Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 134
January 3, 2019
Feeling weird...
I was heading home from work and got a need for another helping of enchiladas, but the only place that has halfway decent ones in Buffalo is 10 miles away in evening traffic. Not that big a deal but I didn't want to drive. Still...I talked myself into it but as I reached a point halfway I happened upon another Mexican Food Restaurant and decided to try them.
Big mistake. They weren't even on the level of El Patio. I got chips and processed salsa, which should have warned me, but then I ordered guacamole...and it was more like avocado soup. Not bad just not right. And then came the enchiladas, rice and beans...and I'm still tasting them 6 hours later. Try a new place, for once, and get shot down. Even a Corona didn't help.
I'm not sick; I ate vegetarian so I know the beans weren't made with chicken stock. I just feel...incomplete. So I've been reading more of Rain Dogs and it's interesting. Perhaps a bit too intensely bleak and cynical but I do want to see if my theory as to who committed the murder works out to be correct.
But I'm pretty bad off when sitting in bed with a good book and a nice cup of tea doesn't make me feel better.
Big mistake. They weren't even on the level of El Patio. I got chips and processed salsa, which should have warned me, but then I ordered guacamole...and it was more like avocado soup. Not bad just not right. And then came the enchiladas, rice and beans...and I'm still tasting them 6 hours later. Try a new place, for once, and get shot down. Even a Corona didn't help.
I'm not sick; I ate vegetarian so I know the beans weren't made with chicken stock. I just feel...incomplete. So I've been reading more of Rain Dogs and it's interesting. Perhaps a bit too intensely bleak and cynical but I do want to see if my theory as to who committed the murder works out to be correct.
But I'm pretty bad off when sitting in bed with a good book and a nice cup of tea doesn't make me feel better.
January 2, 2019
WordPress is a pain...
I'm trying to set up a more adult in your face blog on Wordpress and they are making it really damned hard. I'm doing it through GoDaddy and they assigned me a temporary web address which is, I think, supposed to get updated to my blog's title...but it ain't yet. And the link to add comments has vanished. It was there yesterday.
I don't want to publicize it till I know everything's in place and it's up and running right...but that's not looking likely anytime soon. Maybe I'll look into starting an alternate blog on Blogger. I want to keep JamTheCat as my writing blog and use Anger & Anarchy as the political pissy one, with nudity and assholiness. We'll see how that goes. If this takes too much time, I'm not doin' it. I have other things that need my attention more -- like APoS.
No writing done, today, but I had a solid run the last couple days so no real complaints.
I learned my nephew, Daniel Pruske, had an architectural project he helped design featured in a glossy coffee-table magazine called
C3: Brand and Identity
. In fact, his building is on the cover. This is major. It's one of 4 buildings discussed in the magazine, in both English and Korean.
I remember him showing me some of the preliminary designs a few years back and thinking it was amazing, then. Now? He's really moving forward and has a lot going for him. I am so proud.
Funny story is, when I was visiting San Antonio from LA for his graduation, he mentioned he was interested in architecture and thinking of going to Texas Tech. They have a serious 5-year program for that. So we decided to just drive up and look it over. In the middle of summer. In friggin' Lubbock, Texas...the middle of nowhere in a town that does not believe in trees. But he, his mother (my sister) and I drove up...and found it was pretty much shut down but open enough to take a gander.
He liked it well enough so we headed back to the car to go grab a bite to eat before heading home, but on the spur of the moment my sister and I decided since we were there we should find out what it would take to apply. Turned out the day we were there was the last day for applications to the school and for financial aid. So instead of leaving we spent a couple hours filling out forms and he met with a counsellor. He had some of his artwork up online so they could look at that. And he got in. Just in time.
I think it was meant to be.
I don't want to publicize it till I know everything's in place and it's up and running right...but that's not looking likely anytime soon. Maybe I'll look into starting an alternate blog on Blogger. I want to keep JamTheCat as my writing blog and use Anger & Anarchy as the political pissy one, with nudity and assholiness. We'll see how that goes. If this takes too much time, I'm not doin' it. I have other things that need my attention more -- like APoS.
No writing done, today, but I had a solid run the last couple days so no real complaints.
I learned my nephew, Daniel Pruske, had an architectural project he helped design featured in a glossy coffee-table magazine called
C3: Brand and Identity
. In fact, his building is on the cover. This is major. It's one of 4 buildings discussed in the magazine, in both English and Korean.I remember him showing me some of the preliminary designs a few years back and thinking it was amazing, then. Now? He's really moving forward and has a lot going for him. I am so proud.
Funny story is, when I was visiting San Antonio from LA for his graduation, he mentioned he was interested in architecture and thinking of going to Texas Tech. They have a serious 5-year program for that. So we decided to just drive up and look it over. In the middle of summer. In friggin' Lubbock, Texas...the middle of nowhere in a town that does not believe in trees. But he, his mother (my sister) and I drove up...and found it was pretty much shut down but open enough to take a gander.
He liked it well enough so we headed back to the car to go grab a bite to eat before heading home, but on the spur of the moment my sister and I decided since we were there we should find out what it would take to apply. Turned out the day we were there was the last day for applications to the school and for financial aid. So instead of leaving we spent a couple hours filling out forms and he met with a counsellor. He had some of his artwork up online so they could look at that. And he got in. Just in time.
I think it was meant to be.
January 1, 2019
Working on the Celebration Fleadh for APoS...
I got sidetracked for a bit in a flame war with some Fuck Bernie nitwits on Twitter...till I stopped arguing and started asking them who they DID support for 2020. Suddenly crickets. So now I see social media is being used by assholes to sow discontent, distrust and dissension in the Democratic party. Stupid of me to get caught up in that for so long.
Still, I did some work on the Celebration Fleadh in Derry, that was put on shortly after the Battle of Bogside. It was a victory dance and was important to have, even if it was premature. Within a year the British were starting to side with the Protestants in Northern Ireland, and a year after that was internment...which led to violence even more hideous than before.
But this is important because it's where Brendan and Joanna connect and start seeing each other.
Still, I did some work on the Celebration Fleadh in Derry, that was put on shortly after the Battle of Bogside. It was a victory dance and was important to have, even if it was premature. Within a year the British were starting to side with the Protestants in Northern Ireland, and a year after that was internment...which led to violence even more hideous than before.
But this is important because it's where Brendan and Joanna connect and start seeing each other.
December 31, 2018
Rolling along...so HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!
Did more on APoS though mostly reworking sections I'd already written to have them better match what I've got. And i saw some repetition that may be removed...or may not; it sort of makes sense, at the moment. But we'll see.
Here's a bit from immediately after the attack on the People's Democracy march at Burntollet Bridge, just after New Years 1969. Eamonn is still in the hospital from it. This is eight months prior to the Battle of Bogside; the protestant Royal Ulster Constabulary has decided to reassert its dominance in the Catholic area using brute violence...
------------
Our side of Nailor’s Row and Walker’s Place were hit hard, I think because we were slated for demolition and redevelopment once housing was available, so there would be little condemnation for the destruction. Perhaps they even thought they’d be applauded for saving the Corporation a bit of scratch. But they also poured through Butchers Gate and up from Waterloo, and it was clear from the start they were out to prove they were lord and master of us all in the harshest way possible. Uniforms. Batons. The howling matched with wild faces of animals let loose. Windows smashed. Homes rousted. People beaten for standing there letting them do it. And not a care that reporters and photographers were catching it all. Every last moment, like they had but three months earlier.
Ma was still at Altnagelvin with Eamonn, so Mairead and I grabbed coats and put them on the wains as we heard the crashing getting closer and hurried them into our back yard to hide in the hutch. Then I helped Rhuari over the back wall and he tossed back stones for me to use.
We heard them burst in and begin wrecking anything they could. Glass. Ma’s bit of china. Chairs and tables. Curtains ripped. Growing closer and closer to the back door.
Pots and pans clattering. Dishes smashing. Our table splintering. Each sound closer and closer.
Mairead kept Maeve and Kieran quiet with soft words and bites of hard candy, earmuffs on each of them to muffle the noise. A smile on her, steady and sure.
I closed the door to the hutch and waited as I heard the chaos grow nearer. I quaked within. I coughed but managed to keep it soft. Still I waited, fair-sized stones in each hand, another pile next to me. Rhuari kept tossing over all he could find and I was letting them build behind me.
