At the changes in my life and directions I wound up taking that brought me to the point where I'm parenting the story of an Irish Catholic boy from the ephemeral to the page. It's like some hysterical joke being played on me by the Cosmos. How can we find someone who is the complete opposite of the main character in this book...someone who still has a hint enough of the knowledge needed and language spoken to understand it...and then drag him into its birth? Wouldn't it be funny to make him responsible for it making sense not only to those who never set foot in Ireland but to those who lived through the period in the area as what is now seen as a disaster unfolded around them?
The more I learn about Brendan's life, the more I know I know nothing about it. Yet still I'm the designated spinner of tales, and it's overwhelming, at times. I sense what he wants me to relate...I can feel it shifting about behind my chest, using my heart as its hiding place and letting itself be seen only by way of brief shadows cast against my mind's eye. These moments come in spurts then stop and wait, and it smiles to itself in sweet remembrance of all the times it's let me follow the wrong path only to finally reveal what I've written has no truth or meaning.
But I don't understand why I was shown these paths to begin with. Are they tests to see if I can recognize what is and should not be? I don't think so. I don't think I'm digging deep enough, somehow. I don't think I'm really being mislead as just carried into a different part of the story and told to sit still till it's the right time for the rhyme and reason to make itself known.
I think this because I wrote a section where Brendan is nearly arrested by the British and while trying to escape winds up falling through a door to land on his back and look straight up at the ceiling only to see a hand with a pistol appear above him, aiming in the direction from which he fell and then firing. Sounds pretty Hollywood, right? Except...I remember dreaming about this image and not knowing the why and the wherefore of it. It was a flash in the middle of some night and it woke me, it was so vivid, and then it appeared in this chapter, and I think, "That's just the right place. That's where it's meant to be." Except...I don't know.
Sure, you can explain it by claiming I dreamed it and merely decided to use it here, but my writing is not that calculated. I've tried to be, with my scripts. Honest. I've tried to put in everything I'm told a great screenplay has to have at the point where it has to happen according to all the script gurus...and when I do that my work turns out like crap. It's not until I listen to my characters and let them pick and choose what will and will not be here and there that a story works for me. And works against script readers and evaluators, who look for what they're told to look for by those very gurus.
But that's how I am -- almost self-destructive while being the guardian and protector of the words I've been given. You know, even my erotic novels are not really erotica. They're brutal stories about people being betrayed and then betraying, in return...and what sex there is in them feeds into that theme. And the same theme is building in "Place of Safety" -- albeit without sex being used as a weapon of revenge. And if anything comes across as wrong or untrue or unreal in it, the whole book will fall apart. And that very nearly panics me. So I wonder if this dream is appropriate for this moment. But it's locked itself down right where it wants to be. And I can't move it. So I guess it stays.
Thank God I never had kids; it's fuckin' hard being a parent.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Busy day
Kept me from doing much besides work. All sorts of things kept popping up and at the same time I was trying to write that article and research some things I wasn't sure about and discovered there's a lot of weird information out there about the right way to pack books for storage, including some from a well-respected group who actually suggested using bubble-wrap to protect the books when anyone in the antiquarian trade knows any sort of plastic around the book increases the chance of condensation getting on it and mold and mildew getting a firm hold on the paper.
Anyway, that's my arrogant rant for the moment. Right now I had three happies hit me, and surprises will abound when I tell of them.
1. I got a book titled "Battle of Bogside" published in 1970 and written by Russell Stetler. I don't know how much use it will be in actual fact, but since it was done so quickly after the actual fighting, just over a year later, it may have ideas and attitudes I'll find useful.
2. I got two Loreena McKennitt cds -- "The Visit" (which is good but her early work) and "Book of Secrets" (which is elegant). I listen to her sing and I think of my first Irish stories -- "Darian's Point" and "Return to Darian's Point" with the first section I have yet to write, "Darian's Point Begins". As she glides through "Night Ride Across the Caucasus" I can see the ending of DPB, from the point where Keevan Ui Briuin accepts the evil bargain that becomes the curse on his bloodline and crosses the sea to the island of Inish Ciuin to meet his fate on Darian's Point. It'smusic like this that kicks me in the creative pants.
3. I went to buy milk at a Topps grocery store...and they had SANDWICH SPREAD! I just stumbled upon it. One of my favorite foods -- hell, comfort food -- is tuna mixed with Sandwich Spread on toast...or Waverly Club Crackers...or just some lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers with a dash of Thousand Island dressing. You can get it anywhere in the Southwest (I once bought three jars in Phoenix when I was driving back to LA from a packing job in Tuscon) but this is the first time I've seen it up here.
Man...I live a weird life, where finding friggin' Sandwich Spread is one of the high points of my day.
So...guess what I had for dinner?
Oh, and I have to share this -- a photo of Union Station in Washington DC. This is where Hitchcock shot "Strangers on a Train" -- one of his classics -- and it's changed a lot. But these guys have always been there. But take a look at the lower right corner.
So tell me, how the hell do you escape that fucking state?
Anyway, that's my arrogant rant for the moment. Right now I had three happies hit me, and surprises will abound when I tell of them.
