I think I overestimated

Working on POS today I'm finding I have a number of bridges to build between sections that are already written.  For example, the Civil Rights march of October 5, 1968 that was nearly catastrophic.  I only have notes for that and it's a full chapter unto itself, because I'm tying in not only the march but Eamonn's growing interest in Civil Rights and Brendan's growing ability in fixing things and slyly helping provide for his family so his mother doesn't know (they're building an interesting relationship, Brendan and his Mam).  Plus they're moved out of their ramshackle home to a relatively decent place and a new priest comes to town and on and on.  What'll be fun is keeping it centered around Brendan's experiences; I don't want this to become anything but his life as he lives it, not told so much by someone looking back and now all-knowing...and that may prove difficult.  Already I'm seeing some repetition, and even though things may have happened that way, it makes for poor storytelling.  Comes across as lazy.

I'm using an XL spreadsheet to keep track of everything, breaking the pages into chapters as I go along and making notes to help me remember what happens where.  I've already caught one inconsistency and will probably find more since I wrote all these bits at different times.  And I'll finally be able to see what actions work best where and how many times I've done the same thing over.  But damn, it's slow going.  I'm just through chapter 4 of the first section.

I do not want to break this into separate volumes, like I did with "Bobby Carapisi" (which will wind up being a shorter book than POS, overall).  That was mainly done to satisfy the publisher's page limit (and even then I pushed it on each one).  My hope is to not go over 800 pages...but I can't limit the story, not at this point, so it goes as it goes.

I've caught a moment of dark humor...at least, where there can be some.  The first time Brendan's group heads for Grianan Aileach, which I have yet to write, as well.  Man...I got my work cut out for me.

But this is the joy of writing -- discovering new worlds and lives as you follow the path laid down by the sprites and muses who've called for you. 

Brendan's back...

...And it's on to the finish line, come hell or high water.  This piece is after Brendan's returned to Derry, at the height of the hunger strikes in spring of 1981.  He's 25, now, and pretending to be a friend of his from Houston.  An old mate, who's Protestant and is now in the Royal Ulster Constabulary, has recognized him and he's been brutally interrogated by them, then released...but now the British have come to take him away.  He escaped them by hiding under his sick mother's bed as the neighborhood nearly rioted over the presence of the Paras.  They army's backed off...but not for long.

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I finally slipped out from under the boards and peeked up to find Mam looking at me in question. “Brendan, what have you done?”

I painfully forced myself to climb out from behind the bed and tenderly over Mam as Mairead proudly came up the stairs.

“Did you hear it?” she said.

“Every word,” I replied. “You’re a wonder, Mai.”

“Just because I want the war to end doesn’t mean I can’t handle the bastards in the meantime.”

“Brendan Kinsella, what have you done?!” Mam’s voice was tight with anger.

I looked straight at her and said, “They want to know who helped Eamonn plant the bomb. They know I know his name.”

“Bren," Mairead asked, "was it the RUC who beat you?” I nodded, still looking at Mam. “And they’re still looking for that name?” I nodded.

Mam looked at me as if she didn’t know me, the purest confusion on her face, then she turned away. “Mairead, I -- I’m out of water and I need my pills.”

“Aye, Mam,” she said, absently. I heard her leave.

My eyes were still focused on Mam, but she would not look at me. She fucking would not look at me. I finally show her that I'm not the weak-kneed nothing she thought I was, and she can't face me over it. A grin crosses my lips, and I know it looked cruel.

“Mairead’s story has enough truth in it to keep them confused for a while, but they’ll return wanting to meet this 'Mr. Landau.' So it’s best I leave.”

She seemed not to hear me. I finally left the room and met Mairead as she came back up with water for Mam’s medication.

“Get word to Colm,” I said. “I want to meet him -- where we used to get drunk.”

“Bren -- .”

“He’ll know where. Tell him it has to be now.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s never going to end, is it? This war’ll take all of you. All of you.”

I just smiled at her and went into my room to dress. I still ached and had to move carefully to pull on my socks and boots, but I could be mobile, again. Then I removed the plaster from my nose. It hurt like a bastard but it wouldn’t do for me to be out looking like that. I was still bruised and my eye was as black as pitch, but that couldn’t be helped. I’d just have to keep my profile lower is all -- meaning I’d have to wait till it was dark

I mentioned it to Mai and she shrugged, “Good; he won’t get the message till late, anyway, and even so, he might not be available and -- .”