Then the back window was smashed from within and one bastard stuck his head out and saw me and I shied a stone straight into his head. Caught him in the eye. He howled like a hurt dog and fell back.
Another kicked at the door before deciding to open it from within, and the moment it was wide enough I shied stone after stone at them, hitting some, most missing but causing them to back away in shock. I didn’t let up. Made it seem like there were more than one of me...but my pile of stones was dwindling fast.
Another fat bastard tried to come at me but I hit his knee with a brick and he crumbled, screaming like a child. The man behind him looked at me in horror, and behind him I could see two of them with blood on them, so I sent more stones and bricks and rocks their way and they roared like unfed beasts...but backed away from me. I’d have laughed if I had any breath left in me from it all.
I yanked open the hutch door and said, “Get over the wall, fast. I’ll drop the wains to yous.”
I must have had some look on my face for Mairead didn’t even try to argue. Over the wall she went then I lifted Maeve and Kieran over to her.
She held up her arms to help me, last, saying, “C’mon, Bren.”
I shook my head. “Go. I’m gonna have fun with these bastards.”
Her eyes went wide with horror. “No, you can’t -- “
But I heard them storming back into the house and dropped down to sit on a stone and put on the most innocent face I could as they burst from within, ready to face a horror of men against them. They skidded to a halt upon seeing just little old me.
“Are you done, yet, so I can get to cleaning up before me Ma gets home? She’ll toss a fit at the mess you’ve made.”
One ugly bastard snarled up to me. “Where’s the rest of ‘em?”
“Rest of who?” I shot back. “It’s only me here.”
He yanked open the hutch, saw it was empty, then looked over the wall. He was growling as he hopped back down. I learned later Maeve and the wains had scurried around the corner instead of down the hill, so were out of sight. The ugly bastard grabbed my shirt and gave me the back of his hand. I felt my nose bleeding, again.
“So you shied those rocks at my men?”
I didn’t try to wipe the blood, just glared at him and said, “I did! I’m in me yard and suddenly there’s smashing and breaking in my home and I’m here by meself and some bastard breaks the glass so yes, I shied a rock at him. Shied more till I saw it’s the peelers. Bunch of bloody cowards trying to -- “
He slapped me, again.
“You assaulted a copper,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “We’re takin’ you down to Strand Road and -- “
One of his mates come up and said, “Sir, there’s reporters in front. Photographers. He looks what -- nine, ten years old and he’s got blood on him? I heard over the radio -- BBC’s already called the Executive asking what’s going on. My girl at Malone’s said reporters have already been calling in stories about this and weeping about the poor little Taigs. You want a photo of him, for them?”
The ugly bastard straightened up then slapped me, twice more, and slung me to the ground.
“I got my eye on you, you little cunt,” he snarled.
I just looked at him. Blood smearing my face.
They stormed out, breaking the last of what wasn’t broken as they went.
I sat up, my ears still ringing, and step by step rose to my feet to go inside. Everything was shattered -- from tables and chairs to doors on cabinets to Ma’s little Dresden figurine. I picked it up and saw it wasn’t beyond mending so found a cloth to put the bits into and held them. I could handle that, tomorrow.
I ran water from the tap and cleaned my face. My nose had slowed its bleeding so I pushed a torn bit of cloth up into it and sat on a half-broken stool and just looked around. I had no idea what to do or where to begin.
I must have sat there for an hour before Mairead returned.
“Brendan?” I hear her calling, her voice shaking.
“Aye,” I said, not really thinking about it.
“Oh, good,” she said, getting closer. “I was afraid they’d snatched you.”
I realized I was sitting in a shaft of soft moonlight whispering in through the broken window. And it was cold, but I didn’t care. She picked her way into the kitchen and saw me, and her face grew very still. The moonlight made everything else seem dark so I couldn’t tell the expression on her, but her voice went gentle. “It’s quite the mess.”
I shrugged and held up the cloth with the broken figurine. “I think I can mend this well enough.”
She nodded, came over, pulled a dishcloth from beside the tap and wetted it. Then she squatted beside me and put it to the side of my face. Christ it was cold, but felt so good I wondered at not thinking of doing that, myself.
“Did they hurt you much?”
I shrugged. “No more’n Da ever did.”
“We’re down at Mrs. O’Canainn’s. She has a phone so I rang Ma and she said we’re to stay there till the place is livable, again.”
“Did they go upstairs? The peelers?”
“I haven’t been up but I don’t think so. Looks like they started but...”
I smiled. “Then we’ll be fine. I got twenty-two quid.”
She blinked then nodded. “I’ll talk with Terry. We should be able to get a decent table and chairs, second hand. Or third. Some plates and such. I’ll also ask about repairing the settee. It doesn’t look so bad.”
“We...we’ll need glass for windows.” My voice was beginning to break. “I can put them in if Terry’ll lend me a cutter.”
“I’m sure you can and he will.”
I nodded. I dared not say anything more.
She checked my nose, murmuring, “I think it’s stopped. So let’s go down and have our tea. We can face this in the morning, once we’re fresh.”
I nodded and rose with her.
We walked out into a street filled with the remains of the chaos. Neighbors milled about, snarling curses on the peelers, every one of them. Their voices went soft as they saw me pass with Mairead.
One little girl -- I think it was Jenny Dougherty but can’t be sure; I wasn’t paying her any mind -- rushed up and said, “Bren, is it true you beat the peelers back?”
I know I looked at her, and she gasped and ran back to her mother. And then we were at the O’Canainn’s and going inside. And I was sat at the table and given a bowl of the finest stew ever made on the face of the earth. It didn’t seem so long since I’d have Mai’s fish fingers, but I found I was starving and the smell of it killed any hesitation on my part. Of course, I had to eat careful but I finished every bit...though all I could eat of the bread was the inner part; the crust was harsh and hurt to chew. And as I ate, Mrs. O’Canainn set a glass before me and poured a dark ale into it, saying, “I think you earned this, tonight.”
I know I smiled my thanks. I know tears were in my eyes but I didn’t let them fall. I know I sipped it and it went well with the stew. And I know afterwards I washed and slept on her settee till after morning’s light.
And when I woke, it took me half an hour to recall that it had not been a dream.
Here's a bit from immediately after the attack on the People's Democracy march at Burntollet Bridge, just after New Years 1969. Eamonn is still in the hospital from it. This is eight months prior to the Battle of Bogside; the protestant Royal Ulster Constabulary has decided to reassert its dominance in the Catholic area using brute violence...
------------
Our side of Nailor’s Row and Walker’s Place were hit hard, I think because we were slated for demolition and redevelopment once housing was available, so there would be little condemnation for the destruction. Perhaps they even thought they’d be applauded for saving the Corporation a bit of scratch. But they also poured through Butchers Gate and up from Waterloo, and it was clear from the start they were out to prove they were lord and master of us all in the harshest way possible. Uniforms. Batons. The howling matched with wild faces of animals let loose. Windows smashed. Homes rousted. People beaten for standing there letting them do it. And not a care that reporters and photographers were catching it all. Every last moment, like they had but three months earlier.
Ma was still at Altnagelvin with Eamonn, so Mairead and I grabbed coats and put them on the wains as we heard the crashing getting closer and hurried them into our back yard to hide in the hutch. Then I helped Rhuari over the back wall and he tossed back stones for me to use.
We heard them burst in and begin wrecking anything they could. Glass. Ma’s bit of china. Chairs and tables. Curtains ripped. Growing closer and closer to the back door.
Pots and pans clattering. Dishes smashing. Our table splintering. Each sound closer and closer.
Mairead kept Maeve and Kieran quiet with soft words and bites of hard candy, earmuffs on each of them to muffle the noise. A smile on her, steady and sure.
I closed the door to the hutch and waited as I heard the chaos grow nearer. I quaked within. I coughed but managed to keep it soft. Still I waited, fair-sized stones in each hand, another pile next to me. Rhuari kept tossing over all he could find and I was letting them build behind me.
Then the back window was smashed from within and one bastard stuck his head out and saw me and I shied a stone straight into his head. Caught him in the eye. He howled like a hurt dog and fell back.
Another kicked at the door before deciding to open it from within, and the moment it was wide enough I shied stone after stone at them, hitting some, most missing but causing them to back away in shock. I didn’t let up. Made it seem like there were more than one of me...but my pile of stones was dwindling fast.