1. I got a book titled "Battle of Bogside" published in 1970 and written by Russell Stetler. I don't know how much use it will be in actual fact, but since it was done so quickly after the actual fighting, just over a year later, it may have ideas and attitudes I'll find useful.
2. I got two Loreena McKennitt cds -- "The Visit" (which is good but her early work) and "Book of Secrets" (which is elegant). I listen to her sing and I think of my first Irish stories -- "Darian's Point" and "Return to Darian's Point" with the first section I have yet to write, "Darian's Point Begins". As she glides through "Night Ride Across the Caucasus" I can see the ending of DPB, from the point where Keevan Ui Briuin accepts the evil bargain that becomes the curse on his bloodline and crosses the sea to the island of Inish Ciuin to meet his fate on Darian's Point. It'smusic like this that kicks me in the creative pants.
3. I went to buy milk at a Topps grocery store...and they had SANDWICH SPREAD! I just stumbled upon it. One of my favorite foods -- hell, comfort food -- is tuna mixed with Sandwich Spread on toast...or Waverly Club Crackers...or just some lettuce and tomatoes and cucumbers with a dash of Thousand Island dressing. You can get it anywhere in the Southwest (I once bought three jars in Phoenix when I was driving back to LA from a packing job in Tuscon) but this is the first time I've seen it up here.
Man...I live a weird life, where finding friggin' Sandwich Spread is one of the high points of my day.
So...guess what I had for dinner?
Oh, and I have to share this -- a photo of Union Station in Washington DC. This is where Hitchcock shot "Strangers on a Train" -- one of his classics -- and it's changed a lot. But these guys have always been there. But take a look at the lower right corner.
So tell me, how the hell do you escape that fucking state?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Regrouped
I focused on going through the last section of "Place of Safety" and plotting out the rest of what needs to be done for the story as well as making notes about what is referred back to and needs to be added to the opening two sections. I'm having problems with it, in that by the time Brendan returns to Derry, the British and RUC have a solid network in place of spies and informants, so it'd be hard for him to wander about the city without being caught onto. Plus civil liberties had been so curtailed against the Catholic population by this point, they would need no reason to arrest him and hold him as a terrorist. No need for a real trial or even to bother telling his family where he is.
It's funny, what the Brits and Prods were doing in Northern Ireland 30 years ago the US is doing now to its own people. If someone someplace high enough in the government decides that person is a terrorist...or now even a terrorist sympathizer, thanks to the Supreme Court, all you have to do is offer humanitarian support to any group deemed to support terrorism, then you are supporting terrorism as well. And matters of degree don't matter. Give medicine to people who take it to Palestinians under Hamas, you can be charged with supporting Hamas by proxy. And then you don't necessarily have access to a trial; you might just be charged in a kangaroo court and put away till you're crazy, as happened to one American citizen charged with aiding and abetting the enemy.
And it's not just in this country. In Canada, relatively liberal country, a judge gave the police the right to arrest anyone they want to if that person gets too close to the G20 summit. So far nearly 600 people have been arrested. He also said the cops can use methods of crowd control -- like noise cannons -- on protesters if they feel the need. Noise cannons can damage hearing not just of the protesters but anyone who's nearby. Lesson being, don't hang around to watch what happens.
And in Minneapolis, homes of people just planning to protest were raided and trashed by the cops with impunity. On top of this, I just learned that of the hundreds of people arrested during the Miami conference of the G20, not one was convicted of a crime. So the whole point of these arrests are to intimidate -- to end discussion of what those in charge are doing -- to make all of use act like simple sheep and do as we're bid by our masters.
I guess we're seeing the end of Democracy in the world and a return to the feudal style of civilization. How disgusting.
It's funny, what the Brits and Prods were doing in Northern Ireland 30 years ago the US is doing now to its own people. If someone someplace high enough in the government decides that person is a terrorist...or now even a terrorist sympathizer, thanks to the Supreme Court, all you have to do is offer humanitarian support to any group deemed to support terrorism, then you are supporting terrorism as well. And matters of degree don't matter. Give medicine to people who take it to Palestinians under Hamas, you can be charged with supporting Hamas by proxy. And then you don't necessarily have access to a trial; you might just be charged in a kangaroo court and put away till you're crazy, as happened to one American citizen charged with aiding and abetting the enemy.
And it's not just in this country. In Canada, relatively liberal country, a judge gave the police the right to arrest anyone they want to if that person gets too close to the G20 summit. So far nearly 600 people have been arrested. He also said the cops can use methods of crowd control -- like noise cannons -- on protesters if they feel the need. Noise cannons can damage hearing not just of the protesters but anyone who's nearby. Lesson being, don't hang around to watch what happens.
And in Minneapolis, homes of people just planning to protest were raided and trashed by the cops with impunity. On top of this, I just learned that of the hundreds of people arrested during the Miami conference of the G20, not one was convicted of a crime. So the whole point of these arrests are to intimidate -- to end discussion of what those in charge are doing -- to make all of use act like simple sheep and do as we're bid by our masters.
