and they start trading blows...but Dair is the better fighter and loses control and would have killed him had he not been stopped.

Probably all buried in one of the massive number of story constructions I've got. So next is digging into every single solitary file I have to see if I can pull together everything I need to tell this story.

God, I have no sense of order in my life. 

I am a fucking psycho...

I'm in the foulest mood...and I can trace it to receiving a letter from my apartment insurance company telling me my premium hadn't been paid so would be cut off, when I had paid it. So I called them to find out WTF...only you can't talk to a person; you have to deal with their roto-voice bullshit, first. So I just went ahead and verified that way that it's been paid and tossed the bullshit in a folder.

And could not shake my anger over this. So it's probably good I didn't get hold of someone in customer service. I'd have wound up as an example of a male Karen on someone's tik-tok.

Feeding this anger is the MAGAt Class continuing the shutdown in DC until after the 20th, all to protect the pedophile puke in the White house and some of his rich buddies, not to mention a few assholes on the GOP side. They don't want to release the Epstein files to show who paid that monster so they could rape kids.

Of course, it's messing with me. I'm supposed to head for Seattle on the 17th. I guess that all depends on whether or not air traffic controllers are on the job, again. 

I'm also approaching my usual this is all fucked up mindset for Dair's Window because I can't find things I know I wrote. And me telling myself to take it easy only pisses me off, more.

So I dumped everything and ran errands -- getting quarters for laundry from my bank, returning a key to the Caladex office, grabbing some groceries I needed at a Wegmans and having an avocado roll. Normally, that last bit would settle me...but they didn't have any 20oz bottles of DPZ available...and that got me really going.

So I bought an almond croissant, said Fuck it all, and self-indulged. I'm trying to keep my blood sugar down and that will mess with it...but right then I needed joy instead of deprivation. And it was so fucking good.

But son-of-a-bitch, I was still pissy...until I stumbled across this guy. He centered me. Completely.

Marcus Balliette...un homme au France et un trés beau mec...by way of Miami. Shit, he made me fickle enough to think he's a better look for Adam in DW.

Which he is. He's got the beauty and a touch of that French arrogance. I could see any man going for him, gay or self-proclaimed straight.

Sorry, Arnaud, but you been replaced.

Et je suis un merde.

Major gaps...

Now I know what Dair and Adam look like, I feel a lot more comfortable with the story and all that happens. I can feel it, better.

The worst part about going over a draft of a book you set aside some time ago is seeing how sections it needs are not there and have to be filled in. Which also means it's going to get longer. But before you can figure out what the story really needs, all the background has to be there.

So I'm reading through and suddenly we jump from Dair and Adam finally connecting in the bedroom to Adam protecting him from Sarah's gossip by going after her cousin, Bobby. She's never liked Dair, even though she's married to his older brother, Gareth. She thinks he's been favored over Gareth and is doing all she can, subtly, to drive him out of town.

So Adam goes head to head with her, and she backs down. For now. But I need more of a lead-up to it. Right now, it's like one of those this has to happen here to keep the story going things, and I don't like that. There's also indications she's talking Adam down so he won't get odd jobs over the summer...which is damaging his ability to make a living.

I need to handle this more carefully. I've made notes, and I've fought back the impulse to deal with this issues now, putting them off till I'm done reading everything I have. But it's not easy.

I mitigated it by staying in bed and using my bed tray all day. Nice and cozy...if not so great on my butt.

Serendipity...

I stumbled onto the perfect image of Dair. I'd been thinking of using Kyle Krieger for that but it didn't feel completely right. Too old and well-built.

I considered a few other guys, including a Spanish doctor, and no one fit. I was about to settle on Ben Cohen when I happened onto Derrick Henry.

He's got the right face. He's a few years older than Dair, but that doesn't matter. This picture just stopped me cold...because it's a Dair expression. And attitude. Open and happy, almost like a golden retriever. Doesn't hurt he's got a nice body, too.