Another fat bastard tried to come at me but I hit his knee with a brick and he crumbled, screaming like a child. The man behind him looked at me in horror, and behind him I could see two of them with blood on them, so I sent more stones and bricks and rocks their way and they roared like unfed beasts...but backed away from me. I’d have laughed if I had any breath left in me from it all.
I yanked open the hutch door and said, “Get over the wall, fast. I’ll drop the wains to yous.”
I must have had some look on my face for Mairead didn’t even try to argue. Over the wall she went then I lifted Maeve and Kieran over to her.
She held up her arms to help me, last, saying, “C’mon, Bren.”
I shook my head. “Go. I’m gonna have fun with these bastards.”
Her eyes went wide with horror. “No, you can’t -- “
But I heard them storming back into the house and dropped down to sit on a stone and put on the most innocent face I could as they burst from within, ready to face a horror of men against them. They skidded to a halt upon seeing just little old me.
“Are you done, yet, so I can get to cleaning up before me Ma gets home? She’ll toss a fit at the mess you’ve made.”
One ugly bastard snarled up to me. “Where’s the rest of ‘em?”
“Rest of who?” I shot back. “It’s only me here.”
He yanked open the hutch, saw it was empty, then looked over the wall. He was growling as he hopped back down. I learned later Maeve and the wains had scurried around the corner instead of down the hill, so were out of sight. The ugly bastard grabbed my shirt and gave me the back of his hand. I felt my nose bleeding, again.
“So you shied those rocks at my men?”
I didn’t try to wipe the blood, just glared at him and said, “I did! I’m in me yard and suddenly there’s smashing and breaking in my home and I’m here by meself and some bastard breaks the glass so yes, I shied a rock at him. Shied more till I saw it’s the peelers. Bunch of bloody cowards trying to -- “
He slapped me, again.
“You assaulted a copper,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “We’re takin’ you down to Strand Road and -- “
One of his mates come up and said, “Sir, there’s reporters in front. Photographers. He looks what -- nine, ten years old and he’s got blood on him? I heard over the radio -- BBC’s already called the Executive asking what’s going on. My girl at Malone’s said reporters have already been calling in stories about this and weeping about the poor little Taigs. You want a photo of him, for them?”
The ugly bastard straightened up then slapped me, twice more, and slung me to the ground.
“I got my eye on you, you little cunt,” he snarled.
I just looked at him. Blood smearing my face.
They stormed out, breaking the last of what wasn’t broken as they went.
I sat up, my ears still ringing, and step by step rose to my feet to go inside. Everything was shattered -- from tables and chairs to doors on cabinets to Ma’s little Dresden figurine. I picked it up and saw it wasn’t beyond mending so found a cloth to put the bits into and held them. I could handle that, tomorrow.
I ran water from the tap and cleaned my face. My nose had slowed its bleeding so I pushed a torn bit of cloth up into it and sat on a half-broken stool and just looked around. I had no idea what to do or where to begin.
I must have sat there for an hour before Mairead returned.
“Brendan?” I hear her calling, her voice shaking.
“Aye,” I said, not really thinking about it.
“Oh, good,” she said, getting closer. “I was afraid they’d snatched you.”
I realized I was sitting in a shaft of soft moonlight whispering in through the broken window. And it was cold, but I didn’t care. She picked her way into the kitchen and saw me, and her face grew very still. The moonlight made everything else seem dark so I couldn’t tell the expression on her, but her voice went gentle. “It’s quite the mess.”
I shrugged and held up the cloth with the broken figurine. “I think I can mend this well enough.”
She nodded, came over, pulled a dishcloth from beside the tap and wetted it. Then she squatted beside me and put it to the side of my face. Christ it was cold, but felt so good I wondered at not thinking of doing that, myself.
“Did they hurt you much?”
I shrugged. “No more’n Da ever did.”
“We’re down at Mrs. O’Canainn’s. She has a phone so I rang Ma and she said we’re to stay there till the place is livable, again.”
“Did they go upstairs? The peelers?”
“I haven’t been up but I don’t think so. Looks like they started but...”
I smiled. “Then we’ll be fine. I got twenty-two quid.”
She blinked then nodded. “I’ll talk with Terry. We should be able to get a decent table and chairs, second hand. Or third. Some plates and such. I’ll also ask about repairing the settee. It doesn’t look so bad.”
“We...we’ll need glass for windows.” My voice was beginning to break. “I can put them in if Terry’ll lend me a cutter.”
“I’m sure you can and he will.”
I nodded. I dared not say anything more.
She checked my nose, murmuring, “I think it’s stopped. So let’s go down and have our tea. We can face this in the morning, once we’re fresh.”
I nodded and rose with her.
We walked out into a street filled with the remains of the chaos. Neighbors milled about, snarling curses on the peelers, every one of them. Their voices went soft as they saw me pass with Mairead.
One little girl -- I think it was Jenny Dougherty but can’t be sure; I wasn’t paying her any mind -- rushed up and said, “Bren, is it true you beat the peelers back?”
I know I looked at her, and she gasped and ran back to her mother. And then we were at the O’Canainn’s and going inside. And I was sat at the table and given a bowl of the finest stew ever made on the face of the earth. It didn’t seem so long since I’d have Mai’s fish fingers, but I found I was starving and the smell of it killed any hesitation on my part. Of course, I had to eat careful but I finished every bit...though all I could eat of the bread was the inner part; the crust was harsh and hurt to chew. And as I ate, Mrs. O’Canainn set a glass before me and poured a dark ale into it, saying, “I think you earned this, tonight.”
I know I smiled my thanks. I know tears were in my eyes but I didn’t let them fall. I know I sipped it and it went well with the stew. And I know afterwards I washed and slept on her settee till after morning’s light.
And when I woke, it took me half an hour to recall that it had not been a dream.
December 30, 2018
Progress...
I did a first pass on the Battle of Bogside as well. This starts as the Protestant Marchers are contemptuously parading through Derry on August 14th, 1969 to commemorate their victory over the Catholics...and Brendan winds up caught in the back and forth on Waterloo Place, by the Derry Walls.
________
So the jeers began, from both sides, and I felt the hair on my neck rise because I could sense the fury building around me. It fed into me, and you could see the constables who were there sensed it, as well. Scuffles broke out as the black uniformed bastards jolted over to beat any Catholic who dared use too forceful of language to breach this public insult against human order. And some swung their batons for no reason than to hit other lads, and the crowd surged and swore horrible things at them and stones flew across at their ranks, and 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 grabbing for bricks like it’s a part of my nature. This one fat bastard struck a older man across the back a few times with his baton so I lugged half a brick 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. And that’s when I looked about and saw the RUC was charging the crowd, sticks waving in the air, and I was reminded of when they crashed into our old home on Nailors.
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 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 bricks and rocks and clumps of metal 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 roared back, “I can throw as well as -- ”
“You can’t throw as far as us. You’re too small! But we need ammunition to help us keep ‘em out of the Bogside! And we’re bloody keeping them out, this time!”
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 Eammon and Paidrig running up from another direction with more.
“Hey, me Chinas!” I cried to them. They looked around, grinning like madmen. “Are Danny and Colm about?”
“Tossing stones off William Street,” Paidrig yelled back.
That was perfect. Both had the best arm of anyone in the Bogside and it was good the anger in Danny 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 thought about our flat, but if we could keep the bloody RUC out, there was no need for special protection of it. And I knew Ma and Mairead were with Rhuari, Maeve and Kieran so had no fear of that for them. So I stayed where I was and kept piling up anything I could find to shie at the constables.
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. The bastards finally realized they’d been led into an 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, calling all of God’s curses down on us as they did.
Then whispering over my head from behind me came a firebomb blazing in a milk bottle. It smashed to the ground a few feet from the nearest constable and he scrambled back with a scream and I noticed his pants leg was ablaze. His mates quickly put it out and he ran back down William, his burned trousers flapping about his ankles.
More firebombs flew from our side and I laughed at the sight of it, because it meant for once the bloody bastards were outgunned! They were bloody outgunned! And a thrill ran down me from head to toe and every moving part of my body as I screamed to heaven with joy. We were making them run! For the first time, we were making them run and not the other way around.