I guess we're seeing the end of Democracy in the world and a return to the feudal style of civilization. How disgusting.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I don't like DC
Yeah, it's a pretty city. And it's one of the world's great capitols. And you got lots of big wide boulevards and open spaces and people from every corner of the world...but just try walking along those open spaces and boulevards in 95 degree heat -- there ain't no shade. And on half those nice big boulevards, there's no place to stop and sit and get something to drink; you have to hop off onto a smaller street. It's beautifully planned but completely soulless and not at all interested in the needs of human beings. I couldn't live there.
I spent the day at the American Library Association's Exhibition and saw thousands of librarians milling about getting free books and information on how to make their libraries more 21st century and finding authors to sign those books while a man in a Cat In The Hat suit looked on, or in a booth made up to look like something out of "The Hobbit" or "Harry Potter" or something like that -- it's true, I took a picture to prove it. I made off with a little swag, myself -- mostly pens but a tote bag and note clip and a signed copy of a cook book for my mother from a girl who's from Shiner, Texas and we BOTH agreed Shiner Bock beer is the best there is. My feet hate me. I had a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich that had no right to call itself that (and did not sit well in my tummy). I got damn near dehydrated because all they sell in that joint is spring water and I wanted Perrier or San Pellegrino, some kind of sparkling water.
I went there to see if my company ought to have a booth at next year's convention...and I can't see it being worthwhile. There is so damn much going on -- they filled the entire exhibition hall from end to end, probably the equivalent of two football fields in size -- unless we put it right in the middle of it all (for a LOT more money) we wouldn't even get noticed. I can't tell you how many booths I saw that looked lost in the middle of the flash and dash. BUT the flights down and back were easy, riding the train from Baltimore's airport was fun and I had an open seat beside me all the way so got some editing and plotting done on POS. Meaning, I don't feel it was a complete waste of time...but I am exhausted.
Positive thing is, Brendan's over his sulk, and I'm sorry for being such a flake. Looking back over my posts, I seem to bounce around non-stop, from this to that to the other. But thinking about it, I've always been a bit like that. Maybe it's getting worse in my old age or during my slide in Alzheimer's...or severe dyslexia...and I don't notice it as much. Hell, even my handwriting's gotten worse. Looks like this piece of junk's out of warranty and falling apart.
Hope I last long enough to finish the book.
I spent the day at the American Library Association's Exhibition and saw thousands of librarians milling about getting free books and information on how to make their libraries more 21st century and finding authors to sign those books while a man in a Cat In The Hat suit looked on, or in a booth made up to look like something out of "The Hobbit" or "Harry Potter" or something like that -- it's true, I took a picture to prove it. I made off with a little swag, myself -- mostly pens but a tote bag and note clip and a signed copy of a cook book for my mother from a girl who's from Shiner, Texas and we BOTH agreed Shiner Bock beer is the best there is. My feet hate me. I had a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich that had no right to call itself that (and did not sit well in my tummy). I got damn near dehydrated because all they sell in that joint is spring water and I wanted Perrier or San Pellegrino, some kind of sparkling water.
I went there to see if my company ought to have a booth at next year's convention...and I can't see it being worthwhile. There is so damn much going on -- they filled the entire exhibition hall from end to end, probably the equivalent of two football fields in size -- unless we put it right in the middle of it all (for a LOT more money) we wouldn't even get noticed. I can't tell you how many booths I saw that looked lost in the middle of the flash and dash. BUT the flights down and back were easy, riding the train from Baltimore's airport was fun and I had an open seat beside me all the way so got some editing and plotting done on POS. Meaning, I don't feel it was a complete waste of time...but I am exhausted.
Positive thing is, Brendan's over his sulk, and I'm sorry for being such a flake. Looking back over my posts, I seem to bounce around non-stop, from this to that to the other. But thinking about it, I've always been a bit like that. Maybe it's getting worse in my old age or during my slide in Alzheimer's...or severe dyslexia...and I don't notice it as much. Hell, even my handwriting's gotten worse. Looks like this piece of junk's out of warranty and falling apart.
Hope I last long enough to finish the book.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Brendan's still sulking
And I'm depressed. I get like that after stumbles like the one, yesterday.
Tomorrow I'm making a quick trip down to Washington DC and back, just to check out the American Library Association's convention. My company is trying to figure out ways of increasing business with them and I'm at the forefront of research on it. Today I spent working on an article about the best way to pack antiquarian books for storage or transport from one city to another, along with illustrations. I e-spoke with a woman in charge of a rare book journal affiliated with the ALA and she likes the idea. In fact, she wants me to include art and maps, too...both of which I've worked with. So I have the research and about 1500 words worked out along with 10 preliminary sketches. Needless to say, it was NOT busy at the job.
What this means is, no writing done till Sunday...unless I try to do it on the plane, again. That didn't work so well, the last time. I dunno, maybe I was doing too good the last week, as regards POS, and had to trip myself up in some way to keep from getting too big a head on my shoulders.
BTW, it seems the GOP in Texas has finally revealed itself for what it truly is -- the new Puritans. Their platform calls for making all sodomy illegal (even that between husband and wife), repealing no-fault divorce and a myriad of other nonsense straight out of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter." And there are still idiots in that state who support them. Another reason to stay the hell away...or go back to fight the madness. Hell,I don't know.