“He will be,” I said then went upstairs to rest.

As it began to finally grow dark, Mai fed me a massive fry-up -- “It’ll keep you all night, if need be” -- then I left by the back door, just in case they’d left someone to watch. Our back fence had no exit so I used a dust bin to climb over into the next yard. Mrs. Donnelly came to her kitchen window and saw me then opened her back door and turned away. I crept through without a word, passing her family as they sat at the table saying grace, not one of them even wanting to notice me.

I kept to the side lanes and roundabout ways leading to Groarty Road. Sometimes I’d hear a PIG or a Saracen roaring close but they never came within sight, and the choppers were few and far between. Seems everyone was trying to be on their best behavior, and that includes the confrontation just that morning. Had the Brits wanted to, they could have called in reinforcements, held the women back and torn the house apart. There was no law to stop them; in fact, the laws had been twisted by the British courts to protect them against being held to the standards of any civilized nation. It was maddening but it was also reality and nothing could be done about it.

But because St. Bobby was on death’s door and everyone could sense the growing anger in the community now that nearly a dozen young men were starving themselves to death for Mother Ireland, while the mother bitch, Thatcher, dismissed them as if they were little more than rodents to be exterminated...well, no one wanted to waste resources on chasing a ghost until they had to. And Mairead’s story, with her backed up by her neighbors, had given them an excuse to pause. I truly think that’s the only reason I was able to slip away and make it clear to the border without being found out.

I snuck over down by Upper Groarty Road, under a thicket of trees not far from where I’d slipped Joanna across. I jumped the brook, landing half in mud that nearly sucked off my boot, but still managed to scramble up the side even though it tore at my aching balls. I had to sit in a bush and not move for ten minutes before they stopped hurting enough for me to rise, again, and creep across the meadow to the nearest fence. I crawled over it, leaned against it for a bit to catch my breath and headed up the lane straight for the fort.

The moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds, giving more light than I wished for, but I cared not. I was in The Republic, and none of the bastards tightening their grip on Derry could get to me -- legally, anyhows. Sure they could always just jump the border and grab me, have me down in The Maze before anyone knew better, but I figured I’d make it a hell of a time for them if they tried, and the way I looked now would seem ten times worse if Paras were caught on this side of the border.

I cut across field after field, rolling over fences and crossing narrow roads and aiming solely for that round pile of rocks. I figured Colm wouldn’t even leave for the meeting till it was pure dark, and I wanted to be there before him. I wanted to see how he arrived -- if by car or by foot or any other mode of transportation. If he came alone, as I asked, or had more with him. And if more were with him, if he’d approach me on his own or have his “backup right there,” as the phrase goes in America. It was hell on my side and groin, crossing that uneven ground, slashing through grass that soaked my jeans and foliage that tore at my legs. I stumbled a few times but never actually fell, despite my headlong push, and soon my adrenalin was up so I didn’t even feel the pain.

And then I was there, and a weak iron grate lay across the low entrance. I pulled it away, so I supposed it was meant only to keep out stray dogs. Too bad for them this one knew his way about it. I slipped inside and quickly climbed to the top tier and looked out over the dark, cold land.


The distant water was silvery blue, as always. Gleaming in the moonlight under tender clouds. The land a patchwork of blacks and the deepest greens. The incessant wind bit at my cheeks and my breath danced away from me as if nervous about it all. Even jammed into my coat, my hands were cold enough to where my fingers would have dropped off were they not held on by gloves, and my feet ached from being frozen but my ribs and balls barely made themselves noticed, anymore, and my eye and nose were numb.  I felt more alive than I had since the last time I was here.


With Joanna.

And I thought, “She would love to have seen this,” forgetting for just an instant that she had, little more than ten years ago.  Both of us children still thinking all would be right with the world.  I had to smile at the thought.

Hours passed like clouds whispering across the sky, some moments racing along, others being slow, all softened by the elegant ease in which they moved. I walked around the fort to keep a vague sort of warmth about me, even though my cheeks were stung by gusts of wind.  The more I hurt in these tiny, simple ways, the more I felt real and human and ready for anything God could toss at me.

Then I finally caught the gleam of a car’s headlights and leaned atop the wall to watch them peek around the hillocks and shrubs as the vehicle approached. Then the lights were gone, but I could still hear the car’s engine...and it was a car, not a truck -- or lorry, if you prefer. It stopped down the lane that lead from the road to the fort and I heard a car door slam -- and then just barely heard another close.

