Making up for lost mind

My goal has been to write 2000 words per day on POS, but yesterday came up zeroes, so today I did more than 3000 and tomorrow will make up the difference. Right now I'm at 90,000 spread over 409 pages. There's a lot of fat in this and still some repetition, but it's getting there.


Part of yesterday's chaos extended from an argument I got into on a blog I used to follow. I say "used to follow" because the blogger banned me from it. It dealt with this photo of a Brazilian kid who's wearing a Star of David around his neck. Seems the blogger couldn't really believe this kid might be Jewish, apparently ignorant of the fact that there are many large Jewish communities throughout South America, and his commentary was touched with more than a little anti-Semitism.

He's done this before and I've called him on it before, but this time things escalated. Seems that liberal lefties don't like being considered anti-Semitic (as well as another word that isn't anywhere near as nasty as I could have used), even as they blast Israel for trying to defend herself and blame her for the mess in the Middle East. I don't say everything Israel does is right or decent or correct -- the Knesset seems to be run more and more by right wing religious freaks, Netanyahu is proving to be as big a catastrophe for the state as Bush was for the US, and let's not forget Ariel Sharon -- but I don't think the Palestinians are blameless in this mess; far from it.

What made this really nasty was, the SOB then posted my e-mail address on his site, and I've gotten some vicious messages from people accusing me of being a fake liberal and a right wing nut, to paraphrase some of the nicer comments. I had to block anyone who's not listed as okay on that address to keep them from coming in, which seems to have stopped it...but I honestly don't know; I'm not the most tech-savvy of people and may only have messed it up for people who have legitimate reasons to get hold of me. So much for internet etiquette.

What's sad is, that blogger and I agreed on just about everything else -- politics, the economy, social services, etc. But apparently he's one of those twits who thinks you have to see things 100% his way (I have a sister like that, who gets upset if you don't accept her opinion). Well...I guess this is part of the brave new world. I just think it's really sad.

Battle of the Bogside begins

Still sorting brain out from last night, so here's a bit I've been working on for POS instead of any more whining on my part.

It's 12 August 1969 and Brendan is 13. Every year, the Protestant Orange Order and Apprentice Boys would hold a loud, in-your-face parade to commemorated the Protestant victory in the Siege of Derry in 1689. To use a comment from Wikipedia, "Derry activist Eamonn McCann wrote that the march, 'was regarded as a calculated insult to the Derry Catholics'." It was stupid on the Protestant's part to hold it, but stupidity is usually the main force behind blind stubbornness.
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You always hear the drums first. They echo through the whole town, even from across the Foyle. Then come the fifes. Then you see the banners and flags held high and proud and then you see the Apprentice Boys -- ugly men in their dark, plain, too-pressed suits, most sporting bowlers atop their heads and brightly fringed sashes crossing their breasts, marching along in a manner that confused military precision with a Sunday stroll in the park. Many even brought umbrellas to add to the “casual” attitude they tried so hard to show. Constables would be everywhere keeping an eye on the rabble surrounding the marching zone, rabble who usually let the bastards pass with little more than an exchange of words. But this time, what with all the happenings of the past year -- this time their passage would not be smooth. And they bloody well knew it and made sure double the number of constables were about.

Oh, they jaunted, still, but with wary eyes darting about and movements that were jerky and fearful. Constantly so. They held their heads high, of course, but there was such a tension to it, I thought a few of them would snap their necks if touched wrong. It was almost pathetic, how intent they were on showing us Papists they’d not be intimidated, even after near ten months of constant back and forth.

Now I wasn’t on Waterloo to heckle them, this year. Something about the attitudes of people and the words whispered about made me think this would not be the usual march, and I’d wanted to return a radio to McClatchy’s and be paid before it began. I only barely made it, the rumble of the drums beginning just as I handed it over to the Mrs..

I’d have been done and out except she insisted on checking every channel on the radio to make sure I’d truly fixed it, as if I’d never done good work for them before. Normally I shrugged this low-level insult off, but this time I watched her do it, more than a little put out. And she noticed because she then said, “Good job, as always,” as she handed me two sovereigns, thinking that would lessen the fact that she didn’t trust me. So right then I decided to let her have Tully Gorman fix her next appliance that needed it and find out how much he charged for half the quality as me.