The whole country's in a mess. Even New York has a candidate for governor who's forwarded racist e-mails and claims the current governor, David (?) Patterson, a black man who has extremely restricted vision, is a junkie because he once said he tried cocaine...and do you think that candidate's the least bit sorry for saying or doing those things? Hell, no.
Jesus, it's like the right wing has been struck blind to how they come across to people. I used to think that'd be a good thing...until I saw how many idiots are still willing to follow them straight off the cliff, just like lemmings. And thanks to our morally bankrupt news media, they'll gladly take the whole country with them.
Tomorrow I'm making a quick trip down to Washington DC and back, just to check out the American Library Association's convention. My company is trying to figure out ways of increasing business with them and I'm at the forefront of research on it. Today I spent working on an article about the best way to pack antiquarian books for storage or transport from one city to another, along with illustrations. I e-spoke with a woman in charge of a rare book journal affiliated with the ALA and she likes the idea. In fact, she wants me to include art and maps, too...both of which I've worked with. So I have the research and about 1500 words worked out along with 10 preliminary sketches. Needless to say, it was NOT busy at the job.
What this means is, no writing done till Sunday...unless I try to do it on the plane, again. That didn't work so well, the last time. I dunno, maybe I was doing too good the last week, as regards POS, and had to trip myself up in some way to keep from getting too big a head on my shoulders.
BTW, it seems the GOP in Texas has finally revealed itself for what it truly is -- the new Puritans. Their platform calls for making all sodomy illegal (even that between husband and wife), repealing no-fault divorce and a myriad of other nonsense straight out of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter." And there are still idiots in that state who support them. Another reason to stay the hell away...or go back to fight the madness. Hell,I don't know.
The whole country's in a mess. Even New York has a candidate for governor who's forwarded racist e-mails and claims the current governor, David (?) Patterson, a black man who has extremely restricted vision, is a junkie because he once said he tried cocaine...and do you think that candidate's the least bit sorry for saying or doing those things? Hell, no.
Jesus, it's like the right wing has been struck blind to how they come across to people. I used to think that'd be a good thing...until I saw how many idiots are still willing to follow them straight off the cliff, just like lemmings. And thanks to our morally bankrupt news media, they'll gladly take the whole country with them.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Here we go again...
I'm an idiot. Plain and simple. Still dreaming dreams that have no chance of succeeding and willing to toss aside any plans I made in hopes that this time, after all the times those dreams have come crashing down around me, this time it'll succeed. It's ludicrous...and the mark of insanity, as I understand. Not that I ever made claim to being of sound mind...or body. Hell, just read some of my writing; I'm friggin' psychotic.
Story behind this little rant? A gentleman who owes me more than $6000 called me in the middle of the day to say he almost had everything in line to begin making some training films -- he's buying a few cameras (what he described sounded like Reds but I couldn't find out from him if they were) and they'll be idle between shoots, so he's also just about got the funding AND distribution together to start making micro-budget films for rental or cable or overseas consumption or whatever and wants me to both provide some of my own scripts (I only have one that really fits his parameters) and shift some books that he has the rights to into scripts. He also wants me to come help him with them.
So...I'm thinking, "This is a way to get back to business..." and it's come at the perfect time because I need to let my landlord know if I'm renewing my lease...but then I remember something. My promise to Brendan. This means jettisoning it, and he is not at all happy about that. And that's when I start looking at the situation as it truly is.
This guy can't even pay me the money he owes me now, yet he's talking about buying $20-30K in equipment to shoot these training videos (and what sort of training they're for, I don't want to know) and the money's gonna roll in and there's nothing specific being discussed. And what does that remind me of? A certain son-of-a-bitch I joined with to make a movie 18 years ago. I wrote a fucking great script! It was the first time my characters took over and lead me places and had he shot it like it was written, it would have kicked ass.
Instead, he blew half his budget on buying an editing suite...and didn't come to the set prepared...and fired an experienced DP three days before shooting began...and...dumb shit that I was...I kept thinking, "It'll all work out." It didn't. I damned near lost a couple of friends over it, and I think the experience drove a very talented actor out of the business. And then the SOB blamed me for writing a script that was "too queer," even though he rewrote it and made it into such a racist piece of trash, I'd have killed him if could have found him, the day I learned about it. And here I am, still wanting to fall for the same bullshit.
You know, film really is a sickness. It infects you and manipulates your dreams and makes you think if you just hang on long enough, everything'll turn around. Then it kicks you in the teeth any chance it gets and says, "What else did you expect, dumbass? You think I give a shit about you? Oh, and by the way -- break every promise you ever made so you can keep begging me to pay attention to you." Man...no wonder I freak out around alcoholics and junkies; I know deep down I'm an enabler to the nth degree...and actually fell into that trap twice in my life...and it was hell getting away from it, both times.
So...no writing done tonight. Brendan's sulking. And he has every right to. I'm proving to be a flighty steward of his life. You know, an intelligent man learns from his mistakes...but me? I'm an idiot, plain and simple.