It went like this for hours -- back and forth and back and forth. The RUC would flow up and then be forced back out, like waves on the beach. Again and again.
Then came canisters of gas flying over us, trailing their evil smoke behind them. Smoke that set your eyes to screaming and tore into your lungs and made your stomach heave. They thought this would show us, and it did take us by surprise...but some of the lads wrapped handkerchiefs over their nose and mouth and grabbed the spitting canisters and slung them back! And on top the Rossville Flats came more firebombs and stones and various other objects to crash down on the black-suited bastards, and try as they might their smoke bombs couldn’t be shot that high.
But it could waft into homes and choke people on the ground, whether they were part of the fray or not. The sounds of coughing and crying mingled in with our shouts of fury as those at home closed their windows and stuffed rags under their doors to keep the smoke out. The air filled with it, like a vile fog drifting past, trails of more canisters coming at us and more canisters being slung back so the trails criss-crossed and smoke from our firebombs combined in it all to make it denser and more hideous.
I put a wet cloth over my nose and that helped my lungs and belly, but Eammon was caught up in a sharp asthma attack so I shoved him away from it to be held by some women wetting more rags and raced up the Flats for his inhaler. Why he never had it on him made no sense. His mother was in hysterics asking where he was but I had no time for that; I bolted into his room, grabbed it and raced back down to him just as he was beginning to turn a soft shade of blue and the women around him were beginning to panic. He shot in a puff and began to grow better, so when he had some color back I guided him away from the worst of it, back into the clear clean air.
I had to get him all the way to Demesne to do that, but I saw Mairead waving to me from Terry’s folks' place, Maeve and Rhuari with her, so up we went and I left him with them. He was doing better but not by much, and Maeve was not looking well, either. Ma was at an upstairs window watching it all, Kieran in her arms. I looked around and could see down the hill to where the smoke was rising from the Rossville Flats and drifting this way.
Mairead saw it, too. “There’s a report on the radio the Irish Army’s setting up a hospital camp across the border. If it comes to be, Ma and I’ll take all of the wains over to be checked. Does Eammon’s mother know where he is?”
I shook my head.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
I huffed. “I’m well enough. I’ll put a mask on when I’m back. I heard one soaked in vinegar is good against it.”
“It’s CS gas; that won’t work.”
“Better’n nothing.” Then I hurried down the hill back into the fray.
It kept on like this for days. More CS gas. Rubber bullets fired. Charges by the RUC, who were looking more and more ragged and weary. Into the night and into the day. Again and again. There was talk of reinforcements coming for the RUC from Antrim and Belfast. B Specials were thought to be massing down by Guildhall. One set of constables thought to use the walls to get better leverage at firing onto the roof of the Flats and found that only opened them to greater attack. Same for Protestants thinking they could score some fun craic off us by slinging stones at us from the walls only to find the roofs of Nailors Row were taller and had lads atop them to fire back. That sent them scampering. It was the chaos of a true battle. Civil war begun in earnest. And while we might not be winning by keeping those bastards out, we sure as hell weren’t losing.
Several people showed up to help strategize the resistance, the only one I recognized being Bernadette Devlin because she was an MP and had been in all the papers. They pulled together proper barricades and spread information about how best to combat the CS gas and saw to it the elderly and young were taken away from it all, to better protect their frail health. By the end of the third day we were better set up than the RUC, who’d taken only to slinging our rocks back at us as if they were out of ammunition and gas canisters.
I’d been able to get home despite the chaos and pull what I had in my stash and give it over to the organizers for more petrol. Then I showed Danny and Paidrig how best to build firebombs as more and more bottles appeared for us to use.
Rumors continued to race about that the B Specials had massed for a full assault with backing from the UVF. I doubted that; there were riots in Belfast that would keep them busier. As for breathless reports of backing from the IRA, no one knew anything about help from them or the Irish Republic. The latter had set up a hospital camp and when I saw Terry he told me Ma, Mairead and the wains were over there with Eammon. I let Eammon’s mother know and she slapped me for keeping it from her then stormed out with her purse, leaving her door open. I shut it for her.
Stories began to circulate that Westminster was sending troops. Sending the bloody army. Soon verified by radio and reports on the telly. None of us liked the sound of that. Not a one. We didn’t really believe they were being sent to keep the peace.
Then on the fourth day, everything went quiet.
Still.
Too much so.
The smoke cleared and I could see all the way to Waterloo, and it looked like a country gravel pit there were so many rocks and stones across it. Stores were ablaze. The air stank from the gas and burning tires. I couldn’t speak and found even the thought of food made my stomach quiver in refusal. My fingers were torn and bloody, and I realized I’d not changed clothes since the beginning so my trousers were rags and my shirt and coat were ruined. And I was bloody exhausted, having got only bits of sleep here and there, between battles. I thought for a moment maybe, just maybe, I could go home and wash and get in clean clothes for the next engagement.
But I dared not leave. It was like the calm before a storm, the sudden terrifying silence. Not a word from the Prods or RUC. Not even calls from lads on our side. Not a whisper.
Until late in the day when we heard the rumble of lorries and marching feet...and the Army strode in, proud and sure...and they set up a perimeter between us and the RUC...and stayed there, keeping us apart.
I couldn’t believe it. Some were howling for joy. Some were weeping from relief. I couldn’t move. I just stood where I was and stared at them for I don’t know how long, letting it settle slowly into my brain that I could finally take a good long wash and have a decent sleep.
For by all the saints that are holy, we had won.
________
So the jeers began, from both sides, and I felt the hair on my neck rise because I could sense the fury building around me. It fed into me, and you could see the constables who were there sensed it, as well. Scuffles broke out as the black uniformed bastards jolted over to beat any Catholic who dared use too forceful of language to breach this public insult against human order. And some swung their batons for no reason than to hit other lads, and the crowd surged and swore horrible things at them and stones flew across at their ranks, and 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 grabbing for bricks like it’s a part of my nature. This one fat bastard struck a older man across the back a few times with his baton so I lugged half a brick 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. And that’s when I looked about and saw the RUC was charging the crowd, sticks waving in the air, and I was reminded of when they crashed into our old home on Nailors.
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 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 bricks and rocks and clumps of metal 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 roared back, “I can throw as well as -- ”
“You can’t throw as far as us. You’re too small! But we need ammunition to help us keep ‘em out of the Bogside! And we’re bloody keeping them out, this time!”
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 Eammon and Paidrig running up from another direction with more.
“Hey, me Chinas!” I cried to them. They looked around, grinning like madmen. “Are Danny and Colm about?”
“Tossing stones off William Street,” Paidrig yelled back.
That was perfect. Both had the best arm of anyone in the Bogside and it was good the anger in Danny 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 thought about our flat, but if we could keep the bloody RUC out, there was no need for special protection of it. And I knew Ma and Mairead were with Rhuari, Maeve and Kieran so had no fear of that for them. So I stayed where I was and kept piling up anything I could find to shie at the constables.
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. The bastards finally realized they’d been led into an 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, calling all of God’s curses down on us as they did.
Then whispering over my head from behind me came a firebomb blazing in a milk bottle. It smashed to the ground a few feet from the nearest constable and he scrambled back with a scream and I noticed his pants leg was ablaze. His mates quickly put it out and he ran back down William, his burned trousers flapping about his ankles.
More firebombs flew from our side and I laughed at the sight of it, because it meant for once the bloody bastards were outgunned! They were bloody outgunned! And a thrill ran down me from head to toe and every moving part of my body as I screamed to heaven with joy. We were making them run! For the first time, we were making them run and not the other way around.
It went like this for hours -- back and forth and back and forth. The RUC would flow up and then be forced back out, like waves on the beach. Again and again.
Then came canisters of gas flying over us, trailing their evil smoke behind them. Smoke that set your eyes to screaming and tore into your lungs and made your stomach heave. They thought this would show us, and it did take us by surprise...but some of the lads wrapped handkerchiefs over their nose and mouth and grabbed the spitting canisters and slung them back! And on top the Rossville Flats came more firebombs and stones and various other objects to crash down on the black-suited bastards, and try as they might their smoke bombs couldn’t be shot that high.
But it could waft into homes and choke people on the ground, whether they were part of the fray or not. The sounds of coughing and crying mingled in with our shouts of fury as those at home closed their windows and stuffed rags under their doors to keep the smoke out. The air filled with it, like a vile fog drifting past, trails of more canisters coming at us and more canisters being slung back so the trails criss-crossed and smoke from our firebombs combined in it all to make it denser and more hideous.