So with that taking twice as long as needed, back I was headed when I was caught up in the crowd on Waterloo behind police barricades and the march came down the street. And I made little effort to shift away from it all. After what had happened to Eamonn and Terry and the forced politeness I was being handed by people I’d been doing work for since I could first hold a set of pliers, I felt an anger pour into my heart and an unwillingness to just send words the way of those bastards, this year.

So the jeers began, from both sides, and I felt the hair on my neck begin to rise because I could sense the fury building around me and it fed into me, and the constables who were there sensed it, as well. Scuffles broke out as constables went to beat the Catholics who’d dared breached this public insult against order. And they swung their batons and hit some lads and the crowd swore horrible things at them and stones flew across at the RUC. I’m not ashamed to say that some of them came from my hand.

And I mean it as truth -- I’d never thought to join in truly striking back against the bloody Proddies before this; but suddenly I was joining in like it’s a part of my nature. This one fat bastard struck a lad across the back a few times with his baton so I lugged a stone at him. Hit him in his fat arse, meaning for sure I didn’t hurt him, but he swung around and roared like a bull that’s about to have a run at you and I danced back. Others in the crowd backed up, too. So I looked about and saw the RUC was charging the crowd, sticks waving in the air.

It’s like we flowed up Waterloo back to the Bogside, grabbing stones and anything else we could find to toss. The so-called “redevelopment” had left us plenty to work with and we made full use of it. Older lads raced to the front of me and let fly with a thunderstorm of stones, and I caught a glimpse of Eamonn with them. I called out to him but the clattering of the stones raining down drowned out my voice.

Another lad grabbed me and said, “Stay to the back of us. Build up piles of stones for us to use.”

“I can throw as well as -- .”

“You can’t throw as far as us. Help us keep ‘em out of the Bogside!”

He was right, so I yanked off my coat and ran to a nearby lot and piled as many stones and bricks and bits of metal as I could carry in it then ran it back to where other lads were making piles, and saw Colm and Paidrig with them.

“Hey, me Chinas!” I cried to them. They looked around, grinning like madmen. “Is Danny about?”

“Tossing stones,” Colm yelled back.

That was perfect. Danny had the best arm of anyone in the Bogside and an aim that was dead on. It was good the anger in him was being put to use.

People were running about, now. Some came to help. Some scurried home. Some dragged off their young wains to be out of harm’s way. I knew Mam and Mairead were with Rhuari, Caera and Kieran so had no fear of that for them. But the rushing about seemed like chaos -- or it must have seemed so to the constables since they came roaring in, again, arrogant in the certainty they were dealing with cowards and fools simply because they were chasing a few lads...only to find themselves met by yet another hail of stones and bricks from some of our side lying in ambush.

During this phase, I tossed a few, myself, and we were answered with constables suddenly scurrying back and helping mates away who’d been hurt and acting like sheep caught in a storm even as they began tossing some of the stones right back at us. I laughed at the sight of it, because it meant for once the bloody bastards were outgunned, and a thrill ran down me from head to toe and I screamed to heavens with joy. For the first time, we were making them run and not the other way around.

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It went on for three days and the only reason London finally sent in troops was because the Irish Republic was hinting they'd send in the army if need be (though neither side will admit to this). To learn more about it, check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_the_Bogside since this is a pretty good explanation of the time and anger being felt by all.

Listening towards weariness in nothings

And if that makes sense, you're doing better than me because I'm so squirrelly, right now, I have no idea what the hell I'm even trying to say. I need a cup of tea...and doesn't that sound pathetic? But I'm on the phone listening to my mother talk about how things are overwhelming her and my sister, and mom's life is crashing right back to where she was before I moved to SA and my brothers and sister apparently can't take care of her like she needs. And I'm feeling torn because I couldn't find work in SA and had to take a job in the one place I could find one but it's 1600 miles away from there (and in many ways I'm happy for that) but I can't do anything about it except listen to her and handle what I can from here. Like finding out a bill she got that was freaking her out is just for her supplemental detail insurance because for some reason Social Security stopped deducting it automatically from her monthly check but now they will again because I called them when my brother and sister didn't have the time or something -- and I'm venting and sick over it so I'm stopping now because my focus is all fucked up and I haven't been able to do a damned thing all evening. I'll try to make up for it, tomorrow.