Story behind this little rant? A gentleman who owes me more than $6000 called me in the middle of the day to say he almost had everything in line to begin making some training films -- he's buying a few cameras (what he described sounded like Reds but I couldn't find out from him if they were) and they'll be idle between shoots, so he's also just about got the funding AND distribution together to start making micro-budget films for rental or cable or overseas consumption or whatever and wants me to both provide some of my own scripts (I only have one that really fits his parameters) and shift some books that he has the rights to into scripts. He also wants me to come help him with them.
So...I'm thinking, "This is a way to get back to business..." and it's come at the perfect time because I need to let my landlord know if I'm renewing my lease...but then I remember something. My promise to Brendan. This means jettisoning it, and he is not at all happy about that. And that's when I start looking at the situation as it truly is.
This guy can't even pay me the money he owes me now, yet he's talking about buying $20-30K in equipment to shoot these training videos (and what sort of training they're for, I don't want to know) and the money's gonna roll in and there's nothing specific being discussed. And what does that remind me of? A certain son-of-a-bitch I joined with to make a movie 18 years ago. I wrote a fucking great script! It was the first time my characters took over and lead me places and had he shot it like it was written, it would have kicked ass.
Instead, he blew half his budget on buying an editing suite...and didn't come to the set prepared...and fired an experienced DP three days before shooting began...and...dumb shit that I was...I kept thinking, "It'll all work out." It didn't. I damned near lost a couple of friends over it, and I think the experience drove a very talented actor out of the business. And then the SOB blamed me for writing a script that was "too queer," even though he rewrote it and made it into such a racist piece of trash, I'd have killed him if could have found him, the day I learned about it. And here I am, still wanting to fall for the same bullshit.
You know, film really is a sickness. It infects you and manipulates your dreams and makes you think if you just hang on long enough, everything'll turn around. Then it kicks you in the teeth any chance it gets and says, "What else did you expect, dumbass? You think I give a shit about you? Oh, and by the way -- break every promise you ever made so you can keep begging me to pay attention to you." Man...no wonder I freak out around alcoholics and junkies; I know deep down I'm an enabler to the nth degree...and actually fell into that trap twice in my life...and it was hell getting away from it, both times.
So...no writing done tonight. Brendan's sulking. And he has every right to. I'm proving to be a flighty steward of his life. You know, an intelligent man learns from his mistakes...but me? I'm an idiot, plain and simple.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Changes...changing...changed...
The deeper I get into working on "Place of Safety" the more I see how this is only the beginning of this job, and my future goals need to adjust to it. I have a responsibility to Brendan and his story and want only to make it as good as I can. What that means is focusing on finding some way to live in the Derry area for a couple years, like I once said I did, so I can make better the details of his life there. So Seattle goes by the wayside, and changes begin.
The whole third section of the story has just exploded, so I no longer have a map to follow as I write it; I just let it go and see where it takes me. I've been avoiding putting up anything from the third section because I don't want to give too much of the ending away, but this moment...it wanted to be shared, and I don't mind doing so because it's in the middle of a major shift in Brenda's character.
He's now 25 and has secretly returned to Derry by pretending to be a friend of his from Houston, but after a confrontation with some British troops he realizes he's about to be found out and has sent word to a childhood friend, Colm Lemass, that he needs help to get back out of the country. He's hiding in a neighbor's home, waiting.
-----------------------------------
The morning of the next day, I was in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea with Daria, Mrs. Haggerty’s oldest, and she was handling it in a very proper manner, too. Across from us sat little Sean, not but three years yet still fascinated with us to the point of total silence.
“White or dark?” Daria asked with deep seriousness.
“White, please,” was my reply, just as serious.
“Milk first or after?”
“After.”
“Sweet?” she continued in the same manner as she poured first tea then a dash of milk.
“Lightly so, thanks,” I smiled.
She put in half a teaspoon. Less than I was used to, but I was so enjoying the tenderness of the moment, I didn’t care. She offered me bread with butter and jam off a chipped plate and I took half a slice so she and Sean could have the three left. Then I sipped, and the tea was strong enough to pull out your teeth if it so chose, but a taste of the jam settled it on my tongue. It was just us three there; Jimmy Haggerty was off to his job and his wife had run down two doors to fetch an egg or two for breakfast. I was hoping I could be fed before the Paras returned...or Colm called for me...for I'd not have a good meal, after.
But then there was pounding on the door. Sean jumped, terrified, but Daria instantly turned to him and said, “Now, Sean, don’t be such a baby. It’s just troopers and they’ll be gone again, shortly.”
Sean looked at me with accusation, and it cut into me. A child of seven comforting a child of three, and both knowing what a knock at the door meant. That was not the way their lives should start out. So I smiled at them, in comfort, and quickly rose.
“It’s all right,” I said, grinning. “It’s just for me.”
As I strode down the hall to the door, another pounding began so I called, “Hold on, hold on,” in my best twang. I wasn’t about to add to their idea the Haggertys might have known who I truly was. My voice gave them at least a little cover.
I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his rifle butt, and I slipped into to Adam’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I was comin’!”
I thought for a second he was going to shift the rifle’s butt to my head, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before.
“Are you Adam Landau?” he said, another true Brit.