I put a wet cloth over my nose and that helped my lungs and belly, but Eammon was caught up in a sharp asthma attack so I shoved him away from it to be held by some women wetting more rags and raced up the Flats for his inhaler. Why he never had it on him made no sense. His mother was in hysterics asking where he was but I had no time for that; I bolted into his room, grabbed it and raced back down to him just as he was beginning to turn a soft shade of blue and the women around him were beginning to panic. He shot in a puff and began to grow better, so when he had some color back I guided him away from the worst of it, back into the clear clean air.
I had to get him all the way to Demesne to do that, but I saw Mairead waving to me from Terry’s folks' place, Maeve and Rhuari with her, so up we went and I left him with them. He was doing better but not by much, and Maeve was not looking well, either. Ma was at an upstairs window watching it all, Kieran in her arms. I looked around and could see down the hill to where the smoke was rising from the Rossville Flats and drifting this way.
Mairead saw it, too. “There’s a report on the radio the Irish Army’s setting up a hospital camp across the border. If it comes to be, Ma and I’ll take all of the wains over to be checked. Does Eammon’s mother know where he is?”
I shook my head.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
I huffed. “I’m well enough. I’ll put a mask on when I’m back. I heard one soaked in vinegar is good against it.”
“It’s CS gas; that won’t work.”
“Better’n nothing.” Then I hurried down the hill back into the fray.
It kept on like this for days. More CS gas. Rubber bullets fired. Charges by the RUC, who were looking more and more ragged and weary. Into the night and into the day. Again and again. There was talk of reinforcements coming for the RUC from Antrim and Belfast. B Specials were thought to be massing down by Guildhall. One set of constables thought to use the walls to get better leverage at firing onto the roof of the Flats and found that only opened them to greater attack. Same for Protestants thinking they could score some fun craic off us by slinging stones at us from the walls only to find the roofs of Nailors Row were taller and had lads atop them to fire back. That sent them scampering. It was the chaos of a true battle. Civil war begun in earnest. And while we might not be winning by keeping those bastards out, we sure as hell weren’t losing.
Several people showed up to help strategize the resistance, the only one I recognized being Bernadette Devlin because she was an MP and had been in all the papers. They pulled together proper barricades and spread information about how best to combat the CS gas and saw to it the elderly and young were taken away from it all, to better protect their frail health. By the end of the third day we were better set up than the RUC, who’d taken only to slinging our rocks back at us as if they were out of ammunition and gas canisters.
I’d been able to get home despite the chaos and pull what I had in my stash and give it over to the organizers for more petrol. Then I showed Danny and Paidrig how best to build firebombs as more and more bottles appeared for us to use.
Rumors continued to race about that the B Specials had massed for a full assault with backing from the UVF. I doubted that; there were riots in Belfast that would keep them busier. As for breathless reports of backing from the IRA, no one knew anything about help from them or the Irish Republic. The latter had set up a hospital camp and when I saw Terry he told me Ma, Mairead and the wains were over there with Eammon. I let Eammon’s mother know and she slapped me for keeping it from her then stormed out with her purse, leaving her door open. I shut it for her.
Stories began to circulate that Westminster was sending troops. Sending the bloody army. Soon verified by radio and reports on the telly. None of us liked the sound of that. Not a one. We didn’t really believe they were being sent to keep the peace.
Then on the fourth day, everything went quiet.
Still.
Too much so.
The smoke cleared and I could see all the way to Waterloo, and it looked like a country gravel pit there were so many rocks and stones across it. Stores were ablaze. The air stank from the gas and burning tires. I couldn’t speak and found even the thought of food made my stomach quiver in refusal. My fingers were torn and bloody, and I realized I’d not changed clothes since the beginning so my trousers were rags and my shirt and coat were ruined. And I was bloody exhausted, having got only bits of sleep here and there, between battles. I thought for a moment maybe, just maybe, I could go home and wash and get in clean clothes for the next engagement.
But I dared not leave. It was like the calm before a storm, the sudden terrifying silence. Not a word from the Prods or RUC. Not even calls from lads on our side. Not a whisper.
Until late in the day when we heard the rumble of lorries and marching feet...and the Army strode in, proud and sure...and they set up a perimeter between us and the RUC...and stayed there, keeping us apart.
I couldn’t believe it. Some were howling for joy. Some were weeping from relief. I couldn’t move. I just stood where I was and stared at them for I don’t know how long, letting it settle slowly into my brain that I could finally take a good long wash and have a decent sleep.
For by all the saints that are holy, we had won.
December 29, 2018
"A Single Man"
I took a break from APoS because I was losing the timeline as I worked and needed some space to regain clarity. So I watched A Single Man by Tom Ford, to clear my brain. I wanted to make certain it's not too much like Dair's Window, which has a somewhat similar plot -- a man's lover dies and he's contemplating suicide during the 1962 Cuban missile crisis.
This was back when it was still illegal for two men to be with each other, even in California; that state didn't decriminalize gay sex until 1975 (Texas still hasn't; sodomy laws remain on the books even though they've been nullified by the Supreme Court, they just don't enforce them...though they have threatened to do so when the cops felt like it).
Well...I haven't read the Christopher Isherwood book and now I won't...because I fucking hate this movie. And if it really follows Isherwood's plot, I will throw the fucking book across the room. So if you intend to see this thing, stop here because coming up is a spoiler.
Oh, it's a pretty film and well-acted...if a bit languorous, at times...and normally I like the more introspective type of story. And while there were moments I thought Tom Ford got a bit carried away with what he thought he was saying it was directed well-enough. Julianne Moore's fag-hag was a bit much and her London accent faded in and out. Plus the appearance of a feminine-looking college kid to rekindle the gay man's interest in life was on the obvious side. But halfway through I had a feeling this was going to be another sad dead faggot movie...and goddammit, it was.
I hate those. With a passion. Poor little gay guy not worthy of happiness. Best if he dies at the end. And that fucking pisses me off. All the times I've read it in books and seen it in movies...I want to spit. I think that's why even in my most vicious books I give the protagonist a bit of hope and something to look forward to at the end instead of just killing himself or dying of AIDS or some such shit.
Granted, in Bobby Carapisi one character commits suicide, but I'm very clear that it's brought about by society's brutal, animalistic treatment of a man who's been raped. Who's given no outlet to discuss his pain and confusion. Who finally just gives it up and jumps off a tall building to his death. And while there are hints the one rapist who did wind up in jail brings about his own murder out of guilt over what happened, that's justice being served when the legal system really refused to do so.
I think that's why I arranged for Dair's lover, Adam, to not only die in an avalanche but do so while saving two of his skiing pupils. I want him to be seen as a hero and what happens afterwards as a travesty, not merely a tragedy. Adam's not a perfect man -- he's a thief and something of a user, but he also completes Dair and, like a dog that's been abused, comes to trust the one who treats him right...which Dair does. He brings Dair out of his artistic shell and Dair gives him the safety he longed for in order to become a decent man. And Dair finds new love...all-be-it not where he expected...
I hate this shit where we need to be pitied or felt sorry for or disparaged as a danger to the world by not only religious zealots but legislators and straight assholes fearful of their own attraction and society in general just looking for another scapegoat to beat up on. There are still people out there saying we should be executed for being gay...and are, in some countries, including some of America's allies.
Fuck that -- I ain't being nice about this shit, anymore.
This was back when it was still illegal for two men to be with each other, even in California; that state didn't decriminalize gay sex until 1975 (Texas still hasn't; sodomy laws remain on the books even though they've been nullified by the Supreme Court, they just don't enforce them...though they have threatened to do so when the cops felt like it).
Well...I haven't read the Christopher Isherwood book and now I won't...because I fucking hate this movie. And if it really follows Isherwood's plot, I will throw the fucking book across the room. So if you intend to see this thing, stop here because coming up is a spoiler.
Oh, it's a pretty film and well-acted...if a bit languorous, at times...and normally I like the more introspective type of story. And while there were moments I thought Tom Ford got a bit carried away with what he thought he was saying it was directed well-enough. Julianne Moore's fag-hag was a bit much and her London accent faded in and out. Plus the appearance of a feminine-looking college kid to rekindle the gay man's interest in life was on the obvious side. But halfway through I had a feeling this was going to be another sad dead faggot movie...and goddammit, it was.