Shit, I'm out of milk.

Still working on POS and seeing more and more where it's headed. Here's a snippet...this is when Brendan's 14 or 15, I haven't figured out, yet.
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I managed to catch up to Danny up the Creegan pitch. It was misting and chilled close to cold, and he’d just shoved his hands in his pockets and juggered on through it. His hair shined from the moisture and his skin gleamed, almost softening the hard look on his face. A Saracen was parked in the middle of it all and the field was torn up from its running about, but Danny seemed not to care.

“What the devil’s got into you?” I asked him. “Colm meant nothing by that. He’s just happy there’s something for him to do and -- .”

“Then let him do it,” he snapped at me. “And you keep on with working both sides of the fence.”

“Oi! Just because somebody’s Protestant doesn’t mean they’re an arsehole.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause of that little tart you got.”

I shoved him, nearly sent him to the ground. “You’re not to say a word about her! She’s a decent girl!”

He gave me a look so deep with hurt and sadness, I felt the bastard for being angry with him.

“It’s not just Protestants who’re arseholes, Bren. I know that. Christ, do I know it.”

“Danny -- what’re you going on about?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“Has it something to do with Father Pat?”

“What’s he to do with anything?”

“Father Demian then?” I only asked that as a last chance at getting him to tell me the trouble, but you’d have thought I’d shot him. He gave me the flash of a look, the same kind as I’d seen once in a stray cat that’d been cornered by dogs, wild and terrified and ready to spin into madness if it’d save itself -- or at least it would take a couple of the damned growlers with him. And it stabbed into me, deep. And then it was gone and covered with his usual sullen glare.

“And he has less to do with me, now, him being sent to America.”

“I heard he’s in England.” I hate to repeat gossip, but sometimes it’s necessary to get to the base of things.

And sure enough, that wild look flashed over him, again, and this time it caused him to catch his breath.

“Says who?”

“Mrs. Dougherty -- Father Pat’s housekeeper. She says he’s made a number of trunk calls to Nottingham, just to see how things’re going, as it were.”

He sat on a fence post that’d been pushed half over by a Saracen and lit a fag. And the thousand yards stare filled his eyes. For the first time since I’d known him, I was afraid for him...and a bit of him.

“You and Father Demian were close,” I said, real careful.

“You never liked him, did you?” I shrugged. He looked at me. “I can’t tell if you like Father Pat or not.”

“He’s all right,” I said. Danny kept looking at me, so I shrugged, again. “I just -- well, it hits me sometimes that his actions don’t match his words.”

“They don’t, do they?” He offered me the fag. I took a drag off it and handed it back. He smiled. “You ever gonna buy your own ciggies?”

“All I ever want’s a puff, now and again. And it’s you offered.”

“Aye.” He kept smoking and sent a harsh glare the way of the Saracen.

“Careful, lad,” I said. “They’re the only thing standing between Free Derry and the RUC.”

“They won’t, for long.” And I knew he was right. Something about the attitudes of the British Army was hinting that they weren’t happy to be pushing back against their fellow “Englishmen,” as if the Paisley-ites give a damn about them. But there’d been incidents of lads being roughed up while searched and good long chats between British commanders and the upper-level constables. Some lads said it looked too much like they were giving ear to the Unionists whilst ignoring those they’d come to protect, and only a fool wouldn’t see the point as valid “It’s like they’re waiting for an excuse to show the world a bunch of Paddies can’t shove anybody around.”

“I hope the excuse doesn’t come.”

“You would. You’re willing to trust people, still. Believe them.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that -- .”

“Bren -- you know as well as me that Father Pat’s a two-faced bastard, but you’ll coach your opinion to allow him some benefit of the doubt.”

“Are you angry with him for taking over for Father Demian?”

“No, that bastard can rot for all I care. I’m pissed at him for lying about it, and making me the liar for it.”

“Christ, Danny, what happened?”

He give a long terrible sigh and said, “If I told you, you’d not believe me. There’s nights I think, maybe I don’t believe me. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. A child’s fantasy.” He sighed and kept a long silence, then said, “Nottingham, you say?”