Colm was not alone.

The death of plan-making

I think I finally learned not to make plans, because invariably when I do something happens to mess them up.  This evening I was going to focus on POS...but my internet service decided to mess with me, to the extent I couldn't get it to even acknowledge it had ever even been on my laptop.  I'm just now back to normal and answering e-mails...thanks to Verizon keeping me on hold for over an hour.  63 minutes, to be exact.  It's amazing, the customer service you get from these high-tech, totally automated everything companies.  Does not bode well for the future.

BUT...looking back over my posts I'm finding myself slipping back into Mr. Whiney mode, and I don't want to use this blog for that; I write in a journal for my ennui crap.  So...back to POS.

I happened onto an interesting bit in Stuart Neville's "Ghosts of Belfast" that will help in section 3 of the story.  I even dog-eared the page so I could find it...and don't think I'll share it because I want the whole situation to be a surprise.  But it's got me thinking I may get a better idea of the sociology of Northern Ireland if I read fictional books written by the people who live there.  I'm aiming for one by Gerard Brennan, who lives in Belfast.

It seems Belfast is ground zero when it comes to crime fiction in NI.  I've yet to see a blurb about a story set in Derry, though one short story in "Requiems for the Departed" was set there.  The problem with that story was, it was really just an outline for a novel.  Seriously, the writer packed so much into it there were none of the gentle details that make a story come alive.

I did get some fascinating material from a book titled "Strong About it All..." discussing the experiences of rural and urban women, both, at the hands of the security forces.

Oops, gotta run -- Brendan's calling.

(Hm...apparently I'm still having internet trouble, because the damned thing won't let me correct a spelling error.)

London calling

I lived in London for 3 years as a child and have never gotten over it.  My step-father was stationed at Ruislip Air Force Base and we rented a terrace home in Ruislip Gardens, just down from a cricket pitch.  My first three years of school were there, and by third grade, we were learning French and I was fascinated by football (soccer, here) and foggy evenings.  By the time we returned to the US, I had a proper West End accent.  It took ten years of Missouri, North Dakota, Hawaii and Texas to slam it out of me...but the positive thing is, I never took up a Texas drawl or twang.  I just sound...American.

I've been back to London once, since -- five years ago.  And I felt at home in the city.  I had no problem getting around on the Tube and even went out to see that house.  It's painted white and there's a high school on the cricket pitch, now...but everything else is so much the same.  I could live there, again...and actually sounded out a few people I knew in the book business about whether or not I could work for them.  No one said "No" but it was all, "If you move here, contact us and we'll see."

I'm remembering this because I found out, today, purely by accident, that I'm expected to man the office while everyone else is in London for the Olympia Book Fair.  Another point  in the pathetic communication going on at that place.  These people tell each other everything and I'm not quite in the loop, so find things out after they've been decided.  Besides, I think I'm close to overstaying my welcome.  We'll see how it goes over the next few weeks.  My lease is up in August...so that might be a good ending point.

I'm just tired of living in the US.  It's a nation on the decline thanks to the GOP and acquiescence of the Democrats, especially that back-stabber in the White House.  He spits on progressives and does everything he can to placate the right-wing-nuts...like finally releasing his birth certificate, today, stupidly thinking that will end the questions about it...but he's only finding they will not stop attacking him.  Yet them he's working with and people like me, who want to make this country more human instead of just a machine, are being ignored.

Dunno what I'll do if I leave.  I'm still planning to use August to finish a first draft of POS...and that really does take preference.  I dunno...I'm probably just tired, and that tends to make me focus on the negative.  I think I'll hit the sack early, tonight, and read till I'm asleep.  Keep myself going by focusing on my writing.  Focusing on Brendan.  He's been patient with me...as much as he can be.

But what he's about to find is I'm coming to the story a different writer.  Doing "The Lyons' Den" showed me how much deeper you can go with your story and characters if you use humor as well as drama.  I just need to find the places where it works best.  Some fine Irish black humor.

Irish tragedy -- a drunk drowns in a shallow pool of water in a gutter because no one's paying attention.  Irish comedy -- a drunk drowns in a vat of Guinness because he fights off people's help so he can get in "just one more little sup of the mother's milk."

Crude, rude and totally misconstrued.  I like that.