“That’s me.”
“Let me see your passport.”
I handed it over with hesitation, knowing that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. I hoped Adam had the sense to tell them he hadn’t seen it in weeks -- but he was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would step back long enough to find out what was going on. As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Owen, I’d finally decided they had a story in place for if ever the day came that I was found out. So my one concern was for the Haggertys and minimizing the trouble they’d be in.
“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so -- .”
“No need. You’ll come with us.”
“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home. I’m watchin’ her kids till she gets back and -- .”
“What’s goin’ here?” It was herself bolting from the house next door, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?”
“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin' up -- .”
“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!”
“What’s this?” asked her friend. “He’s American? Who th' devil d'yous bastards think yous are?”
Other women were coming out, just as vocal in their displeasure, and I wondered if this was a method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue. But a quick look at the soldiers showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Mam’s, for the riots of the last week had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully, and god knows I didn't want to be around another massacre.
So I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right?”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a corporal or captain or just a top sergeant -- but at least he was smart enough to hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to one of two PIGs and said, “In there,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.”
I let two of them lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem, the ladies still hurling curses at them, and the first one opened the door as the second kept close watch on me and the others made for the second PIG and a Saracen that was behind it but as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof to slowly, slowly curl downward, spinning gently like it weighed nothing as it drew closer and closer and I gasped and turned away from it because it was getting so close I thought it might hit me but instead saw it slam onto the bonnet of the PIG behind me and ricochet into the chest of a Para that was about to get in. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode as the once-growing throng of women burst apart like petals off an open rose and they scrambled back to their homes while more stones came pelting down on the Brits -- and on me.
I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the PIGs to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire, and I cried out, “They got bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then. That’s when the commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.”
I burst into laughter at the fury in his face -- I couldn’t help it, he was so fuckin' comical. So he punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, and my head rang and blood poured yet still I laughed. It was insane -- the chaos a few stones can bring and the stupidity of the anger these bastards dared show against those they occupied and futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Mam was gone and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see it and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it.
Then I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “You stupid bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”
The whole third section of the story has just exploded, so I no longer have a map to follow as I write it; I just let it go and see where it takes me. I've been avoiding putting up anything from the third section because I don't want to give too much of the ending away, but this moment...it wanted to be shared, and I don't mind doing so because it's in the middle of a major shift in Brenda's character.
He's now 25 and has secretly returned to Derry by pretending to be a friend of his from Houston, but after a confrontation with some British troops he realizes he's about to be found out and has sent word to a childhood friend, Colm Lemass, that he needs help to get back out of the country. He's hiding in a neighbor's home, waiting.
-----------------------------------
The morning of the next day, I was in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea with Daria, Mrs. Haggerty’s oldest, and she was handling it in a very proper manner, too. Across from us sat little Sean, not but three years yet still fascinated with us to the point of total silence.
“White or dark?” Daria asked with deep seriousness.
“White, please,” was my reply, just as serious.
“Milk first or after?”
“After.”
“Sweet?” she continued in the same manner as she poured first tea then a dash of milk.
“Lightly so, thanks,” I smiled.
She put in half a teaspoon. Less than I was used to, but I was so enjoying the tenderness of the moment, I didn’t care. She offered me bread with butter and jam off a chipped plate and I took half a slice so she and Sean could have the three left. Then I sipped, and the tea was strong enough to pull out your teeth if it so chose, but a taste of the jam settled it on my tongue. It was just us three there; Jimmy Haggerty was off to his job and his wife had run down two doors to fetch an egg or two for breakfast. I was hoping I could be fed before the Paras returned...or Colm called for me...for I'd not have a good meal, after.
But then there was pounding on the door. Sean jumped, terrified, but Daria instantly turned to him and said, “Now, Sean, don’t be such a baby. It’s just troopers and they’ll be gone again, shortly.”
Sean looked at me with accusation, and it cut into me. A child of seven comforting a child of three, and both knowing what a knock at the door meant. That was not the way their lives should start out. So I smiled at them, in comfort, and quickly rose.
“It’s all right,” I said, grinning. “It’s just for me.”
As I strode down the hall to the door, another pounding began so I called, “Hold on, hold on,” in my best twang. I wasn’t about to add to their idea the Haggertys might have known who I truly was. My voice gave them at least a little cover.
I opened the door just as a stocky Para was about to use his rifle butt, and I slipped into to Adam’s attitude and snapped, “What the hell’s wrong with you? I said I was comin’!”
I thought for a second he was going to shift the rifle’s butt to my head, but another man stepped forward, one I’d not seen before.
“Are you Adam Landau?” he said, another true Brit.
“That’s me.”
“Let me see your passport.”
I handed it over with hesitation, knowing that’s the last time I’d have my hands on it. I hoped Adam had the sense to tell them he hadn’t seen it in weeks -- but he was no fool; the second he was called he’d know something had happened and would step back long enough to find out what was going on. As for Aunt Mari and Uncle Owen, I’d finally decided they had a story in place for if ever the day came that I was found out. So my one concern was for the Haggertys and minimizing the trouble they’d be in.
“I’d invite you in,” I said, keeping the twang, “but this ain’t my place so -- .”