I hate those. With a passion. Poor little gay guy not worthy of happiness. Best if he dies at the end. And that fucking pisses me off. All the times I've read it in books and seen it in movies...I want to spit. I think that's why even in my most vicious books I give the protagonist a bit of hope and something to look forward to at the end instead of just killing himself or dying of AIDS or some such shit.
Granted, in Bobby Carapisi one character commits suicide, but I'm very clear that it's brought about by society's brutal, animalistic treatment of a man who's been raped. Who's given no outlet to discuss his pain and confusion. Who finally just gives it up and jumps off a tall building to his death. And while there are hints the one rapist who did wind up in jail brings about his own murder out of guilt over what happened, that's justice being served when the legal system really refused to do so.
I think that's why I arranged for Dair's lover, Adam, to not only die in an avalanche but do so while saving two of his skiing pupils. I want him to be seen as a hero and what happens afterwards as a travesty, not merely a tragedy. Adam's not a perfect man -- he's a thief and something of a user, but he also completes Dair and, like a dog that's been abused, comes to trust the one who treats him right...which Dair does. He brings Dair out of his artistic shell and Dair gives him the safety he longed for in order to become a decent man. And Dair finds new love...all-be-it not where he expected...
I hate this shit where we need to be pitied or felt sorry for or disparaged as a danger to the world by not only religious zealots but legislators and straight assholes fearful of their own attraction and society in general just looking for another scapegoat to beat up on. There are still people out there saying we should be executed for being gay...and are, in some countries, including some of America's allies.
Fuck that -- I ain't being nice about this shit, anymore.
December 28, 2018
Long day...
Not in the mood to discuss, so here's part of APoS -- the People's March from Belfast to Derry beginning January 1, 1969. Brendan's older brother, Eamonn, is with the marchers. The Fountain is a Protestant enclave in the Bogside, pressed up against the Derry Walls.
-------
On New Year’s Day, word came the march had begun.
We followed it on Radio Eire, and to my fears, there was more than taunting along the way. And much more than occasional attacks. And the RUC did nothing about it but keep making the marchers change course -- including sending them into a group of Proddies waiting to attack, once -- while the Paisleyites swore to stop us at all costs -- and tried to in Antrim. Some fellow claiming to speak for Sinn Fein said it was ill-advised, this march; that pushing Westminster for improvements in the lot of all working men in The North would help Protestants as well as Catholics and it was necessary to educate those fighting us to show them they were being used by the landed gentry and fools on the councils and on and on and on. And Stormount’s attitude was that nothing much too serious was happening.
I’d pop over to Colm’s to watch the telly, since it was on the BBC, as well. And during one broadcast I caught sight of Eamonn walking close beside this pretty girl, and it looked like his arm was about her shoulders. She seemed upset and Eamonn was angry, but the newscaster would say only they’d been refused access to Knockloughrim en route to Maghera, which added some miles to their trek. Ma’s blanket was around the girl and I was glad he’d brought it for it was horrible cold out. But I also hoped Mrs. McKittrick wasn’t watching, that night, for Eamonn seemed more than friendly with that girl.
The coverage was fair intense as each day it documented more of the Loyalist’s obstructions and taunts and sneaking attacks. Those around the Bogside who’d been unsure of the correctness of the march grew more and more to be on our side with every push by the scum along the way. But progress was being made despite the RUC’s and Proddy’s best efforts. They were greeted well, here and there, and no one could say they’d done anything to provoke any sort of reprisal. Of course, they’d still have to cross the Foyle, but I’d slipped over to the Craigavon Bridge a few times to see if anyone was preparing for a fight, there, and saw nothing in the way of stones being laid up for tossing, so I began to feel I’d been overwrought.
Then on the third, I fixed a lamp for Mrs. Clark, in The Fountain. I’d done work for her, before, and she’d always treated me fair and given me cookies and tea along with a half-crown for my work, but this time she gave me no invite. Instead, she yanked open her door, took the lamp, shoved a full crown in my palm and barely gave me a “Thank you” before she’d closed the door. It took me aback. I glanced around to see if someone was watching and saw a couple of curtains move, slightly. Then I realized The Fountain was fair quiet. That’s when I knew something was up.
I slipped the crown in my pocket and walked away, trying to seem normal but shaking within. The moment I rounded the corner I raced over to the Craigavon -- but still there was nothing to see on our side. No RUC checkpoints. No stones or garbage piled up. No one waiting to have a go at some foolish University kids who still had dreams of peace in their hearts. Nothing.
I ran back to The Fountain and this time stopped at Billy’s home. I knocked and knocked, and I could see shadows moving inside, but his Ma never answered the door. I cried out, “Billy, Billy, you home, mate? Billy?!” But there came no response. I scrambled around to Bishop’s and onto the Derry Walls to run back and look into his garden -- and both his and his uncle’s bikes were gone.
It’s funny, but I wasn’t cold till that moment, and suddenly I shivering like I was ice. Billy wouldn’t join with his uncle on a tear against my brother? He couldn’t.
Throughout, I had heard noises coming from Guildhall Square, angry, dangerous shouts made the more nerve-wracking by the distance of them. I remembered hearing of Paisley maybe coming to town to speak at the Guildhall so ran down to check out the Square, and even before I got there I knew it was no small crowd of angry folk. Sure enough, the Square was filled with people, men and women both, milling about, angry and calling curses at the tops of their voices. I recognized many of them and realized there was nothing but Catholics about. And a line of nervous constables were placed between the hall’s doors and the swirling mob. Lights were on in the Guildhall but some from the Derry Housing Council were still occupying an office, as I understood. But this -- it stunned me. Had the Orangemen come en masse to wreak havoc on Eamonn’s march? Had I been so lost in fixing Mrs. Clark’s lamp I’d missed a call to arms?
I searched for Father Jack but could see him nowhere. I did see a neighbor lady and called down, “Mrs. McCory, up here -- it’s Brendan!”
She looked around and waved, actually smiling. “This is some show, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Smashing!” I took a wild leap and motioned to the Guildhall. “So how many Proddy bastards’re in there you think?”
“I’m hearin’ near five-hundred. And there’s more than a few would gladly burn the damned hall around them.”
“Have you seen Father Jack?”
Then we heard a man calling for the crowd to disperse, and she turned back to the crush. He told people that the whole purpose of the march was to show non-violence and if they did attack the Orangemen in the hall, they’d only prove the liars in Stormount right -- that Catholics were out to do Protestants harm. He wasn’t the first trying to restore control but he was the loudest and most eloquent. Some still circled the hall, calling out insults, but others began to back off. I could see smoke rising from the car park and the Christmas tree was waving oddly, like someone was climbing it, but the animal danger was gone.
Maybe half the crowd had melted away before I saw Mairead, Terry Dolan with her. Then I remembered Ma hadn’t known I was off to Mrs. Clark’s -- in fact, the house had been quiet, with not a noise from the kitchen or in Ma’s garden. Not a sound from Rhuari, Maeve or Kieran. Had Ma even been home? If not, I’d left the place open, and she’d be vexed with me for that.
-------
On New Year’s Day, word came the march had begun.
We followed it on Radio Eire, and to my fears, there was more than taunting along the way. And much more than occasional attacks. And the RUC did nothing about it but keep making the marchers change course -- including sending them into a group of Proddies waiting to attack, once -- while the Paisleyites swore to stop us at all costs -- and tried to in Antrim. Some fellow claiming to speak for Sinn Fein said it was ill-advised, this march; that pushing Westminster for improvements in the lot of all working men in The North would help Protestants as well as Catholics and it was necessary to educate those fighting us to show them they were being used by the landed gentry and fools on the councils and on and on and on. And Stormount’s attitude was that nothing much too serious was happening.
I’d pop over to Colm’s to watch the telly, since it was on the BBC, as well. And during one broadcast I caught sight of Eamonn walking close beside this pretty girl, and it looked like his arm was about her shoulders. She seemed upset and Eamonn was angry, but the newscaster would say only they’d been refused access to Knockloughrim en route to Maghera, which added some miles to their trek. Ma’s blanket was around the girl and I was glad he’d brought it for it was horrible cold out. But I also hoped Mrs. McKittrick wasn’t watching, that night, for Eamonn seemed more than friendly with that girl.