Old movies

I watched "Now, Voyager" (1942) and "My Man Godfrey" (1936) this evening and enjoyed the hell out of myself.  "...Godrey" is a screwball comedy where the rich are silly creatures who have no sense of humanity; it's all about them.  And it's crazy but even though it's 75 years old, it still fits in perfectly with how the rich are, today -- "It's all about me and never mind that the rest of the country is suffering due to my selfishness."  You can see that from the nonsense about ending Bush's ludicrous tax cuts and honestly trying to get the economy going.

In fact, a lot of the films of the 30s showed just how much the country was controlled by the rich and their corrupt politicians to the detriment to those who draw a paycheck or really work for a living.  Don't believe me?  Check out "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town" or "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" or "His Girl Friday" or "They Won't Forget" or even "The Adventures of Robin Hood" (the Errol Flynn version, which is still the best).  They're rampant with thieves in designer suits and oily smiles.

As for "...Voyager", it's a classic romance about a forbidden love and self-sacrifice by the woman for a greater good, and it's a bit silly in how easily everything works out in the end, considering the emotional difficulties of those involved.  And yet...viewing it this time, I noticed how the lead female (Charlotte Vale, played by Bette Davis) winds up being a caring, loving person specifically because of the brutality visited upon her by her aged, very wealthy mother (played by Gladys Cooper), a snob of a person who places her money and position in society above everything else.  Again, with the old bat it's all about me, and when Charlotte casts her control off, completely, she dies in order to hand over yet another guilt trip.

Looking at how people behave now...with Wall Street scum giving themselves massive bonuses despite having wrecked the economy and Banksters using illegal procedures to foreclose on people's homes and politicians on BOTH sides of the aisle kissing the ass of billionaires who've bought them their offices...nothing's really changed.  The corrupt senator of "Mr. Smith..." would feel right at home in today's Washington DC, even though it's more than seven decades later.  The venal mayor and sheriff in "His Girl Friday" have their exact counterparts in the governor of Texas and sheriff of Phoenix, today, both of whom are willing to twist the law and even kill innocent people to further their careers.

And it's not just in the US.  Similar crap happens in Russia and China and England and Ireland and Germany and Syria and Brazil and Chile and name-your-country anywhere else.  Look at how the banks in England and Germany tried to turn Iceland into a slave nation, meant only to replay the losses they incurred while gambling on idiotic projects.  The only thing that stopped it was the people said, No.  Now it's happening in Ireland and Spain and Greece, and their people aren't being given any say in their newfound servitude.  It's outright theft of these countries' treasuries on the grandest scale imaginable, and no one in power is even trying to stop it.

I wonder who actually said, "The more things change, the more they stay the same"?  Whoever it was must have been a prophet.

I guess this is where hope comes in.  And dreams.  And wishes for a better tomorrow.

Just for the hell of it...

 This is Charlie Williams, one of the actors, singers, dancers in "Memphis" on Broadway.  Texas born.

I know how photos can be worked up and all that, but I just plain like the look of these two.

Doesn't hurt that he's adorable.

Travelogue

Don't geel like writing, right now.  So...

 ...here's beautiful downtown Buffalo on April 10th, the day I left for Portland.  That white slash is ice still on the lake water.

This is the Columbia River looking towards IH 5 and the drawbridge that spans it.  Thems real serious rain clouds in the background, moving in fast.

Here's the entrance to Fort Vancouver, which I had to play with in Photoshop to make visible, thanks to the dimming light.  Once I get used to my camera, I may be able to do better shots with less digital noise in them, but these'll do for now.  Out of 75 photos, I got seven that were usable.

I have the weirdest camera

It's a Vivitar and only cost me $70, but it's as complex and demanding as a cat.  When I'm taking photos, I have to choose between "scenery", "portrait", "night scenery", "high sensitivity", "sport", "beach", or " party" mode while size and exposure and ISO and such can pretty much be set...except for white balance.  Then I have to choose between "daylight", "cloudy", "fluorescent" and "incandescent".  And on TOP of all this, there's a switch on the side that designates whether or not you're shooting landscapes as opposed to closeups.  I've got more icons on my viewing screen than I have fingers.  And if you don't get the alignment JUST right, you come out with a piece of crap.  Half the photos I took in Portland were soft...too soft to correct even in Photoshop.

Here's one that did come out all right, but only after I spent half an hour and went through a dozen different configurations to get it right.  I timed it neatly between rain showers.

And this is the one decent one I could get for Fort Vancouver since it was clouding up and about to rain.  This is after a LOT of manipulation in Photoshop to make it viewable.  Those towers in the background are the drawbridge on Interstate 5 going over the Columbia River.