“No need. You’ll come with us.”
“Wait, Mrs. Haggerty’s not home. I’m watchin’ her kids till she gets back and -- .”
“What’s goin’ here?” It was herself bolting from the house next door, a cloth holding eggs in one hand, another woman right behind her and just as angry. “Mr. Landau, what’s this?”
“It’s nothin’, Mizz Haggerty,” I said. “These gentlemen just want me to go clear somethin' up -- .”
“You bloody Brit bastards,” she snarled, “he’s an American. Just because you think you can treat us like this doesn’t mean you can the whole world!”
“What’s this?” asked her friend. “He’s American? Who th' devil d'yous bastards think yous are?”
Other women were coming out, just as vocal in their displeasure, and I wondered if this was a method of pushing back against the Paras -- surround them with loud angry females to confuse the issue. But a quick look at the soldiers showed me we’d not have a repeat of the night at Mam’s, for the riots of the last week had put them too much on edge to be willing to back down peacefully, and god knows I didn't want to be around another massacre.
So I turned to Mrs. Haggerty and her mates and said, “Ladies, it’s all right. Thanks. I don’t mind goin’ with ‘em. I’ll just call the ‘Merican consulate from their office and get everything straightened out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It’ll be fine.” I turned back to the man in charge with a smile and added, “It’s just a little misunderstandin’, right?”
I honestly couldn’t tell if he was a corporal or captain or just a top sergeant -- but at least he was smart enough to hold his tongue and nod. He pointed to one of two PIGs and said, “In there,” then begrudgingly added, “Please.”
I let two of them lead me around to the back of the first beast, in tandem, the ladies still hurling curses at them, and the first one opened the door as the second kept close watch on me and the others made for the second PIG and a Saracen that was behind it but as I was about to get in I noticed movement from above, like an arm waving from behind a chimney, and looked up to see a single, dark, perfectly-shaped brick softly hurtle over the roof to slowly, slowly curl downward, spinning gently like it weighed nothing as it drew closer and closer and I gasped and turned away from it because it was getting so close I thought it might hit me but instead saw it slam onto the bonnet of the PIG behind me and ricochet into the chest of a Para that was about to get in. He cried out and collapsed and his mates swung into full battle mode as the once-growing throng of women burst apart like petals off an open rose and they scrambled back to their homes while more stones came pelting down on the Brits -- and on me.
I was clipped in the back and hit full on my left hand as I scurried away from the PIGs to find a place of safety and saw the Paras taking cover behind the vehicles and a corner house, rifles prepped ready to fire, and I cried out, “They got bullets!” with no hint of Texas in my voice then. That’s when the commander grabbed me and slammed me into a doorway, snarling, “Right, you’re from bloody America.”
I burst into laughter at the fury in his face -- I couldn’t help it, he was so fuckin' comical. So he punched me with his pistol, cutting open my left eye, and my head rang and blood poured yet still I laughed. It was insane -- the chaos a few stones can bring and the stupidity of the anger these bastards dared show against those they occupied and futility of it all in the face of the world’s disinterest and the fact that Mam was gone and would never get to see any of this finally crush the spirit of those who lived here and no one would learn the lessons of the place because we were now a template on how to fight back against the oppressor and none of them could see it and this stupid bastard thought he could beat me into ending my laughter when it was beyond my control, all of it, all of it.
Then I heard gunfire from the Paras’ rifles and laughed even harder as I choked out, “You stupid bastards, you’re shootin' at ghosts!”
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Closer...closer...
I passed 99K in words on POS and am feeling good...always a danger sign, but I don't care. The story's speeding up, now and I'm along for the ride, whether I want to be or not. I honestly don't know if this stuff I'm adding is going to work in the grand scheme of the story since I want it as real as I can get it and some of it's a bit too close to Hollywood stuff. But it's a foundation from which to build and I'm not going to stop it now to edit out the silly parts.
We had Houston-style rain in Buffalo, today. Stifling and still, with the humidity pressing in on you until a downpour began, firing straight down like it we a monsoon without the winds. I saw a rabbit out in it for a bit. a scrawny little hare with that gray-brown fur and eyes circled in white, giving it a startled and yet mournful look. Apparently this is a normal occurrence in the area...in the city -- rabbits as the local rodents. Wild.
Y'know, I'm brain dead...so let's share something from the new world in the old world. Here's Shanghai spaced over 20 years.
Consider this -- when Steven Spielberg shot "Empire of the Sun" in 1987, the curve in the river looked exactly like it had in 1941 so he needed nothing in the way of special effects shots to age up the city. The bottom picture is just 23 years later and you're reminded of "Blade Runner." Creepy.
We had Houston-style rain in Buffalo, today. Stifling and still, with the humidity pressing in on you until a downpour began, firing straight down like it we a monsoon without the winds. I saw a rabbit out in it for a bit. a scrawny little hare with that gray-brown fur and eyes circled in white, giving it a startled and yet mournful look. Apparently this is a normal occurrence in the area...in the city -- rabbits as the local rodents. Wild.
Y'know, I'm brain dead...so let's share something from the new world in the old world. Here's Shanghai spaced over 20 years.