The coverage was fair intense as each day it documented more of the Loyalist’s obstructions and taunts and sneaking attacks. Those around the Bogside who’d been unsure of the correctness of the march grew more and more to be on our side with every push by the scum along the way. But progress was being made despite the RUC’s and Proddy’s best efforts. They were greeted well, here and there, and no one could say they’d done anything to provoke any sort of reprisal. Of course, they’d still have to cross the Foyle, but I’d slipped over to the Craigavon Bridge a few times to see if anyone was preparing for a fight, there, and saw nothing in the way of stones being laid up for tossing, so I began to feel I’d been overwrought.
Then on the third, I fixed a lamp for Mrs. Clark, in The Fountain. I’d done work for her, before, and she’d always treated me fair and given me cookies and tea along with a half-crown for my work, but this time she gave me no invite. Instead, she yanked open her door, took the lamp, shoved a full crown in my palm and barely gave me a “Thank you” before she’d closed the door. It took me aback. I glanced around to see if someone was watching and saw a couple of curtains move, slightly. Then I realized The Fountain was fair quiet. That’s when I knew something was up.
I slipped the crown in my pocket and walked away, trying to seem normal but shaking within. The moment I rounded the corner I raced over to the Craigavon -- but still there was nothing to see on our side. No RUC checkpoints. No stones or garbage piled up. No one waiting to have a go at some foolish University kids who still had dreams of peace in their hearts. Nothing.
I ran back to The Fountain and this time stopped at Billy’s home. I knocked and knocked, and I could see shadows moving inside, but his Ma never answered the door. I cried out, “Billy, Billy, you home, mate? Billy?!” But there came no response. I scrambled around to Bishop’s and onto the Derry Walls to run back and look into his garden -- and both his and his uncle’s bikes were gone.
It’s funny, but I wasn’t cold till that moment, and suddenly I shivering like I was ice. Billy wouldn’t join with his uncle on a tear against my brother? He couldn’t.
Throughout, I had heard noises coming from Guildhall Square, angry, dangerous shouts made the more nerve-wracking by the distance of them. I remembered hearing of Paisley maybe coming to town to speak at the Guildhall so ran down to check out the Square, and even before I got there I knew it was no small crowd of angry folk. Sure enough, the Square was filled with people, men and women both, milling about, angry and calling curses at the tops of their voices. I recognized many of them and realized there was nothing but Catholics about. And a line of nervous constables were placed between the hall’s doors and the swirling mob. Lights were on in the Guildhall but some from the Derry Housing Council were still occupying an office, as I understood. But this -- it stunned me. Had the Orangemen come en masse to wreak havoc on Eamonn’s march? Had I been so lost in fixing Mrs. Clark’s lamp I’d missed a call to arms?
I searched for Father Jack but could see him nowhere. I did see a neighbor lady and called down, “Mrs. McCory, up here -- it’s Brendan!”
She looked around and waved, actually smiling. “This is some show, wouldn’t ya say?”
“Smashing!” I took a wild leap and motioned to the Guildhall. “So how many Proddy bastards’re in there you think?”
“I’m hearin’ near five-hundred. And there’s more than a few would gladly burn the damned hall around them.”
“Have you seen Father Jack?”
Then we heard a man calling for the crowd to disperse, and she turned back to the crush. He told people that the whole purpose of the march was to show non-violence and if they did attack the Orangemen in the hall, they’d only prove the liars in Stormount right -- that Catholics were out to do Protestants harm. He wasn’t the first trying to restore control but he was the loudest and most eloquent. Some still circled the hall, calling out insults, but others began to back off. I could see smoke rising from the car park and the Christmas tree was waving oddly, like someone was climbing it, but the animal danger was gone.
Maybe half the crowd had melted away before I saw Mairead, Terry Dolan with her. Then I remembered Ma hadn’t known I was off to Mrs. Clark’s -- in fact, the house had been quiet, with not a noise from the kitchen or in Ma’s garden. Not a sound from Rhuari, Maeve or Kieran. Had Ma even been home? If not, I’d left the place open, and she’d be vexed with me for that.
December 26, 2018
Work intrudes...
Today was taken up with nonsense at work regarding a shipment from the UK that's refusing to be settled. We've been trying to pick it up since last Friday but things keep happening -- clearance was late, wrong papers sent, shipment wasn't transferred to the right truck and on and on. So much of today was trying to find a way to get it finished. Didn't work. I'll be back on it, tomorrow.
A lot of the trouble stems from simple refusal to communicate. The airline says the shipment's on its way...but exactly; we had no room so removed it and will have it on its way, tomorrow, but won't bother updating our system to let you know until the flight you think it's on arrives and it's not there. It takes a phone call to ask about only to be given a shrug and a half-hearted Sorry.
The customs broker won't even try to do a wheels-up clearance (where soon as the plane takes off clearance is begun) until they can verify the freight is on the plane...but then even after it has arrived in the US and is being transferred to the proper facility, they don't check so don't start the clearance until it's nearly 4pm on a Friday before a holiday weekend.
Then the trucker says they didn't send over the Customs release which tells them who can pick up the freight, which they were sent, but because the company picking up the freight doesn't have a copy with them it doesn't matter...and then, after hours of back and forth, they say it's the wrong form, anyway. After the broker is closed. So you're stuck another day.
And this is not unusual, lately. Not the first time it's happened, even in December. It's like everyone's regressing from what they used to know about this crap and having to relearn everything from scratch. I'm not the sharpest guy in the world when it comes to import/export, but even I know to take the right paperwork with me and call if there's an issue the moment it happens, not 2 days later. It's insane.
So little got done on APoS. Just working through a list of the names involved...and assigning last names to some people who only had first ones...and honing the outline a bit with new information. Didn't even get any reading done. I did take a walk to the grocery store and back, and picked up a salad en route.
So healthy of me.
A lot of the trouble stems from simple refusal to communicate. The airline says the shipment's on its way...but exactly; we had no room so removed it and will have it on its way, tomorrow, but won't bother updating our system to let you know until the flight you think it's on arrives and it's not there. It takes a phone call to ask about only to be given a shrug and a half-hearted Sorry.
The customs broker won't even try to do a wheels-up clearance (where soon as the plane takes off clearance is begun) until they can verify the freight is on the plane...but then even after it has arrived in the US and is being transferred to the proper facility, they don't check so don't start the clearance until it's nearly 4pm on a Friday before a holiday weekend.
Then the trucker says they didn't send over the Customs release which tells them who can pick up the freight, which they were sent, but because the company picking up the freight doesn't have a copy with them it doesn't matter...and then, after hours of back and forth, they say it's the wrong form, anyway. After the broker is closed. So you're stuck another day.
And this is not unusual, lately. Not the first time it's happened, even in December. It's like everyone's regressing from what they used to know about this crap and having to relearn everything from scratch. I'm not the sharpest guy in the world when it comes to import/export, but even I know to take the right paperwork with me and call if there's an issue the moment it happens, not 2 days later. It's insane.
So little got done on APoS. Just working through a list of the names involved...and assigning last names to some people who only had first ones...and honing the outline a bit with new information. Didn't even get any reading done. I did take a walk to the grocery store and back, and picked up a salad en route.
So healthy of me.
December 25, 2018
Leisurely Christmas Day...
I didn't leave my apartment. I spent much of the day in bed reading. Finished Home to Derry and figured out it's set between 1939 and 1945, though the war in Europe barely impacts the family...except as regards the American Naval base on the River Foyle. All nice and easy. Not even a mention of the time a German bomb hit part of Derry, killing fifteen people, in a spot not that far from where he grew up. Still a very nice informative read.
I started to do a bit of cleaning up on my laptop and somehow damn near erased everything on it. At least, everything I'd done in the last six months. Still not sure how I managed that, but fortunately it wound up in the trash and I was able to recover it. However, it's no longer sorted like I wanted...but that only matters regarding files I'd worked on in the last couple weeks. I'm anal and had saved everything on my laptop to an external hard drive back in mid-December.
Another good thing is, I had part 3 of A Place of Safety open in Word so that didn't vanish. I'd made some changes as I read through it that I did not want to lose. So now all I need to do is update a few files on my laptop and things will be back to where they were.