I guess once I use the damned thing more I'll get used to it, but it does irritate me.  The camera that got taken by the JetBlue guy didn't need all this nonsense and it worked fine.

Nothing much else to talk about, really.  A mundane day.

Paperwork day

Sorting out bills and working on crap.  I also need to find my car's title if I want to register it in NY and it's not where I thought it would be.  So...comes a search for that.  What fun.  The one positive is, I cut my boxes of papers by a third before I left San Antonio so I don't have as many to go through, but those are still a mess.  I never was good at organization.

I've also spoken with my mother and she's not doing so hot, again.  Always tired and dizzy.  My little brother does what he can and my sister is there to help when she has time (but considering she has a full-time job and lives 35 miles away from mom, it's hard for her to do a huge amount).  My younger brother has not called mom once since she got out of the hospital, and mom doesn't want to call him for help, even though she could use it.

The situation bothers me but I have no prospects for a decent job in SA, plain and simple.  This one is barely adequate, and they whined when I said I was following our initial agreement and raising my rate.  So I don't know what to do about it.  If I quit and go back to Texas, I'll have to go bankrupt, cancel my health insurance and return to living in the dining room, again.  If I don't, my mother struggles along with what help she can get from my little brother and sister until she winds up in a nursing home.  Nice choice.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't blame my little brother and sister for this; they're doing everything they can.  And truth be told, my younger brother is just doing what he did before with his father, so no surprises there.  I guess the only way this will work out positively is if I wind the lottery and can live off that till I'm eligible for Social Security.  That or "The Lyons' Den" gets snapped up by Random House and sells a million copies.  I could live with either.

I fried my brain

I flew back on a 5 1/2 hour Red-eye so, since I can't sleep on an airplane, I watched TV.  JetBlue offers programs via Direct TV; all you need is earphones...which I had since I wanted to watch "Syriana" on my laptop (so I did that on the trip out and it's a damn good movie told in a non-linear style that takes its time making full sense).  But coming back I had no movie so wound up watching old episodes of "Three's Company" and "The Nanny."  And I think my brain went into shock.

"Three's Company" was insipid but it's from the 70's and the clothes are crazy enough to keep it camp and remind us of how men used to have dicks on TV (one character who's a nookie-hound was wearing tight pants that showed his package to full effect).  Needless to add, women will always have tits on TV.  It was also interesting to see the attitudes about gay men that were acceptable (and made fun of)...all of it pre-AIDS.  It's almost like watching "I Love Lucy" without the brilliant comedy timing or writing...or Lucy.

But then that segued into four episodes of "The Nanny" and I seriously think I am scarred for life.  But I could not look away.  It's like I was watching a slow-motion train wreck.  Fran Drescher wasn't all that bad (except for her extremely nasal laugh), but the setup was so insipid and the storylines so over the top, it's like a melodrama play from the 1870's but without enough camp to make it fun.  Just bad writing and acting and directing.  And this was a top-rated show?  Which I was fortunate enough not to watch until now?  And ran for six years?  Sometimes my oblivious nature is a blessing.

Of course, I also went to Fort Vancouver before going to the airport so used that to anchor myself to reality.  It's across the Columbia River from Portland and is one of those frontier forts with tree trunks set upright and with pointed tops to make the perimeter walls, all leading up to a guard lookout.  It's set up like a little community with some people in period clothes doing work with the tools of the time -- 1850's.   I got there on "no fee" day so just wandered around as it rained, off and on.

Many of the buildings within the compound were restored to nearly original condition, though they were way too neat looking.  I don't think their walls would have been as smooth as these were, and of course horses would have been quartered in there, as well, leaving areas of no grass and lots of fertilizer.  Still, the whole thing reminded me of "Drums Along the Mohawk", an old Henry Fonda movie from 1939, and I enjoyed it.  Once my camera's recharged, I'll put up photos...if they came out.

I'm having trouble getting the hang of this new cheap-assed camera.  Half the time, it's out of focus and dark.  I've got more than a dozen different settings available as well as a switch on the side to let it know if I'm shooting close-ups or doing landscapes, and I have to get the combination just right to get a decent shot.  I can't find a steady setting that really allows for everything (the Auto setting doesn't do a damned thing that I can tell), so I fiddle with it, a lot.

Gads, I'm starting to fade, already.  I got home just before 9am and got to bed about 10:30 and slept till nearly 3pm.  That's after being up for 24 hours.  I gotta get back into shape.