Now I'm letting the story expand as it wants, through this draft. The next draft may be to fill in some plot holes and add clarity. Adam's story progresses nicely, if a bit lumpy. I have what I think is a blunt, almost brutal confrontation between Adam and Sarah, Dair's homophobic sister in law.

I need to be careful about one thing -- teen boys being used for sex. Adam is thrown out of his home when he's 15, and winds up placed in a foster home where the man running it sells the boys there for sexual favors. The age of consent in Canada, then, was 14...so long as their partner wasn't in a position of authority over them. 

In Washington state, it's 16, with the same provision. Also included? Adam stumbles onto a group of kids who're selling themselves for drugs and cash, run by a homophobe named Bobby, and helps one get out of that lifestyle. 

Just to be clear, I'm not into guys under the age of 23. I can't even begin to understand the attraction to teenage boys...or girls. But it seems some assholes, like Felon47, are really into that...right down to 12-14 year olds..and that's a real turnoff, to me.

Got my work cut out for me...

What I've written on DW, so far, is going to take a fair amount of work. I'm still dealing with Adam's time up to and while he's in Fairview. Then comes setting up the conflict between Dair, a snarly brat named Bobby, and Sarah, his sister-in-law. It's okay but needs some aspects to be better established so it flows instead of lumber.

Adam has decided to get as much as he can out of Dair, and acknowledges actually cheating him on work he does on the lodge. And is not sorry...until Dair defends him against Sarah's smarmy gossip. Then he starts to feel protective of Dair.

All this will need at least half a dozen rewrites to even begin to read properly. 

I wonder if I should do the book in 3 parts...or four, maybe? All in one volume. It would be thick, at the rate it's going. I'd like to cut at least 20% out to streamline it...but when I do that I wind up adding more. Like this poem Adam writes after being shaken by watching Vertigo:

Adam I have been 
And now I am him 
In fullness and in grace. 
His visage still my face 
And yet is not... 
For I now renew 
In ways yet untrue. 
Embers burn within. 
Once again, 
I am him 
And I can but begin 
And be forgot.

There will be many more of these.

God, I'm tired. I didn't sleep, last night, and only got a  4 hour nap, this afternoon. Going to bed early.

Settling on A-B-C...

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

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

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

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

Because it reflects too much in his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Construction contemplations...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last of Chapter One...

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

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

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

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

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

I should have listened to her. 

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

Or he thought he didn’t. 

Like a child. 

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

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

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

I remember feeling only anger, not fear. 

And then nothing. 

Just darkness and silence. 

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

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

It was a form of hell.

Perhaps of punishment.

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

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

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

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

Loved him. 

No...still love him. 

I say it because it is true.

At least, it was... 

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

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

More of chapter one...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our last morning, together... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adam is beginning to speak...

----

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

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

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

 

Touched with the lightest of laughter. 

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

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

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

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

Of home. 

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

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

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

And cruelty. 

Shifting details

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adam's poetry...

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

----

Adam's Poem 

To invite Grayson

To my room 

In the hotel 

For celebration only. 

Our bond of work to seal... 

Long days.

Ten-thousand words.

But all was now

Carved in stone

And we knew

Our lives had steered

To a fresh, new time of joy

So savor it

A moment longer

With Gray

Alone

Not call my wife

To say our dreams had been made real.

Nought but me asking,

“Bourbon or Scotch?”

When he took my belt

And drew me back to him

To encase me in a beauty 

hat bring about things

Which should not have been done...

Even as the world cheered.

Awareness comes...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simon the Huff...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finalizing...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DDC is uploaded...

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrap it up...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better days...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even though it is.

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

Not my happiest day...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First try at a cover...

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

Storyline: Continuing from Dirc and the Dyarvos Bones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to work up a cover...

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

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

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

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

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

Workin' on Dirc and Dyarvos...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World traveler, Kyle...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...And how evil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A true entrepreneur...

Consistently inconsistent...

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Even though there always are.

Thoughts to live by...

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

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

Getting old sucks.