Consider this -- when Steven Spielberg shot "Empire of the Sun" in 1987, the curve in the river looked exactly like it had in 1941 so he needed nothing in the way of special effects shots to age up the city. The bottom picture is just 23 years later and you're reminded of "Blade Runner." Creepy.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Hunger....
Gave me a headache. Stems from not eating a lot the last couple days to give my body time to calm down. So now I'm slopping Bengay onmy neck and shoulders and popping Advil...and working at POS. Didn't help that I went for a long walk around a lake in a park I pass every day. It's on Delaware and across from the cemetery that holds Millard Filmore's tomb. I parked and walked down to a pavilion then circled the lake and walked back to the car. It's not the first time I've done it, but I've been eating a light lunch at work so normally by this time I'm getting hungry...and I was starving. Fortunately, I had a small packet of nuts with me so that held me a little while. Didn't help I left the shop late thanks to a last-minute shipment from New York to London. Thing is, I've been so sedentary lately I need to do something to get my blood circulating better. I can't just sit at a computer all day and night and lose weight. All I'm losing is muscle.
So I walked the lake and got some groceries and had a bite to eat but it wasn't much an then about 9 my neck started aching so I had a cup of tea and toasted a couple of waffles and am just now beginning to feel better.
I had another interesting development pop up last night before I went to bed as regards Brendan and Father Pat so worked that in while it was still fresh enough, this evening. And sure enough, it worked beautifully in showing some changes in Brendan while leading into the last third of the ending section.
But now I'm dog-tired and can barely keep my eyes open, so I'm ending it short of my 2000 words, tonight. Maybe I'll make up for it, tomorrow...but that matters is the story is moving, again.
Oh, RIHC6v2 is beginning to move, too. I was sent a proof of the cover and it works neatly, looking almost the same as the first book but different enough to add to the story. I'm now waiting to see when it's available on Amazon -- I have a fan to whom I've promised an autographed copy.
So I walked the lake and got some groceries and had a bite to eat but it wasn't much an then about 9 my neck started aching so I had a cup of tea and toasted a couple of waffles and am just now beginning to feel better.
I had another interesting development pop up last night before I went to bed as regards Brendan and Father Pat so worked that in while it was still fresh enough, this evening. And sure enough, it worked beautifully in showing some changes in Brendan while leading into the last third of the ending section.
But now I'm dog-tired and can barely keep my eyes open, so I'm ending it short of my 2000 words, tonight. Maybe I'll make up for it, tomorrow...but that matters is the story is moving, again.
Oh, RIHC6v2 is beginning to move, too. I was sent a proof of the cover and it works neatly, looking almost the same as the first book but different enough to add to the story. I'm now waiting to see when it's available on Amazon -- I have a fan to whom I've promised an autographed copy.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Easy Sunday
I'm not feeling so great so I kept everything low-key. I don't know if it was the beer I drank (one of those micro-brews that's local to Buffalo) or something I ate (I'm thinking samosas with mango chutney; I found an Indian food convenience store a couple miles form me and bought some frozen Samosas and had them for dinner, Friday night) or if it's just nerves...but my gut troubled me yesterday and is still being problematic...and for some reason I'm reminded of Thelma Ritter's line in "Rear Window" -- "When General Motors has to go to the bathroom ten times a day, the whole country's ready to let go."
Not that I'm like General Motors...except in the financial mess part...and having problems with my mental electronics...and no longer being of top quality (though I DO hear Buick's really grown to be a very good car)...
And except...I did get productive at the computer. I worked on section 3 of the story and I'm now at 95K+ in wordage and linked two chapters I hadn't planned on linking, yet. And what's interesting is, the timeline just got cut down to about 6 weeks for the last section because something surprising happened first with the British and then between Brendan and his mother -- she found out she's been wrong about him and he found out he's been right about her, and the British blundered about in their usual manner, precipitating events. Thanks everso, lads.
What's even better is, this may mean I'm more like 2/3 of the way through the story instead of just barely over half. We'll see how the rest of it turns out.
Now I need something to drink -- DP or tea, no mo' beer for a while, and then I think I'll stick to something like Guinness or Amstel Light...or both in a Black and Tan of a sort.
But I'll bet it WAS the chutney.
Not that I'm like General Motors...except in the financial mess part...and having problems with my mental electronics...and no longer being of top quality (though I DO hear Buick's really grown to be a very good car)...
And except...I did get productive at the computer. I worked on section 3 of the story and I'm now at 95K+ in wordage and linked two chapters I hadn't planned on linking, yet. And what's interesting is, the timeline just got cut down to about 6 weeks for the last section because something surprising happened first with the British and then between Brendan and his mother -- she found out she's been wrong about him and he found out he's been right about her, and the British blundered about in their usual manner, precipitating events. Thanks everso, lads.
What's even better is, this may mean I'm more like 2/3 of the way through the story instead of just barely over half. We'll see how the rest of it turns out.
Now I need something to drink -- DP or tea, no mo' beer for a while, and then I think I'll stick to something like Guinness or Amstel Light...or both in a Black and Tan of a sort.
But I'll bet it WAS the chutney.
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