“About what?”

“Father Demian.”

“It’s information come to me third hand. I don’t know it for a fact.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. All they’d want to do is move him to another parish and -- .” His voice trailed off and he sat in silence. And I had no idea what to say, so I just stood there by him, waiting. He let me have another drag on the ciggie then looked at me, almost sad. “You never were his acolyte.”

“Father Demian’s?” I asked. He nodded. “Never wanted to be.”

“Keep that wariness about you, Bren. Believe me that no one cares for the other, not truly, not when it means something more than words.”

"Place of Safety" Returns

And is leading me along. I wrote 2000 words, this evening. If I do that many per night for the next sixty days, I'll have 120,000 words...and a huge sprawling mess of a book. But I guess this works well enough. I worked on the last chapter of section 2, in Houston, before Brendan decides to return to Derry. It just seemed like time to jump in and do it...and now my brain is drained.

Nope, I got nothin' more to talk about...except I'm having ideas about a new story dealing with Antony and Jake, from RIHC6. But this book would be a bit less confrontational and be told from Jake's point of view. He wants to start if off with, "I love Tone. Always have and always will. No matter what he does. I got no choice in the matter. But there's times I'd love to kill him, too. And right now is one of those times."

Working dinner...

Tonight, so no writing done. Ate too much. Drank more wine than I've had in the last six months...which isn't much since I usually go for beer if I'm drinking with dinner. Had a nice sweet port for an aperitif. And now feel so satiated and lazy...and a bit tipsy...I just want to stretch long and hard like one of the office Himalayans and curl up to go to sleep. Guess I'll never make it as an alcoholic writer...so there go Hemingway, Faulkner and Fitzgerald as mentors. Tolstoy didn't drink, I don't think, but he had a bad marriage so I guess that can make up for it. "Bad Romance," a la Russkie.

It was a nice dinner, though, and my supervisors want me to stay on till the end of February, at least. And I guess I will. The positive thing about Buffalo is, it keeps me from getting sidetracked by all the attractions going on...'cause the ones they got don't even begin to interest me. Toronto does, and I like Niagra Falls for some weird reason, but everything else is just -- meh.

I have so many ideas for stories coming to me lately, not a one of them set in Buffalo. Which is unusual for me. Winter in Detroit brought me "5 Dates." A trip to Paris brought me "Delay En Route." I went to Seattle to firm up "Bugzters" in my head and to Ireland for "Darian's Point," "Return to Darian's Point" and "Wide New World" -- not to even mention "Place of Safety." In Houston I worked up "Day Trip", "Brand of Justice", "Mine to Kill" and "Cutting Edge." In Austin, I built "Coby O' and the Pink Palace of Texas." "Kazn" was inspired by a friendship with an actor from The Ukraine. The list goes on and on. But nothing from Buffalo, yet...though the Erie Canal is lurking in the background so maybe that'll be it.

Of course, nothing's happening till I have a solid first draft of POS. Which may be part of the reason for my lack of inspiration. Ah...the joys of being a creative, self-involved twit. I'm lovin' it.

But then I'm also a bit drunk, so tomorrow is NOT gonna be a fun day.

Shakey start

I went back through the "Houston" section of "Place of Safety" and it's coming across as a bit low-key...and I'm not all that sure it's such a bad thing. Something I'm trying desperately to avoid in POS is deliberate mash-ups, like you find in so much fiction these days. "Intensified dramatic moments" meant to illuminate what the author is trying to say but that only come across (to me, anyway) as fake and manufactured. And my biggest fear about this book is that it will seem that shallow and manipulative. If that happens, I'll have failed Brendan.

That said, I do have this section basically plotted out. As mentioned earlier (I think), I printed out a copy of the full story -- 370+ pages -- put each section into its own binder and have plenty of paper to add in when I find an area that needs development. Doing this helps me see what's missing...and lets me try things out to see what does fit...and makes it easy to toss aside things that don't work or expand upon things that do. All in red pen (which is good for noting typos, as well).

Tomorrow, we're having a working dinner after the office closes, so I've no idea how much I'll be able to get done, but my next step is to dig into Brendan's return to Derry and confrontation with his past. By this point, he's about to turn 25, he's had experiences he'd never have gotten in Derry and life is beginning to let him know the direction of his destiny.