I've begun posting some of my art on Deviant Art , again. Just the faces I like to do and the covers of my books, but it's a nice replacement for Tumblr. They're still being freaks about adult content on their site -- flagging images that they agree, upon review, are actually NOT adult -- so I've logged off and am now pretty much ignoring them. I may open an Instagram account next, just to see what happens...but still thinking on that.
So that's been my day -- low-key (except for one moment of near heart-failure) and loving it.
I started to do a bit of cleaning up on my laptop and somehow damn near erased everything on it. At least, everything I'd done in the last six months. Still not sure how I managed that, but fortunately it wound up in the trash and I was able to recover it. However, it's no longer sorted like I wanted...but that only matters regarding files I'd worked on in the last couple weeks. I'm anal and had saved everything on my laptop to an external hard drive back in mid-December.
Another good thing is, I had part 3 of A Place of Safety open in Word so that didn't vanish. I'd made some changes as I read through it that I did not want to lose. So now all I need to do is update a few files on my laptop and things will be back to where they were.
I've begun posting some of my art on Deviant Art , again. Just the faces I like to do and the covers of my books, but it's a nice replacement for Tumblr. They're still being freaks about adult content on their site -- flagging images that they agree, upon review, are actually NOT adult -- so I've logged off and am now pretty much ignoring them. I may open an Instagram account next, just to see what happens...but still thinking on that.
So that's been my day -- low-key (except for one moment of near heart-failure) and loving it.
December 24, 2018
APoS is back in mind...
I've been working on it, today. Here's some. This is when Brendan's returned to Derry after 8 years in Houston. He was grabbed by members of the RUC and brutally interrogated but escaped them. The only reason he hasn't been arrested is, Bobby Sands died on his hunger strike and the whole of Northern Ireland is now caught up in rioting and murder. So he's snuck over to Grianan Aileach, the circle fort in the Republic, to meet Colm, a childhood friend who's now high up in PIRA. He's waiting there, now.------------
I caught the shine 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 led from the road to the fort and I heard a car door slam -- and then just barely heard another close.
Colm was not alone.
It made no difference. I expected he’d be careful about me and thought the better of him for it. I took my hands from my pockets and slipped them into my coat and under my arms, to warm them better. I’d not have him greet me and me having icy fingers, whether he wore gloves or not. Then I saw him stride up the path, and even in his parka he looked trim and casual.
I waved to show him I was here. He returned it and slipped out of sight under the fort. Moments later, he was climbing up to me.
“Bren,” he said, offering his hand, no glove.
I took it like old friends do and smiled. “Colm, thanks for coming.”
He put his glove back on his hand as he looked about. “Glad to. I haven’t been up here in years -- not since I found the pack of yous parlitic on pot and whiskey. God, the memories. Good times.”
I nodded, recalling me lying flat on the ground laughing at the stars and Danny having the last smile I ever saw on him.
Colm waited for me to speak, but it took me a moment to return to now, for suddenly I had nothing to say just then.
He finally took in a deep breath and said, “I’ve heard -- the story is, you were interrogated.”
Still I said nothing, just looked out over the silvery daggers of the distant lough.
“In a hidden place,” he continued.
Memories screamed into my mind’s eye. I shook them away and bolted around to walk the top tier. Around I went, hands back under my arms, my eyes solely on the uneven rocks packed into the wall. I strode fast and didn’t stop till I neared Colm, again. I did not look at him; didn’t need to.
“What did they want to know?”
My voice was a whisper. “Who was helping Danny -- that day.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“Don’t you already know?”
“The stories I hear are conflicting.”
I turned my eyes on the daggers of the lough and whispered, “I told them I was there -- but all I could see was -- was -- ”
The flames danced, danced up to Joanna and she struggled to escape them but they laughed at her and whispered closer and closer and her golden hair whipped about in the smoke and fire and someone was screaming and --
I must have spoken some of the memory because Colm’s voice shook a bit. “Christ, Bren, I didn’t realize you saw so much. We just thought the bomb had sent you off your head and -- ”
My voice had no emotion. “There was a child’s leg in front of me. Still had its shoe and sock on. I think it was a girl’s, but it might have been a boy. I really don’t remember noticing one way or the other.”
Colm was silent for a respectable moment. “So did you know who else was there?”
I finally looked straight at him, and you’d have thought I hit him, the breath he let out.
“I said nothing about you," I muttered. "I told them -- all I could see was -- was -- ”
The leg flew through the air and whipped blood against me as it landed on the pavement and then the smoke parted and --
Colm gripped my shoulder and I realized I was close to toppling over. I hadn’t been so raw since those first days at Aunt Mari’s.
His voice was back to strong. “I’m hearing the RUC knows who was there but they’re being cagey with it. But their actions suggest they’re lying. They aren’t seeking me. None of our grasses have heard question one about me. They just keep saying they know. Hoping to stampede our side into making a stupid move.”
“Colm -- they don’t know. Even Billy thought I was telling the truth.”
“Bill Corrie?” I nodded. “He helped them torture you!?”
“He never laid a finger on me. It was one named Max -- ”
“Harris. Yeah, he’s a right bastard.”
“Maeve should’ve let me end him.” My words snapped out like angry flashes of a whip.
“You’d never have got near him. Still...”
I looked at him, confused. “Still? What d’you mean?”
He pulled off his parka’s hood and looked straight at me, and his eyes were black as coal. “If you’d died, the autopsy would have revealed what happened to you. And we could have used that, now, against the bloody bastard. Add it to the lads dying in Long Kesh and Thatcher’s stupid commentaries and the one shot dead by a plastic bullet, the world would have joined us in condemning the Brits and the Prods and -- ”
I laughed at him, startling him into silence. “You think the world fuckin’ cares? You think anybody gives a tinker’s damn what happens to a group of Paddies in a place nobody knows? Fuckin’ shite, Colm, I give you more credit than that!”
“Haven’t you been listening to the world screaming -- ?”
“Words! Nothing but words! What have they DONE about it? Not one fuckin’ thing! The Brits under Thatcher think they’ll win, despite their history of losing over and over and over and making a muck of it every time. The Americans’re too busy rewriting their history to minimize their own stupidity in Viet Nam to really care. And the rest of the world, oh they say the right things but ask them to back it up with action and you get nothing but more words. Even the bloody Republic wants nothing to do with us.”
“Bren, as a friend I warn you -- don’t say things like that around here. Some’ll think you a traitor to the cause and -- ”
“Aw, Christ -- you sound like somebody from Madison Avenue who honestly thinks selling Cheerios’ to kids means he’s promoting a healthy breakfast and not merely adding to their sugar intake.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I leaned on the wall and looked at Colm, cock-eyed, probably an idiot’s grin on my face.
“Colm, my Uncle Sean has a bar in Houston. A fine Irish pub with live music on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights with an open mike on Sundays, and I went there a few times. People come from all over to drink his fine selection of beer and listen and sing and dance, many of them Irish, but not all by any means. And they sit about on St. Patrick’s Day and get drunk and listen to the lads weave glorious tales of Mother Ireland’s history and ruin, and how grand it’d be were she whole, again, and make vicious smears against the Brits and repeat lies about the situation here and in Belfast and talk and talk and talk, and after all of it, finally toss a few dollars in the till, for the cause, barkeep. And others would listen and nod their heads and sip their beers and go about their lives without another thought of it...because they don’t really care. The blacks don’t care. The Latins don’t. The Asians don’t. And truth be told, neither do the Anglos.
“Oh, the words they use are glorious and meaningful, but that’s all they’ll ever be is words. If anyone else in the world truly wanted the Troubles to end, they’d do more than bleat about the horrible situation in that god-forsaken land. They’d take action. They’d show the Brits there’s too much of a price will be paid if this keeps on. They’d DO something. But what has anyone truly done? To Rome, the situation’s untenable, but their priests keep helping the likes of you. America says they hope civil rights will be had by all, then her arms dealers sell you the weapons you need, not give them, not like they’re doing in Afghanistan, while British arms dealers sell theirs to the Unionists. The Prods violate the laws of England and the Geneva Convention, but when have they ever been held accountable for it? Even the European Court of Human Rights gave into them! No one wants this to end, Colm. Not your side. Not their side. Not anyone.”
“And why would anyone want that, Bren?”
“I don’t know. I just look at the reality of it and that’s what I see.”