It's looking like I'll be up here at least through the end of the year. My boss and I talked, today, and part of what we'll be working on tomorrow night concerns his plans for the company, which include me running all the pack & ship parts of it. I'm torn about this. I like having the job and being able to pay my bills and even put some aside, and overall it's a decent place to work for. I may still get to travel...well, I'll have to since I'm handling Toronto's Book Fair at the end of October...but it means becoming part and parcel of western New York. I'll have to change my health insurance to up here, and car insurance, and get my car registered and a New York driver's license. It's like another step in my removal from Los Angeles...and seeming more and more permanent a direction for me. Because the fact is, I got no other prospects in the money-making...and POS wants to keep me busy till then.

So...it seems my life is letting me know the direction of my destiny, as well. Odd how that works out.

Emerging from battle...

Head bloodied from pounding it against the brick wall that refused to let me create. And I mean ANYthing. I couldn't write. Couldn't sketch. Couldn't do anything but sit and mutter to myself (in the usual kooky manner of a psychotic twit) while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on in my head. I'm still not completely sure...but I've finally found a window to at least look out of (and maybe use to escape).

The breakthrough happened at the laundromat, today, as I was loading my whites into the dryer. Seems Brendan's had enough of my diddling and let me know, flat out, my avoidance of POS is no longer acceptable. If I don't get that done, he won't let me do anything else. Period. It's time to face this story and my own fears about it -- mainly how in over my head I am as regards the telling of it -- because he don't give a shit anymore. I either sink or swim.

Suddenly I'm reminded of this time I was visiting my cousins in New Mexico. My mother's sister also married a guy in the Air Force and he was stationed at Clovis Air Force Base, so I drove up with them to settle in and spend a few weeks. I shared a bed with my oldest cousin, Alan, who's ten months younger than me and ten times more adventurous, and we did all sorts of things together. Baseball (from which I got a great black eye when a batter hit the ball straight into my face); bowling; swimming; making sandwiches out of bologna, slices of processed American cheese and Sandwich Spread on white bread (one of my comfort foods, if I could find Sandwich Spread in this area of the universe); just wandering around and being like brothers.

I always wanted to be a part of their family, because around them I felt safe. So safe, I even felt like I could dive into the deep end of the base swimming pool off the upper level diving board...even though I can't swim. Which I did. I managed to splash and paddle myself back to the side of the pool and work around to the shallow end and get out on my own (the life guard didn't even notice I was in distress), and by the time I was done I had a headache that threatened to peel the skin off my scalp, but I was also feeling like I'd faced a fear and made it through and I was a bit proud of myself. Alan didn't notice. Not one of my cousins did. In fact, years later when they found out I still can't swim, they were surprised.

I had to return home not long after...and no longer had that sense of protection that I got from my aunt, so retreated back into my world of books. It was 24 years before I did anything that crazy, again...and then it was just traveling to Europe on my own...staying with friends in Hamburg and visiting Paris alone and getting so overwhelmed by the escapade, the only reason I didn't cut off my trip and return home early was it would have cost an extra $150 to change my airline reservation. In fact, my trip to Berlin on the last leg of my journey was so deeply depressing, I never wanted to go back...and probably wouldn't have had I not had friends living there, the second time I went (and the second time was magical).

Anyway...the point is...I'm back on that high dive at the deep end of the pool, and Brendan's going to push me off if I don't jump...and he may not do it in the direction of the water.

Meaning posting will be late in the evening, for a while...maybe the next six months. That's how long I have to put together a solid first draft. Rewrites will follow, of course, but I need to set the story down so I have something to build from. And if I don't do it, I may never be able to do anything else, again. So -- deep breath...pinch nose...and off I go.

Banzaiiiiiiiiiii.

Still mooding...

You ever feel like God is watching you and laughing his head off?

Only a couple responses to "David Martin." Guess I'm not being read much. And God laughs harder. Can't say I blame him.

I has a definite mood...

And I don't wanna be misconstrued
"Cause right now I just wanna brood,
So here's this nice picture etude
Instead of my being too rude.
You can also enjoy this fun dude.While my brain is slowly renewed.